The Weekly Meat

Running

Call it a mid-life crisis, but recently I decided to take up running seriously for the first time in my life. I've run before, on and off, but never more than once or twice a week. Still, I like it when I do it, and I've toyed with the idea of someday actually training for something.

I live in Boston, so there is always, of course, a big hairy elephant in the room. But there is really no single thing I can think of that I would want to do for what, realistically, would be no less than four hours. And so, I've always thought more toward a nice half-marathon.

Well, two months ago, a friend called my bluff and gave me a choice of three local races in October. Fear of actually doing one of them has kept me running consistently ever since.

I've built up to three to four days a week of increasing speed and distance. I was reasonably in shape to begin with — that is to say for a semi-athletic-yet-out-of-shape guy who, previously, had only been playing hockey once a week and running once every other week. OK, so now I'm actually in shape again. But 13.1 miles is nothing to sneeze at.

I've never really run more than 10k (6.2 miles) at a time. Also, even at 40, I'm not real patient. I'm not really willing to run a painfully slow pace that I can keep up all day. I tend to be more a charge-out-in-a-blaze-of-glory-and-see-how-long-I-can-maintain-it kind of guy.

Eight years ago, I ran a great 10k race. It was my first organized road race, with a decent-sized field. I went with my wife and mother-in-law, who were also running. But we got separated prior to the start, and what I didn't quite realize, as I jockeyed my way toward the front before the gun, was that — and this will be absurdly obvious to anyone who runs seriously — they stage folks beforehand according to their projected pace. Needless to say, I was about 30 feet behind the Kenyans with no hope in hell of running a mile pace even remotely within two to three minutes of theirs. Also needless to say, I started out blazingly fast, mostly in a desperate effort to not be trampled by the stampeding horde.

I ran my first mile in something crazy fast (for me) — 7:10, if I remember right — before settling into a more sustainable rhythm. But I was already doing the math in my head, and I knew I had a real chance of pretty much shattering the goal I had set for myself. And I did, winding up averaging 8:30 miles and finishing in 52:45.

It was a bit of a fluke, but a cool discovery in finding the edges of my limits, based on a beginner's mistake at the start, and race-day adrenaline.

But more than twice that distance? It's something that gives me pause. My goal would be to finish a half marathon, but it would also be to do so in two hours (a ~9:00/mile pace).

My lungs are in good shape; I've never smoked, and not much within reason gets my breathing too hard. But my legs are another story. I'm in hockey shape (I'd much rather skate the 13.1 miles), but I'm learning that running consistently is really demanding on the backs of your legs — the calves and hamstrings, and that if I don't in turn actually stretch my hamstrings after running, I'll feel it (the old hockey injury, that is) in my back.

Most normal people would go about this sudden-onset running thing by getting a physical, diligently researching training methods, and setting a schedule. I began, of course, by taking a hard look at my iPod, and deciding that I would need to spend some time scientifically crafting several training playlists. I chose songs with unchanging tempo and a steady backbeat that I could use as a kind of cadence. Next, I divided up those songs among playlists, based on the pace I wanted to run: slower 10-minute miles, 9-minute miles, and faster sub-9s. THEN, I researched training schedules.

Of course — truth be told, and despite the fact that my greatest distance running fears are of chafing and of shitting myself — I have spent far more time on the iPod playlists than I have reading up on the latest advice for novice runners.

But, hell, the title of this post is "Running," not "Training." Maybe that's me fooling myself; maybe I really haven't made up my mind yet about racing. As a mid-life crisis activity though, running is way cheaper, and so far, despite the chafing (I never really thought of male nipples much until a sweat-soaked shirt rubbed one of mine raw) has caused me less pain than any mid-life crisis hobby most guys would pursue.

And if it turns out to be a lifestyle choice based on a fear bigger than that of running a long race — that of growing old too quickly (OK, let's call a spade a spade: death) — then maybe that fear will keep me running for even longer than it would if I were training for the experience of a singular distance race.

In either case, wish me luck.

Kentucky Derby 135

Anything can happen at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May, so anyone who tells you they know what will happen this Saturday is off their nut.

Official post positions have been announced, and this year, they won't much dissuade anyone from picking whomever they liked before the draw. Parimutuel-wise, this thing is a four-horse race, with I WANT REVENGE installed as the early favorite.

But there is real depth this year in the tier of horses just below the top four, and that is where betting bargains — and the possible winner — can be found and money made at longer odds.

Uh.... So, off my nut or not, here's what I think:

I don't see this year's race setting up in a particular way — as can happen when there are a few early rabbits in the field, or especially good or bad post positions for the favorites — just a tangle of talented colts in the middle of the field as they hit the first turn.

Below are the four horses who are well-deserved favorites and who have a clear and legitimate shot to win:

I'm torn. I WANT REVENGE is trained by a doping scumbag, which makes it difficult to determine whether he's a burgeoning superhorse (his come-from-behind win in the Wood Memorial was a thing of beauty) and Triple Crown threat, or just another juicer. He has arguably the best speed in the race, is a gamer who has never been out of the money, and turned in a lickety-split workout Tuesday. I like this horse a lot. But I don't feel good about it.

PIONEEROF THE NILE cannot be blamed for the design abomination of colors that are his owner's silks. He'll be ridden by one of the best jockeys in the business, runs beautifully, and likes to win. Still, he's been running on a synthetic surface, not real dirt, like at Churchill Downs, and doesn't necessarily have the speed to keep up in this race.

FRIESAN'S FIRE is running well, has speed, is improving, can stalk the lead from mid-pack, and likes running in the slop. To win this thing, he'll have to gut it out at a longer distance than he's seen, but if it rains as much as is predicted in the next few days, this is your horse — and mine.

DUNKIRK has speed, excellent pedigree, a winning trainer, a winning jockey, and looks to be peaking at just the right time. But he has raced only three times, so who knows what we'll get. My grandmother, who always bet the gray horse, will surely be watching Dunkirk closely on the big TV in the sky, and I cannot discount Grandmom's chances.

In addition to those four, there are a few second-tier hopefuls worth a close look. If you want to bet a longshot to be in the money, all those under 25– 30–1 have a chance. No horse with odds longer than that has a shot in hell. Of the rest, the ones I like are MUSKET MAN (if you're a fan of the stout, this nag drinks a Guinness a day with his feed), CHOCOLATE CANDY, PAPA CLEM, and GENERAL QUARTERS.

My superfecta, based on current weather forecasts:

1. FRIESAN'S FIRE
2. MUSKET MAN
3. I WANT REVENGE
4. CHOCOLATE CANDY

There it is, people. Be a damn nice payout if it hits.

Watch it for yourself, Saturday @ 6:00 PM EDT on NBC. And remember: Make your simple syrup early enough to chill it before mixing those Mint Juleps.

POST-RACE EDITORIAL:

I stand corrected. No handicapper in his right mind saw a damn thing in that horse. But occasionally, past performance does not in any way correspond to one's performance on any given Saturday...

He showed us. And mercy, but what a race.

*The Daily Racing Form, America's Turf Authority since 1894, neither endorses nor is affiliated in any way with the views and ramblings of BK, America's Dirt Authority Since 1968.

Anything can happen at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May, so anyone who tells you they know what will happen this Saturday is off their nut.

Official post positions have been announced, and this year, they won't much dissuade anyone from picking whomever they liked before the draw. Parimutuel-wise, this thing is a four-horse race, with I WANT REVENGE installed as the early favorite.

But there is real depth this year in the tier of horses just below the top four, and that is where betting bargains — and the possible winner — can be found and money made at longer odds.

Uh.... So, off my nut or not, here's what I think:

I don't see this year's race setting up in a particular way — as can happen when there are a few early rabbits in the field, or especially good or bad post positions for the favorites — just a tangle of talented colts in the middle of the field as they hit the first turn.

Below are the four horses who are well-deserved favorites and who have a clear and legitimate shot to win:

I'm torn. I WANT REVENGE is trained by a doping scumbag, which makes it difficult to determine whether he's a burgeoning superhorse (his come-from-behind win in the Wood Memorial was a thing of beauty) and Triple Crown threat, or just another juicer. He has arguably the best speed in the race, is a gamer who has never been out of the money, and turned in a lickety-split workout Tuesday. I like this horse a lot. But I don't feel good about it.

PIONEEROF THE NILE cannot be blamed for the design abomination of colors that are his owner's silks. He'll be ridden by one of the best jockeys in the business, runs beautifully, and likes to win. Still, he's been running on a synthetic surface, not real dirt, like at Churchill Downs, and doesn't necessarily have the speed to keep up in this race.

FRIESAN'S FIRE is running well, has speed, is improving, can stalk the lead from mid-pack, and likes running in the slop. To win this thing, he'll have to gut it out at a longer distance than he's seen, but if it rains as much as is predicted in the next few days, this is your horse — and mine.

DUNKIRK has speed, excellent pedigree, a winning trainer, a winning jockey, and looks to be peaking at just the right time. But he has raced only three times, so who knows what we'll get. My grandmother, who always bet the gray horse, will surely be watching Dunkirk closely on the big TV in the sky, and I cannot discount Grandmom's chances.

In addition to those four, there are a few second-tier hopefuls worth a close look. If you want to bet a longshot to be in the money, all those under 25– 30–1 have a chance. No horse with odds longer than that has a shot in hell. Of the rest, the ones I like are MUSKET MAN (if you're a fan of the stout, this nag drinks a Guinness a day with his feed), CHOCOLATE CANDY, PAPA CLEM, and GENERAL QUARTERS.

My superfecta, based on current weather forecasts:

1. FRIESAN'S FIRE
2. MUSKET MAN
3. I WANT REVENGE
4. CHOCOLATE CANDY

There it is, people. Be a damn nice payout if it hits.

Watch it for yourself, Saturday @ 6:00 PM EDT on NBC. And remember: Make your simple syrup early enough to chill it before mixing those Mint Juleps.

POST-RACE EDITORIAL:

I stand corrected. No handicapper in his right mind saw a damn thing in that horse. But occasionally, past performance does not in any way correspond to one's performance on any given Saturday...

He showed us. And mercy, but what a race.

*The Daily Racing Form, America's Turf Authority since 1894, neither endorses nor is affiliated in any way with the views and ramblings of BK, America's Dirt Authority Since 1968.

True Sport

As we near the start of the 2008 Summer Olympics, we must give propers where propers are due. In recent years, U.S. women have cornered the market on Olympic gold in each of the major team sports: softball, basketball, soccer, and ice hockey. And they have done so with discipline, teamwork, grit, and class that has all but eluded their male counterparts.

Admittedly, some of their drive, and subsequent success on the world stage, is due in part to the fact that, sadly, they have few other stages on which to compete. With the exception of basketball (and to a lesser extent, softball), these women have little chance for professional competition.

Perhaps because of that (rather than in spite of it) the women seem to have more fun playing the games they love, appreciate the concept of a team, enjoy playing for one, and are grateful for the Olympic opportunity to prove their mettle against the world's best. We'll continue to have our obligatory men's "dream" teams with their oversized wallets and matching egos, but for my money I'd rather watch the women. And I don't mean that in a beach volleyball sort of way. (Oh, but bless your honed glutes, Misty....)

Whereas a guy like, say, Shaquille O'Neill has nothing in common with anyone I've ever met (he's a 7'2" 300-pound multi-jillionaire comic book superhero), I can relate to the women. They're human. They'll leave the Olympics and return to their everyday lives and, yes, day jobs.

Further, in our recent cases of team gold, the women were able to accomplish what they did because they all understood their roles on their respective teams. And let's face it, few of us get the chance in life to be anything but role players.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not looking to toss off misogynistic backhanded compliments or to oversimplify the issues. And I don't think for a minute I could touch any of that insanely nasty softball pitching — or, admittedly, even stand in there against it.

I do still love watching men's sports. I'll never give up the speed and checking and the fights of professional hockey. And there may never be another victory as momentous as 1980s "miracle on ice."

But like that tightly knit and focused men's team in Lake Placid, who became media darlings because they were untainted and believed in the world, and in themselves, their teammates, and their goal, so too do these women's teams epitomize all that is good in sport. They take us back to when we were young, when backyard sports were all we had; a time when we, like Willie Mays, "played to love the game."

For that, the ladies should be championed and honored. It's wishful thinking, of course, that — up against America's golden boy swimmer, or even his much discussed new Speedo — they might, as a team, win the covers of our weekly magazines as well as medals, but they deserve it.

The sneaker and sports drink ads are right, these women are breaking ground for new leagues that may well give them equal opportunities to earn a living having as much fun as the guys — and giving our daughters cause to dream.

So when the olympics start next week, give the women some of your time. We could see medals for our basketball, softball, and soccer teams. This is an extended golden age for U.S. women's team sports. Game on.

Kentucky Derby 134

Anything can happen at Churchill Downs on the first Saturday of May, and anyone who tells you they know what will happen this Saturday in particular is off their rocker.

There's not a ton of speed in this year's race, with only seven horses ever running Beyer speed figures of 100 or better, and only three of those (Pyro, Gayego, and Big Brown) able to do so more than once.

Yesterday morning, I'd have considered those three horses as the contenders, with Big Brown as the early betting favorite, but the post positions have been announced, and this year, they wreck this thing for the handicappers.

Uh.... So, off my rocker or not, here's what's gonna happen:

BIG BROWN will break from the far outside of the auxiliary gate, and will have a lot of ground to make up to get himself into the good early positioning he seems to like. With nearly all of the early speed in the race breaking from far outside posts, I can't see this thing being won by anyone at the front of the pack early on, unless BB is indeed the second coming of Secretariat that his trainer claims him to be.

BB is a fascinating puzzle, in that he's very lightly raced, but has very real speed, and has won all three of his starts. Will he win? I highly doubt it. He'd turn out to be an incredibly exciting horse to watch if he did, but he'd be overcoming his inexperience and his post position to do so.

I might have liked GAYEGO, but not from the 19 post, sandwiched between BB and RECAPTURETHEGLORY, who has early speed to burn.

PYRO will be the darling of a lot of folks willing to toss out his last race, as he'd been rocking steady until then. But I can't ignore his slow workouts. It could all be an aberration, and he has both the speed and the running style to win it, I just don't think he will.

Two horses I do like:

As a longshot, EIGHT BELLES is a filly with good pedigree and decent speed. She's won her last four starts, and has turned in some lickety-split workouts recently. To win this thing, she'll have to be one tough chick, running with the boys for the first time, overcoming a much bigger crowd than she's ever seen, and running late. I'd love to see her do it. Is that just me wanting to give a girl a chance? Maybe. But at high odds, she's worth a bet to be in the money.

COLONEL JOHN is a solid horse on paper, is breaking from a good middle post, and will surely see his odds drop even lower by post time. He's coming off a couple of wins, has never finished worse than second in six starts, and has very impressive recent workout numbers. If I've got to pick one horse to win it, he's my nag.

There it is, people. Be sure to make your simple syrup early enough to chill it before mixing a tasty Mint Julep. And if your feeling particularly thirsty gluttonous patriotic, accept this as a challenge.

*The Daily Racing Form, America's Turf Authority since 1894, neither endorses nor is affiliated in any way with the views and ramblings of BK, America's Dirt Authority Since 1968.

The First Saturday in May

I picked my first Kentucky Derby winner in 1986. His name was Ferdinand, and old Bill Shoemaker guided him to one of the most perfect rides I've ever seen. The colt was an 18-1 shot, and I picked him out of sheer luck.

It wasn't until a few years later that I cracked the pages of "America's Turf Authority Since 1894" and actually attempted to handicap a race — an intricate science that requires endless time, analysis, snake oil, and bourbon. I was heading into my senior year of college, and I had the constitution for those sorts of things then. I lived that summer only a mile or two from the grande dame of race tracks, and so I studied the dense, coded charts of the Daily Racing Form, trying to make sense of them.

I did just that the night of August 13, 1989, knowing I'd be at the track to catch the first few races before work the next day. I picked a horse I liked in each of the first two races. I hadn't gotten to the third race, but as it turned out, I didn't need to.

I'm not into exotic wagers, but Saratoga had an early double, and I bet it. My horse in the first went off at 7-2, and won, beating the favorite by a half length, and I had the front end of my double, as well as $5 win and show tickets to cash. My pick — for reasons that completely elude me now, looking over the folded, yellowed pages of that day's Form — in the second race was named Cavanagh's Beau, and was ridden by Karen Rogers. He went off as nearly a 28-1 longshot, dead last by far in the betting pool. What happened next is the things Hollywood dreams are made of.

In a photo finish — while I stood sweating and hooting at the rail — my nag won the race by a nose hair, and I walked away from the pari-mutuel window with $1,200 in my pocket.

I've never had the stomach for gambling much. I bet no more than I'm willing to lose, and I walk when I'm ahead. If that means never winning a life-changing amount, so be it. I'm not the guy to parlay $1,200 into $20,000. I had placed $22 worth of bets on two horses, I'd gotten lucky, and they paid off well.

I was alone that day — no one to even buy a drink for — so I ran (literally, ran) from the track back to my car, and drove directly home. I had a couple hundred bucks already in my apartment from bartending tips and being paid the night before, and so I sorted my cash, rolled it into a fat pimp wad, put a rubberband around it, and drove it all down to the bank.

Then I went to work, as I did every other night that summer. Maybe smiling a bit more than usual and bragging on my double.

I have since had decent days at the track (and once or twice at casinos), but more often than not I lose what I consider to be a fee for the privilege of simply watching thoroughbreds run all out.

I can watch just about any race any time and enjoy it. But the Derby is special. Sure, it's a bloated, booze-soaked affair, steeped in southern aristocracy; the race itself, a crowded fire-drill. But in its way, it signals the start of springtime, and more importantly, it begins a new quest for the Triple Crown — one of the most difficult accomplishments in all of sport (there have been only 11 winners in history, and none since Affirmed in 1978). So with each year's quest, comes the tantalizing prospect that we may once again witness greatness. And so each year, without fail, I watch.

Because — though I'm not susceptible to the wiles of gambling — perfection is a drug I cannot pass up. I'll argue forever that Secretariat was hands-down the greatest athlete of the 20th century. He combined the athletic grace of Walter Payton with the confident swagger of Michael Jordan with Wayne Gretzky's omniscient economy of motion. Watching him win his Triple Crown races is quite simply the single most perfect thing I have ever seen. And in a small way, I live every day for even the possibility of seeing similar.

That said, I don't know that this is the year. Right now, all I know (just like every Phillies or Cubs fan) is that it could be, and so I watch. And I have become fairly good at handicapping the Derby. So come on back next week for this year's predictions. And turn on NBC by 6:00 pm EDT on Saturday, May 3 to watch 20 horses do what they were born to do.

Just This

Congratulations to the 2007 World Champion Red Sox! For those who beat the "Rocks," we salute you!

Mumm's the Word

Boston is once again in the World Series — against the Colorado Rockies. It’s a beautiful thing, yes. But these clubhouse champagne celebrations have gotten out of hand. At what point did they become as de rigeur as the now-clichéd Gatorade dousings in the NFL? Major League Baseball seems to have hopped in bed with Mumm, because the bubbly is not just for World Series victors anymore.

Now you’ve got your “We Made the Playoffs!” celebration, your “We Won the Division Series!” celebration, and your “We Won the League Championship Series!” celebration as well — which begs the question: doesn’t that cheapen an actual World Series celebration? I sure think the champagne would taste much sweeter if I drank it only once (not that these guys even drink the stuff anymore — it sure looks more like swim-goggled public bathing than anything else).

Yes, I know, we Red Sox fans doth protest too much. Don’t get me wrong, I’d rather the Sox have something to celebrate than just get dejectedly hammered down at the Cask ’n Flagon before leaving for an early off-season. But I’m a patient fan (I mean, the last championship took 86 years), and I have an attention span long enough to, say, actually watch the whole playoffs to see who ultimately wins. I don’t need a celebration a week to keep me, you know, interested. But — no doubt these televised bashes are highly sanctioned by Bud Selig and his MLB braintrust (if anything with so small a capacity for analytical thought could be called that) — that’s not the way our spoon-feeding culture tends to work.

These pre-Big Dance celebrations seem just the sort of thing that would get your ass handed to you in the National Hockey League — where the only thing that matters is getting your mitts and name on the greatest trophy in all of sport. Back in ’97, then-captain of the Flyers, Eric Lindros wouldn’t even deign to touch the Wales Conference trophy presented to him and the Flyers as semi-final winners on their way to their first Cup finals in 10 years. It was a fascinatingly stubborn gesture, but the message was clear enough: we’re not finished our mission.

Unfortunately, the Big E and his mates never did get to drink from Lord Stanley’s mighty chalice (A pox upon you, Darren McCarty!), falling to the Red Wings in a four game sweep. But I have to think the lingering stink of week-old champagne soaked into skate leather would have made the collapse even more difficult to stomach.

So the dearly departed Cubbies, Phillies, Angels, Yankees, Diamondbacks, and Indians will always have the Paris of their too-eager clubhouse Festivus (or would that be “Festivi”?). And maybe some of them are satisfied with that. Maybe it’s outdated and naïve of me to think otherwise. When you make $10 mil a year or whatever, can you really be considered professionally unfulfilled for never winning The Big One? Maybe, maybe not. But I don’t make that kind of cheddar. I get judged at work on whether I succeed or not. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I do know this: no matter how often your team has celebrated to this point, you don’t get one of these for second place.