Morton Pumpkin Classic 2013

Last weekend I ran the Pumpkin Classic 10k. I've been training for it since June. All my hard work has come to fruition. I guess.

We woke up at 4:30, ate breakfast, drank coffee, and hit the road for the hour and a half trip to Morton on the outskirts of the great prairie metropolis of Peoria. We didn't see much in the wee dark hours, but on the trip back, with the sun in the sky, we saw that this part of central Illinois has hundreds and hundreds of windmills. I think there are two large windfarms around the Bloomington area. I had never seen so many in my life.

Morton was a quaint little town. Over 1,800 runners descended on it like carb-loading, hamstring-stretching locusts that morning to participate in the 10k. Around 7:15, we crowded into the street, awaiting the starting gun.

Look:

Extra points if you find me.

Then we were delayed for half an hour when two cars collided in the race path. During this time, I had the opportunity to inspect the attire of my fellow racers. I found multiple heinous violations.

Race Shirts - It's common knowledge, or so I thought, that you don't wear the shirt of the race you're running in. Some say it's bad luck. Some say you haven't earned it yet. Either way, it's in poor taste. You can wear a shirt from a previous race as long as it's equal to or lesser than the race you're currently running. Don't wear a marathon shirt to a 10k. These are rookie mistakes, guys. 5k mistakes. This is a 10k. Time to get serious.

Compression Pants - If you are an adult male, you have no business running in public wearing compression pants. Or performance shorts. Or tights. I don't care what you call them or how cold it is. If your top layer is bulge-producing, it is not appropriate.

Here's a list those who don't want to see that:

• Women
• Other Men
• Children
• Dogs and Cats

iPods - The jingle of my dog's tags, the honking geese flying low formations over Mattis Lake, the wind through the Swamp Oaks, rumbling cars and barking dogs and yelling children, the Indian women gossiping while their husbands play cricket in the park, loud rap music from passing cars, the buzz of dive-bombing wood bees, the chatter of squirrels. The sound of the world around me is my favorite part of running. When you jam little ear buds into your auditory canals and crank up Eye of the Tiger, you're basically encapsulating the inside and taking it to the outside which completely negates the purpose of going to the outside to begin with. But, James, you say, I get bored on long runs. If the outside bores you, you're probably the kind of person who takes portable DVD players and laptops camping. You should buy Sweating to the Oldies or Tae Bo or Insanity. You should not go outside because you are wasting it. You don't need an iPod to run. You don't need a smart phone with an app that tells you how far you've run and automatically posts it to Facebook. It's one of the few moments in your day when you can get away from electronic devices.

Also, if you're very lucky and listen carefully when you're running a race, you might hear someone toot. And that's totally worth it.

Long story short: we finally got started. The temperature stayed in the 40s for most of the run and the track was fairly flat. I came in at 53:09:04. This run was very well organized. They had electronic chips to record your time. They had each mile marked with a sign and a volunteer calling out the current time so you could monitor your pace.

Also, they took video of the finish line. Let me just say, I hustled the last 50 yards or so and then had to slow down rapidly so I didn't end up in a doggy pile just across the finish line. So this is what I look like slowing down. I'm not usually this floppy.

Finish Line (I come onto the screen at 24:08.)

Of course you want to see the before-and-afters:

Here's how Aine takes pictures. She says, stand here where the sun is directly in your eyes. Now look normal. Why are you squinting?

They gave Dude a finishing medal. I haven't taken it off since.

The Pumpkin Festival looked like it would be the biggest festival I've ever been to. It had a street full of carnival style games, a dozen different rides, food tents, arts and crafts. Pretty much everything I've ever wanted from a festival. Unfortunately it didn't start for another few hours and we had to leave. As we left town, we saw cars trying to get into Morton for the parade and festival were backed up for two miles down the highway.

There wasn't much to capture photographically, but they did have some large pumpkins. If you know what I mean.

That night we celebrated the fact that I sweated, wheezed, and grunted for six point two consecutive miles without stopping by eating some Watermelon Shrimp Curry. Sounds gross doesn't it? It also looked a little gross in the pan, but this was totes delish.

We got the recipe from Jessie, but it originally comes from a book (Full of Flavor by Maria Elia). I suggest you try it while watermelons are still available. The original recipe called for squid and crab claws. We used shrimps. You could easily substitute chicken. Jessie modified the recipe a little before she passed it on and then I modified it a little from that. Below is the dish as I cooked it. If you want the complete un-muddled original, you can find it here.

Watermelon and Seafood Curry
Makes 4 servings.

Ingredients

• 1 personal watermelon, rind and seeds removed
• 2 tbsp olive oil
• 1 yellow onion, finely chopped
• 2 inches fresh ginger, finely chopped
• 1 garlic clove, finely chopped
• 1 jalapeno
• 1 tbl dried lemongrass
• 1 tsp turmeric
• 2 tsp ground coriander
• 1 tsp cumin seeds
• 1/4 tsp of cayenne pepper
• 1 lb shrimp
• 1 bunch cilantro, finely chopped
• 1/4 tsp fish sauce
• 1 tbl lime juice

Instructions

1. Liquefy 3/4 of the watermelon in a blender or food processor until smooth. 
2. Cut the remaining watermelon into cubes and set aside.
3. Sautee the onion, ginger, and garlic until lightly browned. 
4. Add the jalapeno, lemongrass, and spices and cook until fragrant.
5. Add everything else, bring to a boil, then simmer for 20-30 minutes.
6. Serve over rice with flatbread.

For reals. Try it.

My dreams of eating pumpkin pie at the finish line of the 10k proved to be bitterly false. Then we left before any of the serious pumpkin dishes were sold. Aine promised to make me some pumpkin pie when we got home. Turns out, standing the in cold for fifty three minutes and nine seconds exacerbated the cold she had been fighting all week. We'll pencil that one into the lessons learned column.

As soon as she felt better (a week later), she made me both pumpkin pie and pumpkin bread. A little late, but very tasty.

And the moment we've all been waiting for finally arrived. The cheese matured.

We ate it on water crackers with summer sausage from Rhode Island. We know a guy.

The final product had a mellow flavor, which would have sharpened had I allowed it age longer, and it was a little less dry than I desired. Next time I'm going to let it air dry for longer than two days. Aside from that, it was good. My first Cheddar. Woot.

Why Robin Thicke Should Be Boiled in his Tank

Dear Son,

This may be confusing to you since you don't exist yet. One day you will. Once you've learned enough English to work at McDonald's or blog about politics, you'll probably understand a little bit of the music you hear. You might stumble across the song Blurred Lines by Robin Thicke. Hopefully, this travesty of a song will have been banned by then, but it looks like these namby pamby liberals with their freedom of speech aren't going anywhere.

This song has tarnished the good name of American Pop Music and, I'm afraid, has taken us to a place as a nation we can't come back from. You'll say, Dad, explicitly treating women like sexual objects in song is nothing new: Big Joe Turner released Rebecca in 1944. First, Son, I would say Jazz doesn't count. Second, I would say even if it does, there are some subtle distinctions and I'm going to outline them here. In this fake letter I'm posting on the internet.

Robin Thicke recently performed this song while being the direct object of twerking on a recent awards show. And while he had no control over Mylie Cyrus' impromptu shenanigans, he was a married man singing a sex song, which is probably wildly misleading to people considering marriage. Also, Mylie Cyrus looks underage, so that makes it even worse. Granted, when a 23 year old John Lennon wrote and sang, "she was just seventeen if you know what I mean," he had already married Cynthia Powell after knocking her up. Here's the difference. A 36 year old man who looks like a skinny Russell Crowe: inappropriate. A 23 year old high school teacher: inappropriate. A 23 year old musician: what father of a 17 year old girl wouldn't be pleased?

What does the father have to do with it? Well, if you're going to treat a woman as a sexual object, it's important to take her previous owner into account and that's where Robin Thicke falls short. You can only do what you feel if her daddy is poor. If her daddy is rich, however, you should probably take her out for a meal first.

And let's face it. It's not so much the implicit glorification of infidelity, which has always been OK: Elvis sang Long Tall Sally in 1956. The difference you should note is that Mylie Cyrus is neither "built sweet" nor does she "have everything Uncle John needs."

Robin Thicke sings "you're an animal, baby," which strips away her agency and her intelligence. It is never OK to imply that a woman isn't a person. When the Beach Boys sing that they "dig a French bikini on Hawaiian island dolls," they're not talking about girls as though they were mindless bodies only valuable for their aesthetic attributes. It's a well known fact the Beach Boys actually collected dolls. Some animals are wild, but you shouldn't confuse this with The Troggs' Wild Thing, which is neither about women nor sex. It's a pastoral poem affirming the grooviness of the natural world. James Brown's Sex Machine isn't implying that woman was created for only one purpose. If you go back and listen carefully to the lyrics, he's clearly talking about erectile dysfunction. And that's OK.

Also, when Tom Jones sings What's New, Pussycat... come to think of it, Son, I don't want you listening to Tom Jones either.

One of the most disturbing aspects of all this is the public nature of this explicit sexuality. Twerking on a stage to a song about flirting in a club. The Drifters were gentlemen enough to make love under the boardwalk, hidden from the eyes of the people walking above. Tommy James hid what he was doing. He waited until he thought they were alone now before tumbling to the ground wrapped in arms.

The worst part of this song is the use of the B-word to describe a woman. I'm not even going to type it in his fake letter on the internet. Son, if you're ever confused about whether the B-word is appropriate as a lyric, follow this chart.

Performers who can use the B-word

• Mick Jagger
• Johnny Cash
• Miles Davis
• Woody Guthrie
• Elton John

Singers who can NOT use the B-word

• Robin Thicke

But mostly, Son, it's about class. Roy Orbison may well ask a pretty woman he only just met to be his tonight solely on the basis of her looks, but Robin Thicke, Son, is no Roy Orbison.

Party Like It's 1799

We spent our Labor Day morning in Arthur, deep in the heart of Illinois Amish Country, at the Arthur Cheese Festival.

Rat Race
We woke in the wee dark hours of the morning to drive south through the corn fields to Arthur. We arrived just before 7 am to check in, get our packets, and pin on our bibs. The packets, instead of coming in thin newspaper plastic, came in nifty, reusable canvas totes.

The goodies included our bibs, our shirts, advertisements for more 5k's (There's a night run through a cemetery in Decatur in October. Woot.), and the free cheese promised by the website. Only, here we found our first sign of trouble. The cheese wasn't local or even Amish. It came from Wisconsin.

We ran. Since Arthur has a sizable Amish population and the Amish only ride horse-drawn buggies and horses tend to poop all over the place, most of the roads in town (commercial and residential) were littered with horse poop. Most of the town had a faint livestock show smell to it. We're used to running the goose crap bespattered sidewalks of Mattis Park, so a neighborhoods crusted in former horse snacks didn't bother us.

We came in at 28:08. Look at us. Sweaty.

This was the best organized and executed of 5k's I've done. Painted arrows on the streets, high tech chips on our bibs (they had the results posted 30 minutes after the end of the race), it was a circuit instead of a turn around, huge inflatable arch over the finish line, water, oranges, and bananas for finishers. Top notch run.

Cheese Festival
We noticed in the main parking area for downtown, they had a buggy parking area.

Aine made friends with a sickly, underfed horse.

The vendor area took up most of downtown. Here's where we delved into the heart of Amish Culture.

To be honest, I was a little disappointed.

I'll grant that this was the final day of a three day festival. We left before noon so we missed out on the cheese eating contest and the curd spitting contest and the buggy rides. What disappointed me was The Merch. When you think Amish, you think home grown food and fresh milk and cheese and handmade pottery and woodworking and rocking chairs and things. So I came with a fat wad of poker winnings to blow on cool Amish stuff. Most of the booths, though, had cheap jewelry, inflatable toys, and Made in China Dollar Store grade crap you could pick up at any flea market. Also a lot of fried fair food.

There was one homemade cheese booth, one goat milk booth, a cool Amish crate/pallet booth (the only woodworking we found, but quality work), and some homemade licorice. The only pottery was imported from Poland (slip cast not wheel thrown). We saw a booth with stuffed pink zebras, another with hillbilly windchimes (a strip of wood with four empty beer cans tied to it), some knitting, and let me tell you, Arthur is still abuzz about the magnetic bracelets. You can find more quality, handmade wares at the Farmer's Market in Urbana.

We did see a local beekeeper selling honey.

A fair amount of quiltage.

Also, a camel. Go figure.

I wanted to get more pictures of the folks in their Mennonite hats and beards, but it somehow seemed a little disrespectful to snap pictures of them like zoo animals. We didn't hear anyone speaking Pennsylvania Dutch, which is actually German, because the word Deutsche confused 19th century Americans. They were all very friendly, though. I saw a couple women in Mennonite dresses, bonnets, bibs, and running shoes which means they ran three point one miles in that attire.

We did splurge and buy a homemade soy candle because it smelled good and we liked the little spongeware dish it came in. Except it was made by some guy from a town just north of Bloomington.

So, Cheese Fest. A little bit of a let down. Arthur was a quaint little town and I wouldn't mind going back to peruse the Amish stores on Main Street sometime when they aren't blocked by vendors from Cincinnati on the festival circuit. We did enjoy the run. And the Wisconsin Colby.