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In 1770 residents of this city voted to stop using tea until the notorious Revenue Acts were repealed.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.

Endurance, in the era of blackberries and photovoltaic panels, is rarely needed.

At most, it is a hobby that a strict minority practice, largely for their own personal betterments.

But every so often, in an arena where it rarely exists, the surrounding circumstances call upon one to endure the most formidable of tasks.

Today, I faced two tests. One of which gave me instant success, the other of which I remain uncertain.

The future of my legal education will lie in a single, first class piece of mail that is scheduled to arrive in the coming days. Within it, a slim piece of parchment will guarantee or abolish my ability, and right, to continue studying law. I hurled myself in vain at my studies last semester; The total of these efforts no longer rest under my control. I trust in something higher.

I wait for this. Exploding nerves and boiling fear - I wait.

The second test was one of pure confusion wherein my physical constitution had to compsnsate for the failure of my mind. To mitigate my time spent in traffic, I usually run or bike after the work day is done. Today I was scheduled for a 75 minute ride. Out and back.

I soon found myself in a quaint New England town. Dover. A land of grand homes, and even grander landscapes of barley and livestock. When the thunderclap sounded a few miles ahead, I was determined to turn around. Enter mass confusion.

I forgot which way to turn at the rotary. Whether I was to the left or to the right of the Civil War monument. Then I entered Shearborne. Then Medfield. Then Walpole. I am now rolling through the southshore.

Even the local clerks in town knew not of how to return to Needham on two wheels and a half bottle of day old water. I turned to my cell phone, begging directions. Low battery. Witness Anthony's rising levels of apprehension.

Route 109 East to Westwood. Thunderstorm. And more. And evermore.

In the total of all these acts, I traveled a total of 58 miles, for what was to be a 20 mile ride. Nearly three times what I had planned.

Life has no playbook. No lactate threshold. No finitely measured 400 meter intervals. Life is a Smorgasbord of occurrences, unprescribed by the wristwatch we all secretly long to lose.

Such an occurrence does few things to better the body. But it hammers the will into a white hot amber, capable of burning down the highest walls of inhibition, that block man's dreams.

Today, my practice became pragmatic.

I’ve always believed in control. Not the kind that is commandeering or invasive. But the open and wholesome understanding that there are some things, some elements, and some boundaries which the human being was meant not to interfere with.

For one can train, and study, and work and grind oneself literally three layers deep into epidermal tissue in the pursuit of a single goal. But one ought not try to control that which they cannot.

I’m a resident of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. A member of the northeast corridor which was baptized the first “new” England, in the New World. Our climates are that of freezing cold and thawing heat. And more.

Weather is one thing that the endurance athlete cannot control. It may be forecasted, studied, and anticipated. But when the day finally comes, as it will, the weather will always be transcendental.

My ancestry is that of Anglo blood. It is axiomatic that such a race is not inherently familiar with UV rays. I do, on occasion, tan. But it takes a long and painful process unbeknownst to those outside my own skin. As a newly received member of the Trustees of Reservations, I endeavored to the coast, to which I suffered the sunburn of my life. Blisters. Chills. Loss of thermostat equilibrium.

I ceased from training yesterday, only to resume today - The hottest day of the calendar year. The Commonwealth exploded with solar flare temperatures exceeding 100 degrees. Inside the firm all day, I had decided that the revolutionary inside of me needed a run of an hour or more. Walking outside, I could feel my head throb, the throat go dry, and the blood in my ears pulsate. I then hid into my vehicle, changed, and believed Saint Peter would be reluctant to approve.

I returned to my vehicle after a little less than 10 miles later, utterly incapable of thought, and emotion. For my respiratory rate seemingly had not changed. Six hours later, and 120 ounces of Gatorade, I remain in a state of dehydration. Sometimes people frown or condemn or even vocally disapprove of such an endeavor. But they do not know of the long and painful process that I endure to maintain my own equilibrium. For it is unbeknownst to those outside my skin.

Minute after minute upon this run, I constantly pondered “Why?” Why run on such a day, when nothing works, the wheels have already fallen off, and my every fiber within me is screaming at me to walk home.

The answer is youth. Not a time of life, but a state of mind. A predominance of courage over timidity. It is a tenacity that relies on ambition, not ceasation.

The clearest answer to my ambition is not unequivocal, but paradoxical. It was true over four decades ago, and it rings true today.
In a speech to the young people of South Africa, on their day of Affirmation in 1966, Senator Robert Kennedy (D-NY) reclaimed.

“Some men look at the way things are and say ‘Why?’
I dream things that never were and say ‘Why Not?’”

“This air is blessed.”

That is the only way I know how to describe the aura, the thrill, and the suffering that is the Boston Marathon.

What is most ironic about this event is that you never learn enough of it. Marathons happen across the world nearly every week in the calendar year.http://www.blogger.com/img/gl.photo.gif

Thousands of ardent and steadfast runners tread the toils of twenty-six miles and 385 yards on a frequent basis.

And if it is your first, you will always remember it. But Boston invokes a different memory. Boston is different.




For when you arrive at Logan, or Manchester, or Providence, and you journey forward to the city of Boston, you realize the city stands perfectly still. Waiting for you; She waits for her friends and family to run steadily across the southwest, through America’s finest institutions of higher learning, and amidst the din of the Green Line. A half million spectators coupled with legions of National Guardsmen wait for you.

For there is not one person whom is out on that course; Not the children holding oranges in their soiled palms; Nor the inebriated occupants of White House in Newton; Nor the gritty and angular fire-fighters at the most infamous 90-degree right hand turn in American distance running – Not one of these persons is challenging you. They are encouraging you.

This year at Boston I accomplished a feat I once thought was impossible. It was a chance of fate. But somewhere between the expo and hearing the Blue Angels scream overhead the physical zenith of a nation, I knew this event is unlike any other.

I witnessed agony and apathy, pain and perseverance, crying and conviction. But most of all I witnessed a mass of humanity all move towards one end point. Robert Cheriyout, The Distance Project, and some-former cyclist, all ran on the very streets I did. And yet we all concluded at the very same point on this great planet. Breathe this in.



The crowds are wild. The history is intangible. But the glory is indescribable.

And now it’s over.

It has come once again. And it has been conquered. But there will be a time a little less than a year from now, when I will return to my native soil, and be thinking of the 113th running of this inexplicable manifestation of the human will.




And when I awake from this quiet ambition, the memory of this city’s devotion to our sport will prove once again;

Boston is different.

I’ve been here every year for the last 3 years.

And every year I look over myself, wondering if I’m truly ready. If all the pain, the dead skin, the lost concentration on Sunday afternoons, and the times alone in the woods have clad me in an armor thick enough to survive another 26 miles, 385 yards.

I’ve had the propensity to regress to those whom I once trained with, whom I did train with, and whom I train with now. And I also have begun realize how far they are from me. But when I sit now and wait, I realize that those people share with me the very same anticipation, and the very same fear.

Today I will run for the last time, before a 10-minute jaunt the day before the race. I am in a physical state tantamount to what I was in one year ago this day.

One year ago today I was injured. I refused to admit it to myself, but those close enough knew it. No matter how much biofreeze, icyhot, or ibuprofen - It wouldn’t leave. Hell hath no fury like compartment syndrome. Except perhaps an injured runner at an XC meet.

I took 10 consecutive days off leading to Boston in 2007. Resulting in 3 straight minutes of pain-free running in Hopkinton. Then it returned.

I ignored the discomfort as I had done for the previous 8+ weeks. And I got through it.

The purpose of this statement is not to aggrandize one’s tolerance for discomfort, nor is it to bolster my own confidence. But it is to tell those who fear they won’t do it, they can’t do it, or they can’t imagine themselves doing it – That they can.

The human condition has something deeply buried within it that only arises in the most trying of circumstances. I don’t know what it is. Because adrenaline doesn’t last over 3 hours.

But it’s there. It doesn’t burn out. It guides us through the darkest of times, and evades us during the brightest.

Everytime I approach this event, I become highly skeptical of my own ability. For I remember my first marathon was done on this course. Present, was a degree of self-doubt that transcends the English language.

But I did it. And I came back. And went to other lands to conquer the same task, always taking me with me the humility and respect that such an endeavor asks of the human body.

After many days and nights of mixed emotions surrounding my 4th running, my vigor is still white hot.

And this many years to later, I continue to attempt to find the placidity to guide me through these trying times.

I continue to question my own readiness.

And I continue to search for a love, that words can no longer define.

This was the first of several rest days between now and then.

When I combat my mind, and yield to my body, I regress back to a time when I had no idea if I would make it. to

There is a distinct part in that course that evokes a flashbulb memory of the single happiest day of my life. April 18, 2005.

Heaven knew no boundaries on that day. And hope and dream and promise will know no boundaries two weeks from this morning.

It’s ironic, because the apex of this great foot race is really a human break down; Physical and emotional. It breaks you down to the most vulnerable of conditions. And then it is over.




I’ve heard much talk of this race. And that is why I speak so directly of it now.

It is because the static only appears once a year. For it is only when the event looms so close as it does now, do the masses realize what it is, what it was, and speculate as to what it will be in two weeks time. But they don’t know its’ fire.

What the Boston Marathon is, and what it stands for, is more than its cumulative distance, or the collection of its participants. For all who have crossed under Boylston Street’s blue and yellow banners, have become the cement of over 110 years of athletic achievement.

I would respectfully submit that the ethos of this event is not Wellesley. Nor is it the Firehouse. Nor even the students of Boston College on Patriots Day in Suffolk County. But it is the aspirations of tens of thousands of individuals daring to conquer something they had unforeseen just one year ago.

And it is for this reason that I tip my hat to those whom I know, some longer than others, who share with me, this grand endeavor.

It was once reclaimed that one ought not do another one of these damned events until you’ve forgotten the last. I can assure you there is hubris in this statement. But there is also truth.

I know that at some point two weeks from now, I will be in the greatest amount of pain I have been since I did this same thing 365 days earlier.

This distance can destroy you – literally.

…If you don’t heed the respect it commands. Witness Boston 2004. Chicago 2007. It can be an inferno of rubber and crushed paper and adenosine triphosphate. A truly ignominious end to an otherwise illustrious day. This dragon that stretches eight cities is a hardened and an ardent foe.

But if you learn of its habits, its flaws, and its weaknesses, you can slay it. Some seek to try something less, something less adversarial. Others choose to stay at home and enjoy a quiet day away from the classroom or office, watching this event on their couches.

I yearn to breathe its fire.

It would be arrogant if I defined it. But it would also be true.

But at times I feel that God gave me a gift. Not in the genetically endowed sense. Nor in the conventional wisdom of uncanny ability. But rather a simple and pure form of happiness that has defined so much of my life.

And because it has guided me stronger than any compass could have, I feel I must use this gift to the best of my ability.
I must work at it, hammer it, forge it, sharpen it, and then break it down to make it better. This is the distance project.

From this gift has spawned a love that is hard to define.

Not love as it is described with such facility in popular magazines. But love that is order and encouragement, hope and support, and an unwavering and infinite object to purse.

It requires nothing more than the will to move yourself rapidly through space. (Sometimes more rapidly than others ☺ )

But today was one of those moments when I felt compelled to use this gift to the most my body would let me. After an “all-clear” from arguably the finest orthopedist in the country, I waited for my vocation to end for the day, so I could begin play.

After one day’s rest, I felt fresh and light.

3 miles: Staring to remember how this thing goes.

6.5 miles, ready to turn around the Charles.

7 miles: Yes, heaven does exist in Roxbury.

8 miles: Down the sand of the golf course, almost at that point.

9 miles: Street Light = Boylston Street

11 miles: No energy remains. Every sinew of my mind and body are firing to sustain my maximal oxygen uptake.

Stop. Breathe. Puke.

Check vitals.

… Still breathing.

Start cooling down in the woods. Say hi to woman and dog who clearly are alarmed at my physical state.

2 miles of pine needles.




...I may never run this hard again for this long. It may be the pinnacle of my training for two years

And no one knew. No one was watching.

All that is left is a mess in a parking lot that will be gone in a few hours. A few photos, and a memory seared into my fiber deeper than a 4th degree burn.

To the layperson, this may not sound like a gift. It may sound like 13 miles of concussive agony, ending in violent turmoil of both mind and body.

But to me it is something I thank God for every day.

It is something without which, my will, my sanity, and my temperament would extinguish

It has been said that .."from everyone who has been given much, much will be required; and to whom they entrusted much, of him they will ask all the more."

Witness my gift.

A Little Harder

When I was running today in Narnia, I became acutely aware on this first day of spring recess, where I was one year ago. Perhaps it was the cloudless sky, or the barren landscape that is Narnia in late winter. But one thing became painfully clear:

It isn’t what it was last year.

One year ago this day I returned from a voyage wherein I discarded all the preconceptions I once had about a place, a project, and a people.

As I reflect now, vicariously through those who carry on this tradition today, I find myself amidst a sea of emotion. For the single week I spent in Newark was one that is always hard to forget.

It taught me how to sacrifice, how to suffer, and how to appreciate what I have now – Moreover.

Some of us here didn’t partake, and that’s fine. Not all are called to serve in such a capacity. But for those of us who are, I remember what it was like to participate in such a grand experience, and the memory it forged.

I will fail if I try, to recapture everything that trip taught me. But I do know this:

What I learned of those people and that school was merely a figment of what occurs around the world. Everyday.

There is discrimination in this world. And slavery. And slaughter. And starvation. But there is also opportunity for those who seek it.

A speech one young man made to the children of South Africa on their day of affirmation in 1966 sums it up the best.

“We can perhaps remember, even if only for a time – That those who live with us are our brothers. And they seek, as we do, to live out their lives in purpose and in happiness - Seeking whatever fulfillment or satisfaction they can. And perhaps we can work a little harder to bind up the wounds among us, to become brothers and country-men once again.”

That is why I work harder today. And why I thank God for everything I have, and pray for those who do not.

Consistency

More times than not, I find myself swept away in my daily activities, often disregarding the concerns of others, for at the end of a day I feel I have nothing left.

It may seem callous, but I assure you there is no malice in conjunction with this propensity.

It takes a lot for me to notice something isn’t functioning correctly. And the last week has taught me what it means to live, to laugh, and to do the very thing that keeps you sane in a world that yields most painfully to play.

A friend whom I had not yet seen in many a day returned from boot camp at Parris Island, South Carolina. A man whom I knew well as a strong and distinctive individual, was hammered in the blast furnace of the Carolinian heat, tempered by the finest fighting force in the history of Christian civilization, and emerged a United States Marine.

What was illustrious of this was not the title he earned.

What he became was not simply honorable, though honored it is;

Nor is it a sign of strength, though strong it is;

It is merely the proof of one who remained the very person he was before he entered.

I would submit to you this is the ultimate measure of fortitude. When pushed to the brink of breaking one’s mental state, exceeding the body’s physical limits, and giving immeasurable personal sacrifice. It is here when the human will is most vulnerable. Yet his, remained strong.

In the few short days I was able to spend with Mike Petty, we did, along with our other running buddies, what we know best. We ran.

We carved out time of our schedules, we ran in the dark when no one could see us. We traversed iced rivers, and fell through. And we recognized that despite time, we were truly one in the same.

How is it that one pastime, one passion, or one simple activity can re-unite persons whom have dramatically altered their lives, for the noblest of reasons. A Marine, a law student, and a MBA student; How is it that such polarizing goals in life can seem to meld into such a harmonious illustration of simple passion for one sport. I submit to you the sport transcends these ambitions.

Moreover, it is the drive in each of us that propels us to exceed in our vocations, as it does in our avocations.

Whatever the costs may be, and wherever life may lead us henceforth, it can be stated without unequivocal certainty, that the roads will be waiting.

Hats off, Mike Petty.

Is it the struggle or is it a will to suffer.

I haven’t been able to answer this. I haven’t been able to write as I long to do. Today I found myself ahead in my work, behind in my feelings, and ready to assign to this writing the attributes of a victory.

About a month ago, I began working at a corporate law firm, dealing with clients who’s names you’ve probably heard of, and the persons who are under their monetary might perhaps less known.

It isn’t an evil business. It is a quest for equity. But what is evil is depriving myself liberty. That is, a soul’s right to breathe.

But that isn’t what this is about. It’s about an expression of freedom and the apex of my enjoyment.

Behind this titanic legal force lies pond, surrounded by several trails. In a wind-swept, wet evening, when ice still remains, but mud persists also, I ran.

There is a certain portion of said matrix wherein a lengthy footbridge connects two parcels of forest, separated by a field of wheat. Witness Elysium.

I certainly am not a hero, and I certainly am not a multi-theist. But I can only imagine the lavish and total appeasements that lie in such a place - Reserved for the bravest of ancient Rome.

I ran through this 8 mile course of ebullition without effort. Nearing the end, covered in rain, scarred by nature’s lashes, and unyielding in the pitch dark, I found something about physiological effort. I left my senses. I could feel the very sinews of my constitution fire with divine precision. And I have not forgotten it.

The limits of the human mind are bound only by the conscience’s cynicism. So when one works to abolish all the chains of impediments, and shatters the windows of dissent, one finds what they were engineered to become.

This comfort in pain is not restricted to this instance - Or in one of your own experience(s).

It transcends what we view as the ordinary. Whether it is the definite and seasonable terms of a relationship, whether a titanic decision in the world of steel and glass canyons, or perhaps the next 26 miles and 385 yards of your life’s fabric, you will find it.

Building Prometheus

I no longer have leisure.

I prefer to think of it as balance.

Once again, when I need it most, I cannot sleep.

Here I go.

I’ve faced great adversity in my studies. Studying at full steam, damning every torpedo that may missile its’ way to my bow or stern, and saying F the icebergs.

I have sought economic recovery, substantive reasoning, and procedural duress. But most of all I have sought my future.

I’m giving everything I have. Refuting pleasure, comfort, and the joy of the lacksidasical ideals and practices that I used to enjoy.

Amidst this new maze of law and life, I find myself attenuating my efforts by the very notions I once held so dear.

So I’m working harder than I did back then. Back in 2003. That insidious occupation within my life.

Family. Faith. Health. Law. Work (this is law too). And then Fun.

At the end of each day, I compose a list of duties I must accomplish for the following day. And now at the conclusion of this brief list, is simply “Be Happy.”

Last Saturday I purged myself of what I thought was a sickening poison through 21 miles of pure escape.

This may be my last entry for a while, as I find myself feeling inadequate at this moment.

But until that next entry comes, I will vest in my ethic of perseverance.

Strength. And Honor.

A Deliverance of Empathy

Empathy is a virtue.

This morning after resting four consecutive days, I ran the quintessential distance of distance running: Ten miles.

The course itself consisted of rolling hills, largely on open farm road of southern Maine. What lies between my arrival of the race and my time now is a miracle of deliverance.

I ran with a close friend whom I have run many times with. His soul is filled with the virtues of courage and prudence, and his vigor is fueled by his own inadequacies.

It would be discourteous to call him anything less than the epitome of perseverance and ambition.

On another day, perhaps in the future, two of our other running mates would be out there, leaving on the pavement only the sinews of physical effort. But today it was just the two of us.

We were issued chips which recorded our time. I had dressed what I thought to be accordingly for the chilly winter’s day, and strapped my ankle strap chip upon my leg. I subsequently decided to change, placing my compression pants over my chip. Forgetting my own chip lay beneath my friend’s, I mistakenly grabbed his and put mine over my leg.

He then rabidly searched the car for his chip, as I patiently waited for the gun to go off. The heard began to move, and he slammed his door shut from sheer anger, and ran down into the race. He had never run a better race.

Fueled by his perceived frustration and inadequacies, he ran strong at a pace I can not hold for longer than 5 miles. He received no time. No validation. But his own personal acceptance of his efforts. I robbed him of this right, and confess. I made an error which took from him the only proof of the apex of his accomplishments at this distance. It was a mistake. An honest error.

He forgave me. And we both enjoyed the day. But we also must be very careful not to assign to this deliverance the attributes of a victory. Records do not stand without numbers.

I have subsequently run a 2.5 mile cool down, done a core workout, and now feel about as ambitious as dried paint, and as decent as a criminal. But I have found something in such a short time that would not have been delivered were it not for my careless ineptitude.

Empathy.

RESOLUTE


Our hides become weak in the presence of the new.

I am not one for resolutions per annum. But this year, I decided I would resolve to stretch my ideals and practices beyond what I knew. If I were to be presented in a context where I had not been, I would choose it over the comforts of the familiar.

In summary, I would try to become more agile. More flexible. Less oriented with the familiar.

It has worked with great success thus far. I have ceased multi-sport for the last month, focusing solely on running, and I have begun to feel and breathe and live more like what I was reared to be.

On the emotional and mental levels, I have shattered the walls of inhibition with the tools of uncertainty and ambition. The discussions of the late topics have faded, while the burning ambers of a fire long past are still white hot.

I’m not a prophet nor a cartographer but I can see that this road is taking me into uncharted territory. The distance is long, but with the aide of Lydiardian practice, I can find what I am destined to overcome and reach.

My only fear in this grand beginning is failing to acknowledge the stairs I have climbed and continue to repair. They are the roots of my achievement, and they ought be guarded with the sharpest of swords.

To describe this pursuit as a chapter, a benchmark, or a goal is a fallacy. For it does not require an end, but does mandate a beginning. It requires an uncompromising pursuit of the new, predicated on optimism and vigor. It cannot be achieved with bravery alone, but requires the tacit consent of failure, and the resolve to transcend it.

R
unning never felt so foreign.

On my run this afternoon I felt as if my body was shutting down. My legs felt like they forgot how to lift. My feet forgot how to land. My epidermis how to sweat.

It appeared as if I had made a huge mistake.

I had no flexibility. My legs were filled with wet sand.

I have been pursuing a vigorous core regimen over the last 14 days. The progress and strength is undeniable. But it comes with a heavy price. Muscle creates great weight when forged over time. Witness mistake number one.

My intake of lactose has also been moderately increased which breeds feels which are axiomatic. Today I had servings from this Faustian food group three times before I ran. Witness mistake number two.

By running with great frequency, failing to hit my recovery window, and inadequate stretching, coupled with lack of rest has led me into an wall of paralysis. Working through the schedule and regimen of another deadens the spirit and evokes nothing by self-sacrifice. Witness mistake number three.

The following were the most vivid impediments towards locomotive freedom. School yard brawls, inept traffic directors, excess of lactose, overdressing in slushy rain and black snow.

If this sport was this hard every time it was pursued, I can fundamentally say I would not ever attempt it. There are some days when I feel as if I was quite literally born to run.

Today was not one.