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.