An Ode to Discomfort

Life does not provide a final finish line. There is no end to discomfort until the cessation of life itself. If a cool breeze braces your cheeks at the end of a competition, you should still anticipate the turbulent storm that is bound to follow.

I think most adults believe the act of growing up deserves them a lifetime of ease and painless sustenance. In the west particularly, adults tend to shun struggle, believing the rest of their years should be lived without pain. They “deserve” comfort, they seem to tell themselves. It’s somehow a reward for “struggling through youth.” So, they seek air conditioning, the drive-through, the chair, booze, television, gluttony, and phones. They adult bicycle collects dust if its owner fears the dirt outside. It is those who embrace the chaos outside who last the longest.

I try to avoid comfort as though it’s a disease I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I aim to thrive in chaos and live well in the maelstrom. Pain is a necessary part of living and the precursor to growth. Without pain there is no life.

How have I embraced pain lately?

Somehow I managed to bike ten miles home immediately after breaking my collarbone and hitting my head hard enough to not know what year it was.

I bike commuted 20 miles to work in sub-zero temperatures winter mornings over the past few years, while gusts of wind sometimes rocked me with sleet. I learned to change tires on the side of the road while my fingers numbed.

Tolerating pain helped me train for a marathon while my right arm was still broken and unable to swing naturally in stride.

I finished a long run after my face was stabbed by a tree branch (and drove myself to a nearby Urgent Care to have my face stitched afterwards). I laughed as the nurse stitched me up. I now embrace this scar, whereas many would be “distraught by the imperfection.”

It’s why my old teammates at the University of Texas called me “The Manimal.” They knew I can absorb higher loads of pain than most.

My tolerance for pain helped me learn to run after 36 years of just swimming and lifting, and it’s how I ran my first marathon at age 37. To get back in the pool and beat people my age at swim meets seemed too easy. I wanted more discomfort.

When a car hit me in 2021 and tore up my right foot, I shrugged it off and decided that I’d eventually return stronger than ever. I’d run faster than ever as a final revenge to that shitty driver.

I don’t believe a pain-free day will arrive, nor should it, and I try to embrace pain’s inevitable return. I can’t rest on my laurels.

Discomfort keeps me honest. It keeps me strong, alive, and fiery. It is the best friend I’ve ever had.

Footprints in the Snow

It has snowed twice in Saint Louis over the past ten days.

The first time, five inches were expected, but the clouds only delivered a light powdering over the streets coupled with some ice. I ordered some Yaktrax that were delivered the day before the storm and wore them for a morning run. The Yaktrax allowed good traction and I was never close to slipping.

As I darted back and forth along the Riverfront Greenway, I noted the tracks that my footprints left behind in the snow. These markers signify that someone ran through the inclement weather, though they’ll also melt and disappear in a day’s time.

Time will eventually erase my footprints, as it does all things.

I had abandoned most, if not all, of the athletic footprints I’ve left behind. As an elite level swimmer I won hundreds of medals and trophies, some of them at the NCAA, national, and international level. I also lost most of them, if not all of them. My reasoning for tossing them is that I never felt it’s healthy to cling to something in the past. I want to constantly be forging ahead, and I aim to direct my thoughts more on what’s next than on archived text.

I’m actually keeping some of my latest running medals though. Last weekend I ran a personal best 15k, and within the race I had a personal best 5k and 10k. Improvement is fun at any age; it’s also possible at any age, though not in any activity.

Now that I’m more than 15 years removed from swimming, I see how memories and times steadily fade. I found myself Googling some of my past accomplishments that I had forgotten. How did I forget that I was voted most valuable swimmer after my freshman year of college? I think I forgot about that within a year of finishing school. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but it’s interesting that it happened. I see now that having a visible signifier of some of these things may keep them in my memory longer, and without memory we have no identity.

I recall visiting my old college coach in 2015. My final record (for an 800 yard freestyle relay) had just been broken; it had stood on a wall of my old collegiate swimming pool for more than seven years. At the time it was an American and NCAA record. He had the record in his office, a long strip of cardboard that was previously affixed to the pool record board. He gave the cardboard strip to me. I’ve since lost it and wish I hadn’t.

The cynic in me may say that a medal is nothing but a chunk of material to be ultimately tossed by someone else when I’m permanently gone. Everything that remains after I’m gone, in fact, would be a heap of donations and disposal for those who are left behind. There is some truth to this.

However, the optimist says that a medal is a footprint left in the snow, and by maintaining it the snow may melt a bit slower. It’s true that the footprint will fade, but I might as well cherish it while it remains. One doesn’t need to obsess over something to cherish it. The trash heap can wait a few more decades.

Our footprints in the snow are nice reminders of great adventures.

Die to Live

Yesterday evening I cleaned one of my two bicycles. The endeavor was painful because one of my arms is both weak and injured. I live in an apartment and use Muc-Off products to make the bike shine and glisten. I then topped off the tires with sealant (I ride tubeless) and oiled the chain with dry lube.

I am preparing myself mentally to ride the bike again, though I am still far from fully healing after my collarbone break.

I woke early this morning and ran for about an hour and fifteen minutes at an easy pace. I then did an hour of strength training with resistance bands (mostly lower body excercises such as banded squats) and foam rolled to promote mobility.

By the end of all these activities I found myself pretty languished, and my work day hadn’t started. Dawn barely broke. I find myself pushing forward regardless. I am preparing for a marathon.

Why do we endurance athlete types push ourselves to such long distances, day in and day out? Well, I have a theory: over the course of our lives, we accumulate a hefty weight of baggage, which we have to carry around with us in our daily affairs. The added weight worsens the already-debilitating effects of gravity. Some of us have accumulated so much baggage that we barely know what resides beneath the layers.

So we find a challenging activity like running or cycling, and in the back of our mind we want to see “just how far we can go.” Fatigue accumulates, mile by mile, and the layers of baggage seem to fall off, chunk by chunk. And maybe what’s left on the long run is who we truly are. Or maybe what lies beneath is the answer to a question we didn’t realize needed asking.

The question is, “What do I need to do?”

And the answer is, “Live.”

And in a nutshell, it’s our way of dying a little to live a little.

The Halloween Half-Marathon

Following my San Diego half marathon, I needed about a week’s worth of physical recovery. The few jogs I did were light, easy, and brief. My legs were sore.

I couldn’t rest for too long though, because I signed up to run the Saint Louis GO! Halloween half-marathon just three weeks after San Diego. Running two half-marathons in three weeks is asking a lot from a body that has never run an event at that distance before.

So I took an easy week, followed it with a more traditional training week, and then followed that with a “taper” week.

I don’t consider taper to be recovery, though there is some recovery involved. It is a reduction in training volume, but the training conducted still has a focus on race-specific movement. Taper is the final tuning of the instrument before the symphony. The musician has already rehearsed and the dexterity has already been earned through hours of practice; there are just a few necessary tweaks needed to deliver a rousing melody at the right pitch.

As running is somewhat new to me, I had no idea if my plan would work, or if it was feasible to run a second decent half marathon within weeks of the first one.

Physically, I felt sluggish and lethargic until about three days before the Halloween half-marathon. I had about three days of decent sleep leading into the event and ate mostly natural foods between my events, however. It wasn’t until two days before the Halloween half that I believed it could be a pretty good run; I woke up one morning and suddenly felt like my usual self.

The hours leading to the start were a blur. I arrived at the race with my girlfriend (who ran it with me), stretched, had an energy gel, and lined up near the start line. I felt loose and relaxed. I promised myself that I would not take this race out too fast (I was out way, way too fast on the previous one).

The challenge with this event was that it mixed 5k, 10k, and half marathon participants in the same racing pool. So as bodies propelled forward at the start, I had no idea who was running what.

Another challenge was that this event featured much more elevation than the San Diego event via some brutally steep hills. Whereas my San Diego race had about 80 feet total of elevation gain, this was estimated to have 500 feet of elevation gain.

I felt the elevation during the first mile, which was up a steep incline. Runners shot forward at fast cadences.

Hold back, I told myself. Just hold back.

As my calves tightened and the hill ahead of me steepened, I slowed my cadence. People flew past me. This was alarming. The race was just starting, and I was falling behind. I decided I’d let them take the lead here. This later proved to be the right move. It was only one mile of more than thirteen, and were plenty more hills to challenge me.

I passed my first mile marker at 6:26. This was about 20 seconds slower than my first mile in San Diego. I felt fresh, though, in spite of the early hill. I had 12 miles to make up ground.

I accelerated downhill, letting my longer stride give an advantage as I loped downward, and passed a few runners.

Mile three saw another hill, this one longer and equally as steep. My lungs heaved more than I wanted them to. I knew that I was still off of my San Diego pace, but still, I had to let myself slow a little. So I did. Then, like after the first mile, I accelerated downhill.

Mile four, mile five, mile six. I made no moves. I didn’t accelerate, or really do anything interesting. I just sort of plodded forward. But my pace was pretty good, and that was enough.

At one point near mile five, my pace faltered and several runners passed me. I felt my legs tighten and my hear pump louder. Then I arrived at an aid station and grabbed some water. I recognized one of the volunteers at the station from my running group.

“Let’s go Matt, you’re doing great!” He shouted. Suddenly my pain evaporated and I accelerated forward. I was back on pace.

I am Virgo, so I studied the course before the event. I knew that the hills only encompassed the first six miles of the race. The next seven miles would be relatively flat. A successful race, I decided, would be dependent on feeling fresh for the final seven miles.

Mile six proved to be devastating. It was the steepest hill yet. Winding and twisting along streets that cut through a rural Missouri landscape, it stretched brutally upward and seemed to have no end. Was this a hill or a mountain? My pace slowed and alarmingly so. My legs grew heavy and suddenly it was like one of those bad dreams where you’re running from a threat, but standing in place. For a brief moment in time I was a full two minutes slower than my goal pace. A runner passed me. Still, the fatigue was mounting. I knew I had to risk a bad time and slow down.

Then we reached the hill’s apex, and I realized that I was quickly recovering, and before I knew it I wasn’t hurting all that bad. I accelerated downhill again and found myself running shoulder-to-shoulder with the runner who had just passed me.

“How you doing?” He said. I was out of breath and managed to say, “Not bad.” I’m sure my face said otherwise. That hill hurt. I felt confident that I had enough energy to finish the race, but damn… it hurt.

I regained the lead over him, determined not to let up my quickening tempo, but heard his feet padding the earth close behind me. We passed mile seven. Six miles to go. Now the race begins.

I checked my watch. I was now even with my San Diego running pace. In that event, my pace had slowed down by mile four. I was relatively steady today and making ground on that race. This meant I had a shot at a best time.

Mile 8, mile 9, mile 10. Flat earth ahead of me, edged by trees and walls of their yellow and orange foliage. Every mile looks like the one before. My legs steadily tightening. My cadence steadily slowing. What was effortless thirty minutes ago was suddenly a struggle. Suddenly the aches in my calves from the earlier hills are in pain. My breathing is heavier. Here we go. Just focus on getting through this mile.

Mile 11. I’m still in this. I no longer have an acceleration in me; the fatigue is too much. It’s a matter of maintaining pace now. I hear the familiar runner behind me speaking to me.

“Thanks,” he says. “Your pace is bringing out the best in me.” He’s hurting too.

“Likewise,” I reply. There are no losers here. I love the camaraderie. We want each other to succeed. “We’ll get to the finish and hug,” I say. And so we run on.

Mile 12. Where is my mind? It’s on my legs. I’m tightening too much. The pain is getting intense in my calves, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to change my running form a little so that I land on my heels, not my forefeet. Anything to keep the pain at bay. But that doesn’t work either, so I stick with what’s natural for me.

I’m forcing myself to keep pace, but my pace is still slowing. However, it’s not slowing as much as it did in San Diego.

The last mile. My running rival passes me. I have to let him go. I’m taxed. To try and stay ahead risks injury. Better to just chug along. Besides, if I leave a little reserve in the tank, I’ll have enough for another best time on the next run. But damn it hurts. My mind starts screaming, “Just walk it in!” But I know I can’t do that. I’m so close to making it. I won’t let it count for myself if I walk.

Suddenly a left turn and I see the inflatable arch at the finish. I’m right there. One more runner passes me, and I notice it’s someone in my running group. He’s a great guy, and I’m glad he makes it. I spring to life and pick up my cadence. I run through the finish line, then hunch over. I’m in serious pain; the final mile was a blur. Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint any exact source of agony. I high five my running group partner. I exchange a hug with the other runner who passed me on that final mile.

“This is your first year running?” He says. “Damn, you’re a natural at these things.”

My final time was more than a minute faster than it was in San Diego. And in spite of a slowdown over the final mile, I paced this one better. It was a best time. More of a struggle, but a best time.

I finished second overall in my age group. Not bad for a swimmer! And there were over 800 participants.

I got a pumpkin pie as a prize. I then ate some donuts and had a latte. I made it. The season is over. The journey is complete.

My running quest ended with the fastest run of my life. I’m triumphant, or that’s how it feels. But what did I win? What happens after the curtains are drawn? Where to next? What’s the aftermath? What is the grand life epiphany? Have I solved some deeper existential crisis?

I have some water and note only my own worn body and a free pumpkin pie. But the fall air braces me and the smiles at the finish are contagious.

I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that the car hit last year wouldn’t take me down, that I was still alive, and frankly, that I still had life inside of me. I wanted to prove that I’d return, and run farther and faster than I ever had in my life. This was a personal battle. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it. It’s a good thing I don’t, because running at these lengths is very, very personal.

My previously injured foot feels good. I feel good. I’ll take a few weeks off of running before prepping for the full marathon though.

Until next time!

Circle

They say that life is a circle and we end it at the beginning, but with a different lens to view everything that we think we’ve already seen.

I find myself stretching for a Wednesday evening run with my training group. I’m 37 and one year removed from a bicycle crash that sidelined me for the final third of 2021.

I’m at the base of a long hill on Delmar Boulevard. I decide to run with a few individuals who are both fast and experienced. They ask what pace I intend to hold. “I’ll just try to hang with you guys,” I say. I don’t know whether I can. We’ll find out.

A long uphill slope toward the Centennial Greenway encompasses warmup. I’m feeling light and fresh. Ten minutes in and I barely break a sweat. At least I can warm up with these guys, I think.

We cross onto the Centennial Greenway and stretch for a bit. Then we’re off to the races and I’m holding 6 minutes per mile (3 minutes 45 seconds per km). The adrenaline from my competition gives me an added boost. My heart’s racing and my cadence is increasing. Keep your knees up, I keep telling myself. I know nothing about running technique or if this is even sound advice. I tell it to myself anyways; it’s just a reminder to keep my form.

Ten minutes go by and I’m running should-to-shoulder with the group. They’re surprised. So am I.

I’ve been here before. I’ve competed before, just not on land. Years ago, lap after lap, swimming against the best in the world at the Lee and Jones Jamal Swim Center in Austin, Texas. I trained and competed until I had nothing left physically and mentally to give to the sport of swimming. Then I swore off competition.

I ended my swimming career as a master of technique but began it as a blank slate. I’m back to the blank slate, but this time I’m on land, hitting it with high impact. The vibe is familiar. The racing is familiar. The cast is new. I like that.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Matt. I’ll keep you in check,” one of the runners barks at me. I get an energy boost and a desire to beat him. The old racing spirit is somewhere inside after all.

We’re forty minutes into our run and our pace is actually quickening. I check my pace. We’ve actually sped up by another 30 seconds per mile.

My midsection is tightening and I’m hyperventilating. I’m covered in sweat. I don’t know how long I can sustain this effort. Probably not much longer. I have to be close to maximizing my heartrate. My legs are tightening. My face is grimaced. Keep pace, I keep telling myself.

You’ve been here before. Competing, climbing. You swore you’d never do it again.

Thoughts of the early swimming days flood through me. Preparing for swim meets at age 12, at age 15. Stretching and studying competition. The endless hours chasing and being chased. The long climb from an overlooked age grouper to an NCAA Division 1 record holder.

It’s a different sport. I’m a different age. I retired from swimming in 2008, almost 15 years ago. I don’t understand running, at least not well, and not yet. I don’t even know if I’m any good, really, though I suspect I can improve a lot. That might be enough. The joy is there. If the joy is there, nothing else matters.

The run ends. Somehow, I won the session. I “fist bump” the other runners. It was an effort I never would have given had I been running alone. I’ve trained to the brink before. I know what it’s like. That’s a major advantage.

The added sense of camaraderie gives me an added sense of purpose and an added feeling of accomplishment. I haven’t felt that in a long time. It’s much more fun when you accomplish something with someone else. I almost forgot that I enjoy training with a group.

It’s a different sport and I’m in a different phase of life. I’m climbing, but I don’t know why, or what the destination is. I know there’s a marathon ahead. I know that I’m enjoying this process.

I also realize that somehow I arrived back at the start, albeit with a much different perspective of it all.

The Last Day

My last day spent as a 36-year-old was a stark contrast from my last day as a 35-year-old.

I spent my last week at age 35 bedridden due to a bicycle injury that prevented me from running for the remainder of 2021. On my last day at age 35, I dreamt of running, but struggled to leave my apartment.

In contrast, I spent my last week at age 36 running longer distances than I ever had in my life. With each run my right foot feels better, not worse. I often imagine myself running like a Kenyan, gliding over the Iten hills and along the top edges of the terrain’s escarpments. In my dream I possess the seemingly effortless fluidity of a Kenyan athlete. I snap from this vision and reality reminds me that I don’t have their running ability, but then again, arguably no one else does either.

Because I ran throughout my last week at age 36, I slept for as long as possible through my last day at age 36. I ate donuts and drank a brown sugar shaken espresso from Starbucks. In short, I indulged, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. I hadn’t indulged in awhile. I might as well be gluttonous on the last day.

I visited a doctor for a final evaluation of an elbow injury that I suffered from a bike crash about a month ago. The X-rays were negative. The elbow sprained, but it did not tear. No surgery is needed. Time will heal the elbow. It might be weeks, and it might be months, but it’ll heal. That news was a very nice birthday present.

I continue to heal the pinched nerves in both of my hands, remnants of overuse during a bike packing trip I embarked on two weeks ago. I’m still reflecting on that trip and will post more about it.

I think of these injuries and realize that even when I’m healing my foot, I seem to be injuring other body parts.

I am about to finish repairing my gravel bike. In that aforementioned crash last month, the bike’s front wheel bent and its derailleur, cassette, and hanger broke. Yet somehow I didn’t break. The doctor I visited told me I have strong bones. I think that’s true, but these crashes also add up over time. I don’t know if I have another crash in me.

“How are you feeling?” The bike shop manager asked me when I took my damaged bike in for a repair. He noted my scrapes, bruises, and swollen elbow. It was a question I don’t often get from anyone besides my immediate loved ones.

We always ask, “How are you doing?” This beckons the default answer, “Good.” I was surprised that someone would ask how I’m feeling.

“I guess I’m good today,” I said.

“I mean, how are you feeling mentally, after the crash? Are you okay? Because after my last crash, I was never the same again. I wasn’t the same cyclist.”

I was touched that someone cared to ask that. It had been awhile since a relative stranger showed care for my wellbeing. I absorbed it for a moment. Was I really okay? Am I?

“I think it might be time for me to only bike on trails and greenways,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was a sense of finality in my words.

“I reached the same conclusion after my last crash,” he replied. “I hope you feel better though and keep cycling.”

“I’ll definitely keep cycling,” I said. “Maybe not on roads though.”

I left the shop and looked out at the clusters of brick and mortar buildings, the gaunt sky, and the constantly flowing currents of traffic that carried with them the acrid scent of car exhaust.

36 is over. There’s no getting it back. I was flawed for that period of time and I’m flawed now, but hopefully I learned a few things through the passage of time. It was quite a journey.

I’m on to 37. I’ll wake up and go for a run. Mentally, I won’t be running through a concrete cluster before work. I’ll be in Kenya, gliding through a valley, or along an escarpment, as the sun crests over the horizon. Away from the screens and keyboard warriors of the sedentary west, and away from the common materialistic ambitions and plastic goals that inundate the office.

Miles from me, a lion will stalk its prey. I will steadily accelerate my pace; the village has long-been out of sight.

Running, and the Long Game

I’ve had a long and gradual running progression that began in late January and ended with a 10k event, the Summer Sizzler, last week. This phase lasted as long as it did partly out of a hellbent intent to overcome a foot injury from a year ago. I had one ambition this year: to not only heal my foot, but to run faster than I ever had before.

That’s about 7 straight months of running volume buildup. I decided the 10k race would be as good an event to end this “phase” of running as any. As July acceded to August, I realized that it was time to rest the running muscles.

The Summer Sizzler 10k took place at Forest Park in Saint Louis on a cool and balmy Saturday morning. My legs felt reasonably fresh, though I had raced a 3200 meter timed event just a few days before.

The runners gathered near the start as the announcer counted down to takeoff. The course directions seemed barely marked, with only a smattering of signs pointing which way; I hoped that I wouldn’t get lost. I settled near the front of the starting line, only allowing some younger runners (I later discovered both were under age 20) to start ahead of me.

The race started and I felt the exhilaration of being part of a large group embarking on a quest, an army of feet smacking against earth, bodies darting up and down park hills. There is an initial adrenaline rush that makes speed feel easy for the first kilometer or so.

About two miles in, I passed one of the two young males ahead of me. I sensed some of his fatigue and decided to take advantage by accelerating to a higher place. I had no real “race” goals, but knew quickly that I was already in second place, that a hundred people were behind me, and that the leader was 18 years my minor.

I kept the leader in my field of vision as my hamstrings and quads pushed me up a long hill that spanned the entire third mile. Eventually I noticed the leader slowing and I realized that he wasn’t running a 10k; he was only running a 5k and finishing for the day. I still had half of my race remaining. This also meant that I was firmly in the lead for the 10k.

I held my pace steady for the second half, only fading on the final uphill mile of the course, to claim a victory and pose proudly for the camera at the finish. I had something to be proud of: a year ago, I was not sure if I’d ever run again. Crazier yet, in college, my 10k timed run was about 56 minutes, and that was almost 20 years ago. On this day at Forest Park, one year after tearing several ligaments in my right foot, I clocked 39 minutes and won. I felt the closure from my foot injury that I desperately needed.

I am 17 minutes faster in a 10k than I was 20 years ago. Time is an illusion. That excites me more than any finish. I believe that I still have ample room for improvement. Regardless of how much improvement is in store, even if there is actually none left, I intend to keep running for many years into the future.

I remind myself that I am not striving to maximize my performance. I am in what I call “the long game.” The long game, for me, supersedes any “short-term outcomes.”

The “long game” goal has nothing to do with place, rank, or time. The aim is to continue having active adventures well into my 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s. I’d rather be the first centenarian to bike across Europe than a winner of any near-term race. I plan on signing up for plenty of events and having fun with all of them, but the long-game is where I set my sights.

Playing the long game helps put my exercise into perspective. So many people frown while they run, eyes glued to GPS watches, their banter mostly about boring adult things such as stride length and cadence.

All those things are relevant to running, certainly, but a soul tethered to a watch will inevitably miss the joy of gliding through summer air on two feet, for miles on end, possessing the ability to outlast every other animal on this earth with human endurance. It is the closest we can get to our ancestors as they persistence hunted their prey, running until their targets collapsed and their bodies crashed to the earth.

If affixed to a watch, how can one have the courage to accelerate madly downhill with a smile on the face and a childlike reckless mentality? Steady pace is the way of the watch. Steady pace can be boring, though it does have value in allowing for time to connect and chat with other people. There is no gambling, however, in steady pace. I think we need to gamble every so often. Still yet, the eyes that only see clocks will miss the wildlife that envelopes the environment.

In playing the long game one can appreciate longevity. I do not necessarily mean life longevity. How much exercise can actually extend lifespan is debatable (probably not as significant a factor on lifespan as our genetics). However, I do believe that the quality of our years spent on this planet can be extended. I’d rather be a 60-year-old still running like a 20-year-old than a 60-year-old struggling to mount a flight of stairs.

So the 10k was exciting. It was fun, it put me in a great mood, and it left me planning the next run. It brought back the adrenaline rush I always felt from competition. Winning and breaking 40 minutes were welcome surprises. To quote Ozzy Osborne, “I don’t wanna stop.”

But now that 10k is in the past. The medal I was awarded is a bit of history. Life moves on to the next event and the next adventure.

Right now, I’m resting the running legs for my birthday month and focusing on cycling. Running will pick up again in September.

Next week, to combat mortality and 37 years on planet earth, I will bike up the Eastern United States, from Virginia to Pittsburgh. It will take several days and hundreds of miles.

It’s the next adventure, and a relevant stage in the long game.

Progression Run and Memories

I embarked on my weekly “long run” this morning a little before 7 am. Tomorrow is July 4th, Independence Day.

The run totaled 12 miles. I kept my pace in a low heart rate zone for the majority of the run; I’m mindful of the human tendency to overdo exercises. I accelerated the final 25 minutes of the run, but felt relatively fresh at the finish.

I prefer having the majority of my long runs in a low heart rate zone because I find myself in a meditative state while running at a prolonged low effort. My mind wanders. There are no thoughts of physical pain or fatigue. This pace is my “forever” zone. It is a pace in which time ceases to exist. My sights are on my environs, not the ground beneath me.

For a brief moment I thought about what I surprisingly miss from living in China (I’m staying in the US, but I did get a lot of value from my time in China). There are several things I admittedly miss, but I’ll only detail one of those things here: the struggle of it all. Through the struggle of figuring out how to persist in China, I found meaning.

The temperature, for example, was almost never ideal. In the summers I baked due to a lack of air conditioning. In the winters I froze due to a lack of adequate heating. And yet somehow I adapted (or attempted to as best I could). It was that adaptation that strengthened me.

In the return to a world utterly obsessed with perfect temperature regulation, I’ve found both comfort and a relative emptiness. The A/C puffs a cool breeze that both soothes my skin and drains my soul.

Every now and then I’ll turn off the air conditioning and let my apartment’s temperature shoot up to around 80 degrees Fahrenheit. I try to remind myself that it’s discomfort that spurs growth, not comfort. I’ll let myself sweat it out at night.

I find “discomfort experiments” such as this worthwhile because I am building up to some extreme endurance activities. Endurance running and cycling require the ability to withstand and understand discomfort. So, I try to disrupt the status quo here and there. I think back to my life in China. I try to resist the innate temptation to overcompensate with comfort.

In China, my struggles were also exciting. The struggle to communicate, the struggle to eat adequately, the struggle to adapt. They caused stress and yet they enlivened me. I miss those things and more. I don’t plan to return to China, but these struggles taught me valuable lessons.

My thoughts of China were brief and mixed with several other random reflections.

Another thought I had on my trail run regarded the animals I often cross on my path. I’ve seen a menagerie of wildlife: geese, turkey, robins, crows, squirrels, rabbits, possums, and even a family of beaver. There is something deeply satisfying in crossing paths with these animals. I’ve gained a better understanding of some species-specific behavior. I’ve had a better glimpse of the world as it was meant to exist, outside the vice grip of the city.

Turkey, for example, are much flightier than geese, which will often “stand their ground” defensively. The turkey take off running.

I suspect that distance running is really about connectedness. You can’t find that on a treadmill. It’s about experiencing the earth’s surface, developing a relationship with it, and finding connection with nature. A treadmill is more of a torture device. I can’t run on those things for the life of me. They lack fun in every sense of the word.

Tomorrow is Independence Day. For the sake of memories I’ll post a photo that was taken about 4 years ago. This one still feels like yesterday. I feel like the thrill of it all captures how I think of my time in China, in general: exhilarating, nauseating, unique, and brief enough to feel like a dream.

I rode this in China and then fought to avoid puking for an hour afterward:

The Bicycle and My Health

I sat in a plush chair that stood in the center of a sterile and immaculate patient room at my company’s wellness center. I faced a television but did not register what was playing on its screen. I waited for the results of my recent health examination.

It had been three years since my last health check at our wellness center. That last check was in 2019, just two months after I returned from China and less than one year before COVID became a thing. I thought about the peaks and valley’s I’d been through in that timespan. What did that journey mean for my health?

The practitioner walked in with a clipboard and greeted me.

“We hadn’t seen you in a long time,” she said. “And to make a long story short… your health is perfect, and it improved considerably. That’s pretty rare for someone over the past few years.”

She then listed off my metrics and how much they improved since 2019.

“Your LDL cholesterol, which is your bad cholesterol, improved from 110 mg/dL, which is not terrible but not great, to 52 mg/dL, which is outstanding.”

“Your blood pressure went from 130/87, a little higher than what we prefer, to 118/73, which is in perfect range.”

“You dropped 15 pounds, though you were not overweight by any standards.”

“I have to ask because I encounter so many patients going through struggles right now: what did you change?”

I told her that I basically only changed one thing: I bought a bicycle and found myself enjoying it. It was supposed to be a new hobby to “get me through the boredom of work from home.” I bought it because I was frustrated by my inertia, frustrated by the new normal of virtual meetings, and frustrated that I wasn’t enjoying life. I told her that I felt my stress increasing over those first few months of the pandemic, and I wondered if a new way of moving could be a cure. Hatred can accumulate with a snowball effect, and I didn’t want to die a hateful person. I knew almost nothing about bicycles or cycling at the time.

And as it turned out, the bicycle cured me. My metabolic age is now 13 years younger than my actual age. By each measure, I am the healthiest I’ve been in my life. My health problems vanquished. I smashed them with my bicycle tires, one by one.

That’s not to say that my health was poor when I returned from China, but that it wasn’t nearly as good as I had assumed at the time. It’s to say that it could have been so much better, and cycling helped me understand just how good health can be.

In a sense, the bicycle gave me a second life. It’s a meditation, an exercise, a hobby, and a thrill ride all in one. And in a sense I do feel reborn. I don’t feel as angry as I used. I feel content to just “have a good time,” which is all I really want. Cycling is my time to just be me and enjoy the day.

So for me, it seems, a lot of it was about the bike.

7 Miles

Five days after completing a personal-best 5 mile run, I attempted a 7 mile run through downtown Saint Louis and the Gateway Arch park.

Mile one: Mostly uphill from the intersection at 13th and Olive to the Arch. I feel limber at the start and begin with a slow pace. Will the foot hold, I wonder?

Mile two: It’s a crisp 70 degrees F. I feel where I injured my right foot but the pain isn’t severe enough to stop. I remember what my physical therapist told me: “It’s healed enough that you can keep going as long as the pain never crosses, say, a 4 out of 10 on your pain threshold.” I don’t have any specific length of time or distance in mind as I run around the Gateway Arch. I don’t know what my goal is. I recall a scene from Forest Gump when he runs across the country: “Momma said you can’t run from you problems, but I tried.” Or something along those lines.

Mile three: I trot down a long open stairway at the park, down to the Mississippi River, and merge paths with the Mississippi River Greenway, which stretches north to the Chain of Rocks Bridge. “You can’t do this forever,” I recall someone telling me when I described my bikepacking trip last summer. “Maybe,” I respond, “but I can accept going longer than you.” I don’t give a damn about age or “what it’s supposed to tell you.” To hell with age I say. When you’re 20 and fit, people tell you, “Just wait until you’re 26, it’s so much more difficult!” When you’re 26 they tell you, “Just wait until you’re 30!” At 30, “Just wait until you’re mid-30s!” And in your mid-30s, “Just wait until your 40s!” I’ve done fine ignoring these admonitions. The day that I can’t is not today.

Mile four: I’m feeling a little lightheaded; maybe I should have eaten before I started. I had a light lunch, but that was hours ago. I’m sweating. I find myself surprisingly angry when recollecting my 5-mile run the week before. I was an angry competitor when I was a swimmer. It helped me win a world championship gold medal. I held off the Russian relay in the prelims so that Michael Phelps could do his “Phelps” thing in the finals. I was therefore the guy on the relay that “you never read about.” I find my old competitor creeping beneath the skin. I don’t know what use it still serves to get pissed off before competing against someone. I don’t even know where my world championship gold medal actually is. I left it with my parents years ago. They may have thrown it away by mistake when they downsized, following their retirement. Maybe I should call and ask. Eh, I don’t care. I don’t like holding onto those sorts of things. Tell me about what’s next. Tell me about the Arizona mountains.

Mile five: I’m running by a homeless camp and imagining how much it would take for me to collapse. I’ve read stories of runners who collapse near the end of races. I’ve experienced my limit in swimming. At what mile would I simply keel over?

Mile six: Back to the Gateway Arch. I have a slight pain in my left hip, a dull ache in my right foot, and my breathing is raspy. I practically hurdle myself back up the concrete steps, back to the park, and run around the park trail. What is my limit? Where do I aim to go? Even now I don’t have a mile marker; I can only assume that I want to bike across some of the craziest places this world has to offer. I need to be fit to do it. But really, why am I exercising like this? Because an object in motion stays in motion. I aim to keep moving. To stop is to die. And running is a nice counter to cycling. I realize that I still have not killed my old competitor. There is a part of me still visualizing “the race” and I can’t turn it off. I am a living paradox. It’s true that I don’t run with a pacer… but I still have a pace in mind.

Mile seven: an older jogger in the park attempts to pass me. I think about how it isn’t fair that he’s probably barely a mile into his run and I’m finishing mine. I want to curse but keep myself silent and focused. He doesn’t know that I’ve been out here a long time. Life isn’t fair, my mind counters. There are people who start their run before you and people who start their run after you. There are people with better knowledge of sports science than you are more access to cutting edge equipment, and there are people with less. I’m given what I’m given. Runs are never fair. I get my route, I’m grateful for it, and I do what I can with it.

I manage the mostly-downhill jog back to my apartment. The ache in my hip and foot increased slightly, but both are manageable. My calves are tight. I now run with barefoot-style shoes. I’m tired of needing cushion just to go for a run.

I take a walk around my apartment building. I’m happy, but not satisfied. Last fall, at the apex of my injury, there were days and weeks when walking once around the building with the help of a foot brace caused excruciating pain, and every limp forward made me feel increasingly defeated. I’m far from that memory now.

I look to the east and note that the moon is a stark outline against a sliver of fading orange sky. There are worlds within its dark demarcations. It’s beautiful. In my run frenzy, I could not appreciate it. Now I can, so I sit for awhile.

A Return to Running

I successfully completed the St. Patrick’s day run in Saint Louis this morning. The total distance was 5 miles (8 km). This was the first time I participated in an organized run in about 15 years (my last one was in college). It was also my first “long” run since my foot was injured last fall. I only wanted to finish the event, to prove to myself that months of healing and physical therapy for the foot had worked. A leisurely run would be acceptable. I was joined by a few friends, which helped my motivation and mood.

A cold front enveloped the city the night before and the temperature at takeoff was a bone-chilling 17 degrees F (minus 8 degrees C).

Mentally I told myself that I would start at a slow pace and gradually accelerate. However, a burst of adrenaline hit me when the race started and I quickly abandoned that plan.

The city was preparing a parade, after all, and some runners were sporting “Irish themed” garb such as kilts and leprechaun hats to add some fun.

Caught up in the excitement and fun of St. Patricks’s day, I started the run much more aggressively than I had planned. All hopes for a “gradual buildup” in speed went out the window.

I passed the first mile marker (1.6 km) and I heard my time called out: seven minutes and zero seconds.

Shit, I thought. I haven’t started a run within two minutes of that in years. In fact, I’m not sure that I’ve ever started a long-distance run that fast. I wasn’t out of breath, but I was breathing rapidly.

I started the race somewhere in the middle of the crowd, but as I fought to keep pace with some of the more arrogant-looking runners, I gradually neared the front of the pack.

However, my lungs were working at full capacity. What was supposed to be a fun and leisurely event would test my ability.

I turned left onto Market Street and the following mile was mostly uphill. My lungs were already in overdrive, though my injured foot felt fine. My breathing was loud and hoarse.

The second mile passed. 14 minutes. I was starting a 5-mile run at a faster pace than my fastest-ever 3-mile run. I couldn’t believe it. Due to a foot injury, I had only been running for a month following almost six months of only cycling.

After another half mile, my insulated layers of clothes caused my body to overheat. At the halfway mark I had to unzip my jacket and remove the hood, which was difficult to coordinate while running. I also wondered if and when I was going to fade. There is nothing worse than being passed by people at the end.

Mile three passed and the time announced was 21 minutes. My calves were tightening and my system was experiencing a unique cardiovascular strain that I hadn’t felt in at least ten years.

Hell, I thought. I just ran the fastest 5k of my life, and there’s still two miles to go.

I decided the time must have been incorrect. I am 36 years old and I just picked up jogging again in January following a car crash last August that almost caused permanent damage to my right foot.

The final two miles were on a road that I often cycle on. I know the road like the back of my hand, every every nook and cranny of it. From that three-mile marker, there is a long gradual descent for a mile, followed by a brief and steep incline, and finally a flat run to the finish. I figured I’d recover my energy on the descent and then sprint the uphill climb.

I hit 4 miles and regained a little vigor from the mostly-downhill jog. 28 minutes. A flat 7 minutes per mile and just over 4 minutes per kilometer. Personal uncharted territory. In college my best 10k running time was 56 minutes. I was always a swimmer, not a runner.

This meant that I was running almost 25% faster than my fastest pace from my college years, 15 years later, following a year of almost no running at all.

I could barely enjoy the festivities on the side of the road because I needed all of my energy to finish the run at my current pace. I gave a guy with a giant green foam hand a “high five” as I rounded a corner, but I could barely even muster that. I needed to save every breath I could.

I crossed the finish line at 35 minutes, which is far faster than any run of that distance I’ve ever taken. I also know that I can eventually run much, much faster. That was just my first run of the year, and my first 5-mile completion since last August.

In the moment I felt pretty damn triumphant. Not bad for an ex-swimmer who spends most of his free time cycling (and sometimes skateboarding).

Not to mention that the night before I drank a hefty portion of wine and ate a box of pizza.

Today was an excellent starting point for my return to running. The experience was also fitting for St. Patrick’s day because I am part Irish. After the run, my friends and I had a beer to celebrate. We stayed out in the cold for as long as it felt comfortable (which was awhile because of how much the run heated us).

Now I’m propped up on the couch. I’ll be sore tomorrow, but this day is mine!

I’m the tall one. Beer has never tasted better.

Maps

The temp is 5 F (-15 C). I’m on mile 20 of a morning bike ride (32 km). My fingers have been numb for the past 30 minutes and my toes are in the process of joining them in their transformation from body extremities to icicles. My nose runs like an ever-flowing fountain. The tendrils of snot cling to my merino wool gaiter and then freeze, hindering my breathing. I have to lower the gaiter and when I do the biting winter wind absolutely punishes my face.

About ten miles ago I passed a flock of geese. There was an albino goose amidst the flock that stood our like a lone star in a night sky. I find a part of me wondering if the other geese can detect its genetic difference. Birds can pair bond, so can they also judge?

Five miles ago, the sun broke to my left. It slants down and brushes my left cheek but offers little comfort. Above me there is a stark demarcation of clear sky and clouds ahead.

I am alone on the trail again and I find myself also thinking that I’m on a bike ride this morning to escape the artificiality of the city. In this pain I cannot delude myself into thinking that nature is something offering constant peace and solace. If I were to sleep out here the elements might take me, as they’ve taken many of those not gifted with air conditioning.

Death is harsh in nature. Some of the geese may be slowly devoured over many minutes by a predator. Others, if they reach old age, may slowly starve to death due to their slowed reflexes. Or the elements may slowly overtake them as their weakening bones fail to fend off the cold.

Nature is harsh, but through it we may find a part of us, and the darker elements, the harsher elements, give us a realer view of our role in the universe. In the city we do not think of death. We delude ourselves into thinking it doesn’t exist, and therefore ironically find ourselves dissatisfied with our actions in the present moment. We refuse to believe that it can be a moment away.

On my final mile the verse to Ghost’s song “Pro Memoria” echoes through my mind. The Roman generals ride to war with their slaves, who whisper reminders in their ear that they will also die. This paradoxically gives them both peace and cunning.

And it isn’t just these Romans who have a more intimate relationship with death. Many Buddhist cultures also are more apt to contemplate it, and ironically measure “happier” than American culture.

It is almost uniquely in the west that we delude ourselves into thinking death can be avoided, that not everything has to end, that a future purchase may bring eternal salvation, and therefore the solution to life is a simple checklist. And this leads us to a life imbued with dissatisfaction.

“Don’t you forget about dying, don’t you forget about your friend death, don’t you forget that you will die.”

In the distance I see the silhouette of a wildcat maneuver through the underbrush. A prey animal may be on its last legs.

I cannot predict when I will be that prey animal.

Nerve-Shaken

“Nerve-shaken, over-civilized people really are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wilderness is a necessity; and that mountain parks and reservations are useful not only as fountains of timber and irrigating rivers, but as fountains for life.” - John Muir, 1901

Morning cycling temp: 6 degrees F (-14 C). -8 F windchill (-21 C).

Just me and the wild turkey and geese that haunt the Mississippi this morning. No living homo sapien is near. The path is strewn with bird crap because only the birds dare tread over this trail at these temps. The birds dominate the cold and they show it by crapping over everything and everyone.

The cold is absolutely blistering. My hands go numb within 30 minutes and my feet follow about 30 minutes later. I keep pedaling forward. The sun’s about to break to my right, a little solace. To my left, a near-full moon’s lambent glow haunts a navy sky.

“Push through pain,” I keep thinking. “Comfort is your enemy.”

I return home and the warm shower water seems to scathe my toes. My feet are beet red, with small patches of blue and black here and there. Ouch. After about an hour that discoloration fades. It’s not frostbite at least.

Gazing out my window, I see someone chowing down on a burger in his car while waiting at a stoplight.

No one else in this city of over one million was able to bike this morning (maybe someone else was, but no one in my vicinity; I basically had the world to myself). Only a select few dare the winter. This thought gives me fuel.

In the wilderness your senses heighten. My ride got me closer to the wild, but admittedly not fully there. You feel every rise and drop of temperature. You hear the prey animals in hiding and the mating calls of the birds that nest above. Far away, as dawn hits, people are snapping photos of their corporatized lattes.

That ride was certainly a misogi.

Misogi

6:30 am on Monday and I’m starting physical therapy. I only have two sessions remaining, assuming my evaluation on Wednesday goes well.

I start with a few laps of leg movement drills, followed by a few ladder exercises (a rope ladder is spread over the ground and I hop/skip/step over the ladder rungs in a variety of movement patterns). This is followed by inclined foot stretching, both with legs straight and with knees bent.

I take a ten-minute jog in which I can feel some stiffness in the ankle and inflammation on the bottom of the foot, but both pains subside with each passing minute. I stand on the edge of a step and complete some toe raise exercises, first with both feet acting together and then using only the injured foot. I complete squats while standing on the flat side of a 1/2 balance ball. More stepping exercises. I’m breezing through the routine and gaining confidence. The foot’s feeling stable and I’m almost healed.

“What will you do with your healed foot?” My physical therapist asked me.

I recently read about “misogi,” a concept that originated from two ancient Japanese Shinto gods. The Japanese god Izanagi was madly in love with the Shinto creator goddess Izanami. She dies and goes to a hellish underworld. Forlorn and determined to bring her back, Izanagi ventures into this hell and fends off a variety of horrifying creatures. He’s unable to retrieve Izanami and retreats back to our world, but his flesh is scarred and tainted from the creatures he fends off. He eventually purifies himself of his tainted flesh in a body of water. This cleansing, or purification, of impure flesh and soul is called “misogi” (apologies for all incorrect interpretations).

Misogi is therefore an act of cleansing the impurities or toxicities of one’s life (in Shinto, often with a body of water). The act of misogi as detailed in the book The Comfort Crisis is more of a purification from the detriments of modern, urban living.

One accomplishes this misogi through an intense risk that has a high probability of failure. It has to be outside one’s comfort zone and preferably outside of the comforts and luxuries of the city.

There is an interesting paradox associated with urban living. It’s supposed to be a euphoria of conveniences. Yet every study I’ve read suggests that human misery increases as a place becomes more urban.

I think misogis can be applied daily. They don’t have to be a “once per year” event. They can be the consistent and constant disruptor of certainty, the embracing of risk. The bike ride through harsh winter trails. Skateboarding down steeper ramps. Running outside on new trails, in harsh rain. Opting out of phone browsing in favor of sitting on the ground, in the grass, outside, staring… and daring to do nothing, and to be bored.

I can apply a yearly misogi to my life too. A swimming with sharks in the Bahamas. A bikepacking trip thousands of feet up into the Blue Ridge mountains. Hiking off-trail in a national forest. Those might be some of my recent misogis. I’m thinking about what it will be this year. It has to delve into the unknown, whatever it is.

I’m thinking of misogis. That’s what I’ll do with my healed foot: as many of them as possible.

Killing Comfort

Comfort kills.

So many people only experience the weather in brief stints. For these people, the weather is often just a nuisance during a brief 30-second jaunt to the car, which then transports them to work in an office with a chair and a desk. The day is therefore spent sitting in a car with air conditioning, followed by sitting in a chair under air conditioning, followed by sitting in a car with air conditioning again. All environs provide optimized comfort and entertainment. Maybe, at some point, the day involves easy movement in a gym, again with air conditioning, as well as rows of tv screens to combat the boredom.

Even the sun, the very thing that allowed for creation in the first place, is seen as a threat to the body (and industry provides sunscreens to lather over the body as a “fix” to the problem). The sun causes squinting, or sweat, or potential sunburns. Homo sapiens have existed for give or take 250,000 years, and only in the last 100 years has the sun been classified as “dangerous.” Since this odd diagnosis of sun as bad, an industry of “sun protective creams” has emerged.

Living life in a vacuum, the modern body feels plush cushions on the derrière and back while sleeping, cushions while eyes are glued to the television, cushions while eyes are glued to the phone, and cushions while engorging the stomach in a never-ending paroxysm of gluttony (true hunger is rare in the Western world).

The modern brain isn’t bored while browsing the phone for “stimulation”. Boredom should not exist in the modern world because boredom is another potential discomfort. Silence should not exist because silence runs risk or boredom. So kids and adults sit on their asses and TikTok or whatever the hell is the trend of the year.

“But the modern lifespan is longer,” I’m told as a counterpoint. And to that I say, how many of those extra years are actually spent living? Heart disease kills by the millions annually. By 2028 the long-term US nursing home care industry is expected to reach 1.7 trillion US dollars, provided an annual growth of 7.1% (Grand View Research, Inc.).

1/3 of Americans are either diabetic of pre-diabetic. Almost half of Americans struggle to climb a single flight of stairs (studyfinds.org). Even our conveniences become more difficult: the stairs were once invented to make climbing easier. Now the body needs something more automated than stairs to transport it vertically. The modern concept of being alive seems eerily close to the undead version of life in any zombie film.

There is a universal law that nothing is created without having both intended and unintended consequences. The unintended consequences of industry and the drive for growth are simple: an overly-medicated and largely miserable population that cannot process or experience discomfort.

The modern Western human, often addicted to these comforts and the obsession with the elimination of all danger, cannot accept pain, cannot accept suffering, and often cannot accept danger as a necessary component to a meaningful life. Every sickness must have a cure that can be paid for. Erasing all threats is a matter of a savvy Google search.

I imagine myself living thousands of years ago, a persistence hunter, preparing for a hunt via a long run. My body evolved with the capacity to run and breathe with stunning efficiency. My tribe can hunt a deer (or its predecessor) not with speed, but with endurance. There are risks involved with the hunt. We don’t need trendy shoes with arch support or technical gym shorts: we just run. We compete with other predators, and other predators decide whether we humans would also make a decent meal. There are real threats, not the modern vain “what if my car gets a dent or my sweater gets a stain” type threats. My belly is often hungry. My legs are often tired. But ironically, I do not feel any form of depression, not in the modern sense. I focus on my feet hitting rock and sand as the heat pummels me and my thirst for water increases. The deer will collapse soon and hunger will be sated.

This morning I thought about comfort, my biggest existential threat, as I embarked on a bike ride. The temperature was 19 F (minus 7 C). With the wind chill it was 5 F (minus 15 C). The wind lashed me with its ice-coated whips of air as I pedaled toward Grant Farm. The Gravois Greenway was mottled with ice patches that my gravel bike often slid over. One bad fall and my right foot, I knew, would be done for. I slowed a little as I crossed each ice patch. The trail took me over icy bridges, through white-sheeted forest, and alongside bleak highways. Sunlight filtered through the dead tree branches and brushed my cheeks. I pedaled as my heartbeat raced, mile after mile, hour after hour, and I felt life in pain. Time slowed. Two hours on the bike felt infinitely longer. Silence enveloped me, though there was certainly plenty of ambient sound.

I live in the same weather as more than one million other people in the city, but many of them do not understand the full magnificence of the weather. That to me is a great tragedy.

I am finding that as my foot heals, my competitive tenacity is also returning. It is ruthless, the sort that punished competitors as severely as possible years ago and has long-since hibernated, but still lurks within. My inner “Terry Silver”. The type that, as a swimmer, grabbed ankles and twisted them when lapping people at practice. This inner warrior knows that a successful hunt requires ruthlessness and resolve.

I feel cynicism when I think of how the quest for comfort can lead so many into a black hole of materialism that sucks the essence out of the soul. Give me the dragon. Give me the struggle. I have one fear, my greatest fear: an end in a nursing home. Let me be devoured by the dragon instead of a devourer of comfort.

Better to fight the dragon and lose convincingly.

Winter Run

I embarked on a Saturday outdoor run just before noon as a snowstorm was subsiding. It wasn’t the storm that the forecasts expected and there was only an occasional thin patch of snow sticking to the ground. Interspersed with these thin and dusty white blankets were rain puddles and slush.

I turned left onto Chestnut Street toward the Arch. The first three minutes I felt a dull ache in the right foot but as the blood flowed to the feet the ache seemed to fade. “Just keep going,” I told myself. The heart beat fast at first, not used to the relatively more intense cardio. After a few minutes the heart, like the foot, adjusted, and I settled into a comfortable rhythm.

I planned to jog for about twenty minutes, which would be five minutes longer than my longest of the week. That’s not bad considering this is the first week I’ve been able to run since last August.

I crossed the Old Courthouse on the side of the Hyatt Hotel and kept going, determined to let my foot feel some natural turns and inclines. With the lugged soles of my Xero Aqua X shoes I had a pretty decent traction through the soft snow patches and puddles.

My foot is tender but I considered what my physical therapist told me: it’s time to push through some pain. I turned left at the arch and ran through the downtown park, then kept running down an outdoor stairwell that led to the Mississippi River and the Riverfront Trail.

I went north on the trail and crossed a homeless camp where a bonfire was blazing and a cluster of figures in soiled coats stood hovering over it for warmth. I kept jogging until a concrete wall blocked my path. Then I turned back.

The run totaled well over 20 minutes (I don’t time myself, but I have a good sense of time) and it was by far my longest run since my foot injury in August.

The foot is definitely aching now, but it doesn’t seem to be an injury setback. It’s the kind of pain you get from using a muscle for the first time after it has been trapped in a cast for a very long time. The foot is just learning to run again.

Next week is my final week of physical therapy, assuming I have no further setbacks. It was quite a journey to get to this point and now I have every intention of finding out how far my feet can actually take me.

A Return to Running

I was cleared by my physical therapist to attempt a short (five minute) jog during our Wednesday session. It was successful. The pain in my right foot remained relatively minor. I was told that the injured foot was healed enough to continue running so long as the pain remains below a “4/10”. The pain remained around a “2/10”, never more than a dull ache. I was also told that now it has enough strength to “push through some pain” (again so long as the pain remains below a “4/10” without much fear of a significant setback.

That was my first successful run since August, a gap of almost 5 months. The foot, though not 100% healed, is quickly approaching that mark. For all intents and purposes, the foot is “healed”.

The following day I jogged for a total of 7 minutes (on a treadmill to avoid slopes, slants, holes, and sidewalk crevices). The day after, I jogged for minutes. This morning I jogged for 14 minutes. The pain has never elevated above a “2/10”, though there is a damaged tendon that is easily inflamed.

What a journey! I was beginning to think that the foot would never heal. Five months is a long time to walk with pain and a very long time to feel that running is outside of your grasp. It takes a toll on one’s emotions.

Next week I’ll start some agility exercises to regain the ability to quickly shift direction with speed. I only have two weeks of physical therapy to go.

I imagine myself as the protagonist of the Stephen King novel Duma Key. Injured from a car accident and forsaken by his family, he rents a small house on an island in the Florida Keys, and lives there alone. Each day his task his simple: take one step more than the day before. It is both therapeutic and gainful for the character, who finds his lost self in the process of walking.

Now we’ll see where the ability to run and bike can take me.

Weekly Plunder: Week 16 - The Devil Rages On

I’ve had two vivid dreams this week that I can remember.

In the first dream I found myself competing again; the old athlete whom I thought had died years ago was seemingly resurrected. There is a genuine shock from the witnesses of my sudden comeback; physically, it doesn’t seem natural that a 36-year-old can still compete like a 22-year-old. It was a relatively triumphant dream.

The second dream was a night terror that I hope to forget.

What I’m watching: The Witcher season 2. Difficult for me to understand a lot of the dialogue and register the names of places and characters, but overall I enjoyed season 2 more than season 1. More fun, more kinetic, more brutal, and more narratively streamlined.

What I’m reading: The Ruthless Elimination of Hurry by John Ortberg. This has been useful in unhinging my reliance on satisfying people’s expectations (and society’s expectations). Expectations are the source of so much modern stress, and so many of these expectations are either unrealistic or downright asinine.

What I’m listening to: “The Devil Rages On” by Volbeat. Not a song that immediately draws the ear in, but I find myself listening to it a lot. I find it interesting both lyrically and melodically. Melodically it’s a catchy rockabilly song, whereas lyrically it’s a song about someone praising hell and Beelzebub as a savior. I enjoy dichotomy. Rockabilly songs often detail a lost lover or betrayal, and it’s during heartbreak or loss that hell and its inhabitants can seem more like saviors or harbingers of hope. The song is therefore sinister and uplifting at the same time.

What I’m thinking: I’ve enjoyed a few festive days. You can overwork, but you can’t oversmile.

My final thought: it’s said that the Diné Navajos have nothing and are spiritually the happiest inhabitants in North America. Their spiritual health, in fact, is directly proportional to how little they have.

Battling the Dragon

One of the more intellectual arguments against the existence of what many imagine to be heaven, or eternal salvation when described as infinite pleasure, is simple:

A constant state of euphoria cannot elicit pleasure unless there is a counterbalance to compare it with. A high cannot be understood or appreciated unless it is attained by surmounting a low. One would become numb by constant goodness, and it would quickly cease to have significance.

In other words, we need a dragon to battle, a threat, and the possibility of losing the battle.

• A fall helps us understand the significance of standing back up again.

• A scrape teaches us that flesh can heal.

• A loss reveals there’s something to win.

• A failure reveals there’s something to improve.

• An oppression reveals there’s something to liberate.

• A rejection teaches that acceptance is significant.

• A sickness reminds one that health should never be taken for granted.

Why are we (okay, why am I) obsessed with dragons? How did we conjure up this fictitious creature, and why are they always a threat to the kingdom?

I heard one intellectual argument that makes sense. Evolutionarily speaking, our ancestors likely faced two threats: venomous snakes from below (and hidden within the trees, competing with us for food), and birds of prey from above. The dragon, then, is a combination of these two magnificent predators. It is the creature that can destroy us from any vantage point. It impales us with its talons, it swallows us whole, it crushes our rib cage with its tail, and it incinerates us with its fire.

Good can only be defined if bad exists. Even a kingdom loses worth without a threat to protect it from.

It brings to mind a silly example. I have an Internet friend who has long been in search of “the perfect pair of pants.”

”What will you do when you find the perfect pants?” I asked him once.

“I know full well there’s no such thing,” he said. “But I’m invested in the quest. It’s the chase that we need to have. Let it go on forever. Take part in the chase!”

To that I say, battle the dragon. Whether it’s beaten or not is insignificant.

On Foot Rehab

Summary of foot issues following a car hit in August (long story short, a car hit me while I was cycling, knocking me off my bike and onto the tarmac; the ankle turned the wrong direction upon hitting the road, causing sprains on both sides of the foot and severe internal inflammation and bruising).

• Had the first and second physical therapy sessions for the right foot this week.

• The foot unfortunately had a setback last week after a one-minute running attempt (felt pain the next few days, telling me that running is a bad idea). This spurred me into signing up for therapy.

• Physical therapist confirmed running won’t happen in 2021 (bummer, but I figured).

• Muscles causing issues were identified in the session and a path to healing was set in action.

• Most severe damage noted in muscle tissue along the left part of the lower leg, which stretches into the foot and ends in the bottom-left part of foot. This is the primary source of pain when attempting a run or aggressive walk.

• Severe inflammation on upper part of the foot caused issues with healing and issues with connectivity with bones; this is why there isn’t much bend, especially in squat-type movements.

• Both ankles were sprained; ligaments in each need to strengthen and heal.

Plan: 3x physical therapy sessions per week. Foot rehabilitation exercises to be performed 2x per day.

In summary, the car crash messed up my foot pretty badly. However, I’m stoked to have a path to healing, and even more stoked that the foot can heal, timeline be damned.

Also thankful that I can still ride a bike without much worry.

Here’s to closing out 2021 on a positive note. It’s gonna feel great to exercise without pain again and I’m getting closer.