Day One:
(coming off five hours of sleep and a stomach bug, no dinner the night before)
Sixteen mile run, no breakfast (stomach). Twenty mile ride, two bagels for lunch. Sixty mile ride, two Clif shots, Twelve mile run. Blenderful of fruit, couple of handfuls of spinach and two nalgenes, one each of Gatorade and water, for dinner.
Day Two:
(off four hours of sleep)
Fourteen mile run. Bowl of cereal, cup of tea, two bananas, glass of orange juice for breakfast. Six mile ride. Two pieces of toast, two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, two small apples, nalgene of water for lunch. Fourteen mile ride, fourteen mile run. Leftover minestrone soup, two small bagel sandwiches, a bag of popcorn, two beers for dinner/snack.
Day Three:
(off four hours of sleep)
Twelve mile run. Five big (large-plate size) breakfast burritos, nalgene of water, two cups of tea for breakfast. Fifty-five mile ride (in 2:40), two Clif shots. Over the course of the day: five brats, three burgers, two plates full of chips, five cookies, three brownies, one-fourth of a watermelon, half-gallon of Gatorade, several beers. Twelve mile run, mostly barefoot.
Day Four:
(off two hours of sleep)
Sixty mile ride (in 3:10). Two bagel sandwiches, hash brown for breakfast on the bike. Trail mix, nalgene of water, banana, two glasses of orange juice for lunch. Twenty mile run, middle six hard. Bowl of leftover pasta, two small bagel sandwiches, nalgene of water.
Four day totals: fifteen hours of sleep, one hundred miles run, two hundred and fifteen miles biked. I think it's bedtime.
Sunday, May 18
Thursday, May 15
At this rate...
I'll be shocked to make it to next month, much less my next birthday. I admit I lead a adventurous and full life, but still, this level of excitement worries even me. It's true, not many people bike a hundred and fifty to two hundred miles a week. Even fewer people run a hundred and twenty miles a week. And an even smaller population do both. As such, it shouldn't surprise me the ways in which I collect stories.
What does surprise me, though, is the frequency with which I collect them. Twice in the last three days I've had reason to worry for my continued well-being, two days ago courtesy an irate driver in rush-hour traffic (not that I was completely blameless, but still...) and today courtesy both a swallowed bee (which stung me on the way down my throat... not a pleasant sensation, that, and even now, hours later, swallowing is a less than friendly endeavor) and a jackass driver (less than pleasant: a three minute tirade on the evils of rolling a stop-sign, followed by the same driver trying to run me off the road).
Today the fun came near the end of twenty miles run and nearly a hundred biked, while quite dehydrated and more than a little ill (a stomach bug having prevented me from finding any use for food in a solid twenty-four hours), head pounding, breathing strained, body aching, my legs a chafed and bloody mess from all the dehydrated abuse.
And this after one full weekend and leading into another (a hundred and fifty miles to bike and run, for the joy of a friend's graduation party, finally), two weeks removed from an eventful all-nighter in a delightful thunderstorm, and less than a month removed from an allergic reaction that I honestly thought, at the time, was going to be my end.1
And that only a week after a day in which, in the space of a half-mile, I held a beaver (apparently ill), was stared down by an angry midget, and was hit in the back of the head by an errant golf ball.2
Normal people do not have such stories. But then, normalcy has never claimed me, not even as an ugly stepchild.
There's more, of course, but I have no reason to cause you more worry. Truthfully, it isn't as if I'm seeking out crazy risks. If anything, these adventures seek me out; I plead complete and total innocence, though I admit, not many choose to believe me.
In any case, I wouldn't complain if things calmed down a bit. Nor, I think, would anyone else.
1. Fortunately, I had a Benadryl in my bag, which I managed to get down my throat just before I passed out on the side of the trail (definitely a close call!). I still haven't figured out what caused the reaction. This, of course, was the same day that I had a bit of a mishap on my bike, resulting in a gash across my shin that made its way to the bone (it was pretty, I tell you). I, of course, used my first aid skills to clean it up a bit, and then got back on the bike. Already it's looking to be a pretty scar.
2. I would have maybe thought the whole thing was a hallucination, the result of some freakish hangover, or dehydration messing with my mind, but the bump on the back of my head lasted several days.
What does surprise me, though, is the frequency with which I collect them. Twice in the last three days I've had reason to worry for my continued well-being, two days ago courtesy an irate driver in rush-hour traffic (not that I was completely blameless, but still...) and today courtesy both a swallowed bee (which stung me on the way down my throat... not a pleasant sensation, that, and even now, hours later, swallowing is a less than friendly endeavor) and a jackass driver (less than pleasant: a three minute tirade on the evils of rolling a stop-sign, followed by the same driver trying to run me off the road).
Today the fun came near the end of twenty miles run and nearly a hundred biked, while quite dehydrated and more than a little ill (a stomach bug having prevented me from finding any use for food in a solid twenty-four hours), head pounding, breathing strained, body aching, my legs a chafed and bloody mess from all the dehydrated abuse.
And this after one full weekend and leading into another (a hundred and fifty miles to bike and run, for the joy of a friend's graduation party, finally), two weeks removed from an eventful all-nighter in a delightful thunderstorm, and less than a month removed from an allergic reaction that I honestly thought, at the time, was going to be my end.1
And that only a week after a day in which, in the space of a half-mile, I held a beaver (apparently ill), was stared down by an angry midget, and was hit in the back of the head by an errant golf ball.2
Normal people do not have such stories. But then, normalcy has never claimed me, not even as an ugly stepchild.
There's more, of course, but I have no reason to cause you more worry. Truthfully, it isn't as if I'm seeking out crazy risks. If anything, these adventures seek me out; I plead complete and total innocence, though I admit, not many choose to believe me.
In any case, I wouldn't complain if things calmed down a bit. Nor, I think, would anyone else.
1. Fortunately, I had a Benadryl in my bag, which I managed to get down my throat just before I passed out on the side of the trail (definitely a close call!). I still haven't figured out what caused the reaction. This, of course, was the same day that I had a bit of a mishap on my bike, resulting in a gash across my shin that made its way to the bone (it was pretty, I tell you). I, of course, used my first aid skills to clean it up a bit, and then got back on the bike. Already it's looking to be a pretty scar.
2. I would have maybe thought the whole thing was a hallucination, the result of some freakish hangover, or dehydration messing with my mind, but the bump on the back of my head lasted several days.
Tuesday, May 13
Next Up: KFC
I ate McDonald's today, for the first time in well over five years. I'd already had two breakfasts, and the big mac meal made the second lunch, but I was hungry (famished, really), and it was there.
I remembered all the reasons I gave it up, and not just the environmental ones. I felt like crap all afternoon.
I remembered all the reasons I gave it up, and not just the environmental ones. I felt like crap all afternoon.
Monday, May 12
White Noise
Limits are made to be tested, wrapped through every sinew; limits are meant to be examined carefully, the diamond's cut. And so we go: three days, sixty-six miles run, a hundred and fifty-six biked. At it's best, fifty and one-fifteen, respectively, with only an hour's sleep, in less than twenty-four hours.
Most mornings I wake gingerly (this one included), an ache in all my joints, slower to rise than many men my parents' age. Several joints may need replacing by thirty-five or forty, so worn are they already now. This is the life I choose: never the easy way, no challenge left untaken. I push, and push, and redefine boundaries, and I love it, even as I know I seek out the challenge too great. I will yet find it, I am sure. Or perhaps already have, love.
It is a strange thing: I am smaller, it seems, by the day, and yet I consistently do more, stretch further into the impossible. For the first time in my life, I can fit my hands around my thighs (just above the knee), can touch fingers around the center of my calves. These legs have never been so slender. Yet my mileage is nearly as high as it's ever been – though no longer averaging the peak of 122 (a couple of weeks ago), the norm still rests at an impressive 116.
The third evening, after helping my brother move, after running a few more miles with a friend (and the last three quick, nimble as if fresh), I weigh myself, checking the numbers for the first time in weeks. I have a good idea, my body and I familiar with each other, but look anyways: one-eighteen, five-and-a-half percent body-fat (and dehydrated like mad, my dry mouth and pounding headache tell me; scratchy are my eyes). I am lean, jungle-mad; half-cheetah, half-demon.
And then, as if to add insult to injury, I get on my bike, and pedal the fourteen miles home, hard, toying with a cocky cyclist (my age, or perhaps younger) I run up on, he on the two-thousand dollar bike. me on the hundred dollar Craigslist find, a sorry collection of squeaks and groans courtesy the abuse (and accidents) its seen underneath (and beside) me, and I toy with him, pulling just far ahead to keep him straining, letting him catch me at several intersections, only to pull away again. Finally, a dozen miles in, I put on the jets, lose him easily, looking back once to see the hurt etched across his face.
I don't tell him how many miles I'd already put in, or how little I'd had to eat in the last twenty-four hours (three pieces of pizza, two slices of pie, a lemon bar).1 I just wave a slight farewell, and turn gently off the trail for the last stretch home. Neither do I admit how many times I thought I'd completely hit the wall, only to find one more last reserve.
And that's how it will have to be. Life without reservations, at the margins and on the limits (or past). I cannot help but test these boundaries, arbitrary as they seem. Though some truths are universal – for instance, human bodies are, by nature, frail instruments – I have this need for proof. Or, in seeming absence, to disprove said truth. Faith is blind, white noise in a static world. But some things cannot be let go.
1. I know some of you are worried about the lacking diet. I understand this, especially as I've said myself I wasn't eating enough (and I wasn't). I am eating more now – still not a ton – but I am aware of the difference in my body. For some time, I was at an unhealthy point, my body turning on itself, sustained only by flesh. I felt it in my runs: nothing in the tank, every mile composed entirely of rough will.
But I'm doing better now, my body having once again increased its efficiency. I am incredibly light still, given my frame and the muscle I carry on it, but it is an airy lightness I run in now, rather than a dying breath. I'm taking better care of myself than my mileage may at first convey. I've even slept nearly twenty hours in the two nights since the one-hour debacle. So don't worry, alright?
Most mornings I wake gingerly (this one included), an ache in all my joints, slower to rise than many men my parents' age. Several joints may need replacing by thirty-five or forty, so worn are they already now. This is the life I choose: never the easy way, no challenge left untaken. I push, and push, and redefine boundaries, and I love it, even as I know I seek out the challenge too great. I will yet find it, I am sure. Or perhaps already have, love.
It is a strange thing: I am smaller, it seems, by the day, and yet I consistently do more, stretch further into the impossible. For the first time in my life, I can fit my hands around my thighs (just above the knee), can touch fingers around the center of my calves. These legs have never been so slender. Yet my mileage is nearly as high as it's ever been – though no longer averaging the peak of 122 (a couple of weeks ago), the norm still rests at an impressive 116.
The third evening, after helping my brother move, after running a few more miles with a friend (and the last three quick, nimble as if fresh), I weigh myself, checking the numbers for the first time in weeks. I have a good idea, my body and I familiar with each other, but look anyways: one-eighteen, five-and-a-half percent body-fat (and dehydrated like mad, my dry mouth and pounding headache tell me; scratchy are my eyes). I am lean, jungle-mad; half-cheetah, half-demon.
And then, as if to add insult to injury, I get on my bike, and pedal the fourteen miles home, hard, toying with a cocky cyclist (my age, or perhaps younger) I run up on, he on the two-thousand dollar bike. me on the hundred dollar Craigslist find, a sorry collection of squeaks and groans courtesy the abuse (and accidents) its seen underneath (and beside) me, and I toy with him, pulling just far ahead to keep him straining, letting him catch me at several intersections, only to pull away again. Finally, a dozen miles in, I put on the jets, lose him easily, looking back once to see the hurt etched across his face.
I don't tell him how many miles I'd already put in, or how little I'd had to eat in the last twenty-four hours (three pieces of pizza, two slices of pie, a lemon bar).1 I just wave a slight farewell, and turn gently off the trail for the last stretch home. Neither do I admit how many times I thought I'd completely hit the wall, only to find one more last reserve.
And that's how it will have to be. Life without reservations, at the margins and on the limits (or past). I cannot help but test these boundaries, arbitrary as they seem. Though some truths are universal – for instance, human bodies are, by nature, frail instruments – I have this need for proof. Or, in seeming absence, to disprove said truth. Faith is blind, white noise in a static world. But some things cannot be let go.
But I'm doing better now, my body having once again increased its efficiency. I am incredibly light still, given my frame and the muscle I carry on it, but it is an airy lightness I run in now, rather than a dying breath. I'm taking better care of myself than my mileage may at first convey. I've even slept nearly twenty hours in the two nights since the one-hour debacle. So don't worry, alright?
Friday, May 2
Invincible
After a near all-night run, after running to work this morning, after a full,full day at work, after a full, full week, after being quite sick earlier in the week, after all of it - in forty degree downpour, into a headwind averaging twenty-one and gusting to thirty-five - I run home from work. I time the last five k - sixteen forty-two. I do not stretch or warm up before, and now, after, my legs hurt like hell from the impatient immediacy of the effort, into the wind and driving rain. But during - during, all I can say is goddamn I am alive and this wind burns like the fury of hell and the rain nails itself through icy numb flesh and I am as alive as I've ever been and all is well and I am invincible. Invincible. Sixteen forty-two, and invincible.
Thursday, May 1
This Kind of Person
I am this kind of person: when we are talking on the telephone, if I put you on hold for a moment, you will not be surprised when, after coming back on the line, I tell you I had to pause to extinguish my flaming toast. Then again, not much can surprise you anymore.
I am this kind of person: the previous incident is enough for me to start a post like this.
I am this kind of person: if we meet up for a drink, and are discussing motorcycles, you will agree that I should never be allowed to own one. I put myself in enough danger on a bicycle, you will say.
I am this kind of person: the previous incidents, in the same night, are enough to convince me this post is a good idea. There may have been beer and/or a lack of sleep involved.
I am this kind of person: when you introduce me to a friend (who, of course, has heard about this crazy stranger), and they say, 'so you're that guy that runs a hundred and fifty miles a week?,' trying to be a little bit funny, you'll laugh, not because it's funny, but because it's possible I have that week.
I am this kind of person: in the middle of describing me to a friend of yours, you will be tempted to reference 'Scrubs.' I'm the topper. Except, as far as I know, I've never lied to make a story more excessive.
I am this kind of person: the aforementioned happens to me frequently. More often than a planned blog post, actually.
I am this kind of person: it doesn't surprise me (much) when an errant golf ball hits me in the back of the head a quarter-mile after being scowled at by a midget, a quarter-mile after picking up an immobile beaver. I assume the beaver was okay; he was gone by the time I came back an hour later, though my head certainly hurt.
I am this kind of person: when sick over the weekend, with a fever occasionally hallucinatory, I ran to the store to restock on drugs. It was three miles round trip, but running was warmer than biking, which was the other option I considered on a windy, snowy Saturday.
I am this kind of person: I've been under felony investigation (long story) and told I saved a man's life (ditto) in the same week.
I am this kind of person: I once wrote a sermon largely about poop. Another featured a conversation inside my intestines. Strangely, both were well-received.
I am this kind of person: if it's cold outside, give me a hearty soup or chili, fresh baked bread, and a dark porter. If it's hot, give me fresh greens, fruit, and Gatorade.
I am this kind of person: I sometimes think I prefer terrible weather, imagining it sets me apart from weaker souls, though I know that has nothing to do with rain or snow, cold or heat.
I am this kind of person: I frequently make plans I know I will never be able to keep, fully intending to keep them, like biking across Europe, from brewery to brewery, or running a Western States.
I am this kind of person: if you hurt one of my students, I will want very much to hurt you. I won't. but I will certainly want to. and if I can, I'll make sure you know it.
I am this kind of person: I've never learned how to say goodbye. I'm still learning how to really say hello.
I am this kind of person: I could not eat all day, or eat two big plates of spaghetti, a dozen breadsticks, and a heaping salad in one sitting, and if you knew me, neither would surprise you.
I am this kind of person: in the last four years, I've spent the entire night running more times (12) than I've taken a full week off (2).
I am this kind of person: if you ask me 'scariest run-in with an animal,' I'll have a hard time choosing between bear, mountain lion, and javelina. But I still might decide skunk at an ex-girlfriend's parent's house.
I am this kind of person: in the past two years, I've moved four times, and am approaching a fifth. I've also lost my best friend three times. I'm about to have job security, and it scares me. They may or may not be related.
I am this kind of person: one of the best feelings is wet,wet rain tumbling down inside your shoulder blades as you sprint up a hill. Just slightly better is slowly trotting back down and preparing yourself for the next rep. Some of the best smells are wet grass, autumn leaves (and crisp, cool air), woodsmoke, and fresh baked bread. Just slightly better is the smell of an angel's shoulder, French bread with a little bit of sourdough starter. The best sights are always small surprises, but the best tastes are just familiar enough.
I am this kind of person: I made this list when I should have been sleeping.
I am this kind of person: I lie everyday, and yet there are a handful of people I will never be able to lie to. The day I can lie to them will be the day I know the last piece of my soul has finally died.
This is the kind of person I am: I honestly believe I've never been anything less than very good at anything I've really given my best effort. Unrelated, I can only think of a few things which have ever garnered my best effort. Sometimes this makes me sad, but more often the emotion in question is apathy.
This is the kind of person I am: the only thing I've ever believed in was love. I used to believe it had a name, then decided names didn't matter. I used to believe it had a purpose, but was told I was wrong. Now I think maybe it's better I leave the matter in other peoples' hands. Still, I dream of nothing else; I'm not sure what that means.
This is the kind of person I am: I've loved three women. But I've only ever really loved one. She was, of course, the one I couldn't have.
This is the kind of person I am: I don't get excited about the future. I do sometimes get stuck in the past.
This is the kind of person I am: I cannot stop believing that humans contain more good than bad, even though I see more evidence of the latter than the former. I am more an idealist romantic than cynical pessimist. These characters often collide, though, especially in the space between the past and the future.
This is the kind of person I am: I am a shameless risk taker, no longer sure what parts of my heart and mind are really my own, no longer sure what constitutes a proper 'I should have died' story. All I know is that I have more of those 'stories' than most people would consider healthy. Still, I think I'm proud of the fact, as if it gave me special 'survivor' skills or status.
This is the kind of person I am: this list tells you everything, and yet really says nothing, all fact and all fiction and all some strange mix of both.
This is the kind of person I am: the truth is what you believe it to be, but I'm running low on beliefs.
This is the kind of person I am: I play the same songs every time I play my guitar. Each song is for someone, but they've either never heard the song, or have no idea I wrote it for them. Half of the things I do for other people they never see.
I am this kind of person. I lack follow-through. This is the kind of person I am. This is just another list.
I am this kind of person: the previous incident is enough for me to start a post like this.
I am this kind of person: if we meet up for a drink, and are discussing motorcycles, you will agree that I should never be allowed to own one. I put myself in enough danger on a bicycle, you will say.
I am this kind of person: the previous incidents, in the same night, are enough to convince me this post is a good idea. There may have been beer and/or a lack of sleep involved.
I am this kind of person: when you introduce me to a friend (who, of course, has heard about this crazy stranger), and they say, 'so you're that guy that runs a hundred and fifty miles a week?,' trying to be a little bit funny, you'll laugh, not because it's funny, but because it's possible I have that week.
I am this kind of person: in the middle of describing me to a friend of yours, you will be tempted to reference 'Scrubs.' I'm the topper. Except, as far as I know, I've never lied to make a story more excessive.
I am this kind of person: the aforementioned happens to me frequently. More often than a planned blog post, actually.
I am this kind of person: it doesn't surprise me (much) when an errant golf ball hits me in the back of the head a quarter-mile after being scowled at by a midget, a quarter-mile after picking up an immobile beaver. I assume the beaver was okay; he was gone by the time I came back an hour later, though my head certainly hurt.
I am this kind of person: when sick over the weekend, with a fever occasionally hallucinatory, I ran to the store to restock on drugs. It was three miles round trip, but running was warmer than biking, which was the other option I considered on a windy, snowy Saturday.
I am this kind of person: I've been under felony investigation (long story) and told I saved a man's life (ditto) in the same week.
I am this kind of person: I once wrote a sermon largely about poop. Another featured a conversation inside my intestines. Strangely, both were well-received.
I am this kind of person: if it's cold outside, give me a hearty soup or chili, fresh baked bread, and a dark porter. If it's hot, give me fresh greens, fruit, and Gatorade.
I am this kind of person: I sometimes think I prefer terrible weather, imagining it sets me apart from weaker souls, though I know that has nothing to do with rain or snow, cold or heat.
I am this kind of person: I frequently make plans I know I will never be able to keep, fully intending to keep them, like biking across Europe, from brewery to brewery, or running a Western States.
I am this kind of person: if you hurt one of my students, I will want very much to hurt you. I won't. but I will certainly want to. and if I can, I'll make sure you know it.
I am this kind of person: I've never learned how to say goodbye. I'm still learning how to really say hello.
I am this kind of person: I could not eat all day, or eat two big plates of spaghetti, a dozen breadsticks, and a heaping salad in one sitting, and if you knew me, neither would surprise you.
I am this kind of person: in the last four years, I've spent the entire night running more times (12) than I've taken a full week off (2).
I am this kind of person: if you ask me 'scariest run-in with an animal,' I'll have a hard time choosing between bear, mountain lion, and javelina. But I still might decide skunk at an ex-girlfriend's parent's house.
I am this kind of person: in the past two years, I've moved four times, and am approaching a fifth. I've also lost my best friend three times. I'm about to have job security, and it scares me. They may or may not be related.
I am this kind of person: one of the best feelings is wet,wet rain tumbling down inside your shoulder blades as you sprint up a hill. Just slightly better is slowly trotting back down and preparing yourself for the next rep. Some of the best smells are wet grass, autumn leaves (and crisp, cool air), woodsmoke, and fresh baked bread. Just slightly better is the smell of an angel's shoulder, French bread with a little bit of sourdough starter. The best sights are always small surprises, but the best tastes are just familiar enough.
I am this kind of person: I made this list when I should have been sleeping.
I am this kind of person: I lie everyday, and yet there are a handful of people I will never be able to lie to. The day I can lie to them will be the day I know the last piece of my soul has finally died.
This is the kind of person I am: I honestly believe I've never been anything less than very good at anything I've really given my best effort. Unrelated, I can only think of a few things which have ever garnered my best effort. Sometimes this makes me sad, but more often the emotion in question is apathy.
This is the kind of person I am: the only thing I've ever believed in was love. I used to believe it had a name, then decided names didn't matter. I used to believe it had a purpose, but was told I was wrong. Now I think maybe it's better I leave the matter in other peoples' hands. Still, I dream of nothing else; I'm not sure what that means.
This is the kind of person I am: I've loved three women. But I've only ever really loved one. She was, of course, the one I couldn't have.
This is the kind of person I am: I don't get excited about the future. I do sometimes get stuck in the past.
This is the kind of person I am: I cannot stop believing that humans contain more good than bad, even though I see more evidence of the latter than the former. I am more an idealist romantic than cynical pessimist. These characters often collide, though, especially in the space between the past and the future.
This is the kind of person I am: I am a shameless risk taker, no longer sure what parts of my heart and mind are really my own, no longer sure what constitutes a proper 'I should have died' story. All I know is that I have more of those 'stories' than most people would consider healthy. Still, I think I'm proud of the fact, as if it gave me special 'survivor' skills or status.
This is the kind of person I am: this list tells you everything, and yet really says nothing, all fact and all fiction and all some strange mix of both.
This is the kind of person I am: the truth is what you believe it to be, but I'm running low on beliefs.
This is the kind of person I am: I play the same songs every time I play my guitar. Each song is for someone, but they've either never heard the song, or have no idea I wrote it for them. Half of the things I do for other people they never see.
I am this kind of person. I lack follow-through. This is the kind of person I am. This is just another list.
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