The plight of a twenty-something is a tumultous tundra, of blood and plunder.

Adults no longer surround him, but he is expected to be at their level, and depraved of collegiate apathy.

The expansion of one's comfort zone is not pleasant. it is a brazen gauntlet of steep challenges and unlit oppurtunity. But at times, it is infinitely rewarding. In an age where upward mobility is has become the new Big Brother, the cherished times with good fellows is shorter than it was 40 years ago. But it has also more been more open to the creative energies of man, than any other time in history.

These energies mainfest themselves in the times of complete pause. At the times when you don’t expect anything. When you don’t seek anyone. And when your wants are absent, this is when the universe aligns.

I long believed, since leaving college, that the best days of my life were over. But the longer I live here, the more I think that the best is yet to come.

Regardless my state of mind, I possess an insatiable lust for happiness and comfort - All of which I find here.

I can stay awake at night, smiling. Trying to recount what happened during the day that made it what it was. Why that smile won’t dissolve into something else.

Strategies only complicate life. They deny the pleasures that yield most painfully to order.

The longer you wait, the harder things become. Until that flashbulb instant, wherein clarity arises. The dichotomy of chance and destiny becomes a single unit.

These moments transcend time. They cannot be estimated in numbers. They are the product of audacity and chance.

And when these moments come to fruition, I can rest.

I just want to stay in it.

I want to stay in the sport. I don’t want anything else.

Not running. Resting. And not tying my shoes. The times when I feel most separate, and most alienated. This is when I become most scared.

I need to return a state of suffering. Something even my last 20 miler can’t emulate. It is when the finish line is another 9 miles away. And you’re licking your fingers for whatever GU or juice or sodium is left. It’s then that I become who I am.

Manchester isn’t a race. It’s a war.

It’s peeling myself off the pavement after crashing at 22mph on a 90 degree turn. Its never wanting to move for the next week. It’s trying to run through rain and mud on a dented hip and dysfunctional ligaments. For the sake of something I call Cross Country.

It’s beyond a goal. It’s a renewal.

People drown. They crash. They fall apart. The wheels come off.

But you have to find trust. If you can’t trust something, you shouldn’t be out there. You just shouldn’t expect things that aren’t built for.

It’s a funny feeling to walk off a race course, covered in salt and pebble and skin, and never feeling better.

To cross a finish line… after never wanting to get up from the tar. Never wanting to move out of the road. Never wanting to move. People need to be inspired. I need to be inspired. And I need to leave nothing on the tar but my shadows.

Something got me off that wet asphalt. It wasn’t the cop. It wasn’t the volunteers. And it certainly wasn’t the cyclists Zipp wheels screaming by my body as I crawled over to the corner. But I got up.

I’m going to continue to get up. And come November, I’m not going back down.

Don’t Stop Moving.

In This

Two fundamental things are happening in this period if time.

Saint Anselm College, inter alia, competes in the most challenging and nerve severing event of the Division II Cross Country Season: North East 10 Conference

It is a monumental period for the team to be prepared for. I wish them only my heartiest best-wishes, as well as the strength and focus to run with speed and prudence.

I feel as if I’ve lost that experience. I lost three weeks earlier this fall. And I’m working like hell to get back. But my body is permitting me to only run 3 times per week, to reach the Manchester City Marathon on November 4.

Today was 15 miles in the heaven from which I feel removed from. It felt different this time. I don’t know why. But it doesn’t have the luster, the allure, or perhaps the conditioning that it used to have.

I can now recollect the memories of this special place, and what it meant to run there for three years regularly. I still drive there, for 1 hour, to run a long run there at a moment’s notice.

I’m not saying I’m right. Not saying that I don’t remember what it was like to be there as a novice runner, with the best friends I have. The best friends I have.

Watching other novice runners travel there for the first time. Witnessing blizzards and rainstorms and mud, and runs across a frozen lake. It is all to blistering to ever forget.

My body seems difficult sometimes. But I know that it was built to succeed. Not to fail. And in this, I trust.

I can remember when I was first mentored in this grand and jovial endeavor of endurance sport. I ran at random. Vomiting at the end of the street. Spitting. Hands on tired knees. Trying to look up. Straighten my abdomen, and resurrect myself from the primal belly-breathing that ensures an asthmatic survival.

Then I’d go home. Eat. Sleep. Go To School. Eat Dinner. And stretch in the front hall. And resolve.






“Here we go again”

One house farther

I can remember running my first 2.6 miler. My first 5 miler. My first 7 miler. Then running as long as I could freshmen year in college, in Vermont, on an unseasonably warm April 19, because my best friend growing up was running her first Boston Marathon.

Then I ran for two hours, and slept for 4 hours thereafter that summer.

I kept running. Ran Boston. Then tried to make gentle the collegiate life, and tame the savageness of what would become Triathlon.



If God invented the marathon to prevent man from doing anything more stupid, then triathlon caught him completely off-guard.

I learned what a cadence was. A derailleur. How speed-play was not just manifest in runner-speak, but had a valid meaning in multi-sport also.

There was a distinct feeling in the sport of multi-sport of total commitment. Total fitness. And total depletion.

The race of 9/9 was the hardest physical thing I have ever done. But after that ended, and I began training again, I saw the sport through a renewed sense of realism.


Today, I saw two of my best friends, get on a road bike, and just ride the countryside with me.




We are all fierce competitors, and even fiercer of friends. We test our limits, while ensuring the health of one another in the process. We never take no for an excuse, but we excuse our suffering when we know we are in danger.

It was a training ride for myself. But it wasn’t about me. It was about hearing their recollections after. It was hearing the thrill and joy in their voices. It was laughing in the wind as the sun set, as we gasped for air, and the heavy fishing trucks of Cape Ann flew by us. We were as Gods.

We rode by the manifestation of cross country heaven - Appleton farms. We time trialed as if we were fresh out of school, sprinting to the candy store.

I really can’t begin to describe what it means to me. Cycling is a lonely sport. As is running. And swimming. 99% of the year, I’m out there alone. With my thoughts. My body. My senses. There is pride in that, even arrogance. But there is also truth.

Having someone abetting me, breathing with me, swimming in the same sea of lactic acid as I, re-unites us in an uncommon bond. It elicits a moment in time that occurs only in the noble pursuit of promise and happiness..

I say this not because its coy. I say its because its true. Because when you look at me when I’m doing this, you can see, very plainly, that I’m experiencing a mild state of euphoria. Absent these challenges, these memories, and these short hours of ecstasy, I know nothing better.





This is Real Triathlon.

Prometheus Bound


Saturday was the landmark event that will ensure my success at the Manchester City Marathon. The storied twenty miler, three weeks out.

I began it before the sun had risen, and was already 5 miles therein, as the sun broke the horizon.

I felt increasingly stronger as the run progressed, most notably around the 14-17 mile mark, when I become overjoyed. Running becomes effortless.

I followed yesterday’s twenty miler with a bath in the brook behind my house. It was 41 degrees upon submersion. Fifteen minutes in an arctic hell. Sometimes it makes you question your mental state.

Then pancakes and recovery and the like. Followed by some pool running, to assist in flushing out the metabolic waste. Which was concluded by a time in the hot-tub. Witness Anthony’s inner slacker.

Today, I woke up feeling quite fresh, despite a tightness behind my left knee. So I decided after 4 plus weeks out of the saddle, I needed to resurrect Prometheus.

Prometheus is a 57 inch, carbon-alloy, European engineered machine optimized for endurance warfare.

It sure was fun getting back in the saddle. Rode for about 14 miles, with a cadence at about 105 RPMs to ensure there was no pressure on connective tissue or the like.






This week is my first week of tapering. My first week of patience. And my first week of confidence. I know my body is at about 90%, and there are a few spots which I am seeking specialists for this week. But I figure 20 miles at an 8:30 pace doesn’t look to bad for a race three weeks out.

As I turned around at the 10 mile mark, as I rode down the highway, and as I ponder what manifestations will come to fruition this next week, I find myself where I always am at this time before races.

“At the end of another lost highway ”

I love New England.

I love it for the reasons those around me loathe it.

I love the change in season, in temperature, in atmosphere.

I have the fondest of memories, from runs and family and friends, all enclosed in the same arena.

Tonight it rains, and I am so comfortable. Good friends. Good people. Great laughs.

I’m training again.

I have good days, and bad days. But by in large, I’m moving in a positive direction. Less pain, more freedom. More happiness.

I’m using the elliptical regularly, to assist in my mileage increases. I have registered for the Manchester City Marathon on November 4.

Saturday was 16 total. Sunday was X-train. Monday was 4. Today was 2.

I owe a great deal of credit to my core workouts. All of my hard work has made it nearly impossible for me to fall forward when fatigued; My form is exponentially better.

Right now, I’m going by ear. A full rest day is scheduled for Friday, and following that, my last 20 miler. On road. Woo hoo!

I’m tired. I’m filthy. I’m sore. But God help me, I am over-joyed.

Conceive of a time, a place, and a context, wherein you experience mild euphoria, and unparalleled worth.

Imagine a place, that no matter how old you become, nor how impaired you seem, you can understand on an atomic level, what it means to be human. To be a product of a transcendent engineering ability, unmatched by the hands of man.

If you can, would you visit it frequently? What would it mean to you where you’re not there? Would you take the chance of showing up, even if you felt displaced, or awkward. Because if you know of such a place, the displacement and awkwardness, don’t really exist. Because they can’t.

I know of such a place. I know of a feeling, an aura, and a condition upon which I reap the sense of existentialism that I can only hope to convey, or at best share.

I ran thirteen miles in fog this morning. And I felt quite able. I had no acute pain, albeit, I was painfully stiff. My organs were unaccustomed to the running, and I felt sick for most of the run.




But I finished it, and it gave me hope towards for fourth of November.




I then traveled to the New England Regional XC Championships, at Franklin Park, Boston, MA. It is an event as pure as the dust, and air, and earth that the thousands of feet impact upon. I know this course well. But I also know the emotion, the pain, and the suffering that exists in these orange and brown colors, amidst the sweat and tears and vomit. It is a culture wholly independent of the majority of this country. Because even in the most free nations, the most expressive people are often slaves.




Cross country is a social abolitionist. It shatters the boundaries our society has bestowed upon us; Fast food, fast culture, fast results. It requires a hardened physical constitution, and even harder state of mind. It relies on a preponderance of courage over timidity. And it is not a sport which one can expect to relieve themselves from.

It is often man against himself. Against the earth. Against everything God has given him, and moreover, everything He has not. It is a challenge of the mind’s control of the body. But in this challenge of body versus mind, of society versus the individual, lies liberation. In this tiny channel of pursuit of athletic prowess, lies the infinite ability to break a finite restriction.

Other sports, in comparison, are mere extensions of Cross Country. The body is the means by which other sports are exhibited. They rely solely on cardiovascular strength, as the heart only pumps blood in a single direction. The simply ideal of running, ensures success at other sports. Cross country is to sport what an ignition is to an automobile; Without which, the body cannot machine forward. Cross Country is the apex of sport, because it is the only one that ensures all others.

Regardless of your avocation, if it be active, sedentary, solitary or en masse, if you have a fraction of the satisfaction this little sport brings me, you live a grand life.

I believe in Cross Country.

Why Race.

I’m beginning to think I need to harden up. Step up to the plate.
Stop being so soft with this recovery jigsaw.

I am used to having an incredible will to transcend pain, discomfort, and anything that will prevent me from finishing.

But starting up again after the triathlon season has concluded, is difficult. The taunting fall marathon hangs over my head like a splinter in the bottom of your foot, always there when you press down. This is making me into something I don’t like to be. A procrastinator.

I, am by design, one who works hard to establish myself, and ensure my safety, happiness, and longevity. In every interview, for every position, I have ever applied for, my de facto “weakness” is an “unwavering and faultless determination to finish a task at hand, irreverent of the consequences” So far, its only cost me one job. And that was volunteer work.

I work alone, and I produce alone. And somewhere in between work and production, initiative and product, I succeed. When others suggest options, or ideas, I have an regretful tendency to dismiss them.

There is one exception. Sport.

Before I met all these friends whom I know train with, I was a lone runner.
I never pushed myself. I just ran. But the fact is, I was healthy. Immune from twinges, injuries, and even over-use injuries. I have learned once certainty: Pain is subjective.

So many times I feel like I’m reaching for something, that I have not conceived of. I haven’t wanted it. It was conveyed upon me, through osmosis. Antithetically, I wanted triathlon. I wanted a marathon PR. And I wanted Big Lake. I wanted a PR at Boston, and I’d be damned if I had to run with someone else to get it.

The vast majority of my trouble, is predicated on my allegiance to other's goals, demands, and temptations. Sounds strange coming from an endurance athlete; The ethos of endurance sport is self reliance. But when I start to train with others, I find myself swimming in a proverbial sea of barracudas. I know I don’t belong there, but I figure, we’re both swimming, so we must have something in common.

It’s curious to note, that the flood of injuries I received in the last year, all happened when I joined a team of runners. I cherished every moment of that all too brief season, but I also learned how much of the devil lives in competition. How much vain exists in the struggle against one’s competitors.

I know that more often than not, great things result from threatening challenges. But I also know of all the stupid things I have done in my running career. Oscar Wilde once wrote that when man does a stupid thing, it is usually “for the nobles of reasons” Only truth can be this clear.

I find myself either in paramount shape, or just not. Getting to either end, is through a vast matrix of forgotten means - Heart rate, hours of sleep, carbohydrate to protein ratios, and lactic acid. I recall fondly producing, and enduring, but then I sit down one night and realize my resting heart rate, and saying “You don’t say”

Increased stroke volume, reduced resting heart rate, clarity of mind, and heightened sensory awareness, are simply byproducts of what I do. I don’t run to achieve these things. They merely are ancillary benefits, of a hobby.

So now I’m wondering what getting back into condition will feel like. Whether I heed the suggestions, en masse, by my fellows.

At this juncture, I know that if I run well, and sustain a good state of health, few things will interrupt my perennial contentment.

Running Saturday.

Maybe this is the moment I wasn’t expecting.

I woke up with stiffness, fear I was in for another day of pain and suffering. Awaiting the machine to heal.

I sucked up the day, studied like hell, and hoped tomorrow I would be healed more. So I strapped up the knee, stood my ground to the treadmill for a good 30 minutes. Recovered, did a 15 minute cool-down on the elliptical.

Then a host of over things.

I was feeling decent, so I drove home. And I looked at myself and wondered what would happen if I took a chance climbing a 200 meter hill, to run a dirt loop in circles, so that I could see the city in all its steel glory.

Somewhere, between getting out of the car, and deciding to lift my left foot in that inherently happy motion, I lost care. I lost inhibition. I lost pain.

I was, well, running - Absent a minutiae of pain. I just ran around, came down the same steep hill.

I don’t know. But I swear to God, there is something peculiar about September and then October. I always break down in September, and I always resurrect in October.

But now I face a tremendous challenge. I can choose to recognize what I did today, and then rest HARD until the weekend, with the hopes of resume TRAINING once again.

Someone is happy today.




-When you were young-

:-)

I reached that point today, where a good workout has been earned, battled, sweated, and conquered.

I decided to ride for an hour on the trainer, with some very strong statistics.

Total Time: 1:02:29
Average HR: 131
Peak HR: 166
Minimum Heart Rate: 100

I peaked right as my good roommate came onto the porch, I was snotting and spitting and sweating over everything. He just smiled, and gave a thumbs up, then walked out.

My right vastus lateralis, ITB was sore most of the day. Not throbbing, just a tightness that I had to stretch frequently. On the bike it loosened up, and I am now adding compression and ice to the remedial actions being taken.

But I sit here now, relaxed after nailing my recovery window, working on getting my 88.8 grams of protein, and my 592 grams of CHO daily, and am sipping green tea.

I’ve missed this bliss.