Lazy Days of Summer

This is my favorite time of year. Pride is over, and Independence Day has been celebrated. Now I can just relax and enjoy the summer without any plans. With the Homo-sex-companion-partner distracted with his new love, I’m free to do whatever I desire this lazy time of year. 

I guess it’s true, in what they say about the seven year itch. We celebrated our seven year anniversary with my partner falling in love with someone else. Being reassured that It is a completely different type of love, I now I find myself in a triad relationship. Not that I’m totally happy with the endless chain of boxes arriving from Amazon with presents intended for his new infatuation. 

It all started on Patrick’s visit to Denver, as Pac and I wandered down Denver’s 16th Street pedorite mall, I received an urgent call from the other half. He understood the importance of my time spent with Patrick, yet urged me to leave the fun and come meet someone very special to him. That was the day that changed our lives forever. 

As I was first introduced, I realized that I wasn’t really jealous of the way my partner of seven years gazed across the deep pearlescent of her ebony glow. I wasn’t jealous because it was a different kind of love entirely. No partner can satisfy all the needs and desires, to think one can, is foolish. So, this was the day I met Sue Ellen. Yes, like from the television show, Dallas. All of his cars are named after characters from this TV show. I believe I have blogged about Mark Grayson, in the past.  

Sue Ellen is an ebony goddess, 1968 Plymouth Fury. She now spends its days sitting in the Forney Museum of Transportation in Denver, yet she is never truly out of mind. The lazy days of summer, for me, are spent taking slow and sunny runs around Cheesman Park, and hours upon hours spent needlessly at my favorite coffee shop. No real commitments until the end of August. Whatever I’m doing to waste my time, I always know that he’s out there somewhere, on an deserted highway; with her. Yet completely safe in the knowledge that she get stored-away and he’ll come home to me. 

Oscar Pistorius Stumbles and Falls

In what seems a lifetime ago, I lived in a stone house along the Appian Way. During this brief time in my life I dated a Flying Dutchman.  Named this because he was Dutch and an airline pilot. Although I always suspected he was a flight attendant. As after sex he would always attempt to give we warm towels.

One time, after a nice warm towel, and supplying me with a soda, although never giving me the whole can, he asked me who my heroes were. I was dumbfounded. I quietly realized that I didn’t have heroes to follow and use as guideposts though my life.  From that night onward in the stone house along the Appian Way, I would always have some sort of hero or role model in my life to strive to be as good as and emulate.

Upon becoming addicted to watching the track and field portion of the 2012 Summer Olympics, I watched a small story about a South African sprint runner struggling to even participate in the men’s 400 metres sprint. Upon Oscar Pistorius competing in the London Summer Olympics as the first double leg amputee, and the controversy died down about his cutting-edge prostheses giving him an unfair advantage over able-bodied runners, I became obsessed with this amazing man’s struggle to overcome obstacles.  When I got lazy about going for runs, I used Oscar for motivation. Tired and not wanting to drive to the gym, I would think of Oscar the amazing athlete.

On my birthday, I even turned into a crazy fan girl and asked via Twitter for a birthday wish from Pistorius:

So my other role models are a fictitious British 

TV character and a You Tube Vlogger. What’s to ya?

 Quickly Pistorius replied via Twitter:

When he replied, I squeed. My running deity, whom I worshiped daily; and motivated me to be a better athlete, wished me a great birthday…. This buzzed lasted me until yesterday morning. When changing at the gym to go for a run I hear my heroes name on the locker room’s TV. “Oscar Pistorius accused of premeditated murder of girlfriend by South Africa prosecutors.”

I stood in my UA undies in stunned silence watching a video of Pistorius holding his head in his hands weeping openly in a courtroom as prosecutors said they would purse a charge of murder against the paralympic superstar.

Thinking back to being asked about heroes by the Flying Dutchman, in that house, on a street in Dallas, TX ironically named after the most important Roman roads of the ancient republic, I realize now how strategically important that turn in my own Appian Way was. To accomplish anything in life you need role models. Sometimes… dare I say, most of the time, your deity will fall.  

14 Days of Summer

Yesterday morning I was in the middle of my run, suddenly a perplexing question came into my head.  When does the fall semester for my school start again?

Class start on the 20^th of this month. That’s only two weeks away. Suddenly, it dawned on me that my summer is over in two weeks. But…but… what happened to my road trip to Devil’s Tower?  Camping?  Lazy evenings spent on the front porch sipping Stella? Now it’s a mere 14 days until I have to step back into a classroom. 

Although, I am one of those nerds that actually like school, and my fall classes are centered on the building of Western Civilization. And, since I’m such an Anglophile, I can’t wait to start class.  The fall semester still just seemed to come out of the blue days of summer.

Summer over, Man! 14 days to drink Stella whilst driving to Devil’s Tower. 

The Grass is Greener

It’s funny how we can miss out on personal time. That quality “me” time that is so important for staying centered in this world. With priorities and commitments capturing our time, it is hard to unplug.  The simple act of running away, even if it is for just a couple of hours.

This thought struck me yesterday when I started out for a morning run, and couldn’t remember that last time I ran. My knees couldn’t remember either. Like chunks of rust falling off of an unused piece of ancient machinery, my body slowly began to move slowly down the running path. 

With road trips, houseguests, summer events, and the occasional household appliance catastrophe, the time to head over to Cheesmen Park and open up my personal sacred time had been shoved to the side. The funny part was that my body made me completely aware of my lack of running time. Yes, my knees creaked and my ankles burned, yet it was more the non-ability to shut off the business side of my brain. It was somewhere around the two mile mark when I stopped thinking about emails. At mile three I stopped beating myself up for not blogging enough. By mile four was when Steve returned. The Steve that doesn’t have “commitments” or “obligations” but instead enjoys the particular shade of green that the grass in Cheesmen offers.

You might not even really realize that you are not doing the things that make you truly happy. I implore you to stop and ask, “What do I love to do? Why am I not doing it?”

Just Keep Running

Yesterday I grabbed my new Puma NightFox TR running shoes, and headed towards the gym. I bought these visions of green and blue Puma technology in January and have kept them in their own special carry bag since then. I like to keep my running shoes in pristine condition and only wear them during actual running. This of course, makes me one of those nerds walking into the gym with a bag of shoes slung over one shoulder.


As I drove to the gym, ready for some quality time with a tread mill, I started to mull over why my “strictly running” shoes were not the answer to my shin pain. Even with all the support and cell technology built into these shoes I was having the same problem. Heel strike. I have never been able to really change my stride. It has improved; my crippling shin splints have decreased dramatically with training how to run on my forefoot instead of smacking down on my heels, yet after any amount of running I still had soreness and pain in my lower legs. This is due to the tendons and muscles surrounding the tibia being unable to absorb the shock I force this muscle group to absorb in my bad running form.

When researching how to correct my stride and relieve my pain, I found that proper foot landing during running was critical, but improper footwear, including worn-out shoes can also contribute to shin splints. This is when I started treating my heavily padded Pumas as if they were my children. My new kids were disappointing me. I thought back to an article in Runner’s World* about barefoot running. Proponents of the barefoot movement argue that barefoot running is healthier for feet and reduces risk of chronic injuries, notably repetitive stress injuries due to the impact of heel striking in padded running shoes. Figuring that I would try anything, I stopped off at my local REI store. After no less than five associates warning me to break them in SLOWLY, I strapped my new Vibram FiveFinger shoes on and headed to the gym.

The United States Army recently banned the use of Vibram FiveFinger toe shoes for image reasons* I can see why, they… take awhile to get used too. On my walk from the car, through the locker room, and to the treadmill I had four people stop and ask me how they felt to wear. In spite of the friendly sales associates at REI warning me that if I didn’t break them in slowly my feet would fall off from pain, I hopped on the treadmill and took off.

I would like to report that my feet did not, actually fall off. Today, they feel… amazing actually. My normal feeling of shin splints is non-existent. The barefoot feeling forced me, without me knowing, to land correctly on the treadmill’s belt. Yes, these shoes force unwanted attention down to my toes, but with the help they give me running I’m okay being a toe exhibitionist.

May the Thule be with You

If asked to complete an online dating profile, I’d say I was the “outdoorsy” type. Running, biking, and pretty much any type of activity that involves Lycra. Running is easy, a new pair of Pumas, a trip to the park and Voila, you're running. Cycling on the other hand is getting pricey to enjoy.


When I traded in my SUV for fuel savings, I didn’t think twice about where my mountain bike would ride. I simply thought I’d buy a rack, strap it onto my new sleek sports sedan, and away I’d go to the mountains. As last summer approached, I purchased a trunk mounted bike carrier. I then proceeded to spend the entire summer watching my rear view mirror as my bike bounced around on the back of my car. I’m not sure what frightened me more, the bike scratching the car’s paint, or the carrier letting loose and seeing mountain bikes bounce down the highway behind me.

I hear that spring will come sometime soon; if it does, I’m sure I will have the urge to head out and bike the trails. This year I decided to give up on the trunk mounted bike thing-a-ma-jig with its straps and clamps and buy a roof rack. They look so simple, every Whole Food’s parking lot in the world is just jammed with late model Audis all sporting Yakima or Thule bike racks. How hard could it be?

Quite. Apparently. First I had to get lost on the sleek Thule inc. bike carrier website, trying to decipher styles and pricing. I gave up and headed to our super-sleek downtown sporting goods store. The outdoor aficionado’s supply store with its fake pine trees and rock climbing wall inside of it. Patrons can climb the 50 foot high fiberglass rock wall, in air conditioned comfort. If I’m going to take up rock climbing, living in the Rocky Mountains, forget nature, give me this rock wall. I want to fall four stories onto my head in full air-conditioning and with a string version of Alanis Morissette’s Jagged Little Pill playing softly in the background.

What I was looking for was a bike Jedi Master, what I found was Kip, (yes, that was his name.) I asked about their line of Thule brand car racks. Kip was nice enough to correct me that it’s pronounced too-lee not (and he signed heavily) thoo-lee. It was not, a “bike rack,” but a bicycle management system for automobiles. When I explained to Kip, that I didn’t want to “manage” my bike, just ride it, Kip suggested the website. I suggested he might take a trip off the rock wall.

Finally I did what any guy like me would do; I followed the instructions of a Lesbian Jedi Knight I found YouTube. The force was strong. Leave it to a woman who looks like she just walked out of an On Our Backs spread to simply explain a bicycle management system, It’s funny, she starting out by calling it a bike rack.

Just Keep Running

It happened for the first time. I got called young looking.


Every once in a while I have an overwhelming urge that I need new Puma running shoes. I found myself the other day needing a Puma fix, nothing serious, just a pair of running shoes to get me through the monotony of February. After ogling the Puma website I headed to Cherry Creek Mall for some serious shopping.

My old pair of purely running shoes are so incredibly nasty and dirty they have their own bag in the trunk of my car. I sit on the curb of Cheesman Park and change out of my street shoes and into these shadows of former running shoes. Mud, muck, and torn fabric. It was time for new, shiny running shoes.

Dizzy from the enticing Puma fumes as entered the store, I made my way around the amateur shoppers to the men’s section. I zeroed in on the pair I had been hunting for and asked “Billy” (the ever-smiling shop boy) if I could try on the pair of brightly colored neon striped kicks. As I laced the runners on, I half-heatedly mentioned that all the cool nineteen year olds at school are wearing neon shoes and that I’m finally going to be one of the cool dudes at the age of forty.

“Oh-my-God. You so totally don’t look forty!” Billy exclaimed with too much enthusiasm.

I tried to quickly move the conversation away from the next statement the zero percent body fat, hipster bearded homo was about to speak and back on the quality of the shoe. I spoke of the fit, of the comfort. Anything to stop “Billy” from making his next statement.

“You look really great… for your age."

There it was. A twenty-two year old baby homo just said I look good. For my age. The smooth skin on the face of the twenty year old beamed at me. This broke my stride until I reached into my pocket to pay for my new neon striped bits of happiness. I handed Billy my credit card with its massive line of credit. I may be old, Billy, but with age comes a massive credit score.

“So… hopefully… I’ll see you out running sometime…” Billy slyly said as he handed me my bright red bag.

Snow Horse

When the television news announced, Thursday afternoon, that there was a massive storm heading towards the tri-county area, and that the storm front was to dump massive amounts of snow, I giggled with glee. Late Thursday night, I sat in Chili’s watching the snow began to fall.


I really do love snow storms. The best part is when the television news shows “those crazy runners” out in Washington and Cheesman Parks, running in the snow. Layers of Lycra and fleece keeping them warm yet sinewy. I want to be one of those sinewy, stretchy runners gliding through the snow packed streets.



What I imagine...



The snow fell for fifty-two straight hours. I was chopping at the bit to suit up and head out. After homework was done, that is. My chances to tromp through the falling show fell through as I watched the sun come out through my office window and I still had a textbook in my hand. “Fine! No big deal, I’ll complete this four page essay and then head out.” On Sunday afternoon I sat at my coffee shoppe, proof reading my essay. I had one eye on the page, the other on the people running by, coming from the park. I couldn’t take it anymore as I slammed shut the computer and headed to my car to suit up.

 

What I look like...



Changing like superman into my lycra super suit I bolted up the city blocks to the park. The streets were almost dry and I was giddy with excitement as the thirty degree air burned my nostrils. I jumped onto the parks running trail and was quickly met with packed snow. “No problem,” I thought, “this is soft to run on, like the bounce of a treadmill.” Soon I found that the packed snow had melted somewhat then re-frozen as other runners have tramped it down. The divots and uneven surface made it harder and harder to run smoothly. Halfway around the park I begin to feel like War Horse, running through the muddy trenches of No Man’s Land . One wrong step and I might have twisted an ankle. Or thrown a shoe.

Exhausted of the uneven stride, and the horse analogies, I clomped back to the main street and made my way back to my car. What lesson did our protagonist learn? Go for a run first. Before every other runner has time to pack down the snow, homework can wait.

January

The first week in the New Year seems to bring a strange time. The holidays are over, and the wasted day of destroying the house in your hung-over attempt to un-decorate, has given you a home clean of glitter and sparkle. I am always happy that the trappings of the holiday have been swept away, giving back valuable floor space and clean counter tops. Life is suddenly is free of Christmas tree cookie jars and dead eyed Beefeater themed nut crackers.

For me, I am excited that the pomp and circumstance of the season is done. Pack away party going sweaters and back to business as usual. This feeling usually lasts just a couple of days. Then I realize that it’s just January, nothing special. If you happen to live in Denver, the weather seems to understand that the bland time of year is upon us and gives the city a week of amazing warm and sunny days. If you live in Denver and you’re gay, this invites you to spend time in Denver’s Cheesman Park.

Last week the temperatures just brushed seventy degrees. This gave a couple of sunny days for the sun to melt the remaining snow and ice from shady sections of Cheesman’s sidewalks. I took the hint along with countless others, to go and enjoy the park. For me it was my first run since before Christmas. My first run since Christmas cookies, Christmas ham, and sausage bread took priority over exercise. On a sunny running path, I started to burn it all off. The food and treats, the parties, the time spent on the couch watching Christmas in Connecticut all needed to burn off.

Sweaty and exhausted I did it, the first trip back to running in the park. With it being Denver and all, within forty-eight hours the temperature plummeted and the snow fell. We are back to snowy and cold winter weather. Somehow though, we were given a warm introduction to the New Year, with its four months of winter appetizer, and I’m ready to get back in the swing of things.

StevieB. On Ice

Yesterday morning I was psyched about getting to go for a run.


The morning temperature was in the teens, and I found the running paths were completely covered with ice and snow. This was like Christmas to me, I love being out in freezing weather. I layered up my gear and switched to the knobby running shoes for off road, inserted my ear buds under two layers of cap and ear protectors. I set out to run through the ice covered trees and the sound of crunching snow under my feet.

Halfway around the park I encountered an intersection that was a solid sheet of ice. I gingerly navigated the mirror-like ice while mumbling my mantra “walk like a penguin, walk like a penguin.” I’m not sure when or why I began chanting this mantra, it was eons ago. I started to laugh out loud as I realized my rant about penguins not having anything to do with Christmas, then there I was evoking their ice walking prowess to stop the inevitable fall.

My concentration broken, I started to slide. Like Bambi on ice really, my legs stretched out in my running spandex. Sliding completely across the intersection I hopped into the snow along the curb. I quickly looked around. Not a soul in sight. No one saw my amazing show of athleticism and dumb luck? Drat.

Feeling amazingly full of myself, I spent the day feeling superior to winter and anything is can throw at me. I then retold my running triumph story to a friend I ran into as I left watching a football game at our local bear bar. Upon showing off how cool I was, I turned and slipped upon the ice and clumped down to the pavement.

That’ll learn ya.

Snow Running

December 4th. 

I discovered a new high last year. It was late in the season, so this year I get all winter to enjoy my new fetish. Running in snow and twenty degree temperatures.  

I finding it a great way to gently ease into December.  Since my running path takes me next to the Denver Botanic Gardens I can enjoy the twinkling lights in the snow... 

The bundling in layers; however,  I'm finding is problematic. Just when I have five layers of Under Armour on I usually discover I have to... go. That and I'm frightening the squirrels.

Running With the Dead

I really need to run more.


One of the best things about running is the ritual. I am a man powered by rituals. If I have the ability to incorporate a ritual, or Habitrail, into my life I’m more than happy to spend days memorizing and ingraining it into my small monkey brain.

My running habitrail is early Sunday morning, lapping around Cheesman Park. I’m amazed how beautiful and quiet the park is, I am always amazed how the trees are perfectly aligned even after their planting one hundred and twenty years ago.

Even after I participated in a Denver Ghost Tour, last Sunday, and was re-reminded of the close to two thousand bodies left over in this runner’s paradise. The perfectly aligned trees are from the city when they turned their largest cemetery into a beautiful park by removing headstones and planting grass seed. Very industrious.

As I strode down the paths of trees, I always find it the best part of my week. My ritual of running, in the park, with the trees and a thousand 1880’s prostitutes and cattle-thieves.

I do, however, love running so much that I want to do it more often, yet running on the streets of my small fictional town doesn’t have the same endorphin rush. The countless suburban streets, the development company so long out of business that even their signs advertising the luxury neighborhoods has long since fallen to the ground. The streets and cul-de-sacs without houses, just empty housing lots returning back to fields.

The clean, black asphalt is perfect to run on for miles. Without the worry of cars or… anything interfering with my runs, this may be the problem. Right out my front door and off to the maze of under-developed neighborhoods doesn’t have the correct ritual.

I do need to run more. I guess that part of the inconvenience of the twenty mile drive to the park with the trees and the one hundred and twenty year old dead prostitutes is the ritual.

Morning Run

Have you ever decided something was exceedingly simple in your head? Base jumping, easy! Periodontal root planing, easy! Smiling at a girl in the gym a little too long, then as the girl thinks that you’re flirting with her and comes up to move the relationship on to the next level trying to explain that really you’re a huge Mo and you were only staring at her because you thought she was your niece, easy!

I had been avoiding the conversations of “we should run together some time” from friends and family. My sister asked if I’d join her in a fun-run for charity. I turned my head and pretended I didn’t speak English. “Sorry. Nooo runy funy.” Sure, it sounded exceedingly simple in my head. Until I realized that I run like one of the hippos from Fantasia if right in the middle of the hippo dance recital they dropped a big game hunter loaded with a high-powered rifle. The Hunter giving orders that he will give me and the troop a three count head start then he was a-coming for some tutued hippo ass. I run like a hippo, in a tutu trying to flee for its life. Or, something like that.

It sounded exceedingly simple, and then I would imagine my tutu and decline. Until yesterday.

Yesterday morning I pushed myself further on a run than ever before. This was mostly due to a guy we’ll call Mike. Because I never got his real name. Mike didn’t give me a chance to say “No thanks, I’d like to go running… but I don’t speak English… and I’m a hippo you see… and my tutu might get in your way…. hippo…

As I had just completed a warm up lap, Mike came from out of the blue and started to match my stride. We ran for quite awhile without speaking, just ran in the early morning sun. Without realizing it, my tutu was gone. The mad hippo hunter was gone. I ran farther and with a better stride than ever before. Then, Mike was gone. He just uttered thanks for the run and turned out of the park.

Running with someone? Exceedingly simple.

SUMMER BEGINS

I feel that summer has finally arrived. This sense of utter summer happiness was brought along by a couple of things this weekend.

For the first time in my life I went for a run without my shirt on. Just stripped to the running shorts and took off. The sprinklers in the park drenching me with potable water and summertime bliss. On Sunday I attended my first beer bust of the season at The Denver Wrangler, our local bear bar. As I stood there enjoying the kick-off to summer I enjoyed the utter enjoyment of standing in a sea of cargo shorts, sleeveless T-shirts and stupidly expensive sunglasses.

Oh, yes. There was the annual trip to the mall to buy summertime sunglasses. Then spend the remaining summer trying not to sit on them. This season I will try to protect a very cool pair of Gucci shades from not getting destroyed. Wish me luck.

If you need me I’ll be by the pool with my work laptop, guarding 300 bucks worth of Gucci from getting scratched.

RUNNING

It’s been one year since I committed myself to running. Do more than talk about good health, but actually put puma to pavement.

Other then the obvious being losing twenty-eight pounds, I’ve also found a new hobby, a new mindset, and a new outlook. It’s funny how something as easy as putting on running shoes and just moving forward down the path could help me… move forward down the path.

“Everyone who has run knows that it’s most important value is in removing tension and allowing a release from whatever other cares the day may bring.” – Jimmy Carter

What can’t President Carter do? Sorry, I probably think about Jimmy Carter too much. Thank God, my Armband iPod holder came in the mail. Now I can fill my brain with Robyn and stop thinking about Jimmy Carter.

RUN STEVIE RUN

I love winter running. Although I’m very aware that this is half so I can casually mention at a cocktail party or even blog to the fact that I’m one of those crazies that run in the snow. The other and more important half is genuine love for the adrenalin rush I get from the cold hitting my face as I run in single digit temperatures.

That’s what made yesterday so hard for me. Our fair city received four inches of snow in the early morning hours.  With the high in the teens this made it the perfect conditions to get that runners rush that only comes from snow blown into your face.  That and the rush that only comes form saying “yeah, the conditions were hard, but I still put in a couple of miles.” Pause for quiet admiration. 

As I received many emails and texts last week asking about the melancholic theme of my blog posts. I was taken down by a severe head cold on the 4^th. Guess I kissed one too many of the boys on New Years Eve.  New Years is the one night I pop my annoying personal space bubble and kiss everyone in sight.  Which paid off getting to know some guys at the bear bar, but also gave me a week dictated to Nyquil. 

If you do decline crunches with a head cold, snot will shoot out of your head. Sorry, just saying.

The chemically induced dream state lifted on Saturday. This was due to watching copious amounts of bad gay cinema and super-heated green chili.  The result of this was our aforementioned quandary on Sunday morning. Should I go for a run? I’m feeling somewhat better. A long run might just be what I need to get my Steve back.

I sat at my coffee shop going over debating the “take care of yourself, you’ve been sick.” With the take care of yourself,  get some energy flowing.”

In the end I compromised and ran on a treadmill at the gym. Cough, cough.