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.