hasYesterday, I realized a natural confluence of two activities that I a) have to force myself to do despite these activities b) being good for me and c) ultimately being somewhat enjoyable. The activities of which I speak are, of course, running and maintaining this blog with any sense of regularity.
Every year or so, for a period of several weeks, I begin a running campaign in earnest. Because I’m starting from the ground zero known as the couch, I ease myself in through a regimen that works as follows: “run one song, walk one song.” Naturally, as I documented a dog’s age ago, I become hyper-focused on the “running” songs, trying to calculate the milliseconds to their completion, at which point I will be put out of my misery for four or so minutes of walking.
And so I took to the small gym my company graciously provides its employees. I was alone for the bulk of my experiment—in fact, for 3.5 of my 4 designated sprint cuts. Right as I reached for the air drums that would send me into the waning seconds of my excursion, I was interrupted by that one guy who works out in our office gym every day. (I suppose the irony of this intrusion is limited, since he is, in fact, there every day.)
At any rate before my solo workout was disturbed, one of the songs to which I had to hasten my pace was Counting Crows’ “American Girls,” from their fourth album, the polarizing Hard Candy. It’s apparently just 3:51, but my legs and lungs begged to differ. In a relatively clever synergy of mid-90s alt/folk-rock, it features Sheryl Crow on backing vocals. I’ve never thought that much about this perfectly accessible (but not exactly iconic) song until my cardiovascular life depended on it.
But there is, in fact, a “best part.” At 2:50, Sheryl sneaks back in with her harmonies, strong but relatively predictable as far as the intervals are concerned. She’s gone again by 2:58, replaced by male harmony (perhaps the newly bloated* Adam Duritz singing over himself). And then, at 3:06! We’re launched into a modified chorus as the hook repeats over and over. Sheryl is back, and the male/female harmony collides into a series of “ohs” until Adam brings it home. Just a perfect ditty for some treadmill/fist-pump mashup action. Anything to make the miles pass in a more pleasant way.
*He really looks terrible in this vid.