Yeah, I said it. I taped my nipples.

The indignities that runners have to endure. Like getting up off the couch. And motoring along with only shank’s mare for horsepower.

The Broad Street run starts in 12 hours. I spent the last 14 weeks training for it. I’m ready. By this time tomorrow I’ll start the slow slog to the start line.

I’ll worry about a lot of things. But I won’t worry about nipple chafing. I’ve got that covered.

I finished the Stroehmann’s 5K today about 10% faster than I did in my first ever 5K just three weeks ago.

Not bad. Felt good the whole way. I warmed up by going 2.6 miles on the way to the race start and cooled down by doing the same after the race. Net distance for the day a little more than 8 miles. Now I need to string that kind of thing together for the next few weeks.

Next up: A 5-miler at Valley Forge next weekend.

Then: 22 days from now it’s gonna be 10 miles in the Broad Street Run.

I mentioned the onset of shin splints. Well, I got a recommendation today from Fran that she had a reiki treatment and it worked on her shin splints.

Crazy timing, but Helaina, our reiki/massage therapist was coming in for our regular Wednesday sessions at IFRACTAL. I asked her if she could give me reiki for my shin splints.

She started by asking me to state an intention. I said, “I want my shin splints to hurt less.”

She said, “Is that all you want? Do want more than to have it hurt less?”

“I want the pain from my shin splints to go away,” I said.

And then she started.

I don’t know if any of you have had reiki, but it’s a positive energy therapy. The practitioner lays her hands on you in strategic spots. And you can feel the energy and heat radiate from her hands. (I recognize the skeptics in the room are rolling their eyes. I would too. I did. Before I tried it.)

I had a nice, long, session. At some point I could feel my legs tingling. And at least 20 minutes after Helaina stopped with the session, I could still “feel” her hands on my shins.

Then I put on my workout gear and ran 5.78 miles.

No pain.

No shin splints today.

Popes have had miracles assigned to them that were less significant. Reiki (okay, Helaina) made my shin splints go away today.

I had a breakthrough with my back on Wednesday. I mean, one minute I was the Hunchback of Notre Dame and the next minute I was Bart Conner, springing around and doing back flips. Well, maybe not quite that, but I was able to stand straight up. Walk. And stop groaning.

I went to the chiropractor on Wednesday and told him my back was feeling better. Uh-oh. That led to him doing some manipulations that were scary, but worked great. He had me lie on my side, then he grabbed my lower arm while he twisted my hip. CRACK! POW! BAM! And…relief.

I had that procedure done on both sides. Major back crack and spinal realignment. And I could stand up and walk out pain free. Just one little thing. I was as nauseous as all get out. Like penny-under-my-tongue nauseous. I found out later with a little research that nausea is a common side effect of spinal manipulation. It makes sense, all those organs are connected to the nerves that were being unburdened.

But I’ll trade a little bit of throwing up in my mouth for a back spasm any day. This officially ends my writing about my back. I’m sure I’ll have a new ailment — even a hangnail — to complain about next week.

No, not that kind, although I should more often. This is about sneezing.

I’ve heard of people who said when they had a back injury and sneezed it brought them to their knees. That happened to me today.

I sold my motorcycle, and today the guy came to get it. I helped by riding the bike onto the trailer. I hobbled off while Matt and Steve helped the guy. I sat on the curb. After about an hour, I asked the guy if he’d like a soda. He said yes, and I hobbled like a little old man up the driveway. Then I felt it coming.

ACHOO!

And just like that, I went from hobbling to hitting my knees. That was uncomfortable because it was in the middle of my driveway, and my back was in one massive spasm. I spent all my energy fighting off another sneeze.

So, here I sit with pillow propping me up. I ate an 800 mg ibuprofen. And I ache like a motherf****er. I’ve gone to 3 sessions with the chiropractor, and I’m still as bad as when I started.

This getting old things sucks. Did I mention that?

My back didn’t get magically better, so I went to the chiropractor today. It’s good news. See those things that can go wrong with your spine? None of them apply to me. No, I have something stuck in one.

Seems that I have a nerve pinched in my lower spine. And when it gets pinched, it causes the surrounding muscles to spasm. Which causes the nerve to get more inflamed. Which causes the muscles to spasm. Get the idea?

So, I have to go for 9 treatments. My first one today started with an adjustment, then electronic muscle stimulation, followed by a “cold” laser and then ice. Lots of ice.

Looks like I should end up ok. The doc told me that it’ll all of a sudden be okay, that the trapped nerve will rotate out when the spine is able to open up, then voila!

I hope so. I’m a baby when I’m hurt. But I must admit that the homebound service has been world class.

[Photo credit]

My freakin’ leg looks like some kind of advertisement for what not to do when you abrade your shin to the bone on the filthiest treadmill in Pennsylvania. I thought for a couple days there after I crashed and burned at the Upper Main Line YMCA that I’d let my leg heal in the air. Bad idea.

Here’s a hint: When Sheryl tells you to use Neosporin, do it. It’s that, or else start calling yourself peg leg. Arrrgggh.

You know what’s better than sliced bread? More sliced bread.

I love bread. Any kind. I was raised on Wonder Bread, that started my downfall. So, I’m going to try a little experiment. I’m going to try to not eat bread for Lent. I know, it’s not a big sacrifice for some, but for me it’s a big deal. I gave up my favorite food — cheeseburgers — over four months ago and don’t feel even a tinge of desire. I’ve had my last burger, I’m going to see if I can do something similar with bread. (Or at least a variation on it.)

I’ll let you know how it goes in 40 days when I return from the Gluten Desert. I’m sure there will be many temptations along the way.

[Photo credit]

I’m officially claiming the title of The Fittest Fat Man in Philly. Throw down, my endomorphic brethren.

I just went to my first comprehensive physical in…10 years. I got blood work and man, I hate to say it – okay, I had to pee in a cup a week before. I wasn’t holding out hope that my lab work would be great. Even though I finally gave up burgers this year, I was thinking the accumulation of all that beef wasn’t gonna be good on Frankie’s heart.

The first sign that things were going well is when I got my blood pressure taken. 118/80. The male nurse then took my resting pulse. 67 bpm. Then he said, “I want to check that blood pressure again. That seems too good.” He checked. 120/80. Um, that would be known as ideal.

My lab work was great. My cholesterol was 169. Great. Same with liver function, thyroid, kidneys, heart enzymes.

My doctor said, “You’re a boring patient.” I said, “Yeah, it’s cruel, ice cream and burgers, and I get the good numbers.” He said, “I’ve had 110 lb. women in here who do yoga five days a week and they’re the ones with high cholesterol and blood pressure. It’s just good genetics for you.”

I’ll go with good genetics, because even though I’m The Fittest Fat Man in Philly, I probably don’t deserve the title. At least the “Fittest” part. But I’ll thank my lucky stars.

The only downside about all that medical mirth? I don’t get to convince myself that I’m dying of the latest disease from the ABC Movie of the Week.

I’ve eaten my last cheeseburger.

Trust me, I’ve eaten my share of cheeseburgers, so it’s not like this is a little thing. This is a big thing for me. I love cheeseburgers.

I arrived at this No Burger decision this week. It’s because of a book.

I Didn’t Even Have a Last Meal
You know, I could have had a last meal. (Dead Burger Walking.) I didn’t. If I had, I would have eaten a Rouge Burger on Rittenhouse Square in Philadelphia. Second on my list would have been the Mickey Finn’s Bleu Cheeseburger in Libertyville, Illinois. A third choice would have been the most expensive burger I ever ate, which was the $29 burger I had at DB Bistro Moderne in New York City. (I tried to get the $50 burger that night, but sadly they were out of shaved white truffles.) But, I ate none of the above “just one last time”.

I Consider Myself a Burger Connoisseur
I’ve eaten three life’s worth of burgers. I used to say a long time ago that if I freakishly found myself on Death Row, a cheeseburger would be the feature item of my last meal. I’ve tried burgers at some of the best steak joints and gin joints in the world. I’ve had horse burgers in France, veggie burgers in Singapore, and buffalo burgers in Denver. I’ve eaten sliders by the bagful at White Castle in Chicago. I’ve had a Quarter Pounder with Cheese at Mickey D’s (Vincent Vega: You know what they call a Quarter Pounder with Cheese in France? They call it a Royale with Cheese.); I’ve had it my way at Burger King (Frank and My Way go together like cheese and burger); and I’ve found the beef at Wendy’s (followed by a Frosty, of course.)

My mouth is watering as I write this. I’m wistful about the burger. I know all the words to Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” I know that medium rare is the best way. Grilled bun. And I know that’s it. Fin. Finito. The end.

How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bombshell
No, not that kind of bombshell. I’m talking about the idea that I’m not going to eat any more burgers. Ever.

Here’s why I know I can do it. I’m not that disciplined when it comes to food, but Sheryl has gotten me to give up caffeine this year. A few years ago she weaned me off of sugary sodas. She moved me down from whole milk down to 1% (she can’t get me to skim…yet). It’s about my health. And I know I can do this. I “loved” all those things I gave up. And now I don’t miss them at all.

What made me change my mind? The Omnivore’s Dilemma.

Shelly suggested that I should read it a week ago. She said it changed her mind about eating and food. I bought the book the next day at Barnes & Noble on Rittenhouse Square. Little did I know that I bought a book that would knock me in the head, shake me by the lapels, and generally make me think. Heck, I don’t want to think when I’m reading — I want escapism. No luck.

Michael Pollan’s book is about industrialized farming, what’s changed in how we look at food in the last few decades, how we can get in balance with artisnal farming, and why eating burgers is just plain bad news.

The Omnivore’s Dilemma, defined, means that an omnivore can eat anything, but the risk of eating anything and everything is that we can eat bad things that pose real risks to our health. Like burgers that come from industrial farms where cows are fed corn that’s an unnatural part of their diet (cows are grass eaters), where cattle have to stand in a pile of their own feces, are supplemented with antibiotics and hormones to overcome overcrowding and lack of hybrid vigor, and it’s all on an industrial scale. That’s the formula for Frankie not feeling well.

The book is a modern day version of The Jungle, minus the yuck and ick. It’s more about how to think about food, its place, and how we can do better. (Pollan makes the point that food is sold as a commodity — we buy it by the pound rather than by the quality and impact it has in our lives.) I’m starting with burgers. I’m going to see if I can work my way completely off red meat, and then go farther. I’ll let you know.

If you want to read the story of what happens a cow that Michael Pollan buys and tracks through the system, read here. If you’re squeamish, don’t read it. Then again, if you are: Do. (That reminds me of a bumper sticker I saw: “I’m not a vegetarian because I care about animals, I’m a vegetarian because I hate vegetables.)

Just a quick note: I’m not going to be one of those people who smokes for 20 years, quits for a few days, and then harangues people about smoking. As I said, I like burgers. Really, I love burgers. I completely get it. This is about making a principled decision that will add a few days to my life some day when I’ll want them. How’s that for a bargain? My namesake, Ben Franklin, might have said, “A burger saved is a few years earned” or something like that. (Okay, I wasn’t named after Franklin. My middle name is Francis, but as they said in Stripes, “If anyone calls me Francis, I’ll kill em.”)

I’d like to meet Michael Pollan some day. I’d shake his hand and tell him that he ruined my (cheeseburger) life and saved it all at the same time. Bye-bye cheeseburger, old friend.

Photo credits: Rouge Burger by cathydahn and The Omnivore’s Dilemma on the author Michael Pollan’s site.