Forty-two miles ago, I hurt less. My body did not quiver, betray me in the shower, legs collapsing as if twigs in a storm. snap: limbs splayed across the slick tub.
Forty-two miles ago, I was less whole. Despite three hours in the pursuit of only three more miles, despite letting my body wither into the cold asphalt, unwilling/unable to move as the rain beat down into me. It was fifty degrees, windy, uncomfortable. Still, I finished. Despite a recently poor diet, despite poor rest, despite the tail end of a third consecutive high mileage week, I finished. I will not be so easily defeated.
Today, my body still shakes, quivers expectantly, nervously, not easily placated, and much less easily pleased. This afternoon, ignoring sinewy pleas and the advice some call sense, I sought to pad my total, logging twelve more. Twelve miles I foolishly ran, and yet my legs were surprisingly strong, an even stride born aloft by deep currents of muscle memory and my particular hubris. Now, as I feel the fever come on, I think back fifty-four miles.
My immune system is nonexistent, my body too worn down to fight. Cold or flu, it does not matter; I know I have no chance. I only pray it moves quickly; I don't want to fall behind on my mileage. As such, I head to bed. At six o'clock.
Maybe tomorrow I'll only go twenty-five. I'm setting three alarms.
Monday, October 22
Friday, October 19
Permutations
The stale funk of a room – in need of cleaning, organizing, love – invades my nostrils. Not yet pungent, neither is it particularly pleasant. More than anything, the scent simply is.
Early yet, my body wakes stiff, unhappy at awaking so early. But then, I've never been one for sleeping in. Outside, the rain falls steady, neither hard nor soft. It, too, simply is.
The obnoxious grindings and scrapings and whirrings of the garbage truck – just off my deck – complete the waking. It is morning, that time has come, and no more sleep will find me anytime soon. Still, I do not rise.
Instead I lay in silence, contemplating the stiffness of my lower back, the sluggishness resting in the bottoms of my hamstrings, the thick muscles of my butt. Once more, I find, even my sleep has filled with the pursuit of miles.
I let my eyes melt into the ceiling, disappearing into memories of runs, dreams of runs, illusions of runs. I let the pressure build in my bladder and intestines; it is morning, a day off, and i want to sleep in. Eventually, though, a choice: make a mess of my bed, or get up. I move slowly, stiffly, but rise.
This weary sinew hints at more than just running; the aches in my back and shoulders tell me I have been biking as well. An adventure race, perhaps.
More active in sleep than in waking: though not generally my taste, today crawls slowly forward. Two hours of restlessness later, I still lay motionless on the floor. My roommate has been up for a little while; I hear her starting laundry, fixing herself breakfast. Motionless, I remain. She leaves for work, and still, I lay.
With time to recover, dance in a new revolution, to idly prosper, I do none of those things. Mostly, I find, I lay. The room no longer permeates funk – rather, fresh laundry invades my nostrils – but still, it feels tired, desolate in the uncomfortable way of this nameless, culture-free suburb. This new world of mine, though clean and sanitary, is also soul-less, much more a deathbed than a nursery. I'd gladly trade it for one of a million small towns, morning chit-chat over coffee in a neighborhood diner.
There is always food, I suppose (as he says, you can't run that kind of mileage without eating), and I do eat well, even if not enough: last night, open-faced tomato, spinach, and hummus sandwiches, with an omelet on a bed of spinach and a fruit smoothie; this morning, a breakfast burrito casserole. I'd rather cook for more than myself, I know, and my tired meals reflect this.
Another load of laundry is done; the silence is telling. Still, I lay here, lost in the ceiling. It stretches on, accomplishing nothing. But that too – accomplishment – can wait. And it will.
Early yet, my body wakes stiff, unhappy at awaking so early. But then, I've never been one for sleeping in. Outside, the rain falls steady, neither hard nor soft. It, too, simply is.
The obnoxious grindings and scrapings and whirrings of the garbage truck – just off my deck – complete the waking. It is morning, that time has come, and no more sleep will find me anytime soon. Still, I do not rise.
Instead I lay in silence, contemplating the stiffness of my lower back, the sluggishness resting in the bottoms of my hamstrings, the thick muscles of my butt. Once more, I find, even my sleep has filled with the pursuit of miles.
I let my eyes melt into the ceiling, disappearing into memories of runs, dreams of runs, illusions of runs. I let the pressure build in my bladder and intestines; it is morning, a day off, and i want to sleep in. Eventually, though, a choice: make a mess of my bed, or get up. I move slowly, stiffly, but rise.
This weary sinew hints at more than just running; the aches in my back and shoulders tell me I have been biking as well. An adventure race, perhaps.
More active in sleep than in waking: though not generally my taste, today crawls slowly forward. Two hours of restlessness later, I still lay motionless on the floor. My roommate has been up for a little while; I hear her starting laundry, fixing herself breakfast. Motionless, I remain. She leaves for work, and still, I lay.
With time to recover, dance in a new revolution, to idly prosper, I do none of those things. Mostly, I find, I lay. The room no longer permeates funk – rather, fresh laundry invades my nostrils – but still, it feels tired, desolate in the uncomfortable way of this nameless, culture-free suburb. This new world of mine, though clean and sanitary, is also soul-less, much more a deathbed than a nursery. I'd gladly trade it for one of a million small towns, morning chit-chat over coffee in a neighborhood diner.
There is always food, I suppose (as he says, you can't run that kind of mileage without eating), and I do eat well, even if not enough: last night, open-faced tomato, spinach, and hummus sandwiches, with an omelet on a bed of spinach and a fruit smoothie; this morning, a breakfast burrito casserole. I'd rather cook for more than myself, I know, and my tired meals reflect this.
Another load of laundry is done; the silence is telling. Still, I lay here, lost in the ceiling. It stretches on, accomplishing nothing. But that too – accomplishment – can wait. And it will.
Sunday, October 14
Ten Week Snapshot
Week 1: 68 miles
Training was going well, mileage was nearly back to where I wanted it, was in first week of two week mini-taper for Great River Relay. Weight was holding steady at just over 130, right where I wanted it.
Week 2: 51 miles
Got hit by a car while riding my bike Friday. Obviously, didn't run Great River Relay.
Week 3: 32 miles
Took a few days off, a few days easy, then may have pushed a little too much. Knee quite sore.
Week 4: 40 miles
Knee a little sore, not as bad. Weight is in 135-140 range; feel sluggish on many runs.
Week 5: 48 miles
Slowly feeling more comfortable.
Week 6: 56 miles
Weight back at about 135, feeling stronger and faster again.
Week 7: 54 miles
Held mileage steady, even though I was fine with the increases.
Week 8: 67 miles
Back to increasing. Legs feel great, weight holding steady just over 130.
Week 9: 84 miles
Got several good longer runs, feel like my endurance is coming back around. Weight at 130.
Week 10: 100 miles
Longer runs of 30, 15 and 17 miles; weight below 130 most of the week -- not eating enough to keep up. Feels good to have some serious miles in again, though, and legs feel strong. Got close to 200 in on the bike as well; was able to take weekend off.
Despite the accident, my mileage has come back up nicely, my knee has felt pretty strong, and I'm pretty happy with a 10 week total of 600 miles. My original goal would have been 850 or so, but if I'm only one ten week session behind, that's not too bad. Last year at this time, I was just over 900 for ten weeks, so as long as my winter doesn't drop off like it did last year, I'll be in good shape for the spring races.
Training was going well, mileage was nearly back to where I wanted it, was in first week of two week mini-taper for Great River Relay. Weight was holding steady at just over 130, right where I wanted it.
Week 2: 51 miles
Got hit by a car while riding my bike Friday. Obviously, didn't run Great River Relay.
Week 3: 32 miles
Took a few days off, a few days easy, then may have pushed a little too much. Knee quite sore.
Week 4: 40 miles
Knee a little sore, not as bad. Weight is in 135-140 range; feel sluggish on many runs.
Week 5: 48 miles
Slowly feeling more comfortable.
Week 6: 56 miles
Weight back at about 135, feeling stronger and faster again.
Week 7: 54 miles
Held mileage steady, even though I was fine with the increases.
Week 8: 67 miles
Back to increasing. Legs feel great, weight holding steady just over 130.
Week 9: 84 miles
Got several good longer runs, feel like my endurance is coming back around. Weight at 130.
Week 10: 100 miles
Longer runs of 30, 15 and 17 miles; weight below 130 most of the week -- not eating enough to keep up. Feels good to have some serious miles in again, though, and legs feel strong. Got close to 200 in on the bike as well; was able to take weekend off.
Despite the accident, my mileage has come back up nicely, my knee has felt pretty strong, and I'm pretty happy with a 10 week total of 600 miles. My original goal would have been 850 or so, but if I'm only one ten week session behind, that's not too bad. Last year at this time, I was just over 900 for ten weeks, so as long as my winter doesn't drop off like it did last year, I'll be in good shape for the spring races.
Friday, October 12
Obfuscation
I imagine long streams of uninterrupted potential, opportunity blossoming gold and crimson. Rivers are meant for running wild, un-harnessed, pulling down boulders and eroding banks, but how often they are channeled, contained, damned, destroyed. What if this is this our future?
"I am my own wasted talent," he writes. Perhaps he believes it. Perhaps we all do. Perhaps it does not matter. I imagine so little – and yet everything – does. Matter, that is.
We speak in circles of wounded times and small paper cuts that sting, out of sight, but full in mind. Good literature (the classics) may be coy, sex hinted at but never given, but life is dirty: suburbs of raped farmland stretch across mid-America; students bemoan the deer that intrude upon communities. God forbid, someone might hit one with their car.
“Prick your finger, watch it bleed,” she says, “that’s all life is.” Fine drops bead on the clean white sink, then slowly silk away, disappearing, one more in a lifetime of dry nostrils. These lives melt so easily, as china dolls shatter, as glass beads grind into sidewalk asphalt. We’re all full of images, so easy to disappear in, slink off like a day of gray clouds and uneasy rain: never quite a mist, never quite a drizzle, never a satisfying storm. Just hanging around, waiting...
Outside, sitting in his car (as he does every afternoon), just sitting… queasy stomachs have been sustained by less. Voyeur, molester, something about him is just, well, wrong. Sitting in his car, staring off into emptiness, the way he slouches across the grass, like a grub...
A lazy Sunday, and time dances away. So little to do, so much left undone. No infinite future, only broken bits of past and dicey moments rest in these collapsing presents. And like a laugher of a morning dream, the illusion is gone.
"I am my own wasted talent," he writes. Perhaps he believes it. Perhaps we all do. Perhaps it does not matter. I imagine so little – and yet everything – does. Matter, that is.
We speak in circles of wounded times and small paper cuts that sting, out of sight, but full in mind. Good literature (the classics) may be coy, sex hinted at but never given, but life is dirty: suburbs of raped farmland stretch across mid-America; students bemoan the deer that intrude upon communities. God forbid, someone might hit one with their car.
“Prick your finger, watch it bleed,” she says, “that’s all life is.” Fine drops bead on the clean white sink, then slowly silk away, disappearing, one more in a lifetime of dry nostrils. These lives melt so easily, as china dolls shatter, as glass beads grind into sidewalk asphalt. We’re all full of images, so easy to disappear in, slink off like a day of gray clouds and uneasy rain: never quite a mist, never quite a drizzle, never a satisfying storm. Just hanging around, waiting...
Outside, sitting in his car (as he does every afternoon), just sitting… queasy stomachs have been sustained by less. Voyeur, molester, something about him is just, well, wrong. Sitting in his car, staring off into emptiness, the way he slouches across the grass, like a grub...
A lazy Sunday, and time dances away. So little to do, so much left undone. No infinite future, only broken bits of past and dicey moments rest in these collapsing presents. And like a laugher of a morning dream, the illusion is gone.
Wednesday, October 10
Thoughts; Roman Numerals; Goodbye
I. Jon is dead, buried, gone. I am slowly learning to accept this. Having written him as many letters in the past year and a half as I sent in the three years previous, I know that I will move on at my own rate: most likely, none too quickly.
II. I process with my feet, piling thoughts in miles, the quiet solitude of my breath and pulse. When Jon went missing, I ran well over a thousand mile summer, at one point holding a ten week average of just under ninety miles. The week of his first memorial service, I ran a hundred and thirty-three miles -- in six days. Yesterday was his final memorial service and burial, as his body was found and belongings recovered, and still, I run. Thirty miles to the service, then part of the way back, peddling memories as my feet drummed asphalt, I found more of Jon. Last week I tallied eighty-four miles; this week, with the long run's help, I'm at seventy-nine (a new record!) in three days.
III. End result? I'm getting really fit again (shush, you), my diet has been good (by necessity), and I'm in hyperdrive-get-things-done-mode. But, alas, I'm also a train wreck and mess. You know this, I know this, but it will pass. This is my process. So no worrying about me, alright?
IV. Sidetracking, who else is writing a novel this November? If these kind of miles and these kind of words keep coming, I think I'll be primed and ready...
V. Have I mentioned I love you all? Really, I do.
II. I process with my feet, piling thoughts in miles, the quiet solitude of my breath and pulse. When Jon went missing, I ran well over a thousand mile summer, at one point holding a ten week average of just under ninety miles. The week of his first memorial service, I ran a hundred and thirty-three miles -- in six days. Yesterday was his final memorial service and burial, as his body was found and belongings recovered, and still, I run. Thirty miles to the service, then part of the way back, peddling memories as my feet drummed asphalt, I found more of Jon. Last week I tallied eighty-four miles; this week, with the long run's help, I'm at seventy-nine (a new record!) in three days.
III. End result? I'm getting really fit again (shush, you), my diet has been good (by necessity), and I'm in hyperdrive-get-things-done-mode. But, alas, I'm also a train wreck and mess. You know this, I know this, but it will pass. This is my process. So no worrying about me, alright?
IV. Sidetracking, who else is writing a novel this November? If these kind of miles and these kind of words keep coming, I think I'll be primed and ready...
V. Have I mentioned I love you all? Really, I do.
Sunday, October 7
Correspondence with Memories and Illusions
I. Flotsam
Experience breeds familiarity. As their fast twitch muscle fibers fire, the world class sprinter detects the most minute differences. Good bikers knows exactly how their bike handles in each surface, slick or dry, hard or soft. And those attuned to the ill-adjusted workings of their mind know when they're set up for a fall.
Three days, four – maybe even a week, two. I've known it was coming. Despair settles slowly, uneasily at first, the feelings of betrayal, sluggishness, weakness grow exponentially. Skills lessened, Acuity dampered, wit severely limited, I am not the man I wish to be, and feel myself fading farther and farther from those dreams. I recognizing the difference between this dampened perception and reality, but recognition is not acceptance.
I know I am in good shape. I know I am skilled. I know that, someway or another, things will work as they need to, in the way that fits me best; such is the way of life. And I know that my relationship with you is good. But I cannot accept these facts. I have a disease, one which I can no more shake than enjoy it's name. That disease, aggravated by stress, is right now choosing to consume me.
I am stressed right now, more so than I have been in years. At work, I'm given more and more responsibility; though only an “educational assistant” (shared teachers' aide), I am designing curriculum. Looking at career options, pondering both grad school (Outdoor ed? Environmental ed? Math and my teaching license?) and other places of work (A different school? A nature reserve? Some sort of park and rec program?), I am perhaps rightfully bewildered.
Perhaps worse, my mileage has been erratic – after falling off a bridge this past spring, it took me a while to return to a more standard seventy mile week. Once there, I was hit by a car while biking. The night before I was scheduled to take part in a two-hundred mile relay race. After that small disappointment, my mileage has slowly climbed once more, and this week my total is back up to a respectable sixty-three miles. Still, the stop-start summer has been hard; mileage is my most consistent medication.
And I know you're taking our future more seriously – we're talking about finding a place together when our leases run out at the beginning of the summer – but still, I don't see 'marriage material' in your eyes when you look at me. Eyes are mirrors, and maybe some things really are just that intuitive. Forgive my insecurities, and remember words I once told you: there's a difference between someone you could marry and someone you want to marry.
I know the counter-arguments to all these points. And in my more clear-headed moments, I can even accept parts of each of them. But this is not a clear-headed moment. At best, depression is a deep, cold fog. At it's worst, it's decapitation.
And right now, that's my head that's missing.
II. Five Years, Three Years, a Year; a Little More, a Little Less
I read and hear your words with empty detachment; I have no words of my own, and have nothing invested in the scraps of your old emails and letters anymore either. More blank space gathers between us.
Outside, the leaves continue falling. Autumn has come, despite the damp temperatures; the pond mirrors shiny reds and golds, vibrant oranges. I've mostly stopped noticing (familiarity and contempt), but I know you would fawn over the majesty of it, declare mountains the only thing missing. Colorado, Idaho, the vast west in fall, you might say. Two people, three people, permutations of one.
The only falls I think of these days are yours, the death of propriety in these fading relationships. Rocks and sky and sun, sunburns and good beer, burgers in the fading light of a pink and purple dusk. I hope eternal memories, know time fades; it's a hard reality, and already know this essay I've planned for so long (was it five years? Three? A year and a half?) has lost too much of its luster. Words are only as good the mind which holds them; in this reduction, I am no more than a sieve on sore shoulders.
I find more and more walls, where once we (such a strange word, full of closeness and distance) envisioned space and opportunity. It's hard to shake the pessimism. remembering those walls I hit, snow spraying a fountain of poor decisions, your laugh; you always took the safest route. Except that once. I couldn't save you, because I wasn't there. Such microcosms breed novels.
I've rarely been there, this I know. Be it the mark of a poor friend or a coward, I do not know, but still, it brands me. We are the sum of our actions, you once said. You had the wisdom then to see what that meant. I still don't seem to fully grasp it.
At times like this, I know that closure is a myth. You will never be gone; you have always been gone. All that is left is your words. Words: empty and detached, full of memories, loss, emotional conflict. But still, just words.
Not you. And finally, the tears run hot.
Experience breeds familiarity. As their fast twitch muscle fibers fire, the world class sprinter detects the most minute differences. Good bikers knows exactly how their bike handles in each surface, slick or dry, hard or soft. And those attuned to the ill-adjusted workings of their mind know when they're set up for a fall.
Three days, four – maybe even a week, two. I've known it was coming. Despair settles slowly, uneasily at first, the feelings of betrayal, sluggishness, weakness grow exponentially. Skills lessened, Acuity dampered, wit severely limited, I am not the man I wish to be, and feel myself fading farther and farther from those dreams. I recognizing the difference between this dampened perception and reality, but recognition is not acceptance.
I know I am in good shape. I know I am skilled. I know that, someway or another, things will work as they need to, in the way that fits me best; such is the way of life. And I know that my relationship with you is good. But I cannot accept these facts. I have a disease, one which I can no more shake than enjoy it's name. That disease, aggravated by stress, is right now choosing to consume me.
I am stressed right now, more so than I have been in years. At work, I'm given more and more responsibility; though only an “educational assistant” (shared teachers' aide), I am designing curriculum. Looking at career options, pondering both grad school (Outdoor ed? Environmental ed? Math and my teaching license?) and other places of work (A different school? A nature reserve? Some sort of park and rec program?), I am perhaps rightfully bewildered.
Perhaps worse, my mileage has been erratic – after falling off a bridge this past spring, it took me a while to return to a more standard seventy mile week. Once there, I was hit by a car while biking. The night before I was scheduled to take part in a two-hundred mile relay race. After that small disappointment, my mileage has slowly climbed once more, and this week my total is back up to a respectable sixty-three miles. Still, the stop-start summer has been hard; mileage is my most consistent medication.
And I know you're taking our future more seriously – we're talking about finding a place together when our leases run out at the beginning of the summer – but still, I don't see 'marriage material' in your eyes when you look at me. Eyes are mirrors, and maybe some things really are just that intuitive. Forgive my insecurities, and remember words I once told you: there's a difference between someone you could marry and someone you want to marry.
I know the counter-arguments to all these points. And in my more clear-headed moments, I can even accept parts of each of them. But this is not a clear-headed moment. At best, depression is a deep, cold fog. At it's worst, it's decapitation.
And right now, that's my head that's missing.
II. Five Years, Three Years, a Year; a Little More, a Little Less
I read and hear your words with empty detachment; I have no words of my own, and have nothing invested in the scraps of your old emails and letters anymore either. More blank space gathers between us.
Outside, the leaves continue falling. Autumn has come, despite the damp temperatures; the pond mirrors shiny reds and golds, vibrant oranges. I've mostly stopped noticing (familiarity and contempt), but I know you would fawn over the majesty of it, declare mountains the only thing missing. Colorado, Idaho, the vast west in fall, you might say. Two people, three people, permutations of one.
The only falls I think of these days are yours, the death of propriety in these fading relationships. Rocks and sky and sun, sunburns and good beer, burgers in the fading light of a pink and purple dusk. I hope eternal memories, know time fades; it's a hard reality, and already know this essay I've planned for so long (was it five years? Three? A year and a half?) has lost too much of its luster. Words are only as good the mind which holds them; in this reduction, I am no more than a sieve on sore shoulders.
I find more and more walls, where once we (such a strange word, full of closeness and distance) envisioned space and opportunity. It's hard to shake the pessimism. remembering those walls I hit, snow spraying a fountain of poor decisions, your laugh; you always took the safest route. Except that once. I couldn't save you, because I wasn't there. Such microcosms breed novels.
I've rarely been there, this I know. Be it the mark of a poor friend or a coward, I do not know, but still, it brands me. We are the sum of our actions, you once said. You had the wisdom then to see what that meant. I still don't seem to fully grasp it.
At times like this, I know that closure is a myth. You will never be gone; you have always been gone. All that is left is your words. Words: empty and detached, full of memories, loss, emotional conflict. But still, just words.
Not you. And finally, the tears run hot.
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