Delicious

It is early now, the sun not yet even considering an appearance. Sleepless, an unfocused gaze lost in the eternal ceiling, I find myself mulling time itself over in the satisfying familiarity of uneven scrawl and messy ink. By headlamp, I both lose myself and find the moment. It is a good life, these days, a good life indeed.

Katie’s sister Kelly having made a visit for the weekend, I find myself merging into another life, one both new and comfortable. Together we share laughs, completely, our whole bodies shaking with the vitality of it; we are fulfilled as only the company of good people can fulfill. Kelly is on her virgin visit to our adventure wonderland, and we take her rock climbing, across all three treetop high ropes courses, into the abandoned (and, as legend has it, haunted) hydroelectric power plant, teach her the ways of flint and steel fires. unaccustomed to this full life, already beat down by college life, she is bone-tired, quickly sapped, Katie and I once more having forgotten our superpower skills: stamina, smiles and laughter in every situation, complete and total helpless optimism; we work with children, every day, and this is our reward. out loud I wonder at how much better a world we might call home were everyone to take the opportunities such a life afford, acted with the wonder and joy of a fourth-grader in all they did. Privately, I laugh at such a dream, knowing full well that it is indeed a gift to work well with children, and one all too few possess.
On one of the treetops courses, we discover a distressed squirrel, angrily chattering at us from a nest it has built inside a platform. Knowing full well that under the right conditions it just might attack a student, we consider our options. Eventually Katie works her way around, intending to approach from a different direction; I begin throwing small pebbles at the underside of the platform, hoping to scare it out. As none of the smaller bits of gravel are working, I graduate on to larger stones. aiming for what I think is a bit of nest fluff, I throw hard from the ground thirty-four feet below... and am amazed to discover that what I thought was nest fluff is also part of the squirrel, which I have just hit, and is now leaping to the ground. The squirrel tries to grab a pine branch, but with the force of such a height, crashes right through to the ground. At first I am sure I have killed it, but it almost immediately dashes off, and in a straight line no less. It is one of the craziest things I have ever seen, and for a few moments none of us can even say anything. Then, as is common when Katie and I share company, it becomes impossible to suppress the laughter.
It is a crazy and blessed life; both inside and outside of our adventures, we fill the hours with laughter -- bad jokes the rule of the day, not the exception -- and good food. Our meals, admittedly eclectic, distend our gorged stomachs repeatedly to the point of pain. Like any good fourth-grader, there are some lessons I still struggle to learn, such as the meaning of one bite too many.

Still, other lessons I find, and know my life is changing for the better. Last weekend, finding myself on drenched, slick trails, a forty-one degree rain chilling my very bones, I challenge myself once more to the annual fifty-mile race at McNaughton. having taken second the year previous, despite ninety-four degree heat, my goal this year is to top the field. remembering numerous training runs in the face of all manner of adversity (a sub-zero forty-miler, in which all my food and water froze within the first three miles, quickly comes to mind), I count the poor conditions as an advantage. Nonetheless, I am thwarted in the early miles.
Disappointment begins early, even as I glide by the eerie bagpipes, the joy of the start (the release of so much eager anticipation and nervous energy) disappearing as I realize just how thin this year's field is. only two and a half miles in, I have already taken the lead -- something I hadn't planned on doing until thirty or thirty-five -- and though the pace feels if anything too patient, I am rapidly pulling away; by the next aid station I have opened a quarter-mile plus gap, and beyond that second runner a gap just as large. Pitching into the woods once more, I steel myself for a long, lonely day in the ugly weather... only to discover that the second runner, once far behind, is now far ahead. It is immediately obvious that he has cut off a large section of the course, yet he stammers out a weak story about a poorly marked course (on the best-marked course I’ve ever run). Though I desperately want to, I neither punch him nor cuss out his asinine excuses (seriously, who cheats in an ultra? that's one of the reasons I run these things. Sure, I set goals, like winning, but ultras are completely different than shorter races, a much friendlier, and more internal, sort of competition, than most).
I grit my teeth and press on. I am pulling away once more, when upon reaching yet one more of the slick wooden bridges that litter the course, disaster strikes. making a hard left turn onto the bridge, I plant my right foot nearly ninety degrees to my incoming body... and watch, dumbstruck, as it slides right over the small wooden lip, immediately pitching me into the ravine four or five feet below. twisting in an attempt to somehow catch myself, my left knee smacks against the wood's hard edge even as my right wrist connects solidly with the side of the slippery slats; my rump less than gracefully collects my weight across criss-crossing logs, wet with rain and slow rotting decay. I sit, stunned, as the cheater prances by; only fifty feet past does he stop to inquire if I am okay. Easily convinced I’m not dead, he continues ahead. Though my knee is throbbing, I catch him once more, leading again through the remainder of the first of five ten-mile loop. At the start/finish area I reassess the damage: my knee is decidedly unhappy. Hoping it will perhaps loosen up, I continue on. Two or three miles later, however, just past the first aid station, I succumb to reason and drop out, thirty-seven or thirty-eight miles shy of the finish. It is a tough decision, as I’ve roughed my way through similar misfortune and stupidity on numerous occasions, and I am winning... but my knee is swollen, angrily popping with each forward step, and I know that it is the right call.
After getting a ride back to the start/finish staging area, I break the news to my parents, who have driven ten hours in the previous two days just to be here for this. Fighting my disappointment, I inform Andy, the race director, that I am through for the day and return my ankle chip (yes, a chip-timed ultra). it is a course of action entirely foreign to me, though I know it is right, and I am quite painfully aware of just how impossible it might have been even a few months sooner.

My new life is full of such transformations. And though it startles me, perhaps even more than it startles anyone else who hears so, running is no longer my life's top priority -- for the first time in the ten years I’ve pursued it seriously, competitively. in every other relationship, of any nature, there has always been an implicit understanding that running -- that foreign, primitive part of me that will forever remain impenetrable, unaccountable to most -- comes first, and there are few things I haven't done to ensure I reach my weekly mileage goal. Yet, now, with Katie, this understanding no longer holds -- because I have no need for it. I have no need to run, no need to escape into the vast, numbing miles or the induced indifference of hundred mile weeks. I run purely for pleasure, the urgency of previous days gone, and old maxim "miles of trials, trials of miles" rings much less true.

Life is good, and continually gaining fresh dimensions, full of yet more wonderment and joy. We wrestle to give each other zerberts, make Captain Birdman faces, show off our favorite impressions of others. There is laughter in everything we do. one night late I peel my shorts to race like a four year old naked through our shared space for no more reason than the knowledge that it will make Katie laugh; as I round the corner I collapse in laughter myself at the sight of her, Mr. Birdman herself, caught preparing to surprise and make me laugh. We are good both to and for each other, completing sentences and talking in unison with frequency that would be sickening, were it not my life. It is perfect, and I wish for nothing more. Spring is here, and it blossoms deliciously.

Errant Pebble

I accidentally stoned a squirrel today. It leapt 34 feet to the ground, then dashed away, despite my fears that I had unintentionally killed it. I only meant to scare it.

Yes, it's been an eventful weekend. A real post to come in a day or two...

Easter Eve

Sunlight filters through the slats, serene and sublime, the air outside crisp and clear. Tomorrow is a holiday, a festival feast, dedicated to spring and the joy of good food and better friends; tomorrow is Easter.
The first hepatica blossomed several weeks ago; the frost of the last week promptly killed most of them. The spring peepers have likewise gone silent. Still, cardinals and flickers and robins and jays all anticipate the warmer climes and longer days, triumphantly zigging and zagging across the clear blue. It will warm; we can feel it in our bones, at the center of our chests.
Green radiates across open fields, lush and rich. Pausing in my work to watch Joe’s horses contentedly nibbling, even I – at least for a moment – discover my palate tempted by the delicious hue. Muddy and free, they inspire me; were it not for the evenings' chill, I’d envy their dark nights and softly illuminated starscapes.
We delve into delicious evenings and blessed mornings, unaware of the days passing and the impending choices of adult responsibilities – though we certainly know we must soon give this up, and if pressed, will admit as much, none of is ready to be away, departed from this, this deep clean air, green fields and blue skies, perfected autumn and shaky fawn-legged spring. We still find ourselves embracing hellos – this is not preparation for goodbyes that must, inevitably, come. In two months – two short, insanely hectic months -- we will have said our farewells, moved on into whatever corners life takes us next. Already, we occasionally begrudge the days for the hourglass trickle they represent.
More often than not, however, we find inspiration in the richness of the moment, the beauty of our surrounding and the company of dear friends. Tomorrow we will arise and seek out our own peculiar brand of sacristy, searching out the holy in a sunrise tinged with mimosas and laughter. Breaking bread in good food, and laughter in good spirits, we'll refuse to dwell on all those others with whom we'd gladly share this feast, instead focusing on the here, now: brunch of vegan blueberry pancakes, potatoes, and eggs; dinner of summer pasta, yams, and acorn squash; sangria to celebrate the earth's resurrection into spring.

Here, now, preparing myself, I break my own bread – rye, dark, soft, recently warm – and stare through those green slats across the sun-crossed plains. Quietly observing the geese flocking north, I know that all is right, and am satisfied with this, the eternal cycle of moments ever drifting into the next. It is what it is, and it is good.