Great news for those who enjoy smoking and exercising. Last weekend, I came off a month-long cigar-smoking jag and beat my 2013 time in the Times Colonist 10K.
Let me emphasize I do not endorse smoking in any form. Smoking is very bad. And if you smoke, you are, like me, a very bad person.
OK . . . are the kids out of the room now? Good. Well, it’s true. I cut down my 2013 time at the TC 10K by 29 seconds. I smoked a Cuban cigar every day for 30 days before the race. In fact, some days I smoked two. I’m thinking of calling this regime Chamberlain’s Cuban Cigar Running Program.
Believe me, smoking stogies daily is not my usual thing. My limit — set by my wife — is one cigar a month.
But then a friend of a friend got me some Partagas Habana cigars for cheap.
These classy cheroots arrived in a genuine wooden box. When I opened the lid, the waft of tobacco was sweet. I smoked one, then pledged not to enjoy another until the next month.
But the next evening, the Partagas Habanas called out. They sounded like Harry Belafonte during his calypso phase.
“Smoke us Adrian,” they said. “Fire us up and you will be whisked to a land of happy Cubans and the darkest of rum.”
“There’s rum in the cigar box?” I asked.
“No, no, don’t be so literal,” said the cigars.
“It’s just that Cuban cigars are suggestive of rum and other fine Cuban products.”
“Well, I’m allowed to smoke only one of you a month,” I said. “That’s what my wife says. And she’s sort of the boss.”
“In Cuba, the man is the boss,” replied the cigars. “In Cuba, everyone consumes cigars in the manner of Americans devouring Taco Bell.”
So I got out another cigar and lit up. My wife noticed and reminded me of the once-a-month cigar rule. However, she’s now temporarily in a wheelchair (the unfortunate result of a broken leg) and so is powerless to catch me.
The night before the Times Colonist 10K, I was scheduled to play at a bar with my band. It was poor planning, as I got home at 12:30 a.m. It was difficult to go to sleep immediately. I thought about heating up some milk.
Then something called out to me. It was the Partagas Habanas.
“Adrian, you are fatigued after a long night of playing R&B and Motown music, mostly from the 1960s and 1970s, but also with some more contemporary tunes tossed in so bar patrons think you are still au courant,” they said. “Why not smoke one or even two of us to relax?”
So I did. Let me tell you, firing up those babies made me feel like a hundred bucks. And sort of dizzy.
The next morning, the alarm rang at 6 a.m. I didn’t feel as good as the night before, partly because I enjoyed some Cuban rum with my cigars. Plus, I’d had only five hours of sleep. A “death warmed over” feeling came over me as I donned my running outfit.
On the way downtown for the 10K, I picked up my friend Gord, who’s a much better runner than I am. The race started — we were off.
Halfway through the race, I got that “losing the will to live” feeling most runners get. It’s when the runner feels like dying and fantasizes how pleasant it would be to fling oneself into the nearest shrubbery and expire.
One can ascertain one’s level of physical fitness in a running race by those keeping pace with you. Beside me was a woman in a bear costume and a very old man in neon-red sneakers. At the finish line, Gord asked if I’d stopped to nap along the way.
Back home, my wife asked how the race went. I described feeling variously winded and nauseated during my run. She blamed the Cuban Cigar Running Program.
So I found this interview in which Michael Jordan says he smoked a cigar before every basketball game and felt great. But my wife pointed out it was from Cigar Aficionado magazine.
Now I’m not allowed to smoke any more cigars for six months. Even though my finishing time at the 10K was 29 seconds better than last year.
Next week: How to get rid of pantry moths with those electric tennis racket things.