Uh …Hi…My name is Bob and I’m an addict.

It all started when I was still in my teens; I’d watch an occasional episode of Julia Child’s The French Chef or The Great Chefs series on PBS for kicks.  Nothing major, it was all just fun.  The food seemed so exotic and special and a world away from anything I experienced in 70’s suburban Virginia.  As I got a little older I began to watch these shows on a weekly basis and discovered Chef Tell who was not only one of America’s first star chefs but the inspiration for a Muppet.  And all this years before the high priestess of American food writing, Ruth Reichl, made another German with an improbable name (Wolfgang Puck) a culinary god.  By my late teens my habit had grown to include The Frugal Gourmet with Jeff Smith and Burt Wolf, whose travel related shows were irresistible to someone who dreamed of a life beyond the tract houses and of food beyond mac and cheese.

Time and travel gave me more opportunities to experience food first hand.  After some time in Paris and a few years living in New York I came to understand that an in-person relationship with food was far better than one via basic cable.  But then it happened: the Brooklyn building I was sharing with six mimes (yes, six and no, it wasn’t quiet) was slated for demolition and I had to find a place to live and fast.  As luck would have it a friend of a friend was looking for a roommate and I moved in to an apartment…with cable.  One evening during a lighthearted session of channel surfing I found my drug of choice, Channel 50 the TV Food Network.  Here it was, one cooking show after another in a flickering never-ending procession.  So what if these shows lacked any real production values and the same episodes were aired numerous times throughout the day, I didn’t care, it was all I needed.  All hot and steamy, sweet, salty, oiled, broiled, deep fried and all for me whenever I wanted it.  Martha and Mario, Emeril and Sarah were my constant companions. Every evening I was at home; every day off I couldn’t get enough. How to slice, dice or parboil.  Ever wanted to know were cumquats came from or how they made Dove bars?  There were shows for that too.

The Food Network will soon celebrate its 15th year of broadcasting and I’m still there remote in hand.  Many of my old friends have vanished (Sandra Pinckney, where are you?) or moved on to bigger and better (Mario Batali to tour Spain with Gwyneth Paltrow and Martha Stewart to pretty much own the world) but I’ve made new friends.  Some like Ina Garten (who’s recipes you actually want to make), Paula Deen (who’s recipes you also want to make but don’t for fear of a lard induced cardiac incident) who you watch just for fun and others like Tyler Florence, Kevin Brauch and Dave Lieberman who you watch because…well look at them.  While the Food Network will always have a place in my heart and my waistline, they no longer make up the whole of my addiction.  Now I have to have my weekly hit of Anthony Bourdain, the dirty uncle of culinary broadcasting and the only “TV chef” who has found their way on to my i-pod, and yes I Ti-Vo Martha Stewart’s daily show and fast forward through everything that isn’t cooking.  As far gone as I am, if I ever want to make baby toys out of athletic socks just do me a favor and kill me.

Being a dyed-in-the-wool nonbeliever in things religious I have only had one truly mystical event in my life.  On September 11th ,2001 and the days immediately following, as what had once been the World Trade Center smoldered in ruins, the one TV channel out of 200 that was not knocked off the air in New York City was The Food Network.  Even in one of the nation’s darkest hours my constant source of comfort was still there.  Maybe something out there does like me.  And if that’s true whatever it is must also like watching food prepared by expert hands.  If only it didn’t like Rachel Ray quite so much.

Bob Speck lives and writes in Los Angeles.  He has no idea why.

The polar opposite of the cutthroat “holiday run” I described last week would have to be Fleet Feet’s Annual Monster Mash Dash at Montrose Harbor in Chicago.  It’s technically just a sideline, something fun for the kids to do after their parents sweat it out in the Trick or Treat Trot 10k/5k earlier that same morning.  For the little chickens, cowboys and Spidermen who take part in the “race,” though, it’s nothing short of amazing.

This video clip doesn’t really do justice to the joyful chaos: chubby arms flung out, wings/claws/capes fluttering in the breeze, no thought for watches or mile markers— not even a consciousness of the finish line, let alone an awareness of its supposed significance.

Next time you start to take your exercise routine too seriously, remember those childhood days of “glad animal movement” that Wordsworth praised in Tintern Abbey and flap your own wings a little!

Jeanine Casler lives, writes, and runs in Evanston, Illinois.

In May of 1999, I was diagnosed with cancer, and it pissed me off.

In January of that year, I started training for a half-marathon.  With all the quality miles that I had tracked, I knew that I would see my best time.  Sure, the actual winners of the race would laugh at my middle-of-the-pack record, but for me, those magical numbers would sing.

Instead, four days before the race, I sat in a doctor’s office, heard him pronounce that nasty word “malignancy,” and then found myself on an operating table.

I missed the race.

After the surgery, I spent a month kowtowing to the radiation machine.  One-and-a-half years later, I opted for the extra challenge of the full 26.2 mile monster.  I completed the race, tears running down my face as I staggered across the finish line.

That’s the happy-movie, truncated version of the story.

The truth is a little more difficult to explain.  After the surgery, the treatment, and the quietly reassuring words of my doctors, I should have been relieved.  I should have said to myself,

I’m going to fulfill the goal that cancer interrupted.

I’ll work hard and whip my body into shape.  And when asked, that’s what I did say: I was running the marathon to fulfill an interrupted ambition.

But in truth, I was also enraged at my body.  It had betrayed me.  I had remained relatively healthy for almost three decades, and it had been deliberately nasty to me.  Well, I could be mean, too.  So I spanked it with a marathon.

I should have dropped out at mile 17 when the cramps wracked my left side, but I kept going, a profane mantra echoing in my head and occasionally emerging from my mouth:

F@*! you, Cancer,  F@*! you, Cancer,  F@*! you, Cancer.

I crossed the finish line, praying that I had exorcised the evil creature from my life, sure that I had punished my body, which would now behave.

But I woke up the next morning, somewhat sore, and feeling…the same.  Apparently, when I collected my souvenir race shirt, I forgot to pick up my Hollywood catharsis.

Nope.  No beautiful epiphany.  No sudden lifting of the worries.  Running a race, however symbolic, did not appease the fears or anger that still gnawed at me.

Only time had that power.

Almost a full decade later, I can look at that event in my life with an understanding that escaped me then.  There was no moral to my cancer story.  There was no moral to my marathon story.  Rather, there was only the story: beautiful and foul, uplifting and profane.

I suspect that most true sports stories are the same.  To be packaged, they must be revised and codified by those who make a business of selling tales.  The true versions, however, are not so easy to package.  They are raw and human.  They capture the violence of curses uttered in the dying moments of a race.

Seven years ago, I ran a race because I wanted to show my body that I was stronger than it, because I wanted to show Mr. Mortality that he hadn’t yet found me, because I was angry.  I wanted my cancer story to be a fairy tale.

Now I run because that’s who I am— a man who values the joy of placing one foot in front of the other.  I still despise Cancer, but now I understand him a little more.  He is Time’s ugly minion, a gangly creature who, as he whispers to us of our coming demise, also reminds us that we should listen for the slap of our feet on the asphalt, rather than the music of magical numbers.

F@*! you very much, Cancer.

Robin Follet lives, writes, and cartoons in North Carolina.

Maribel and I were at LA Fitness last Tuesday for a light workout when I was racking our weights and saw a frightening sight in the reflection of the mirror.  No, not myself thank you.  It was some guy in his early 20’s deadlifting.  This guy’s form was so bad!  Most people can’t even get that degree of flexion out their lumbar spines in yoga class.  This guy was doing it with 405lbs.!  How could I remain quiet?  My ethics would not allow it.  If me taking two minutes to talk with him about proper form could save his disc from exploding out of his back, tearing through his American Eagle t-shirt and claiming a passerby’s eyeball as collateral damage, then I was bound to do the right thing.  So I did.  He acted as though I were invisible to him, not even giving me eye contact or a polite thank you.  So rude!  I walked away silently wishing the explosion beneath his shirt would take place as soon as I was far enough away not to get hit by any frag.  Then he would understand.  No such luck.

He was still there when the time came for Maribel and I to do our deadlifts.  As Maribel executed her form flawlessly I tried not to watch the travesty that was occurring only feet away.   And then he was gone.  I exhaled.  But it was only seconds until another young man took his place and began the same exercise.  Better, but not perfect.  Again I was compelled to speak up.  Fortunately, he took my recommendations and corrected his form.  But then another one walked up and started to deadlift with bad form!  That is when Maribel looked at me and said “NO” while dragging me to another section of the gym.  I could have been there all day correcting the form of 20-30 years old men deadlifting.  I could still be there!

So I thought I should make sure all of you have an idea about what the deadlift should look like.  I considered making my own video demonstration but we all know how that turned out last time.  Why should I embarrass myself further?  Plenty of others have already done that for me.

This guy’s video is pretty good though.

This one, on the other hand, is NOT.

And if you just want a good laugh take a look here.

Jamie Dreyer is the President of Further Fitness NYC.

Dooley the Side Horse lives, writes, and gallops in New York City.  He was in a very fulfilling exercise relationship with Blog Further editor Allen Durgin, until Durgin abruptly left him for triathlon gear.