Archive for category Running
The Way It Used To Be
Special notice for those keeping score at home: this post uses Blatant Christian Writing Formula #3 (the speck in the brother’s eye compared to the log in your own). Thank you.
Mark
I have mentioned in these parts that I am a runner. Some runners claim running can be a spiritual experience for them. For me it’s usually not. I just like to go outside and run around in a Forrest Gumpian manner. But I do run enough that assuming I have at least a few spiritual thoughts a year, one of them is bound to happen while I’m running.
And running on Easter weekend probably increases those odds.
So last Saturday I went out for a morning run. The Saturday between Good Friday and Easter Sunday has always felt a little odd to me. Good Friday feels like a day for somber reflection. Easter feels like a day of celebration. But that Saturday always leaves me feeling sort of cold inside. No stone rolling away on Saturday.
I ran by a church near my house. This church always interests me because it’s one of those with the old-fashioned marquees out front where they put pithy little sayings like the ones you sometime see forwarded around in an email loop. Things like “Seven days without prayer makes one weak.”
They had one message on the sign months ago that I spent way too much time pondering. The sign said:
CHURCH THE WAY IT USED TO BE
At first I didn’t think much about it, but something about it nagged at me even though I knew it simply indicated that they probably have a traditional worship style. Then I saw it again a few days later and realized the nagging feeling was that maybe they weren’t just advertising their worship style, but perhaps they were criticizing mine. Our church, while somewhat conservative and traditional, does sing modern praise songs and uses video screens for various purposes. I suspected maybe they don’t approve of churches that don’t “do church” the way they do. The way it “used to be” when it was done right.
And then my sarcastic side took over. The next time I drove by I was ready for action. I slowed just a little as I went past and hurled an Easter egg at the sign. Just kidding. What I really did was sneak a peek down the side of the church building. Just as I expected, I spotted just what I was looking for:
Air conditioning units.
“Well, well,” I smiled to myself, “I guess they’re not going back too far to the way church used to be.”
And then I started having more fun. Why, with two-thousand years of Christian church history, did this particular church decide that the way to do church peaked sometime after electricity and air conditioning but before the advent of praise music and women wearing slacks on Sunday? I imagined a church service there in about 1965. I saw a wise elder rising spontaneously to his feet and commanding everybody’s attention right in the middle of the service.
“Wait!” he would have shouted with steely resolve. “Do you see? Can’t you tell? THIS is EXACTLY what a church service should be. We shall not change anything about our church from this point forward, because to do so would only diminish it. This very day, my friends, we have perfected church.” And all the members would have applauded (or said “amen” or whatever constituted appropriate public affirmation in 1965).
And so it was and still is today. Church the way it used to be. In 1965, anyway.
The sign’s message has long since changed, but I still think about it every time I go by. I thought about that sign a little bit longer than usual last weekend after I ran past. But without humor or disdain. Maybe I was more reflective because it was Saturday and Jesus still hadn’t gotten out of the tomb yet this year.
And that’s when it hit me.
Easter Saturday may feel weird to me every year because it’s stuck between Good Friday and Easter Sunday. But that’s just because of what happened a long time ago. You see, when Jesus got up and out on that first Easter, He never went back in.
Stuck in a tomb is only where He used to be.
But not anymore.
Lucky 13
This week I went for a run through a nearby neighborhood. Before I tell you what happened I should give you a little background on a long-held dream of mine.
Somewhere in my past there was a shopping center with a posted speed limit of only 10 mph. I used to run by this speed limit sign occasionally, back in the days when I could have actually run the ten miles per hour for a whole hour.
Every time I ran by this 10 mph sign I would look around in hopes of finding a police officer. My plan was to approach the officer in a friendly manner and ask whether he would be willing to write me a warning if he clocked me exceeding 10 mph on foot. As a runner, I just thought it would be extremely cool to have a framed warning for excessive speed on foot. Heck, I might have even been willing to pay a $75 fine in order to have formal documentation that a safety officer deemed my speed excessive.
Alas, I never got the opportunity. And I hadn’t thought about that goal in years.
So this week I was running through the aforementioned neighborhood. I noticed a parked car that had been sideswiped and a light pole that was knocked down. I rounded a turn and saw what was a likely response to reckless driving in the area. The police department had placed one of those trailer-mounted, portable, speed indication devices on the side of the road to display to drivers how fast they were going.
Well, then.
One unknown in my scheme to get a running citation was whether a police radar would even register a human running past. So this was my chance to answer that question. (The speed limit was 25 so the possibility of earning a citation was way out of the question).
A quick glance confirmed that no cars were approaching. I swerved out into the middle of the road where the radar could see me. It jumped from zero to eight miles an hour. Success! The radar could see me. So that was that.
Except it wasn’t.
Looking back, there really was no reason for me to do anything but continue on at my normal pace. My question about radar visibility was answered. But something about having a radar and giant digital display staring me in the face was sort of an unspoken challenge.
Nine mph. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. I was rapidly approaching the radar but thought I had enough time left to hit a nice round 15 mph.
Do you remember how when you were a kid and had those little rubber band airplanes, you always could tell when the rubber band was nearing the end of its life because it started to develop little nicks in it? For some reason I thought of that phenomenon and my hamstrings at the same time. I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. I saw a big 13 flash onto the display just as I started backing down and coasted past the radar.
I smiled and wondered if anybody in the nearby houses witnessed what I just did and how silly I must have looked. I didn’t care. I may have only gotten my speed up to 13, but for a few precious seconds I got my age down to about 18.
(Stop reading here if you want to end on a heartwarming high note).
Giddy with my unexpected, wacky, carefree attitude, I proceeded into a park where I coaxed a couple of teenagers into throwing their football to me as I ran by on an extended deep fly pattern. The kid’s arm wasn’t quite up to the challenge, and I had to slow to wait on it. Then as luck would have it the ball went into a Rawlings Eclipse and I was completely blinded while it was in front of the sun. I winced and lurched as the ball one-hopped into my feet, and then bumbled around as I tried to pick it up with my sweaty hands. So instead of being the cool runner guy who wanted to catch their football, I was pretty much just a random middle-aged dork that the teenagers no doubt are still snickering at even today.
And the age I felt went from 18 back up to somewhere higher than it actually is. On the whole I guess I’m just thankful that I remembered how to get home.
The Miler
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Running on August 19th, 2009
This past weekend I watched some of the Track and Field World Championships. Because I am a longtime runner, watching a track meet on TV always puts a spring in my step. Sadly, this spring is squeaky and kinked.
(On the plus side, the squeaky sound is muffled by twenty-five pounds of fat that I have strategically added since I last ran track).
Monday I was chugging down the street at lunchtime, imagining that I still had all my cartilage and could run as much slower than a world class athlete as I could twenty years ago, instead of as much slower than a world class athlete as I do today. Naturally, I had a great idea for not simply a television show, but a reality TV franchise.
(Legal notice so that I can more easily sue if this idea is stolen by a network: I conceived of this idea on August 17, 2009).
I don’t watch reality TV unless you count live sporting events or The Weather Channel. I’m not a TV snob; I just don’t find reality shows entertaining. My exposure to real people during an average day is such that I do not need my reality supplemented. Thus it is not without irony that I have conceptualized a reality show that I would definitely watch. The show would capitalize on these facts:
- Shows where people lose weight seem to be popular
- Shows where people live in a house or on an island and fuss with each other about contrived situations seem to be popular
- Sports are popular
- People having mid-life crises and willing to humiliate themselves on television (and, I suppose, in blogs) are a dime a dozen
My show would be called The Miler.
What we’d do is scour old high school or college athletics results and determine a good measuring stick for show participants. For example, maybe we’d decide to invite men aged 40 to 42 who ran their fastest mile in high school or college within a certain narrow performance range. They’d have been serious track athletes but not elite. Participants would all have put on a similar amount of weight since that time, and while still somewhat active, would all be in similar states of general decline.
We’d throw 15 or 20 of these guys into a big house. They get access to running gear, a weight room, nutritionists, chefs, physical trainers, and sports medicine doctors. They interview and then choose a specific coach with whom to work and design a training plan. We contrive some situation where the participants and coaches pick who they want to work with (we’d use one of those rose ceremonies for this episode just to be kitschy). They get to do individual workouts but some group training is compulsory to foster rivalries and competition. Winners of specific workouts may get access to a hot tub or some other desirable bonus, like extra ibuprofen.
After a few weeks of setup and training the group starts racing the mile live on television every week as part of the show. The bottom two finishers each week are sent home. The coach of the winner gets a new pair of tight gray BIKE coaches’ shorts. Maybe somebody gets a free pass to the next round based on certain criteria during the training week. Is the winner each week really the fastest guy, or is the fastest guy loitering in mid-pack, holding his cards for the final and trying not to get injured? Is the guy who has been moving up through the field each week going to ultimately threaten the early favorites? Will two mid-packers form a pact one week and try to control the pace of the race to give them the best chance of staying alive one more week? Whose training regimen will give them the best “bounce” leading up to the final race? And it goes without saying that in the final each competitor would wear replica gear from their glory days (supplied of course by a major sportswear company with which we would have a lucrative promotional agreement).
We would do a tie-in with a major college football conference so that a promotional race could be held during halftime of a college game at a stadium packed with fans at a game shown on the same network (maybe in Oregon where track is big). This would be great halftime entertainment for the fans and give the network more exposure for the reality show franchise because of all the people who would see the race. Heck, we could even have a preliminary race featuring stars of one of their other reality shows. Maybe one race would be a virtual race in which the competitors race alone on their home tracks simultaneously. The mind boggles at the possibilities.
Final winner on The Miler gets bragging rights, a stack of cash, and free running shoes for life.
Oh, and their photo on the Wheaties box. Not a Wheaties box. The Wheaties box.
And how’s this a reality TV franchise? Well, of course there should be a version with women. Then the next year we repeat the whole thing with new competitors. Or you change to Freestyle (swimmers), or Linkster (golfers), or Forehand (tennis), etc. I’m going to go work out the rest of the details so I’ll be ready when one of the networks calls and wants to buy the concept from me. I won’t be unreasonable on the asking price. And it goes without saying that I get the best room in that house.
A Special Offer – (What About Bob)?
Today brings an exciting first to The Ark of Mark. The Special Offer! I have a Special Offer for readers interested in vacationing in the Smoky Mountains. But first I need to tell you a little about Bob.
Bob and I went to high school together. He was a freshman when I was a senior, and we were both on the cross country team. Bob did not fully understand that because I was the top returning runner on the team, I was not supposed to have trouble shaking him during hard workouts. He just wore me out. It seemed like every time I turned around, there he was, right on my heels. Eventually I got over the indignity of it all and became a better runner for it. He was just a tenacious kid.
We ended up becoming great friends, despite our age difference (which was big only in the context of high school). After I graduated we still trained together a lot during summers and even ran together for a year in college. To this day we still greet each other by saying “Howdy Partmer” because somebody had spray painted this on a country road near his house where we used to run. (Notice that I said “partmer” and not “partner”). We got no end of amusement from “Howdy Partmer.” To this day I wonder what would possess somebody to stop and paint this on a country road, and whether the spelling was deliberate. I still can’t decide if it’s funnier if “partmer” was intentional or accidental.
(Any readers familiar with Philpot, KY culture circa 1989 feel free to chime in if you have an explanation for this).
Bob and I once went for a run and underestimated the temperature, so we stopped and draped our T-shirts over a farm fence. After the run we returned for the shirts and found them missing. We inquired at the house and learned the farmer’s wife had taken them off the fence. She brought them out to us washed, dried, and folded. (I realize this sounds like the start of a joke about a farmer’s wife, but that’s the end of the story). I don’t know if she was just being helpful or if she thought she’d scored two free shirts and was surprised we came back for them.
So Bob the tenacious kid grew up. He’s the manager of a property management company that rents log cabins and chalets, based in the Smoky Mountains. Our family has stayed in several cabins in between Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge and we always have a great experience. Bob has offered Ark readers a 20% discount. All you have to do is use the promotional code “ARK” when making a reservation and they’ll hook you up. Here’s a link with more details:
I’ll be down there myself in late July scouting out one of God’s most beautiful creations. Of course I’m talking about a funnel cake in downtown Gatlinburg. The Smoky Mountains also represent some of His better handiwork.
Maniac
Posted by Mark in Entertainment, Running on June 26th, 2009
Do you know that feeling when, even if for a fleeting moment, you wish you could assume a different personality? I certainly do. Maybe this is why I enjoy sports mascots so much. I envy a person who can act like a buffoon in public while maintaining the kind of anonymity usually reserved for those, say, writing an obscure blog.
Before we go any further, I need to ask you a question. Did you see the movie Flashdance? I don’t remember if I ever actually watched Flashdance, but I definitely remember the video for the song “Maniac” from the movie. (The Internet tells me it was sung by Michael Sembello, and who am I to argue). Actually, more important than the movie or the video is whether you are aware of the famous scene where the main character dances with really quick footsteps to that song, and at some point for a reason I cannot recall, a bunch of water splashes down. I’m not big on pop culture but I think that scene is probably iconic even if the water probably did warp the dance floor.
One reason I think the scene is iconic is because it is entrenched in our culture enough that the inherently funny Chris Farley mimicked it when getting mud hosed off him at a gas station in the movie Tommy Boy. He quick-stepped in the water and sang “She’s a maniac, MANIAC, on the floor. And she’s dancin’ like she’s never danced before.” I laughed out loud.
So yesterday I’m running by myself through downtown Lexington during my lunch hour. The temperature was mid-eighties and climbing. Not ideal running weather, but it was the only weather available during my lunch hour. I looked a block ahead and saw two rather burly fellows wearing city government shirts. They were standing next to a water truck with garden hoses attached, watering some taxpayer-supported flowers along the sidewalk. I thought to myself that it would feel good to run through the water spray, and they would probably be mildly amused to have some random citizen jogger ask them to turn their hoses on him.
And that’s when I remembered Chris Farley.
So let me ask you another question. Imagine you are a burly city government worker standing downtown on a hot day, watering flowers. Imagine that a random jogger approaches and beckons for you to spray him down. Somewhat amused, you turn the hose on him, whereupon he starts quick-stepping and sings “She’s a maniac, MANIAC, on the floor. And she’s dancin’ like she’s never danced before.”
Would that not be one of the funniest things you had ever seen? Would you not tell every one of your burly government co-workers about the hilarious jogger guy who re-enacted scene where Chris Farley re-enacted the scene from Flashdance?
Please tell me that moment would have made your day.
So this is where I wish I had adopted a different personality for that moment. As I approached them I only had about three seconds from the time I had the Chris Farley inspiration until I would have had to spring into action. I hesitated. What if these guys are so young they don’t even remember Tommy Boy, much less Flashdance? Suddenly I was upon them. I threw my arms out to the side, raised my eyebrows, and turned toward them to indicate I was overheated from my run and wanted them to spray me. One of them did turn the hose my way, but his expression indicated that he couldn’t tell if I was joking or serious. Discretion being the better part of valor, he decided it was better to assume I was kidding and let me risk heat exhaustion than to risk getting fired because some random jogger sued the city after being waylaid by an unwelcome jet of (what may have been unsanitary pond) water.
So I just smiled in a friendly manner and kept on running. He smiled and turned back to his flowers.
So now I’m frustrated. If I were just sufficiently demonstrative I could have at least gotten cooled down. And if I were even bolder I may well have given at least three people a story they could tell for years. Alas.
And the worst part is that I’ve had “Maniac” stuck in my head for over twenty-four hours now.
(And I’m dancin’ like I’ve never danced before).
Hot Dog Challenge 2009
There’s an episode of The Simpsons when Krusty the Clown interacts with a previously unknown child. Krusty warns the child not to get too attached to him, because “I’m not the kind of Dad who, you know, says things, or does stuff, or looks at you.”
This doesn’t apply to me as a dad, but sadly it does apply to me as a person more than it should. I’m just not the kind of guy who says much or does many things. At least not “things” that most people would find entertaining (e.g. going places).
I just think many places are just not worth the trouble of going there. Not an attitude that leads to much adventure, I’ll confess. It’s a personal failing. So it is all the more remarkable that this week I did something that was almost purely social. And I was sort of the ringleader. It all happened so fast.
I am fortunate to work in a building that has a locker room. Several of us take advantage of this by running during our lunch hour. On any given day you’ll see anywhere from three to ten people out for a run. I’ve been part of this informal group for going on ten years. These are my friends. Considering how little “stuff” I do in general, hanging out with these guys and gals (separate locker rooms!) comprises a large percentage of my social time.
Some of these guys used to get together once a year to run downtown, buy a hot dog and an ice cream, eat, and run back to work. Oh, how they love talking about that tradition. A tradition, mind you, that I had seen no part of in the nine plus years of hanging around them. My feeling is that a robust tradition requires activity more than once a decade (excepting I suppose those seventeen-year cicadas).
Maybe a little jealous that I’d never gotten to participate, I fired off an email inviting all the runners I knew at work to join me in a “Hot Dog Challenge” run. I figured a few of us would rekindle the tradition. We’d run two miles downtown, eat two hot dogs and a milkshake, and run back.
Well.
TWENTY-SIX people signed up including some who heard of the event second-hand. Yikes. This was a bona fide event. As Michael Scott suggested on The Office, we should’ve asked YouTube to come down and film it. Makes me wonder how many people we’d get if we doubled the distance and raised the bar to four hot dogs.
Here are most of us before starting our run. Aren’t they a happy bunch?
In twenty-four years of running, here are the first pictures I have ever taken while actually running:
We even encountered unexpected fans along the route. My guess is these ladies either really love or really hate their jobs. I just can’t see a middle ground:
Here’s what we ate. Well, two of these PLUS the milkshake. Avert your eyes ye faint of heart!
Thankfully, everybody made it back safe and sound and nobody needed to flag down this passing vehicle:
or assume this position:
Like a Rolling (Kidney) Stone
Posted by Mark in Current Events, Family, Food, Running on May 8th, 2009
As I write this I am contemplating ways to improve my overall health. I see no irony in the fact that I am contemplating while eating a bag of peanut m&m’s.
The reason that health is on my mind is that this week I passed an important milestone. In the form of a kidney stone. Well, I’m pretty sure I passed a kidney stone. You kidney stone veterans out there are no doubt yelling at your computer screen, “If you passed one you’d surely know about it!”
I’ve come to realize that kidney stone veterans are generally not shy about sharing their experiences. Or in one extreme case the actual stones.
In the interest of personal modesty and general decorum, let’s not review any details. Suffice to say that I was blessed with an extremely mild (and small) kidney stone, or am setting myself up for bitter disappointment when the stone, having now successfully faked me out, begins to move unexpectedly and renders me a quivering heap.
So today I celebrate. I feel like an oyster that has completed a pearl. Although considering oysters are supposed to produce pearls, maybe I’m celebrating like some other sea creature that has unnaturally delivered a pearl. Maybe I’m celebrating like a clam.
And this is probably as good a time as any to mention that I think “Kidney Stone” sounds like a mysterious, wealthy, British heiress in a soap opera.
So here’s hoping that was the end of that and we will never speak of it again. I should give thanks that besides the pain, I also avoided a second fear with this stone. I recently mentioned the half-marathon that I ran in Louisville. I feared that the stone would shake loose somewhere so close to the end that I’d feel compelled to try and finish anyway. I imagined the crowd as I struggled toward the finish line:
“Mommy, why does that man sound like a can of spray paint?”
Playin’ ‘possum
Saturday was kind of a big day for me. Eventful compared to most, anyway.
Bright and early I gathered with 12,000 of my closest friends in Louisville to run a half marathon. Well, some were there to run a full marathon, but most of us felt that thirteen miles was sufficient for this particular hot spring day. (We felt that a second thirteen miles had little to offer that we wouldn’t have already gained running the first thirteen). As the United Auto Workers sign said along the course, we were “United in Solidarity,” which I’m pretty sure is the same thing as saying we were together in togetherness. The Fellowship of the Gaunt.
Here we are. I’m right behind the thin one in the running shorts:
Some combination of the heat and a general malaise from a lingering cold kept me from running as fast as I’d hoped. My thirteen miles were comprised of eight miles of racing and high-fiving kids along the sidewalk, followed by five miles of bitter thoughts while trying to think up a good excuse to quit. If my hotel room and shower had been at the ten mile mark instead of the finish line I might not have made it.
So I ran my thirteen miles, ate a complimentary bagel, and drove home to mow the yard. Then the day got interesting.
As I was putting away the mower I noticed a face peeking at me from underneath the overturned wheelbarrow I keep tucked away beside a storage shed. The face of an opossum. (Let the record show that I have demonstrated the technical spelling of “opossum” and will henceforth spell the word the sensible way).
I am neither opposed to possums nor posed to opossums. While not exactly a majestic deer, I figure possums pretty much keep to themselves, so what’s the harm? Upon reflection I decided that our yard is sufficiently short of a vast wooded expanse that I probably needed to evict the possum. I figured I could flip the wheelbarrow over with a rake and leap out of the way before the possum could, well, play possum in a menacing manner. I figured it would eventually go hide someplace for the rest of the day and seek a new home overnight.
Well.
Let’s just say my blogging senses are not well developed or I would have had a camera at the ready. When I overturned the wheelbarrow I learned that this was not just any old random neighborhood possum.
This was the “Octomom” of the possum set. She bared her teeth at me, surrounded by a roiling mass of baby possums. Pink noses and nasty gray fur abounded. I was staring at more beady little eyes than the Senate cafeteria has on Baked Potato Day.
While I failed to get a live action photo the internet has helped me give you a sense of the scene, except Octopossum looked madder than this:
Let’s just say that for the rest of my life I will practice safe wheelbarrow storage techniques wherein the wheelbarrow can not be mistaken for shelter, especially by a marsupial with a brain the size of an almond.
Eventually Octopossum and her babies trundled underneath a nearby utility trailer I use to ferry mulch and yard debris. I returned a half-hour later and they were gone, hopefully to some safe and more remote location where Mama can teach her babies the time honored possum traditions such as lurking around at night, being omnivorous, and having just really ugly tails.
Go figure. A day that I will forever remember for a possum encounter started with me being roadkill.
Magically Delicious
Posted by Mark in Current Events, Food, Running on April 8th, 2009
I confessed to you recently that I was a little discombobulated because my office moved. More accurately, I myself moved between two stationary offices. Things are not getting any better in the discombobulation department. Today I went for a run at lunch with some co-workers (one great perk of my job is that we have a locker room on site so I get to have recess). I was outside for about forty-five minutes. For about a half-hour we trudged through a howling wind and blinding snow even though it is April 7th. For the last fifteen minutes the wind seemed to disappear, the sun came out, and we could hear birds chirping. Maybe the oddest weather swing I’ve witnessed. Couple that with the fact that the North Koreans just test fired a long-range missile and I’m just disconcerted in general.
Disconcerting before I even mention that last Sunday on the way to church my family witnessed a squirrel chasing a rabbit across somebody’s front yard. I have never seen a squirrel chase anything but another squirrel, but this one definitely had something against this particular rabbit. I’m guessing that with Groundhog Day recently behind us and the Easter Bunny fast approaching, this squirrel finally snapped in a fit of jealous anger. I can’t blame him for being bitter. He got left out of the holiday rodent lineup.
(Wikipedia tells me that a rabbit is technically not a rodent, but I’m guessing such a distinction would be lost on reasonable squirrels, to say nothing of angry ones).
I want to close today with a product suggestion for the General Mills Company, the maker of Lucky Charms cereal. Last year around Easter I was trying to round up a snack for our daughter Shelby. As a joke, I offered to make her a bowl of croutons mixed with leftover marshmallow Peeps chicks. Since then we have occasionally joked about having a bowl of croutons and Peeps. A couple weeks ago I was getting out a box of Lucky Charms and a light bulb went off. After I replaced the light bulb I had a really good idea.
General Mills should partner with the Peeps people and have an Easter themed Lucky Charms cereal every year. Instead of the normal marshmallow bits they could have little Easter chicks, bunnies, eggs, lilies, etc. (Of course they could also include little marshmallow crosses but no responsible modern company would mar the commercial veneer of Easter with a little meaning).
I hesitated sharing this idea in case General Mills runs with it and I thus contribute to the further commercialization of Easter. Then I figured that, hey, at least it would help raise awareness of Easter and maybe some folks would at least ponder its meaning while enjoying a delightful bowl of limited edition Lucky Charms. Plus also the Arbor Day Squirrel told me this was a great idea and I don’t want to make him mad.
Everyone Would Be in Love with Me
The other day I was out for a run and saw a HUGE pink limousine. Maybe I just wasn’t getting enough oxygen upstairs at the time, but the first thing that went through my mind was, “Wow. I wonder how much Mary Kay makeup she must have sold?”
So a couple of days later I’m out running in the same area and what do I see parked in downtown Lexington but the actual Oscar Mayer Wienermobile (or at least one of them; I have heard there are more than one). For those who need an explanation, the Wienermobile is basically a giant motorized road-legal hot dog with bun. It has four captain’s chairs in the front seating area (I looked). If I owned a cell phone I would have wished that it had a camera and then I would have wished that I had taken it running so that I could have wished there was a bystander willing to take my picture next to the Wienermobile. I have always thought the Wienermobile is very cool. In fact, it tops my list of favorite mobiles:
1. Wienermobile
2. Popemobile
3. Bookmobile
4. Mobile, Alabama
5. Batmobile
For a while I couldn’t figure out the connection between the giant Mary Kay limo and the Wienermobile being in the same area. Then I got it. If you’ve sold enough makeup to receive a giant pink limousine as compensation, and then you decide to have a cook-out with your friends, the Oscar Meyer corporation snaps to attention and sends the Wienermobile. Case closed.
Unless I really wasn’t getting enough oxygen.
