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In 1770 residents of this city voted to stop using tea until the notorious Revenue Acts were repealed.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