Better Living Through Introspection

Sometimes I just take everything too damned seriously.

That’s not an apology, just a declaration of awareness. The next step is learning what to care about and when, and learning what to let slide on by.

So as I limp along at a snail’s pace

I realize how silly my normal pace is — people rush by me on the sidewalks, looking nervous or worried or unhappy about something or other; we are all on missions, we all have things to get done. But in my small, akward, somewhat lopsided strides, I’ve found an odd calm.

Yes, I have to be somewhere, yes, I — just as you — have deadlines to make, coffee to buy, mattresses to test, plants to grow, books to read, television to watch, inventories to take, clients to meet, and things to build. But trapped in the unwavering fact of my unalterable canyon’s pace, I’m free to think, free to talk, free to enjoy the world whether it’s stationary or zooming by, free to take a breath.

Odd to think there is liberation in restriction.

I’m in so much pain I took a cab to work this morning.

Sunday for me started at 3:00am. I awoke in a cold sweat, my whole body tense, one clear thought in my head, best articulated as “The greatest distance you’ve run to date is 4 miles, what the hell are you doing running a ten-miler — you haven’t even been training properly,” but more appropriately pronounced “waryahrghlehreanh!?”

This is not me. I’m not the worrying kind. I’m not the 3am panicky kind. I’m the eye-of-the-storm while everything else swirls madly around me kind.

Three a.m. Sunday morning has a knack of smacking sense into you, and showing you just what you’ve gotten yourself into. I couldn’t fall back asleep.

[…quotidian time removed…]

Stacey, Fulvio and I were seeded in the final seat, where all the slow, less serious people seemed to be congregating. We were the 2000 out of the 16,000 who were there to either just have fun or to challenge ourselves. In my mind, the other 14,000 people were fanatics. Fulvio and I discussed were exactly we would start walking, both of us knowing we hadn’t been training as we should. We agreed the six-mile mark would be our personal finish line, figuring we could still walk it in from there and not have to ride the loser bus to the finish line. Stacey had no such qualms. She had come to take names and kick ass.

We were so far back from the elite runners at the front of the pack, it took us almost ten minutes to cross the start line after the gun went off. Bastards made us cover more distance. As if we needed more of a challenge.

We walked across the start, and picked up the pace. I had arrived planning on running twelve-minute miles. We established what seemed a leisurely pace, one well suited to the distance; to my surpise, as each mile marker went by we were averaging 11-minutes per mile. Mile marker, watering station. Mile marker, watering station. Memorial Bridge. Lincoln. Watergate. Kennedy Center. Rock Creek. That long stretch of Independence Ave.

Five miles went by before I knew it. I was feeling it, that pain working its way up my legs, starting at my ankles, my shins…but it was tolerable and I pushed on. The three of us ran on, matching each other stride for stride; having trained (sloppily, yes) alone, this was new to me: running with friends, talking, thanking the people on the sides of the road cheering us on.
Then came Capitol Hill, and mile marker six. At the slightest sense of incline beneath my feet, I knew I was in trouble. This hill was about to kick my ass; I would have to walk, I knew it. A couple strides into the hill, my stubborn streak kicked in. I picked up the pace — without looking back, I knew Stace and Fulv were right behind me; we were pulling ourselves up Capitol Hill. Still faster, I picked it up some more. In a short moment, it was over. We crested the top, then followed the path back down.

Triumph. We kept running, not even a word about walking. Mile seven dropped.

Mile eight. This was beyond burning. This was bone-deep pain. And it got worse. I was ready to walk at nine. I was slowing down. Stacey noticed, and she and Fulv pulled up a bit to let me catch up. I would’ve walked had it not been for them pulling along with me.

Nine point five. Forget about it. Then, we could see the finish line. At nine seven five all bets were off. Fulv started sprinting. Stace followed. I kept my turtle stride for a few more seconds, wondering where they had the energy from…then thought to myself, “this is it. burn yourself out.”

And I did. Step step stride stride push push push. The wind was in my ears. I was flying past people like they were walking in slo-mo; this was truly a glorious feeling, making the world stand still. I almost caught up to Hudson when my foot crossed the finish. Triumph!

Ten miles. Legs shaking, afraid to stop moving for fear of collapsing. Ten miles. Ten miles in 1 hour 48 minutes. You do the math. That’s a 10.8 minute mile.

Next year, I’m shooting for an eight-minute mile. Oh, yeah. There will be a next year.

Wish me luck.

This Sunday is the Army ten-miler. I’m sure you’ll hear all about it on Monday, assuming I’m still alive.

The Unbearable Lightness–No, Wait. That Was Yesterday

By now you’re wondering what in the Sam Hill is going on with this site design. To be honest, I don’t know. But, I’m fickle, I’ll tell you that — and after years of working on client projects where you’re pretty much given zero flexibility in design and execution, it is truly gratifying to have a site like this where every whim can be exercised and implemented. Or excorcised, depending on how much you let your whims control you.

Anyway, my brother totally ragged on the autumnal design from the other day. He said (and I quote) that it was “Lame.” So, I fixed it.

Martin asked what the deal with the horrible creature was up at the top, and I told her it was an abstract self-portrait. She felt really bad. Kids, let that be a lesson to you: never, *never*, say what you think. Never.