How to slow down the fast-paced city life

I can only listen to country music when I'm driving alone--my wife won't let me listen to it when she's in the car. It's not just that she doesn't like country. It's her incessant fear that one day I'll turn out to be a hick, and I guess she thinks country music could increase that chance.

She grew up in a small town and didn't care for the 4-H guys. The dates she hated most were the ones where she was picked up in a camo-colored 4X4 with a gun rack on back. I'm from a small town as well, a farming town, and I used to drive an old truck. To most men where I'm from, a "car guy" is an oxymoron.

My married, male readers will understand that you've got to promise a lot of ridiculous things to get a girl to marry you (e.g., eat less fried chicken, stop wearing a particular shirt, quit cussing). Before we exchanged vows, my wife made me promise to always be a "car guy."

I actually didn't listen to country music growing up, in fact I currently like a lot of rap. And I drive a car. But now that I'm living in a faster-paced city environment, I've come to really enjoy the slower-paced lifestyle found in country music's lyrics.

So my wife putting the kibosh on that genre has been difficult. But, I've come up with other ways--that are harder for her to control--to get life down to a Willie Nelson pace:

1. Say "I'm going into town to get ____," when speaking of running any errand, even if you already live "in town" and are just walking to 7-Eleven for a churro.
2. Drive with the window down and your left elbow sticking out the door. Cowboys don't use A/C, and they drive with one hand on the steering wheel.
3. Use "'ol'" as a prefix whenever possible: "I'm heading down to ol' Buck's place to watch the game," or "I've got to stop by the ol' supermarket after work."
4. While driving, deploy the four-finger wave whenever you're passing someone heading in the other direction, especially at a 4-way stop. (If you don't know what that wave is, click here)
   
5. When talking about any automobile that isn't a Ford, Chevy, or GMC, use the term "foreign job."
   

I can do all those things and more from a car, so I'm still keeping the promise I made to my wife. You can take a guy out of the small town, but maybe you can't take the small town out of a guy.

I don't mind a little pesticide on my apples

I grew up in a house bordering several potato, wheat, and sugar beet fields. In the summer months the whine of a crop duster often filled the sky. It was those moments when my brother and I would hop on our bikes and ride along the canal bank to get a better look.

The guy in the crop duster was named Chuck, and he lived across the street from us. He was kind of an old grouch (my brother and I's shenanigans often put us on bad terms with the neighbors), but we always did our best to try to get a wave from him as he swooped back and forth over the crops.

He usually just acknowledged us by spraying a load of insecticide our way, rather than bothering with a wave. While the stuff never smelled great, it did wonders for keeping mosquitoes off us for the next couple days.

A lot of people nowadays would freak at their kids riding their bikes behind crop dusters. Heck, a lot of people nowadays freak at their kids eating a carrot from soil boosted by Miracle-Gro. I have no qualms about non-organic food, though. Then again, I have no qualms about eating food off the floor.

I read the other day that organic food is the fastest growing sector in the American food marketplace (I guess Hostess Cake food has finally been bumped from first place). Apparently Americans are turning a new leaf on their eating habits.

I just don't see myself following the trend. The other day I was at the grocery store picking out some apples. I noticed a chic-looking lady next to me, picking out apples from the organic stand. She glanced over at me, thinking "enjoy eating rat poison." I glanced over at her, thinking "have fun paying double for smaller apples."

As you can probably guess, I went home with rat-poisoned apples and she went home with cow-manured apples. We'll both probably live healthy lives and, hopefully, die of old ages. I guess the fundamental difference is that she'll always see a crop duster as something to try to get away from, while I'll always see a crop duster as something to try to get a wave from.

My "Breaking 5" blog is flourishing

If you haven't been over to www.breaking5.blogspot.com lately, you're missing out. Posts are popping up almost daily.

I'm chopping down the 4:59-minute mile one swing at a time. Read about my latest progress here.

Who needs energy bars when you've got donuts?

What's the best way to negate the benefits of a 20-mile bike race? Eat a bunch of donuts while doing it.

Saturday morning I competed in the second annual Tour de Donut, a grueling race against speed and appetite. The details of the race are as follows:

• Bike a 6.5-mile lap
  
• Eat donuts
  
• Bike a 6.5-mile lap
• Eat donuts
• Bike a 6.5-mile lap

Each donut you wolf down takes three minutes off your overall time, so there's an incentive to spend plenty of time eating donuts before hitting the road for the second and third laps.

I felt a little out of place, upon arriving at the race site to register. While most riders donned flashy jerseys, spandex shorts, and click-in shoes, I had on a t-shirt, basketball shorts, and an old pair of Nike's.

As we lined up I noticed most everyone had sleek racing bikes made of toothpick frames. I had a full-suspension mountain bike that I picked up at a yard sale last year. Picture a bunch of gazelles lining up to race an old jeep.

I hadn't ridden my bike for over a month, and that was just to go to the grocery store for some soda. But then again, it's an event with donuts--the "real" bikers are practically asking for idiots like me to crash their race.

I trudged my way through the first lap, then quickly polished off four donuts. They actually went down pretty easy. With sticky hands I was off for lap two.

My second trip to the donut table wasn't as enjoyable. After I shoved the fifth one in my mouth I had no desire to continue. I guess it was at that point that the same spirit which moves Lance Armstrong to go stronger came upon me: I hunkered down and kept eating.

I found a couple tactics handy: one was the donut sandwich, where you smash two or more donuts on top of each other to eat at the same time; the second was water logging, where you keep squirting water in your mouth while you're munching on your donut.

Having pounded my ninth donut, I took to the course and trucked my way through the final lap. There's a special feeling when you cross the finish line of a race, but it's even more special when you do it with icing on your face and a belly full of donuts.

Just for kicks I looked up a calorie calculator when I got home, and I probably burned 1,000 calories during the race. However, the donuts totaled 1,980 calories. Ultimately, it was the donuts that came out on top.

Check out my new blog!

The blog is called "Breaking the 5-Minute Mile," and the URL is breaking5.blogspot.com. If you enjoy the "Rocky" movies, you'll love this new blog.