Winter will not let her blanket pass, the snow still drifting silently across the sky, a cloudy Sunday late in April. May beckons, yet winter holds us tonight, even as evening light now stretches to nearly eight, and mornings break the darkness easily by six, so many fewer shadows than even a month before.
Parallel she runs to spring mother night, even as they serve such different dinners: clear mother night comforting the despairing and despondent, sucklings to the teat, drawing us close in her billowing folds; preserving a thousand dying stars; holding dear a million untouched secrets. Cool, hard madam winter lashing us with disappointment, crystals of ice slicing through the grey, grey sky; freezing hard the longing, emptying barest soul; opening us wide to slushy confusion, truth and doubt and uncertainties all tumbling down into sludge. Clear mother night sets out glass slide snapshots, ever delightful: ghosts set free, and empty lots becoming a beautiful illusion, of a land rid so many human errors; like autumnal snowfall on cool crisp leaves, turkey bronzing, rolls plumping light and airy, and all of it just perfect. Hard madam winter filling those lots with icy puddles, and none of them white, but mottled shades of grey, brown, haze, the leftovers of a hundred unnecessary trucks and their ever steaming exhaust, refuse of a hundred dirty mufflers, and a thousand more angry drivers, all tired, frustrated.
Sadly, the fairy dust of biased memories can only do so much; this blanket of light spring dreams, dark and deep and familiar in her silence – all is well, well and good, in her embrace, but even she cannot undo this unyielding winter.
Still, it is nearly May. Spring will return, and mother night befriend once more.
Tuesday, April 29
Monday, April 21
By the Numbers
I've always been good with numbers. In high school, I was regularly asked to join math league competitions (I didn't, except for a couple of occasions when it got me out of class), won the school math contest my junior year (and did well enough to attract some attention after the national competition), and recently scored in the top couple of percent on a nationwide test of prospective high school math contests. Yet, I can't get these numbers to work out:
In the past week I've had three real meals (Monday night, 16 slices of pizza (evidently I was hungry); Wednesday night, three microwave burritos; Friday night, one bowl of pasta, two modified grilled cheese sandwiches).1
In the past week I've run 132 miles, putting my ten week average at 122, and the average since the breakup at 126. In the past week I've biked 246 miles, raising that average to 235.
I may well be burning something like twenty-five hundred or three-thousand calories a day more than I'm taking in. I don't have much fat to burn, and as a scrawny runner, not a ton more in the way of muscle. I wonder what fuel I am running on, suppose it may be entirely hurt, pain, and anger. Either that, or I was right all these years when I joked I was immortal, invincible, a superhero. I'm not a fan of the latter possibility.
In any case, I have a prize for whoever can best solve and/or explain this equation. And... I promise it's not a smelly sock this time.
Semi-related, I'd like to start a community blog in an undisclosed location. I'll be emailing some of you, but if I don't, or somehow forgot to include your email in the list, drop me a line and I'll send you the details. We'll see what happens.
1. I'm defining a meal as more than eight hundred calories in one sitting, not including beverages. I figure that's fair, given my activity level, and the number of calories I'm sure I'm burning.
In the past week I've had three real meals (Monday night, 16 slices of pizza (evidently I was hungry); Wednesday night, three microwave burritos; Friday night, one bowl of pasta, two modified grilled cheese sandwiches).1
In the past week I've run 132 miles, putting my ten week average at 122, and the average since the breakup at 126. In the past week I've biked 246 miles, raising that average to 235.
I may well be burning something like twenty-five hundred or three-thousand calories a day more than I'm taking in. I don't have much fat to burn, and as a scrawny runner, not a ton more in the way of muscle. I wonder what fuel I am running on, suppose it may be entirely hurt, pain, and anger. Either that, or I was right all these years when I joked I was immortal, invincible, a superhero. I'm not a fan of the latter possibility.
In any case, I have a prize for whoever can best solve and/or explain this equation. And... I promise it's not a smelly sock this time.
Semi-related, I'd like to start a community blog in an undisclosed location. I'll be emailing some of you, but if I don't, or somehow forgot to include your email in the list, drop me a line and I'll send you the details. We'll see what happens.
Friday, April 18
No More Surprises
This is the kind of week month year life (with few exceptions) it's been:
My keys fell out of my pocket into a toilet bowl full of diarrhea, diarrhea not my own, diarrhea that'd been sitting (most likely) overnight, fermenting - it didn't surprise me. Without second thought, I snatched those keys from the murky deep, barehanded.
This after hitting a construction worker with my bike, I carrying two bagels (breakfast) and on a sometimes morning (brakes not feeling particularly cooperative), and he toting an industrial-strength size hose. We both went down. I offered to bring him a beer in apology on Monday (all of the construction guys recognize me, frequent as I am passing on bike or foot, and I recognize many of them) and, neither of us hurt, all was well.
This after projectile vomiting Red Bull (my first breakfast) at twenty miles an hour, vomit to the right, passing car to the left.
This after a festive night of drinking with a good friend, in which we drew each beautiful drink before we imbibed it. Among the highlights: a white russian with imaginary ice cubes, the following thought bubble: 'in the darkest hour, late night TV says Jeebus will save you.' Because our art took such time, most of our drinks were doubles. There were many poor puns.
This after being punched by a pedestrian as I rode by on my bike (and this for rolling a stop sign, downtown, at the peak of rush hour... where no one ever completely stops if they can help it, especially not on a bike).
And all this in about fifteen hours. None of it surprises much anymore, this how life is.
At least it's never boring.
My keys fell out of my pocket into a toilet bowl full of diarrhea, diarrhea not my own, diarrhea that'd been sitting (most likely) overnight, fermenting - it didn't surprise me. Without second thought, I snatched those keys from the murky deep, barehanded.
This after hitting a construction worker with my bike, I carrying two bagels (breakfast) and on a sometimes morning (brakes not feeling particularly cooperative), and he toting an industrial-strength size hose. We both went down. I offered to bring him a beer in apology on Monday (all of the construction guys recognize me, frequent as I am passing on bike or foot, and I recognize many of them) and, neither of us hurt, all was well.
This after projectile vomiting Red Bull (my first breakfast) at twenty miles an hour, vomit to the right, passing car to the left.
This after a festive night of drinking with a good friend, in which we drew each beautiful drink before we imbibed it. Among the highlights: a white russian with imaginary ice cubes, the following thought bubble: 'in the darkest hour, late night TV says Jeebus will save you.' Because our art took such time, most of our drinks were doubles. There were many poor puns.
This after being punched by a pedestrian as I rode by on my bike (and this for rolling a stop sign, downtown, at the peak of rush hour... where no one ever completely stops if they can help it, especially not on a bike).
And all this in about fifteen hours. None of it surprises much anymore, this how life is.
At least it's never boring.
Monday, April 14
Everyday a New Hope
What a birthday present you give me; if I were to dream it, it'd be more delicate. But what unfortunate dreams these meetings make instead:
Standing at the kitchen counter, scrubbing dishes, radiant as ever, you are beautiful and I cannot help but stop and watch you, the simplest flicker of your wrists and hands fully entrancing me. You catch me watching; it is too much.
What, you ask me, do I want.
“You'd really rather I didn't say.”
No, you repeat, speak – what do I want for my life.
The intensity with which you look at me, a combination of love and curiosity and that peculiar quality that I've only ever seen in your eyes, magic – the resolve crumbles, and I cannot contain myself any longer. “It's you I want,” I say. “None of the rest matters. Coming home to you, loving you – that's all I want, Katie.”
I grab you, pull you in, kiss you hard; you hold for a few seconds, humoring me, which only makes it all so much worse, then pull away.
If it were a dream, you wouldn't have pulled away, but this is not my doing, not a dream which I can so easily rescript. If it were a movie, you'd come around, the Hollywood ending. I still have not lost hope.
Your voice is mildly impatient, a little hurt, the familiar sadness back in your eyes, that worst part of these long weeks. "Matt..."
Resigned to this fate, I cannot, do not give you much. A part truth: “I don't know.”
Your sad inquisitive eyes beg for something more. Still, only pieces of a whole, a broken reply: “I don't know. I really don't know.”
If it were a dream, I would have given you so much more. now, then, cast into the void of so many shattered hopes:
I want to change the world, rock it to the core, one troubled soul at a time. I want to rewrite so many repeating histories. I want to save something, create something, make joy and love multiply endlessly. Once I thought preaching was the means. Now there's this.
A truth: I'm damn good at my current job, better than you could ever have realized, as good as I've ever been at anything, like long miles or loving you. You, in the midst of a rough year, were rarely in a shape to hear good news, so most of it I kept tucked away, giving you only the trials, the struggles. But oh, the successes – graduating seniors reclaimed from the void of a life nearly gone, beaming with fresh eyes of the reclaimed; the bright curiosity, thirst for knowledge freshly awoken. I kept those successes from you; I shouldn't have, if only so you wouldn't have mistaken my silences for disinterest.
You were instrumental in those successes, a divine inspiration; without my muse, I've hardly been at my best these past few weeks. The love, once so strong, no longer flows quite so easily. Nor the compassion, which I could always draw from you, even in my tiredest days. Instead, I get by on patience, the fruits of a former monk's life and thousands of miles in the darkest nights. Patience, there is always patience, every moment part forever, and this perseverance too, ever in for the distance.
Truthfully? With you, I was changing the world. Without you, well, not these days. Eventually, perhaps, but not these days. Really, my answer remains the same: I want you. That's the everything of the answer.
Outside of that, what is there to know?
Standing at the kitchen counter, scrubbing dishes, radiant as ever, you are beautiful and I cannot help but stop and watch you, the simplest flicker of your wrists and hands fully entrancing me. You catch me watching; it is too much.
What, you ask me, do I want.
“You'd really rather I didn't say.”
No, you repeat, speak – what do I want for my life.
The intensity with which you look at me, a combination of love and curiosity and that peculiar quality that I've only ever seen in your eyes, magic – the resolve crumbles, and I cannot contain myself any longer. “It's you I want,” I say. “None of the rest matters. Coming home to you, loving you – that's all I want, Katie.”
I grab you, pull you in, kiss you hard; you hold for a few seconds, humoring me, which only makes it all so much worse, then pull away.
If it were a dream, you wouldn't have pulled away, but this is not my doing, not a dream which I can so easily rescript. If it were a movie, you'd come around, the Hollywood ending. I still have not lost hope.
Your voice is mildly impatient, a little hurt, the familiar sadness back in your eyes, that worst part of these long weeks. "Matt..."
Resigned to this fate, I cannot, do not give you much. A part truth: “I don't know.”
Your sad inquisitive eyes beg for something more. Still, only pieces of a whole, a broken reply: “I don't know. I really don't know.”
If it were a dream, I would have given you so much more. now, then, cast into the void of so many shattered hopes:
I want to change the world, rock it to the core, one troubled soul at a time. I want to rewrite so many repeating histories. I want to save something, create something, make joy and love multiply endlessly. Once I thought preaching was the means. Now there's this.
A truth: I'm damn good at my current job, better than you could ever have realized, as good as I've ever been at anything, like long miles or loving you. You, in the midst of a rough year, were rarely in a shape to hear good news, so most of it I kept tucked away, giving you only the trials, the struggles. But oh, the successes – graduating seniors reclaimed from the void of a life nearly gone, beaming with fresh eyes of the reclaimed; the bright curiosity, thirst for knowledge freshly awoken. I kept those successes from you; I shouldn't have, if only so you wouldn't have mistaken my silences for disinterest.
You were instrumental in those successes, a divine inspiration; without my muse, I've hardly been at my best these past few weeks. The love, once so strong, no longer flows quite so easily. Nor the compassion, which I could always draw from you, even in my tiredest days. Instead, I get by on patience, the fruits of a former monk's life and thousands of miles in the darkest nights. Patience, there is always patience, every moment part forever, and this perseverance too, ever in for the distance.
Truthfully? With you, I was changing the world. Without you, well, not these days. Eventually, perhaps, but not these days. Really, my answer remains the same: I want you. That's the everything of the answer.
Outside of that, what is there to know?
Friday, April 11
Quarter Century
Twenty-five years, anything from more than a life to a quarter one, and the most to show a body bruised and broken, a collection of tales cataloged in familiar aches.
Friday: reckless adventures with strangers, the freedom of dark nights and darker bottles, the soul-searching of long miles and longer thoughts. Saturday: never a stranger morning, passive beaver and angry midget and errant golf ball. Ice, Gatorade, recovery. Dinner and conversation, the world a better place for such a friend. Sunday: forty-five degree bullets down, already thin clothing near sheer with the force of water and wind, the cold bone-numbing, soul-sapping; thirty miles, and eight more on a newly repaired bike. Monday: errands, more errands, late night miles; the dark sky saluting the loneliest of pitter-patters. And somewhere an owl crying in return. Tuesday: sleepless still, twenty-two more of unlit trails, mystery gravel, voices in the dark. Then, another novel; the library is good to me. There are more hours for exploration than this body ever finds need of sleep. Wednesday: eighteen miles of muddy trails, slipping and sliding and falling, and there, in the marsh, holding a small and scared chorus frog, even savoring its piss on my fingers. A knee tweaked, but no worries or cares. Thursday: twelve miles of acupuncture by driving ice; sleet and hail and rain and snow, so many questioning strangers' faces, silent tombs transporting them and they think to pity me, my only wheels two muddy feet. Pity them: I've got pick-up enough, and my soul not yet numbed by monotony and repetition.
This morning, another week gone by, another come to replace it. At the counter, they complain about the weather. "It's a nice change of pace," I rebut. And mean it, no matter how much my face burns against the lashing storm, no matter how many times the gusts take my legs out from under me. Break only on your own terms, I think.
Twenty-five years down, and only questions to go. There will always only be today, today always before tomorrow. The moment dances in the falling snow; muddy shoes laced, still mildly soggy from the evening before, I dash off to join her.
Friday: reckless adventures with strangers, the freedom of dark nights and darker bottles, the soul-searching of long miles and longer thoughts. Saturday: never a stranger morning, passive beaver and angry midget and errant golf ball. Ice, Gatorade, recovery. Dinner and conversation, the world a better place for such a friend. Sunday: forty-five degree bullets down, already thin clothing near sheer with the force of water and wind, the cold bone-numbing, soul-sapping; thirty miles, and eight more on a newly repaired bike. Monday: errands, more errands, late night miles; the dark sky saluting the loneliest of pitter-patters. And somewhere an owl crying in return. Tuesday: sleepless still, twenty-two more of unlit trails, mystery gravel, voices in the dark. Then, another novel; the library is good to me. There are more hours for exploration than this body ever finds need of sleep. Wednesday: eighteen miles of muddy trails, slipping and sliding and falling, and there, in the marsh, holding a small and scared chorus frog, even savoring its piss on my fingers. A knee tweaked, but no worries or cares. Thursday: twelve miles of acupuncture by driving ice; sleet and hail and rain and snow, so many questioning strangers' faces, silent tombs transporting them and they think to pity me, my only wheels two muddy feet. Pity them: I've got pick-up enough, and my soul not yet numbed by monotony and repetition.
This morning, another week gone by, another come to replace it. At the counter, they complain about the weather. "It's a nice change of pace," I rebut. And mean it, no matter how much my face burns against the lashing storm, no matter how many times the gusts take my legs out from under me. Break only on your own terms, I think.
Twenty-five years down, and only questions to go. There will always only be today, today always before tomorrow. The moment dances in the falling snow; muddy shoes laced, still mildly soggy from the evening before, I dash off to join her.
Friday, April 4
April's Fool
I am God's almighty wrath, my leg's Thor's hammer. I pass weaker men like idle gas and an empty stomach. I am the weaker man, a deadened heap on the carpeted floor, collapsed across the kitchen tile. I have felt God's raging fire, and it has left me broken.
My vision is gray fog, television static, faded in the blurry fatigue of too many miles and not enough rest; my vision is collected and clear, my perception immaculate, and I can do any and all things. I am a technicolor dreamcoat grayscale contradiction.
I am knocked down and falling and fading and out, from strong-legged and strong-minded to numb and tingly to an inverted porcupine, burning quills for muscle sinew. I am soggy-lumped pants, obliviously shat. I am mud-splattered accomplishment, the grime of a lifetime of victories. I am the phoenix, even in the ashes.
I am three days and three hundred miles: bike two hundred and twelve, run eighty-one, walk eight, and know that you are immortal, forever larger than life. I am invincible; everyday I am dying, and more alive than the day before.
I am a runner. I am deranged. And this is love, at its most brilliant, its most gruesome.
I wouldn't trade it for the world. but I'd give it up in an instant.
I'll never understand it.
Wednesday, April 2
Present Tense
It is a simple enough day, or ought to be. On the slate is a full dozen apartment viewings, with an hour or two set aside to visit with brother while in the neighborhood. I'm looking forward to it.
As is the norm, the alarm rings early; today it is set for five. I dress quietly, quickly, slip out the door to miles of wet winter wonderland, the snow thick and slushy, the roads wet and icy. Fifteen delightful miles later, I am ready to face the day.
After a quick breakfast (1 bowl cereal, 1 cup black tea), I load up my bike and am off. Snow and ice make for an adventure, even on the mountain bike, and I happily plow through snowbanks and slide through corners. No one else is foolish enough to be out, and I am able to cross another item of my lifetime to-do list: though difficult, it is indeed possible to pee while biking. Shortly after, I'm nearly victim to a snow plow clearing the path; a few miles later yet another plow gives me a scare.
Off the trail, I battle slushy streets and increasing traffic, busy commuters on their way to the everyday nine to five. Mud and slush spray everywhere, including across my face, and – in my brighter moments – into my open mouth. The taste is a gritty mix of dirt and salt, and does not spit out easily.
The first several apartments are dumps, but the fourth shows promise: my prospective roommate's fifteen-month old golden retriever and I play easily, and the current tenant and I discuss cooking, interior decorating, and finally bedrooms. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure she (nearly fifteen years my senior) was hitting on me. Still, it was a nice place, and more than affordable.
Taking a small respite before the next appointment, I throw myself into a Border's, seeking both warmth and dryness, slush remnants still cold and wet against my back and legs. Already tired, I add coffee (sweet nectar of life!) to my search. Java in hand, I find a familiar book of essays to browse, and let myself relax, slowly warming back up, blood recirculating. With time, I notice a small man carefully eyeing me; when I get up to go to the bathroom, he follows me. I lock myself in a stall, and eventually he leaves.
Coming back out, my face, streaked with slushy grime, catches in the mirror; my eyes are tired. Not wanting to meet my stalker again, I do not linger in the Borders, but get back on my bike, head to the next apartment.
Several showings later, I find myself with some extra time, quite a bit ahead of schedule. Unable to track Josh (ever the hiding brother) down, I decide to go for a walk, and head off in search of more warm caffeine. Sibley, Summit, Grand – I wind my way through quiet neighborhoods and into more lively quarters, groups of twenty-something professionals strolling their lunch break away in twos and threes. I note the names of apartment buildings I pass for future reference, fully aware i can't afford any of them, and quietly observe the small clusters of late business lunchers as I pass delis and coffee shops. Fatigue catching up once more, I find my coffee and return to Concordia, where I've left the bike.
There, walking the long hall, I bump into Josh on his way to social psychology. Having canceled a couple of my afternoon appointments, I join him; together we watch the day's film, a multi-part commentary. The first half-hour is spent wrapping up childrens' biases towards race; the second is lost in an explanation of black masculinity, as defined by hip-hop. The two halves clash badly, but still, it is nice being back in a classroom, and not to teach.
He asks me to run with him, and we put in an easy five, slopping through the last of the slush. A highlight: riding by, a pre-teen boy (a sixth-grader, perhaps?) leans out his passenger window, makes a catcall at Josh and I. It appears his mom is the driver, but still, we hope for a red light, and a chance to moon him in return. Alas, the light stays green.
Run complete, I blast off to the day's last two stops. The first is a product of location; in the center of prime social real estate (again, Grand Avenue), it is both small and expensive. The second is several miles away, but with the same agent. She hops in her car, and I on my bike; for several miles we play tag. She pauses for the occasional light; I pedal possessed.
The last place is nice, though again too expensive. I have until Thursday night, she says, if i want a realistic chance at getting the place.
A bowl of cereal, cup of tea, two coffees, ten hours and far too many miles in, my body is fried. Honestly, I'm not real sure how I'm going to get home. Fortunately, Katie has left me a voice mail; a peace offering, she'd like to have me over for dinner, even if am covered in salt and grime and look and smell like death (we both know deodorant can only do so much). I struggle the few miles to her apartment, nearly getting hit by a cop car (the cop at fault, driving against traffic, in the wrong lane) in the process.
Barely able to crawl up the three flights of steps to her place, I go down on the kitchen floor, and am out, toasted. She lets me be for a while, but eventually helps me up, all the while laughing at my drunken fatigue; my speech is uneven, tongue thick, and my extremities all tingly. My body still protesting, I make myself eat, scarfing down four mini-pizzas, a blender full of fruity goodness, half a bag of cookies. Slowly, I get my body back, sober up, and though the overwhelming fatigue is still present, I no longer feel like I am drowning in it.
We watch some stupid tv (of course, family guy), enjoying each other's company again, though as is always the case when we meet, there remain so many uneasy questions of space, of boundaries. We're both conflicted – her expressive face hides it as poorly as mine – but still, it is good to spend time together. Goodbyes are always the hardest part: hug, peck on the cheek/forehead, what tone of voice, can we keep our faces steady? She tries to keep it quick, and shoos me out before it can get too awkward.
It is quickly becoming dark, and I struggle with the ride home, forcing legs to rise and fall, trying to create a meter and beat, some sort of time with which to pedal. I find my motivation soon enough, as another biker flies by in the dark. His bike is no better, he looks no stronger – I see a worthy challenge, and grind myself down. Knives for hip flexors, each stroke is a delicious spurning forward (or so I choose to see it), and I push on, gaining back precious ground, then flinging myself past. The look on his face – he is straining too! -- is a priceless token, off which I feed. I do not take defeat (of any sort) lightly; if we are in any way competitive, I will try and break you, or break myself in the process. Now, I up the cadence yet further, determined to make this other night rider suffer with me.
Unwilling to let him regain me, I continue flogging myself forward, my lower back now stabbing as well. Ahead, three deer stand across the dark path; as I see them, I am sure they will see, hear, smell me. I continue on full bore. Unfortunately, they do not see, hear, smell me, and, about to hit the largest of them, I find myself slamming my brakes, whipping the bike around. Only then, less than a foot away, are they aware of me: more than sufficiently spooked, they fly through the woods, madly bound away.
Stepping off the bike, I realize I am a quivering mess. Knives are throbbing in my back and hips, and my legs are shaking, as are my hands. I feel the bile rising, and before I can think, it surges through me, vomit spraying across the snow and half-buried grasses. I find a handful of mostly clean snow, wipe my face with it, and stare at the stars above me. The paved path is cold on my back, deliciously numbing. Eventually, though, the cold begins to get to me, and I climb back on my bike. It is time to get home.
I pedal easily, slowly at first, my back no longer quite so upset. These hips, however, are another story, still flaring unhappily. I find the long familiar mantra – I am strong, I am rough, I am tough, I am Norse – and repeat it, over and over. My eyes have gone blank, and it is all I can do to simply stare straight ahead, as I pump forward, riding increasingly hard once more. What does not kill me only makes me stronger, I find myself praying.
THWUMP! It is a loud and startling sound, sickeningly juicy and I nearly careen over the handlebars. Whatever I just hit is sizable. Gingerly dismounting, I walk back to find a rabbit, not moving, it's side caved-in. I think to move it, but my back will not allow me to bend down for a stick with which to do the deed. Eventually, I decide my shoe will suffice, and nudge the poor beast into the woods before climbing back onto the bike.
It is only then that I realize my front tire is flat, and hope that this is not the consequence of hitting the poor bunny. Mulling things over, I realize that there's really no telling when the tire went flat; it may well have been flat since Katie's, twelve miles earlier, as I was in no state to notice.
I quietly nurse the bike the last few miles home, where I find my roommate finishing up a favorite movie. I apply some tiger balm (a gift from two Thai friends, it may or may not be legal, but it sure does work) to my back and hips, then grab a beer and join her for the last of it.
By the time the film is over, I'm starting to feel pretty good again. Always a sucker for punishment (especially the excessive varieties), I decide I've got one last run in me; lacing up my shoes, I am quickly out the door for another ten. The run itself is actually almost pleasant. My legs are disconnected, floating in some ethereal jelly; my back is wonderfully numb. The backs of my eyeballs ache familiarly, but the stars are beautiful, and once again, I am proving myself larger than life, near immortal.
Home again, this time for good, I head to the bathroom for a bedtime pee – and out comes blood. A sensation I always forget until we meet again, it burns like hell. I admit to crying out, a sharp jab into the late night silence. Chafeage: check. Severe dehydration: check. I decide the culprit really doesn't matter, and make myself drink a nalgene and a half, take a few ibuprofen. I never make it to my room, instead crashing in a heap on the living room floor, out cold exhausted.
The final totals, courtesy gmap-pedometer: 101.2 miles biked; 29.8 miles run; 4.9 miles walked; 8 apartments viewed. All in all, not a bad day's work. Strangely, even after this morning's run, I don't feel too bad today. Which is probably good, considering how much of it I'll get to repeat tomorrow. No time like the present...
As is the norm, the alarm rings early; today it is set for five. I dress quietly, quickly, slip out the door to miles of wet winter wonderland, the snow thick and slushy, the roads wet and icy. Fifteen delightful miles later, I am ready to face the day.
After a quick breakfast (1 bowl cereal, 1 cup black tea), I load up my bike and am off. Snow and ice make for an adventure, even on the mountain bike, and I happily plow through snowbanks and slide through corners. No one else is foolish enough to be out, and I am able to cross another item of my lifetime to-do list: though difficult, it is indeed possible to pee while biking. Shortly after, I'm nearly victim to a snow plow clearing the path; a few miles later yet another plow gives me a scare.
Off the trail, I battle slushy streets and increasing traffic, busy commuters on their way to the everyday nine to five. Mud and slush spray everywhere, including across my face, and – in my brighter moments – into my open mouth. The taste is a gritty mix of dirt and salt, and does not spit out easily.
The first several apartments are dumps, but the fourth shows promise: my prospective roommate's fifteen-month old golden retriever and I play easily, and the current tenant and I discuss cooking, interior decorating, and finally bedrooms. In hindsight, I'm pretty sure she (nearly fifteen years my senior) was hitting on me. Still, it was a nice place, and more than affordable.
Taking a small respite before the next appointment, I throw myself into a Border's, seeking both warmth and dryness, slush remnants still cold and wet against my back and legs. Already tired, I add coffee (sweet nectar of life!) to my search. Java in hand, I find a familiar book of essays to browse, and let myself relax, slowly warming back up, blood recirculating. With time, I notice a small man carefully eyeing me; when I get up to go to the bathroom, he follows me. I lock myself in a stall, and eventually he leaves.
Coming back out, my face, streaked with slushy grime, catches in the mirror; my eyes are tired. Not wanting to meet my stalker again, I do not linger in the Borders, but get back on my bike, head to the next apartment.
Several showings later, I find myself with some extra time, quite a bit ahead of schedule. Unable to track Josh (ever the hiding brother) down, I decide to go for a walk, and head off in search of more warm caffeine. Sibley, Summit, Grand – I wind my way through quiet neighborhoods and into more lively quarters, groups of twenty-something professionals strolling their lunch break away in twos and threes. I note the names of apartment buildings I pass for future reference, fully aware i can't afford any of them, and quietly observe the small clusters of late business lunchers as I pass delis and coffee shops. Fatigue catching up once more, I find my coffee and return to Concordia, where I've left the bike.
There, walking the long hall, I bump into Josh on his way to social psychology. Having canceled a couple of my afternoon appointments, I join him; together we watch the day's film, a multi-part commentary. The first half-hour is spent wrapping up childrens' biases towards race; the second is lost in an explanation of black masculinity, as defined by hip-hop. The two halves clash badly, but still, it is nice being back in a classroom, and not to teach.
He asks me to run with him, and we put in an easy five, slopping through the last of the slush. A highlight: riding by, a pre-teen boy (a sixth-grader, perhaps?) leans out his passenger window, makes a catcall at Josh and I. It appears his mom is the driver, but still, we hope for a red light, and a chance to moon him in return. Alas, the light stays green.
Run complete, I blast off to the day's last two stops. The first is a product of location; in the center of prime social real estate (again, Grand Avenue), it is both small and expensive. The second is several miles away, but with the same agent. She hops in her car, and I on my bike; for several miles we play tag. She pauses for the occasional light; I pedal possessed.
The last place is nice, though again too expensive. I have until Thursday night, she says, if i want a realistic chance at getting the place.
A bowl of cereal, cup of tea, two coffees, ten hours and far too many miles in, my body is fried. Honestly, I'm not real sure how I'm going to get home. Fortunately, Katie has left me a voice mail; a peace offering, she'd like to have me over for dinner, even if am covered in salt and grime and look and smell like death (we both know deodorant can only do so much). I struggle the few miles to her apartment, nearly getting hit by a cop car (the cop at fault, driving against traffic, in the wrong lane) in the process.
Barely able to crawl up the three flights of steps to her place, I go down on the kitchen floor, and am out, toasted. She lets me be for a while, but eventually helps me up, all the while laughing at my drunken fatigue; my speech is uneven, tongue thick, and my extremities all tingly. My body still protesting, I make myself eat, scarfing down four mini-pizzas, a blender full of fruity goodness, half a bag of cookies. Slowly, I get my body back, sober up, and though the overwhelming fatigue is still present, I no longer feel like I am drowning in it.
We watch some stupid tv (of course, family guy), enjoying each other's company again, though as is always the case when we meet, there remain so many uneasy questions of space, of boundaries. We're both conflicted – her expressive face hides it as poorly as mine – but still, it is good to spend time together. Goodbyes are always the hardest part: hug, peck on the cheek/forehead, what tone of voice, can we keep our faces steady? She tries to keep it quick, and shoos me out before it can get too awkward.
It is quickly becoming dark, and I struggle with the ride home, forcing legs to rise and fall, trying to create a meter and beat, some sort of time with which to pedal. I find my motivation soon enough, as another biker flies by in the dark. His bike is no better, he looks no stronger – I see a worthy challenge, and grind myself down. Knives for hip flexors, each stroke is a delicious spurning forward (or so I choose to see it), and I push on, gaining back precious ground, then flinging myself past. The look on his face – he is straining too! -- is a priceless token, off which I feed. I do not take defeat (of any sort) lightly; if we are in any way competitive, I will try and break you, or break myself in the process. Now, I up the cadence yet further, determined to make this other night rider suffer with me.
Unwilling to let him regain me, I continue flogging myself forward, my lower back now stabbing as well. Ahead, three deer stand across the dark path; as I see them, I am sure they will see, hear, smell me. I continue on full bore. Unfortunately, they do not see, hear, smell me, and, about to hit the largest of them, I find myself slamming my brakes, whipping the bike around. Only then, less than a foot away, are they aware of me: more than sufficiently spooked, they fly through the woods, madly bound away.
Stepping off the bike, I realize I am a quivering mess. Knives are throbbing in my back and hips, and my legs are shaking, as are my hands. I feel the bile rising, and before I can think, it surges through me, vomit spraying across the snow and half-buried grasses. I find a handful of mostly clean snow, wipe my face with it, and stare at the stars above me. The paved path is cold on my back, deliciously numbing. Eventually, though, the cold begins to get to me, and I climb back on my bike. It is time to get home.
I pedal easily, slowly at first, my back no longer quite so upset. These hips, however, are another story, still flaring unhappily. I find the long familiar mantra – I am strong, I am rough, I am tough, I am Norse – and repeat it, over and over. My eyes have gone blank, and it is all I can do to simply stare straight ahead, as I pump forward, riding increasingly hard once more. What does not kill me only makes me stronger, I find myself praying.
THWUMP! It is a loud and startling sound, sickeningly juicy and I nearly careen over the handlebars. Whatever I just hit is sizable. Gingerly dismounting, I walk back to find a rabbit, not moving, it's side caved-in. I think to move it, but my back will not allow me to bend down for a stick with which to do the deed. Eventually, I decide my shoe will suffice, and nudge the poor beast into the woods before climbing back onto the bike.
It is only then that I realize my front tire is flat, and hope that this is not the consequence of hitting the poor bunny. Mulling things over, I realize that there's really no telling when the tire went flat; it may well have been flat since Katie's, twelve miles earlier, as I was in no state to notice.
I quietly nurse the bike the last few miles home, where I find my roommate finishing up a favorite movie. I apply some tiger balm (a gift from two Thai friends, it may or may not be legal, but it sure does work) to my back and hips, then grab a beer and join her for the last of it.
By the time the film is over, I'm starting to feel pretty good again. Always a sucker for punishment (especially the excessive varieties), I decide I've got one last run in me; lacing up my shoes, I am quickly out the door for another ten. The run itself is actually almost pleasant. My legs are disconnected, floating in some ethereal jelly; my back is wonderfully numb. The backs of my eyeballs ache familiarly, but the stars are beautiful, and once again, I am proving myself larger than life, near immortal.
Home again, this time for good, I head to the bathroom for a bedtime pee – and out comes blood. A sensation I always forget until we meet again, it burns like hell. I admit to crying out, a sharp jab into the late night silence. Chafeage: check. Severe dehydration: check. I decide the culprit really doesn't matter, and make myself drink a nalgene and a half, take a few ibuprofen. I never make it to my room, instead crashing in a heap on the living room floor, out cold exhausted.
The final totals, courtesy gmap-pedometer: 101.2 miles biked; 29.8 miles run; 4.9 miles walked; 8 apartments viewed. All in all, not a bad day's work. Strangely, even after this morning's run, I don't feel too bad today. Which is probably good, considering how much of it I'll get to repeat tomorrow. No time like the present...
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