Today I wanted to crush the world. I wanted to imagine everything that bothered me for the last forty-eight hours, and pulverize it underneath feet running at 6:30 min/miles.

If I were to define a central tenet of my own ethos, it would be an unwavering devotion to work; Incomplete never became part of my vocabulary. I either did something, or I didn't. I can't conceive of doing something any less than 100%.

Yet last night, at 8:30PM, after rising before dawn to avoid rush hour traffic for a hearing in District Court, (for work), I realized how exhausted I was. I had been up over 15 hours, run 8 miles, and done homework. It was quarter to nine. I decided to just stop where I was, and go to bed.

Baby's don't sleep this well.

Yet when I woke up, I realized my books were where I left them, my briefs weren't done, my backpack wasn't packed, and I could have slept even longer.

The compound stress fracture of life, work, academics, and running command sleep. I don't believe people when they tell me they function at their peak performance on no more than 5 hours of sleep per night. It's unhealthy, and it's wrong. Period.

So after my inadequacy of human persistence was realized, and my to-do list grew, and my BlackBerry kept buzzing, I decided to say F-it. The world won't implode in my absence.

So I leapt off my front porch, running out of anger. And not stopping until I finished a six mile loop of concrete, broken tricycles, and shrubbery.

I evaded a young girl on a bicycle by jumping into a bush; I saw things that made me depressed, and I ran harder; I saw the inadequacy of human compassion, and I suffered greater. I simply ran, as hard as I could, until I knew it was gone.

Some days, I just want to punish the world. So instead, I punish myself.

Over 300 years ago, English scouting parties moved cautiously through an unknown wilderness.

In 1629, a section of hilly woodlands north of the Mystic River, was purchased by the English from the Pawtucket Indians, and called Mystic Side.

It was subsequently incorporated into the township of Charlestown. But by 1649, residents of Mystic Side had petitioned the General Court to let them form a separate township, to be called Malden.

This town was named after a community of the same name in Essex, England. The most prominent citizens of Malden, reclaimed how they emigrated from that English town.

In 1770 residents of this city voted to stop using tea until the notorious Revenue Acts were repealed. Today, this wilderness has evolved into the city within which I reside.

Malden was the first town in the Commonwealth to petition the Colonial Government to secede from England.

Her citizens were fishermen on the Mystic River, and worked as woodsmen in north Malden.

Today, Middlesex county serves as a buffer from a larger metropolis to deciduous neighborhoods of safety. Manifested in its streets and alleys is a clash of immigrants and the working poor. It is smorgasbord of socioeconomics.

But there is a part of Malden where for hundreds of years, nothing has been altered. Its’ terrain is not conducive to a drive-thru culture. Beyond the broken glass and the sirens, lies a land where the woodsmen never touched. North Malden is Narnia.

The time I have spent in this wood is vast and stretches five and one half seasons.
It was more than one year ago this month that I discovered what would become the epicenter for my running in this new county.

The summers heat bakes the soft crushed rock so warm that it radiates through one’s soles.




The fall produces a plethora of New England color, and an influx of novice hikers, swiftly cut down by Narnia’s elevation.


In the dead of winter as the snow falls down, while the natives of this wasteland are snuggled deep within their warmth, runners from every corner of the county climb through the provinces of Narnia.


Narnia, due to its’ breadth, has been divided into several provinces, enacted unofficially by my former running club, the Fells Athletic Training Team.

United Kingdom of Long Pond
Germania
Iron Cliff
Elysium
Half-Full Hill
Praetoria
Bastogne
Zone 90

And yet much of Narnia still remains untouched. Each of these provinces for the past year I have run with a sole runner, absent a few occasions where visitors would brace themselves for its terrain. In the last week, I suffered a puncture would from a wild dog, a contusion on my patella, and nearly watched a fellow runner split his forehead on rock-face. I’ve trudged through the remnants of a burned out missile site. I have been hurt, torn, enlightened, burned, and improved in my tenure here.

The runner whom incorporated North Malden as “Narnia” no longer runs these woods. He runs alone, on a different course, yet always faithful and reminiscent of past mileage projects.

To claim a truthful metaphor, this torch has been passed to a new runner; Born in the same decade; Tempered by injury; Disciplined, by a hard and bitter recovery; Proud of his past knowledge; And unwilling to witness, nor permit, the slow undoing of the valiant effort to which he has always been committed. And to which he is committed today.

The truth of a runner’s heart is best scene in action. For I have never met one, old or young, large or small, fast or slow, that will not be willing to conquer the unknown, eradicate past records, or encourage new goals.

This man has awoken since he has healed, bearing with him the same fruitful vigor of a new born lion. Cautious of his environment, yet casually confident in his inherent strength.



Narnia to the road runner may be the very antithesis of training. Steep cliff, high propensity for fracture, and an inevitable, earth encrusted running shoe at run’s end. But it also is an experience that cannot be found in anywhere else I have run.

For it presents one the ability to escape from civilization, to be not at work, but rather at play.

Before man can rest himself, he must incorporate five pillars of existence: Family, Faith, Work, Learning, and Play.

I would submit that these are the tenets which propel the human race throughout centuries of conflict and disease. For without these, man merely retracts into the darkness, made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by his own complacency.

Narnia forces man to forge through his comfort zone. It makes one ask if terror actually creates thrill. It makes one take risk in leaping off sheer rock face. It commands one to define the elements as accompaniments, not impediments. It forces one to fight off snapping turtles the size of small children. Crush what will not break. Examine what is unknown.

It is when stimulation controls examination, when integrity commands ineptitude, and when fear is drowned with courage, that this story begins.

We’ll be waiting.

Narnia 2008.

Eradicating something you believe in is difficult. For a over three years now, I've believed in something called Triathlon.

Or the culmination of three, consecutive endurance events; Swimming, Cycling, & Running. I entered this sport (or multi-sport, as it is known today) as a distance runner.

I was influenced by a group called Tri-Fury, which essentially was a subsidiary of my running club, the Merrimack Valley Striders. I recall running the back roads of Andover, Massachusetts in my early undergraduate days, and seeing a sea of red jerseys fly by in the Tri-Fury peloton. Only a few would wave when I said hi, or waved. I thought they were almost uncanny. Then I became one.

I signed up, bought a bike, bought a wetsuit, and competed in several events. For the longest time, I found myself to be safe, and out of the snares and wickedness of injury. Then, sometime between my highest gross mileage for running, and our home collegiate XC meet in 2006, the wheels came off.

My body broke down. Entirely. Vastus lateralis micro-tears. Sacroiliac joint displacement. Illiotibial Band Syndrome (ITBS). Compartment syndrome. Crash. Tendonitis. Crash. Ligamental damage. Elbow contusion. Crash. And it continues.

Before the race:






After the race:



All of this, a collective soup of overtraining and failure to heed nature's nuclear air raid sirens. Elevated resting heart rate. Loss of appetite. Poor mood. Insomnia. None of it caught my attention.

This was before I found Narnia.

Allow me to brutally honest, to the dismay and disappointment of many. I don't like Narnia. It's sharp, and steep, and hot, and a haven for cuts and humidity. It ascends through sheer rock-face, leading to smoggy view of a less than spectacular city.

However in the summer of 2007, I ran it religiously with two other fellows. Trevor Laverriere and Mike Petty. We ran it so much that it became a ritual. Hell, Petty didn't even live here. But he did for that summer. Witness all of the album's entitled "Narnia"



At the end of that summer, I raced my first Olympic Distance Triathlon, PR'ing in the distance, notwithstanding a crash that I still bear scars from, and three weeks of bed-rest. After recovering, and leaving the bike home, I PR'd at the 8k, the 10 mile, the half marathon, and almost at the marathon. (Missing 8 minutes and change) Narnia carves you into something the roads cannot. It is deep and sharp and unforgiving. It is not for the jogger who prefers Dr. Cooper's minimal daily requirements of 30 minutes of moderate aerobic exercise per day.


So after months of procrastinating, I've come to a simple truth: No more triathlon this summer. Rather, I want to return to a degree of serenity I have not seen in some time now.

I have no fond memories of cycling. Or swimming. Or an elliptical workout. But my memories from running are vast. They spread two nations, five states, and eight years.

So as my bike sits in my stairwell with the rear wheel detached, and my wetsuit continues tot leak rubber in a basement, my running shoes are at the ready.

I'm returning to a state of nature which our beings have been engineered, developed, and evolved to exhibit.



I'm becoming one who listens before he leaps. I'm becoming one who doesn't fear the rest day, or the occasional Coca-Cola soft drink. I becoming attached to an organic state.

Rather, I'm becoming a runner.

Wisdom

The last American to win the Boston Marathon once remarked that running is a personal experience. It is not one of fan(atic)s, nor is it an endeavor of associative happiness. Amby Burfoot reclaimed "It is a revival of the spirit, a private oasis for the thirsty mind."
I would submit it can also become a public utopia. But it is not ubiquitous.

In the unyielding agony of the last 10,000 meters of the marathon, within every unforgiving minute, lies an absolute truth; No one wants company. They don't want luxury. They don't want fame. They don't want a picture. They only want to finish.

The same, I believe, applies to suffering. It begins as a personal struggle. Then one begins to observe similar struggles, to gain confirmation biases, that fortify their own conceptions of ineptitude. They research, and loathe, and crawl over those who have done less than they. They scrape for edges that surmount those less well off. When in the end, they are merely inches away from complete destruction.

Injury is no exception. As a distance runner; As a student of Lydiard; As a philosopher of Sheehan; and a disciple of Zatopek, I believe physical pain is finite. On the starting line of the Olympic Marathon in 1952, Zatopek reclaimed to his countrymen, "Today we all die a little." I suppose Bowerman had a similar immortal quote, but I was never a miler. - A track to the distance runner is an egregious waste of human effort.

I've nearly exited the recovery stages of my second round of compartment syndrome on my right leg, the third round in my career. It is a horrific symptom; Muscles inflame the nerves and arteries around the infected area, so as to pinch off the blood and nutrient supply to the damaged area. Though not as lethal, running with compartment syndrome is like snorkeling with a rubber plug on the top; You can only go so long before its unbearable.

This bastard to which I am slave has robbed me of nearly one whole month of good, A-race training. I've all but forefeited the triathlon season. Yet somehow I've ran over 121 hours, ridden over 51 hours, swam over 41 hours, cross trained over 7 hours, and walked and kayaked almost 4 hours. These numbers say nothing.

For at the end of each session, was a broken being. Someone who knew something worse lurked the next day. It's apex lie in a 2.5 hour elliptical workout, followed by a 10 mile run less than 12 hours later. If running could brew perfect storms, this was it.

When society claims that running is bad for you, or that it will destroy your knees, or the community mourns (and continues to mourn) Ryan Shay, Jim Fixx, and others, the Aristotle's of and behind the sport are summed to give testimony to their loyalty.
Their answers are their own, and not mine.

Often times people ask "When will I know when I'm a 'Runner'?" I simply respond "When you no longer ask."

As I sit now, no discomfort resides in me. Icing, a heavy stock purchase in saran wrap, some ibuprofen, and days of insanity have assured me a sense of healing and piece of mind.

Sometime between now and Thursday when I run in Narnia, I can take solace in what the Greeks said so many years ago.

In Our Sleep
Pain Which Cannot Forget
Falls Drop By Drop Upon The Heart
Until In Our Own Despair
Against Our Will
Comes Wisdom,
Through The Awful Grace of God.

Mediocrity


There is a fever in America today. It is not a plague in the epidemical sense, but it infects far more people than any disease ever has, and it has no vaccination for those whom have contracted it.

It stings the very senses of one's soul. Once contracted, it billows around its' host, until it interacts with a neutral bystander. The more vivid the disease becomes to the community, the more likely it is to infect others. It is easily promulgated. Spreads largely through word of mouth.

I profess to be a lot of things. Student, runner, aspiring attorney, etc. But I never will be a cynic.

This nation is filled with individuals whom saturate themselves until they are fat and happy with material contetment. They escape from the mechanized gears of life's struggle, with alcohol, television, and vice. They settle for the illusion of safety, over the excietment and danger that comes with even the most peaceful progress.

The future does not belong to these pagans.

It does not belong to those whom prefer outworn slogans and obsolete dogmas. It does not belong to those who cling to a present that is already dying.

Let me preface what I'm about to say with the following disclaimer:
I am a registered Democrat. I believe in firm government assistance to the poor; faith based initiatives; I believe in strong national defense; Universal health care. I drive a Volvo; My single credit card issued from Chase is in partnership with a certain Seattle-based coffee company; I grew up in the North Shore of Massachusetts. I am consistent with William Safire's definition of a Liberal: "One who desires more government action to meet individual needs."

In short, America has has grown soft. Somewhere between 1968 and Huntington's "Clash of Civilizations", Americans grew complacent against the hills of self-betterment.
We became a nation of New York Times reading, McMansion mortgaging, Latte sipping, artisans. As did my party.

There are several weapons to combat this foe, or vaccinations to eradicate this disease. Ambition, effort, endurance, optimism, sheer force and more. Yet many in this nation feel it perfectly acceptable to succumb to the tranquilizing drug of gradualism. They become at best timid, and at worst irate, at the very idea of suffering. For the instant their dreams take them outside of 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit, they retreat.

This, inter alia, bothers me.

It concerns me, not because my lifestyle surges to become antithetical to these "qualities". It concerns be because what my grandparents and parents worked so hard to achieve is being taken for granted by my generation. We have become safely encased in the cocoon of leather-trimmed suburbia.

Enlistment rates for the armed services are at their lowest in decades. Patriotism peeled away from this country, just as the metallic flags affixed to our cars did after 9/11. When you drive down the highways of this country, you see sympathetically complacent faces. Where have the people whom were once smiling, laughing, and deciding when they were playing family game night? Or those who would wonder what they would do at the beach on their weekend? Or what the single mothers struggling to feed two children, would do to make their child's birthday special? The work ethic of this country has all but dissolved, seeping into their soda pop.

Children aren't outside anymore. They're caged by their fingers - On video game systems, computer keyboards, or portable gaming systems. Call me old-fashioned, but I challenge you to prove otherwise.

Young professionals have become chiseled into their ordained destiny. Commuting. Working. Drinking. Sleep Deprivation. Poor Diet. Excessive Caffeine. How is it, that a culture that encourages the advancement of Red Bull, 5 Hour Energy, and Aderol, is capable of keeping it's sanity.

Days go by when I feel as if I am the last optimist. Somewhere within the nucleus of all I stand for, is the collective energy of nature's influence. What I see, and what I hear, and what I perceive, has a limited effect on any person. These influential energies have for the better part of my "adult" life, been that of fierce pessimists -Individuals who fear the mere notion of challenge and its' friend risk. Most times I am able to put down my head, and simply ignore them. But when it swells to record levels, it seems almost irrevocable.

Almost.

What brings you here?

When societies’ natural boundaries are broken, and the privacy which we so closely bear is abolished, why do we beg for more?

This blog, and the others whom reel off it, were a project of serenity; An effort towards releasing an inward bound sense of containment. In short, it was a project to release my own tension.

Yet now I find myself hopelessly lost in my thoughts. Lost in my training. Lost in my direction of recovery. And lost in the pursuit of adequacy.

For the better part of this summer, I have battled compartment syndrome. The America Academy of Orthopaedic Surgeons defines compartment syndrome as: “…a painful condition that results when pressure within the muscles builds to dangerous levels. This prevents nourishment from reaching nerve and muscle cells.”

I have suffered this injury in the same leg in the Spring of 2007. Then in the opposite leg in the late summer of 2007. It then reappeared in the left leg in the spring of 2008. Then in the beginning of this summer, it re-appeared in the right leg. I have never had it in both legs simultaneously.

The exact cause, or precipitating reason behind this is largely attributable to my tendency to run distance. 10 miles, 4-5 times per week, followed by a weekly long run somewhere over 13 miles in length. Distance alone does not create such an ailment, but failure to prepare for such a volume does.

Today marks the beginning of a long string of rest days, coupled with anti-inflammatories that will hopefully reduce swelling and pain. Yesterday’s incidental rail road track disaster ended my cycling ability for some time ( I dented my rear wheel. Joy)

Nonetheless, my training has been adequate to prepare for a late summer/early fall 70.3 distance triathlon. Two distance swims exceeding 40 minutes in length, three (3) rides exceeding 3 hours in length. And scores of long runs exceeding the half-marathon distance in this same season.

Since Boston, my training has been voluminous; Totaling roughly 161 hours, 20 minutes. Nearly seven days of consecutive aerobic activity in water, on land, and on wheels.

As it is today, I plan to rest five days, with the implementation of core training.

Kindly tolerate my writitng.

Breaking

Beyond the shoes, and the early mornings, and the dew soaked grass lies something transcendent of sport. It is the humidity that dampens one’s shirt before they have exceeded their anaerobic threshold.

All of these lie deep within the history of the distance runner. He is unlearned in staying in. For he knows not what failure is. He drives himself the back door of his dorm, when the tenants recover. He runs the trails behind his townhouse when no one knows, and even he can’t see where he’s going. He runs through the unknown darkness of cities to ring bells as if he were in Jerusalem. When he has been devoid of sleep, hydration, nourishment and even a good friend, he knows he must carry on the struggle.

The very root of distance running is one of continuous effort. And therefore, the most frustrating of endeavors is when this effort is met with cessation, largely attributable to pain.

Compartment syndrome is a monster of wickedness. It heals, and then inflames while you sleep, waiting to make you fall down stairs when you try to get up the following morning.

Through it, I have come to loathe cycling. For my bike now is an instrument that serves as the manifestation of my failures. I try to run, end up walking back, getting back on the damn saddle, only to get off hours later; Wishing my shoes, and not my cleats, were affixed to my wings. I loathe the bike.

I survived six days off. Then ran on Sunday, only to be met with 4 miles of pain-free bliss. Then I slept. And the demons re-surfaced Tuesday. Bastards.



When I say “survived”, I say it earnestly. For what it is not merely the day that makes my life worth living. For without the demarcation from work to play, life is not worth living.

I’ve faced these mignons in both legs twice before, and I now meet them on the road. The proverbial field of battle for the distance runner. For I clad myself in the righteous and noblest of purposes, illuminated by the purest of loves, and driven by the forged steel of my own will.

And time after time, these armaments are overrun the war machine of pain, and agony, but not defeat. For I continue to fight. Not imprudently, but building, strategizing, and organizing my tactics to gain the advantage.

I’ve changed the oil, drained out the impurities, and shifted. I force my body to like it. For when the purest of endeavors cannot be met, alternatives must be sought. So I ride. I swim. I hike. I kayak. All in pursuit of the one endeavor I would choose over all others.

At some point, everyone begins to crack. Their nerves, their emotions, and even their bodies. Yet in these difficult times, in this difficult place, one must work a little harder to bind up the wounds within himself. As they heal, the irony of the press captures a brighter era.

As of late, I find myself featured in the Firm’s quarterly corporate newsletter, as a 4x finisher of the Boston Marathon. The space between the interview lines are hardly verifiable, when the subject can’t run more than 2 miles without his lip quivering.

But the pages of said testimony stand not for the event itself, but what we did to get there.

Beyond the page, and beyond the spectacle of The Boston Marathon, lie the freezing white outs in February. The 4:30AM runs with a United States Marine home on leave, and a best friend. The handshakes of re-found friends, on old fields of endurance combat. And an irrevocable lust for the purest of human mechanics.

I may be breaking, but I’m not broken.