MATERIAL POSSESSIONS

It's been a long time since I talked about gear, and a long time since I've written anything that wasn't too personal and too serious.  Todays post will contain no Emo whining, no deep philosophical discussions, nothing more than getting off talking about the crap that I strap to my feet and cover my pasty white and somewhat malformed ass with.  The following is the gear that I love:

Let's start with shoes.  I may very well be the Imelda Marcos of running shoes, or sneakers as some of my friends call them.  The only shoes that I've ever run a significant amount of trail miles in are made by La Sportiva.  Those Italians (or EYE-talians as they are known in some parts of the country) make some really nice fucking shoes.  I own almost every "Mountain Running" shoe they make and have put about 500 miles on a pair of Raptors that were graciously given to me by Stacy of  the remarkable WIlderness Running Company.  I climbed Mount Washington in them, ran my first marathon in them, and I sometimes wear them to work to annoy my coworkers because they stink to holy hell and make terrible squeaking noises (it sounds like I'm stepping on a baby) on the hospital floors .  I've also completely worn out their Crosslite and Fireblade models, and have a pair of Gore-Tex Wildcats which weigh a fucking ton but will be great for plowing through the swampy, muddy crap that I'll face this Spring/Summer.

My latest trail shoe purchase involves the company Hoka One One.  Hoka says F-You to minimalist running shoes by making a shoe that is reminiscent of those ridiculous Moon Boots that skiers wore after a long day on the mountain in the early 80's.  I decided to throw down an obscene $169 for their latest model, the Stinson B EVO.  When they arrived in the mail they were even more hideous than any photo I'd seen.  Throw up in mouth hideous.  Imagine a huge pile of Limes that had turned grey and rotten on the outside.  Now imagine them being as high off the ground as a monster truck.  You get the point.  When I tried them on they were like slices of heaven on my feet, only they were so soft that my un-repaired (yes, that is now a word) fractured left ankle rolled inward and the mid foot fit was way too loose.  The upper also had much less structure than other shoes I'd run in so I decided to swap them out for the Bondi B, the road model that many Ultra runners have been using for the last year.  Once again, slices of heaven, and more subtly hideous than the Stinson.  The sole was just firm enough to support my damaged ankles, the upper had more structure, and the mid-foot fit was perfect.  Since there are probably only 2 or 3 runners that read this blog I guess I should explain the thought behind the Hokas.  The idea is that over long distances, especially over rough terrain (like the Appalachian Trail) your feet get beaten the fuck up.  The extra cushion is supposed to, well, provide extra cushion and inhibit muscle breakdown.  And it does provide a nice, plush, Cadillac of a ride.  As far as the muscle breakdown, who knows, but it makes sense to me.  After two short runs I'm pretty excited to put some real miles on them.  I found them to be surprisingly stable, cushy, and the fit is dandy.  Having been a walking pharmacological experiment over the last 10 years I know all about the placebo effect, and I don't believe that these shoes are any placebo.  No magic bullet for an oft injured runner but I'm hoping that this will help me to increase my long runs and decrease my time laying in bed with ice packs and limping down the hallways at work.  Only time will tell.

FUCKING UGLY:

The lesser of two evils.

I don't need no stinking traction!

FUCKING HIDEOUS:

Like walking on (ugly) sunshine.

Who thought these colors were a good idea?

Okay, enough with the shoe treatise, on to the rest of the gear that I dig:

Icebreaker clothing...thinking about it brings a tear to my eye.  I am a stinky, disgusting man.  Even after multiple washings I never seem to be able to get the stink out of my synthetic running clothes.  Icebreaker clothes are made of Merino wool from what must be the softest lambs on the whole earth.  They fit well, withstand my attempts to run through pricker bushes and downed trees, and I can wear them 4 or 5 times in a row without washing them.  NO STINK!!!  NONE.  Expensive but worth it.  Next, Drymax socks.  Yes, they do stink after one wear, but I don't blister when I wear them, no matter how wet my feet are,  no matter how many hours.  They also don't seem to wear out.  I bought one pair last Christmas and wore them at least twice per week for the last 15 months and they're still in great shape.  Next up is my Ultimate Direction WASP hydration pack.  Pricker bushes, downed trees, blah blah blah and no tears. The buckles and clasps are still tight, and its comfortable enough to wear for 8 hours loaded down with 1.5 liters (Liters?  I'm an American, dammit!) of Gatorade, 8 gels, a camera, glasses w/ case, and enough extra clothing for an expedition.  It's one weakness is the hydration bladder.  It failed after about 8 months and even before that, the system to keep it sealed was pretty lousy.  The bite valve, though, is awesome.  I replaced it with a Camelbak, installed the Ultimate Direction bite valve, and I don't have to worry anymore about orange Gatorade spilling down my back.  I also enjoy my Salomon clothing quite a bit.  I've run in the Fast II jacket and Hawk mid layer for every chilly run in the last year+, run in freezing rain, snow, and wind, and they've yet to fail me.  The combination of an Icebreaker base layer, Hawk mid layer, and Fast jacket have kept me warm even when the temperatures dipped into the single digits.  And finally, I'm also a pretty big fan of my Garmin 305 watch.  I straddle the line between being a tech nerd and a nature boy, but I do like to know how many miles I've run, how slow I was, and how many feet of climbing I did.  I've fallen on it hard enough to rip the strap off my wrist (1st rib fracture of 2012), smashed it against trees, and dumped it at the bottom of my work bag, buried beneath cans of soda, books, and running gear with no ill effects.  The wristband sucks, so go and buy the nice velcro one from Amazon.  Otherwise, awesome!  So those are the goodies that keep me dry, warm, cool, hydrated, and comfortable

Rib Fracture Update:  I thought they were just bruised.  Apparently I was wrong.  These things fucking hurt!  Rib fracture #1 of 2012 didn't really hurt and running felt just fine.  Fracture number 2 has sucked.  Breathing sucks, sleeping sucks, ripping up a stone walkway for my Dad sucks, and tearing up grass and tilling soil for a new garden for my Uncle sucks.  Did I mention that breathing sucks?  Shut up crybaby.

I just read that Micah True, the protagonist in the novel Born To Run, was found dead while trail running in New Mexico's Gila Forest.  The book elicits strong opinions, none of which I care much about, but reading it (in 1 sitting) forever changed the way I viewed my running and my life away from the trails.  It made me realize the arbitrary nature of the marathon distance, showed me that running could be a way to rebuild rather than destroy myself for past sins, and it inspired me to try trail running.  I never ran another mile on the road.  It's a bummer that such an interesting and eccentric dude is dead.  The world needs less American Idols and more Caballo Blanco's.

SAFETY GATE

evocative |iˈväkətiv|

adjective

bringing strong images, memories, or feelings to mind 

Evocative.  It's a word that comes up frequently in therapy, rarely in a positive context.  I guess for this season the images, memories, and feelings being dredged up are bittersweet, like the clanging together of childhood happiness and the disappointment of adulthood.  It's in the way that the scent of Ultrathon bug spray reminds me of her, or the moist earthen smell that seems to only hang in the air this time of year, or the way the verdant forest canopy has already begun to blot out the sky, or the cool 40 degree air against my legs before the sun has broken the horizon.  Soon it will be the gauze-like haze of Summer hung from the stars, the humid air stealing my breath, the sting of the sun on my pale Irish skin, rainstorms my only reprieve, nights spent dreaming of what, I'm not sure.  No wish or will can stop the bastard days of Summer.

So what the fuck does any of this have to do with running?  I don't know.  Somewhere along the line my mental well being became inextricably tied to being alone in the woods.  It's a very real possibility that if one didn't exist then neither could the other.  So I guess there isn't a word that I've written in the last year or so that hasn't been about both running and the rusting tilt-a-whirl that is my head.

Safety Gate         5/7/2007       Brewster, NY

If you want the first drops of rain against the cedar shakes

If you want to let loose the scent of reason

Dried brush and electrical storms

Misery without boundary and a long low moan into the tactile summer air

Then, please, come inside

I am waiting 

Aquamarine eyes set on the doorway 

The scent of lust and petroleum 

Aged lumber and hob nails penetrating wanting flesh

I am breathing

Tachypnic, infection born, your trepidation

The ant climbing the peony, the rattle of the last breath

Please, come inside

This flush of trees, thick skinned and darker than the night sky

My winding thought, ink blot against the deep grey before me

Alternating currents and Parkinsonian rhythm

The tar and the stone and the work of the sun

(I am these quiet surroundings, the murderers lair, the insect vibration, 

the fresh cut grass, the broken branch scraping against the screen door)

Please, come inside.

Staying in the Mo...OH FUCK, NOT AGAIN!!!

I'm starting to think that there's some sort of rhythm to life that I never took the time to notice in the past. I'm still not buying that bullshit that everything happens for a reason (children dying? suicide? molestation? Jersey Shore?), but it seems odd to me that I've been thinking and writing about mindfullness and being in the moment (there has to be a better way to say that) and this morning, on a short run, I had a gentle reminder of the benefits of not drifting off while I tear through the woods. One minute I was upright and the next minute I had been body slammed to the ground...again. A momentary lapse in concentration on a nearly smooth piece of single track and I went down like a bag of wet cement. It's amazing how quickly I can go from standing up straight to laying on the ground with my fist bunched up under my ribs, although this time it was the right side instead of the left (I like to keep my fractures symmetrical). It happens so quickly that it almost feels like someone shoved you to the ground. It was still a hell of a fucking run and things are finally starting to click for me again.


Parabola  (Tool)


We barely remember who or what came before this precious moment,
We are Choosing to be here right now. Hold on, stay inside...
This holy reality, this holy experience. Choosing to be here in...


This body. This body holding me. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion.


Alive


This holy reality, in this holy experience. Choosing to be here in...


This body. This body holding me. Be my reminder here that I am not alone in
This body, this body holding me, feeling eternal all this pain is an illusion...
Of what it means to be alive


Swirling round with this familiar parable.
Spinning, weaving round each new experience.
Recognize this as a holy gift and celebrate this 
chance to be alive and breathing
chance to be alive and breathing.


This body holding me reminds me of my own mortality. 
Embrace this moment. Remember. we are eternal.
all this pain is an illusion.

WHERE DOES EL DIABLO GO ON WEDNESDAYS?

She and I have spent the past few years talking about the middle ground in life, the space between extreme pleasure and extreme pain that the majority of the world lives in.  She understands that for me to feel anything at all my emotions have to redline, and that the minutiae of daily life bores me so greatly that I would rather feel incredible discomfort than feel nothing at all.  It's why I drift off in the middle of conversations about peoples food shopping or the yard work they did over the weekend, why I lose interest at work when things become too routine, why casual acquaintances seem superficial and useless.  None of those things even register on my pleasure/pain scale.  She and I both know that a life like this is unsustainable and will always have the potential to unravel quickly and with horrible results, so she's recommended that I practice mindfullness.  I know what she means, I understand the concept of being in the moment but my thought patterns are the equivalent of a car scraping down a guardrail.  To keep focused on one thought, one emotion, for even 30 seconds, is a Herculean task.  I know I have to have moments where I let the detritus of the past and expectations of the future fall away, but most times it seems as far beyond my reach as trying to hold the moon in my hands.

Saturday:

Yesterday it was 60 degrees out and sunny.  I cranked through my work so that I could head into the woods for an hour or so.  Looking dapper in my new Salomon short sleeve and Drymax socks (courtesy of my friend Stacy at Wilderness Running Company.  Did you get my email?) I headed out of the parking lot and into my Temple.  I tried to practice some of what she and I talked about on Wednesday; I listened to my breathing, felt the rocks and soft earth beneath my feet, but the more I tried to think about nothing the more I thought about thinking about nothing.  At some point I gave up and just let S. into my head, thought about thru-hiking the Appalachian trail, about doing some runs with a tent and sleeping bag to escape for a few days, thought about S. some more, and also let myself enjoy running on soft, dry trails for the first time in over a year.  It didn't feel at all like failure.  

Sunday:

This morning I ran the same loop after work.  I tried once again to quiet the chatter, to focus on nothing but my breathing and the next footstep, but had little success.  I believe part of the reason that I have such a difficult time being in the moment is because of something I mentioned in my last post.  I use my time out there to sift through all of the insane thoughts and feelings I've stored up for the week.  They run through my mind in a dizzying stream of conscience until I've exhausted them.  The best part of thinking about these things while I'm running is that I don't have the ability to make sense of them and remain upright at the same time. I suppose when I start running long again I'll be able to quiet my mind and practice some of the mindfullness techniques I've learned over the years, but for now I'll just let my thoughts spill like mercury across a marble floor and be satisfied with that.  This doesn't feel at all like failure.

The above photo is of me tempting the gods of thunder and lightning.  You might be able to make out the metal baton I'm holding skyward, but what you can't see is the massive lightning storm racing across the Hudson in my direction.  The gods blinked first.



"And I'll burn, like a roman fucking candle
 Burn, like a chasm in the night
 Burn, for a miniscule duration 
Ecstatic immolation, incorrigible delight."  


Bad Religion-Turn On The Light 


  

UNDOING

"In the middle of life it happens that death comes and measures man.  The visit is forgotten and life continues, but the suit is made, quietly" Tomas Transtromer.


Nothing should mean this much, not S., not running, nothing. Nothing should mean this much because sometimes the hinge gives way and the bottom has no bottom. I haven't taken a shower in three days, haven't changed my clothes since I left work Friday afternoon. I've left the house twice since then, both times for work. I worked 6:30 to 10:30 am yesterday and today, completely alone, the quiet hum of ventilation echoing down the bare walls of the hospital. I craved my bed and closed shades the way a junkie craves dope, and I was thankful that AMC has put season 1 of The Killing on Video On Demand. It offers 11 hours of solace. There are lessons to be learned on weekends like this, some less pleasant than others. If there is one lesson S. taught me, though, is that nothing lasts, nothing survives the barely visible fractures that this life inflicts upon us. Not relationships, not the flesh and bone that give shape to our bodies; nothing survives this life. So what's behind this spiral? How does the armor so quickly get stripped away? There is always, of course, the haunting, the bleach of our lives spilled into standing water. When I slow down, the haunting speeds up. Other than the haunting, it is a matter of anatomy and physiology, of a fucked up left foot that has left me running less than 20 miles in the last few weeks. The one thing that makes me feel so fucking alive is gone for now, and it's amazing how quickly the lie of invincibility comes undone. Nothing should matter this much.

 There are obvious reasons why running long distances makes me feel indomitable; the Endorphins, the pain as pleasure principle, the punk rock streak in me that says "I ran in the woods for 8 hours this weekend, what the fuck did you do?". These are all what we call in medicine incidental findings. They're not what I was looking for in the woods, but I stumbled upon them anyway. So what is it that I crave like a junkie? I found the answer while reading an article that ultramarathon runner Anton Krupicka wrote for Running Times magazine. He tried to find a way to answer the question "what do you think about when you're out there for so many hours?" and what he came up with was so simple and yet so profound. He said he didn't think, he listened. That simple statement explained to me so elegantly why I attempt to amass so many hours and miles alone in the woods every weekend. It is a time to let me listen through the chaos of my psyche, to shutter away the outside world and just breathe. It's a time for me to listen rather than speak, to give voice to what scares me, what makes me happy, what makes me so fucking sad sometimes, and allows me to heal from the pedestrian disappointments and sorrows of life as well as from the traumas of a life poorly lived. What's amazing is that the thoughts can't be corralled, can't be sorted or prioritized. When I stand in their way they reroute, like a river around a fallen tree. All I can do is let it flow, and it does. Sometimes sorting through the trash heap in my head takes a few minutes, sometimes a few hours, and other times the run ends before the excavating does. No matter the time it takes, it's a way to bring some sense of order to the chaos, to safely wrap and file away the wounds for another week, and on those transcendent days when I'm able to run for even a few minutes with a clear mind, it's the closest I'll ever come to finding god. Nothing should mean this much.

PULLING SCARS

It feels as if there is something that needs to be written today, some thought or phrase standing watch wordlessly outside this door.  There are sentences lined up like soldiers to describe physical acts; of snow, mud, mountains, and there are words, ever more difficult to grasp, that speak of endorphins, of sweeping floorboards, of marching toward the screaming voice that is begging me to stop.  Somewhere in this swirling chaos is a concise thought, but for today I'll embrace the chaos  and just let it be.  

Looking through the photographs I've taken over the last year I was struck by just how many of them were of the sky.  On each weekend run I like to hold the camera at my waist, point it upward, and snap.  That view of the world, in all of it's impracticality, speaks of possibility, of a life far greater than the one I have lived, and will forever bewilder and inspire me.  I don't know the names or locations of the constellations, don't know where the planets might be found, but I can't imagine ever looking skyward, night time or day, and not standing in awe of how expansive it is, and how insignificant I am.

STIMULUS

"Death is certain, replacing both the siren-song of Paradise and the dread of Hell. Life on this earth, with all its mystery and beauty and pain, is then to be lived far more intensely: we stumble and get up, we are sad, confident, insecure, feel loneliness and joy and love. There is nothing more; but I want nothing more."  Christopher Hitchens

I've talked a lot about how my weekend runs build armor to shield me from the minefield of the coming week and also talked endlessly about how I gain a sense of serenity that I find no place else. What I haven't talked about is how my mid-week runs are absolutely fucking horrible. I dread them, I struggle through 3 and 4 mile runs, count down the miles and minutes until I can go home, and hate myself for doing so. While I was throwing down a massive 4 mile run this morning I started to think about why this has been happening to me in the last few months. I came up with a few theories, none of which I'm completely convinced of.

 Theory 1: Ever since I started taking care of the tangle of misdirected wiring in my head I've been told that my threshold for feeling any sort of emotion that matters is far higher than most. It takes a far greater stimulus for to engage me. It explains why Starkweather sounded the way we did; 15 to 30 minute long songs that swung wildly between beauty and dissonance, explains why I will not be satisfied running until I can run the Massanutten 100 Ultramarathon in Virginia, and it's certainly why my relationships have always burned too brightly to be sustainable. The daily activities and pleasures that make most people feel happy, sad, content, etc., make me feel nothing. The person that I go to see for one hour every week has been trying to convince me for years that there is a middle ground that doesn't involve wickedly manic episodes or glacial depressions, a life that can be satisfying and offer a level of contentment that has so far escaped me. I frustrate her. I would rather be the wax winged Icarus falling into the sea than to feel nothing at all. So maybe these weekday runs, with their monotonous and empty miles, aren't engaging enough to bump the meter enough to register as anything more than a chore for me. Maybe they don't allow enough time for me to burrow into the squalor of my mind and clean house for the coming week. Anyway, this seems the most reasonable of my explanations, probably because it's the most complicated.

 Theory 2: I have an unusual running schedule: 2-3 runs of no more than 5 miles each during the week and a run of 18-26 miles over the weekend. It has allowed me to so far remain injury free and worked well with my newly busy work schedule. Maybe I'm not banking enough overall miles and that's why I feel completely burned out for the week? It doesn't feel like that's the case physically. By Tuesday my legs may be a little bit stiff but I'm certainly not feeling hobbled or injured. That doesn't explain why these runs, which should be a breeze, are so fucking taxing. Maybe less weekend miles and more weekday miles are in order? That will be a tough one to swallow because once I ran 18 I wanted to run 20. When I ran 20 I wanted 22. When I ran 22 I wanted 26, and now that I've run 26 I want 31 (see theory number 1). I'll need to convince myself that it's the act of running, not the physical and emotional punishment that builds my defenses. Common sense? Yes. Easy for someone like me to accept? No.

 Theory 3: It seems to take me a pretty long time to warm up and get my legs moving. Maybe the short miles during the week never get me to the point where I feel primed and ready to go.

 Theory 4: Some fucked up amalgamation of theories 1 through 3.

 So what am I left with this Sunday morning at 9:45? One short run, some food shopping, and hours and hours of day that feel more like a minefield than a respite. I feel like I accomplished nothing and want to spend this beautifully sunny day laying in bed watching TV and reading the book 46 Days: Keeping Up With Jennifer Pharr Davis On The Appalachian Trail. It's a book written by Davis's husband documenting her record setting 46 day thru hike of the Appalachian Trail. So yes, rather than doing I'll be laying in bed reading about someone else doing. Blah Blah Blah.

26.2

“From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.” Franz Kafka

I ran my first marathon yesterday. No timing chip, no free T-shirt, no bands, fuck, not even a start or finish line. I hadn't planned on running more than 15 miles, but as has been happening recently, I made a calculation as to how many miles would give me the peace and strength to face the week ahead of me and that's how far I ran. I mentioned before that it feels like I'm building armor when I'm doing those runs, that every mile cinches tight the Kevlar so that large problems become small ones, and small ones disappear into the ether. This was also the first run in a long time that taught me something about running itself; about planning, common sense (or lack thereof), and how the kindness of strangers can keep a hard run from becoming a death march.











So here's what I learned:

Though I get teased for being a meticulous over-planning freak, when embarking on a 26 mile run one should make sure to have enough food and water to last the full 26 miles. Common sense? You would think so.

At a certain point running hurts no more than walking; it just requires slightly more effort.

It's not wise to leave the car with no ID/Credit Card/$20 bill.

Even after 8 hours GU Chocolate Outrage tastes like heaven.

Throwing up in ones mouth at mile 3 is no reason to quit.

Eating a Turkey, Salami, and Swiss Cheese sandwich, Peppermint Patties, and Chocolate Milk does not constitute a spectacular pre run breakfast. See Above.

Common sense is a double edged sword. Running at all, let alone running longer distances, defies logic. Running them while lightheaded from dehydration and a lack of calories defies logic. At the same time, it's this perhaps misplaced determination that allows me to laugh at myself when thinking back at how I should have called it quits at mile 14 and also makes the crap that I have to deal with outside of the woods seem inconsequential. Failed friendships? Fuck it. Barely living above the poverty line? Fuck it. A nightmare factory for a brain? Fuck it. By the time I get back into my car what matters remains standing, what doesn't matter, does not.

The greatest lesson that I learned on my ill conceived journey is about the kindness of strangers. For the first 4-5 hours I saw not one person on the trail. At about mile 14 I started to worry about running out of fluids and also started rationing my Gu's. When I got within a mile of the turning point at Bull's Bridge in Kent, Connecticut, I came upon 3 hikers playing hooky from work. I asked them if they knew of a place for me to grab some water and one of them was kind enough to just empty her Camelbak into my hydration pack and also share some beef jerky with me. Having the water put my mind at ease, but that simple act reminded me that humans aren't always the plague that I make them out to be. It was a huge boost. Miles 17-18 put me back into panic mode. I was lightheaded and dizzy on a steep one mile climb, trying my best to squeeze out whatever Chocolate Outrage I may have missed from my used gel packets, and wondering if I would be able to turn things round. I always know that when a run starts to go sideways on me mentally that I'll be able to turn things around. This was the first time that the wheels were coming off physically and it completely freaked me out. Fast forward to about mile 20. I'm at the Wiley Shelter somewhere in CT desperately trying to get some water to come out of the pump near the lean-to when 2 trail runners come up behind me, ask what I'm doing, where I'd been running, etc, and again my hydration pack gets topped off!!! Once again, the act, the water, the cheering on gave me enough of a boost to keep shuffling along. They also told me that they'd check on me when they were heading back to their car and would give me whatever water and food I needed. I saw them almost 2 hours later, 2 miles from my car and in the running portion of my run/walk/shuffle routine and these people, these complete fucking strangers, cheered me on like I was winning the NYC Marathon. They offered up their water, their Clif Bars, and told me what an amazing accomplishment it was to run 26.2 miles on the gnarly Appalachian Trail. Though they'll never read this, Thank You.







I'd hoped to write something much more profound than what I've written so far, something to equal the beauty of the AT, something that captures the tiny slivers of life that I gain back every time I'm out there, but it's moments like this that language fails me.







"I have accepted fear as a part of life - specifically the fear of change.... I have gone ahead despite the pounding in the heart that says: turn back." Erica Jong

ORANGES AND TOWERS

"When I see three oranges, I juggle; when I see two towers, I walk." Phillipe Petit

ONE CLIMBS, ONE SEES

"You cannot stay on the summit forever; you have to come down again. So why bother in the first place? Just this: What is above knows what is below, but what is below does not know what is above. One climbs, one sees. One descends, one sees no longer, but one has seen. There is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. When one can no longer see, one can at least still know." Rene Daumal

It's difficult to understand at first; the why, the how, the implied senselessness of it all. It at first seems like a silly luxury for those that have too much free time, too few desires to compete in life outside of the stillness of the forest; the money, the shiny toys and trinkets, and a status that in reality is an illusion. But there is an order to things when I'm alone out there. It is a place where I seem to have the most control of my life. I run and run, and at some point there is no turning back. There is no "Did Not Finish", no quitting because of pain or lack of desire. It is this simple: Run in and then run out. There are variables to contend with; my ever aching knees, the nightmare factory in my head that breaks my rhythm, sometimes for hours, the stillness that is both a blessing and a curse. I have been taught some of the greatest lessons of my life on those weekend runs.

Last weekends twenty mile run wasn't about the physical challenge. It was about the sin of omission, about the shattering of something so fragile to the touch, and the only way that I could deal with it in the coming weeks was to build armor, to create scar tissue where none had existed, to provide the soul, whatever that may be, with a store of strength and will that so far has kept me from turning the saw blades upon myself. I have, as the quote says, learned that there is an art of conducting oneself in the lower regions by the memory of what one saw higher up. My 'higher up' is the Appalachian Trail and it impregnates me with the resolve to face the pain I need to face with a clear mind and a clear belief in what I am capable of. The twenty mile run not only proved to me that I will run 26.2, 31, and then 50, but also gave me hope that the destructive and self destructive way I have met the world for 46 years may have finally been put to rest.

On a lighter note...

1311983

PLEASE DON'T TURN AWAY (V. BONDI)

Try to cut out the glass
That was buried deep inside my skin
But I just kept opening veins the wrong way
I try to find the words to speak
Through the rope that's tied against my throat
And every word like glass has your name

I try to find some excuse
For the static on the end of the line
'Cause I can't make sense of your voice anymore
And to think that there will always be
Some part of you that's not part of me
I prefer the memory to the girl

I love you is just another way
To convince us of the lies we've told
I love you is just another way of killing time
I know that I turned my back
But I did it just to face the fact
That what I saw in your eyes
Wasn't mine anymore

LAZARUS RUNS

20 Miles. 4,000 feet of climbing. 5 hours 39 minutes. Slowly erasing past mistakes.

The following lyrics are from the Starkweather song Lazarus Runs from our first album. It's a song we always played with an added element of savagery. It means more to me now than it did back then...

Old fears resurfacing undulating beneath my flesh
Skin set to crawl, skin set to crawl

From the distance all the hills appear to be the same
Here the baying of wild dogs caroms amongst the evergreens
Through gaping fissures, collapsing colors I am exposed
I'll be the first to admit that I do this for the pain

When I reach inside when I reach beyond that's when the darkness sets in
Where impulse overwhelms reason when heated coils sear
Now I have this gut feeling that I'm going to destroy myself before it's too long
Call it intuition, call it hindsight or the lack of will

Back then there used to be feeling
Reducing myself to ashes to rebuild atop the ruins
The perfect foundation for the killing floor
The steering wheel turns all those memories burn
Cloaked under the stench of ignited oil
I remember your words, (fuel for the fire), I remember your words

Now I need something to numb the pain
Maybe roam beyond the hills into the field
Somewhere in this expanse I buried a piece of myself
To erase your memory
I'll remain here until the breaking of dawn
Resurrect without once missing to take what's left of me
Though I've built myself to be destroyed
You can never, ever take what's mine
Though I've built myself to be destroyed
You can never, ever, take what's mine

Encircle my body with razor wire
The deepest cuts are the kindest
Encircle my body with razor wire

Lazarus runs headlong through brambles and thorns
Used salt and alcohol to soak the ragged sores

Lazarus Runs...



Some photos from today:






Interesting question carved into one of the wooden foot bridges around mile eight. Even on a day like today I'm not sure.

EL DIABLO VS. ABSOLUTELY NOTHING

In my last few posts I forgot to mention that I fractured some ribs while running at Bear Creek in Pennsylvania. I was cruising a downhill, tripped over a branch and ended up falling onto my left fist, which happened to be strategically placed right over my heart. Having fractured my ribs a number of times (skiing, getting the crap kicked out of me, working), I knew I'd busted them up. I did my 18 mile run last week with a tiny bit of discomfort, but it wasn't until I started shoveling snow and pushing a snow blower who's wheels had stopped spinning that they started to feel not so fresh. They bothered me on todays run so I'm guessing they're probably healing improperly. Oops.

About todays run...it was nothing transformative, no great revelations, no problems solved, but it was my first true snow run. Last night we got 4-6 inches of light powder, the kind of powder that makes skiers weep. I'd planned on doing 10 miles before the snow hit but was satisfied with a lung busting, leg working 6.5 miles. It was a shitload of fun. I bombed the downhills faster than I ever have before and suffered mightily on every climb. Oh, and it was so fucking cold that my hydration pack froze in the first half mile. Oh boy. Over the last 3 or 4 months I've developed this bad habit of kicking myself in my left ankle when the trail gets a little bit technical. It's resulted in a little tear in my skin that refuses to heal. When it happens, if you listen closely enough, you can hear me scream obscenities at the top of my lungs three or four States away.

Here are some pictures from this morning:

EL DIABLO VS. THE QUITTER

I've talked about it before, the quitter voice. It's the voice in your head that feeds itself on your failure, that gets off on your weakness. The quitter voice woke me this morning at 6:30. I'd laid out my clothes, filled my hydration pack, laid out my gels, dropped the orthotics into my shoes, and did the hundred other obsessive things I do before a "big" run. The quitter first reminded me how cold it was; 11 degrees with the wind chill. The quitter reminded me that long hours alone in the woods after this past week could do more harm than good. The harm would come from the dissolution of something beautiful , best described by the band Egghunt, from DC, when Ian Mackaye said that "what was ours, is now yours and mine". I got out of bed, got dressed, and figured I would at least drive to the trail head and see what happened. Then I got out and started South on the AT. The quitter reminded me how cold it was, how it would be easier to just give up now rather than face the disappointment of walking it out of the woods once I finally gave up. Somehow I was able to quiet the voice, control the endlessly looping inner dialogue about how everything between she and I went so horribly and irreversibly wrong, and at some point early on in the run, I decided that I was going for 18 miles. It wasn't a matter of whether 18 miles was a good idea or not, no weighing of options, just 18 miles and then stop.






At some point I'll post a video clip of Gary Robbins, a Canadian Ultra Marathon runner who has set both the East and West Coast trail speed records. On his East Coast run the pain started early on and never seemed to leave. It was a 218km (135.5 mile) run, so there was an enormous amount of suffering to be had. At one point he talked about running through the pain and how the brain, in an effort to protect the body from damage, relentlessly sends out pain warnings and by ignoring them, that protection mechanism eventually gives up and allows you to keep running. He was far more eloquent than I, but there were some rough patches where I used his technique and it cut the throat of the quitter. I remember miles 11-13 being particularly shitty. I was a little bit cold, my legs were getting clumsy, I was tripping on rocks and roots, and she started swirling around my head like a hurricane. I knew that it would eventually end and it did. The final low point, the last 2 or 3 miles, was purely physical. My legs were shot, my left knee felt like it was being drained with a 12 guage needle, and I'd almost completely lost the ability to run downhill. Uphill and flat were okay. Down, not so much. The last mile was a pattern of walk/run/walk/run but I eventually ran into the parking lot and felt like I'd laid to rest so much of the failure and disappointment of the months since Labor Day.

The days tally:

96oz of Gatorade
1 Bacon and Egg sammich
6 Chocolate Outrage gels
1 Drake's Coffee Cake
2 trashed quads
1 angry knee
Satisfaction

...AND I WON'T MAKE A SOUND...

The silence used to frighten me. The low grinding noise of the city kept, at least to some small degree, the maddening din in my head hovering just below the surface. It was a comforting sound, and it reminded me that even though I was locked tight inside my own crooked little story line, I was never really alone. Then it all fell apart, the relationship and my life in Manhattan. I remember what it felt like driving away from the city, thinking that it would be the last time I saw it as an inhabitant and not a visitor. For the next few years I dreamt of the day I would move back, and told anyone that would listen that once I clawed my way back onto that island, nothing but death would ever make me leave. I remember trying to sleep at night with the windows open after I'd moved to Connecticut. There was something about the quiet that seemed deadening to me; as if not only had something inside gone silent, but that the world around me had gone silent as well. I remember moving to the place where I sleep now, tucked into a small band of trees and hills at the intersection of Interstates 84 and 684. With the windows open in the Spring and the Fall I can hear a diminished yet no less present version of that same noise that comforted me in Manhattan. It's no longer comforting. When I lay in bed at night, as still as stone, I often think of this verse from the Starkweather song Into The Wire:

With closed eyes I focus on the lull of lush static white noise off of the highway
Imagine the tide crash the shore
I will lay here and I won't make a sound, I will lay here, watch it fall,
and I won't make a sound...

I now find myself craving the absolute silence of the woods, the complete negation of all sounds human. I'm dreaming about moving to New Hampshire, to the harshness of the White Mountains, and am feeling the ever increasing desire to just be left alone. Some of my happiest memories of the last two or three years have been when I was alone. Alone in my late night drives back from Philadelphia and, more importantly, alone in my solitary runs on the Appalachian Trail and trails of Western Connecticut. In an ideal world there would be someone to share those miles and hours with, but the reality is that for me, intimate contact has always resulted in a sadness that seems to inevitably outweigh the happiness of any friendship or relationship. One of the great gifts of trail running is that it has allowed me to not only not fear the silence and isolation, but to use it as a way to make myself whole. I have medications, I have a remarkable therapist, and I have silence. Life without any of those three becomes unmanageable in a frighteningly short period of time. Of the three, it's only silence that feeds my soul.