Birdemic

There’s always going to be a “first” I guess. This morning I was attacked by a small bird while on a jog by the Riverfront.

I was caught by surprise when I felt what seemed like a mass of feathers falling into my hair. That’s weird, I thought. I’m not wearing a feathered hat right now.

Then I heard a hostile “caw” directly above me and felt wings flap and hit my face.

I reached a hand up to try and swat the bird away. The bird flew up a few feet while agilely dodging my swats, then dive-bombed me again. I felt one of its claws brush my cheek, but it narrowly missed scraping me.

What in the actual hell. First you’re stabbed by a tree branch, then you’re attacked by a psychotic tiny bird.

It was definitely tiny. We aren’t talking about a hawk here. This thing was about the size of a budgie, but wow did it have a Napoleon complex.

I’m sure it looked hilarious as I swatted at it and ran as fast as I could, while the bird dive-bombed me again and again. Eventually the bird gave up. Or maybe it found something more interesting to do this morning. I escaped unscathed!

My guess is that I ran through its territory during mating season or something. Why males gotta be like that?

Whatever the cause, I’ve been looking up towards the sky more frequently today. I might be for awhile.

As far as running goes, I’ve felt consistently pretty sore over the last week. I’ve been doing more speed-oriented running, which is a drastic change from marathon training.

My soreness has had me thinking of the inevitability of all things ending. At some point I will not be able to run like this. There will be a last marathon, a last day outside, and a last bird fight. There will also be a last swim and a last trip. Thinking of such a future brings me an intense melancholy. The best we can do is try to delay our inevitable decline. Yet the decline will happen, and fearing it won’t push it any further away.

The Expense of the Present

I had a dream last night in which I was on a party boat, somewhere near a far-off Pacific island, along with several coaches and teammates from my adolescence. The boat skidded over the gentle waves of a clear blue Pacific towards an ethereal sunset. The sun washed everything in gold.

One of the coaches on the boat was an assistant swimming coach from when I was eleven years old named Will. I found myself telling him about my current training.

“I’m 37,” I told him, “And I’m wondering if I’ve had enough. I’m broken down, but I can still do it. And yet, what more is there to prove? I’m still performing at a high level at this age, but how much longer should I go?”

In the dream, it seemed, I was still competing as an elite level swimmer.

Yet the coach’s eyes were transfixed on the ocean, and he was barely paying attention. He didn’t care. Competition was a long time ago for him. He had moved on and shifted his priorities. Here, it seemed, the priority was to enjoy the beauty that the world offered.

“Should I compete another year?” I asked. I gazed around at the other coaches and teammates, but none of them paid any mind. They were relaxing and having some alcoholic beverages.

“I think I have another 42 second 100 yard freestyle in me,” I added. Yet no one responded.

“I think I can keep competing, but I’m tired. What am I chasing for? Should I go another year?”

Finally, another coached turned toward me and shrugged.

I looked down and realized that I was wearing competition apparel, whereas everyone else in the boat wore trunks and beach shirts.

Obviously my days as a competitive swimmer ended a long time ago, but currently I find myself building towards a marathon.

Maybe the dream was a reminder that a focus on the future, a focus on plotting and competing, must come at some expense of the present.

As I rehab this collarbone break, I find my mind often thinking of “getting the arm back to where it was.”

And what if it doesn’t? The ocean remains unchanged. The sun maintains its beauty. The coaches of the past do not cast judgment.

An aging athlete should not lose sight of the present.

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.

Party Like It’s ‘99

On Wednesday I finally saw Rob Zombie live for the first time. He was my favorite solo artist in high school and I still listen to his hits from time to time.

Rob Zombie is immortal. He possesses more energy and vitality than lead singers half his age. He’s highly mobile throughout his show and rocks the dance moves of a lithe professional dancer. He’s a perennial headliner for a reason. Viewing the elaborate stage setup at his show is like glimpsing into another gothic world. His bandmates are also perfectionists. John 5, the lead guitarist, is possibly the most skilled soloist I’ve ever watched. The guy can flat-out shred.

Zombie is currently 57 years old and looks as lean and fit as ever. He’s also vegan and has been vegetarian since childhood. This is noteworthy to me because most long-lived cultures I read about eat a relatively large portion of natural carbohydrates and a relatively lower amount of meat (not all, but most). I am not vegan, but I often consider this.

What was my takeaway from watching my teenage idol perform at a crowded amphitheater in front of thousands of fans? Love what you do.

Do I love what I do? I find myself yearning for my hours when I’m free. I love cycling and have gained an appreciation for running. I love connecting with other runners and cyclists who share similar goals, who find themselves aging, yet are eager to accomplish physical feats that they never have before. But that’s not what I do.

An aspiring marathoner told me on our jog last week that he’s training to “give his son a story of something that he accomplished.” That’s what I enjoy learning about: people on their journeys, and how those journeys parallel my own. What can I learn from them? How many miles can we actually crank out together? What is our true limit on this planet?

“Love what you do.” Watching Zombie was a reminder that I need to write more and create more content.

Thoughts by a Windowsill

The winter elements bring to my mind the word “desiccated.” With Mother Nature having stripped all green from the maples, oaks, and brush, I mostly see skeletal branches above and beside me. These spindly things are like brown and dried-up arteries running over the pale winter sky.

I look at my windowsill and the plants that rest on it. Exposed to the elements they would die quickly. In the artifice of my apartment, under my control, they are in a constant state of growth and comfort. We like to believe we control the fates of ourselves and the things around us. To helplessly watch the things we see in our day-to-days wither away, more victims of time, reminds us of our own mortality.

We don’t have as strong a concept of mortality as we used to. That’s what I suspect. A disease of yesteryear would wipe out a third of us, and it would scare many of us, but the modern compulsion to control and reign in was not so much a part of the process. Now we’re more prone to believe that immortality is just a matter of politics or “supporting the better science” or “having the best retirement plan.” I suspect that death for the delusional is an especially terrifying matter.

I’m listening to a song I first heard in 2017 and finding myself in a poignant and melancholy mood. I love the song, but I’m not sure if I love the song because of the melody or because of the place and time it takes me to. I wonder if this fusion of memory and melody is what aging does to music. With each passing year we feel a more turbulent maelstrom of emotions from our old songs, not because of the brilliance of the composition, but because of the memories that the songs stir.

I observe that as people get older they tend to stick to the songs from their youth. Maybe this is where their most vivid memories reside. Maybe this is where most change and most significant events occurred.

May the song I seek always be the one I hear tomorrow.

An Axe for the Dragon - Thoughts on Aging

As I rehab my ankle I find my thoughts more frequently drifting towards the subject of aging.

Regarding aging, I am approaching what many people regard as the “start of the downhill trajectory,” also known as the late 30s. Things are supposed to slow down in the latter half of the 30s, and I guess they do. Recovery takes longer, muscles get weaker, and hair gets grayer. Time is an undefeated opponent; that’s what science says.

It seems there are several options regarding how to approach aging:

• Accept the body’s inevitable decay and acquiesce to its deterioration. Do what most do: allow the body to transform into an old vegetable, a shell that breathes but doesn’t live, imprisoned within a retirement home.

• Fight aging relentlessly in a futile quest to “stay on top”. This is essentially a lifelong struggle to “remain close to the peak.” You aren’t fighting to defeat the inevitable slowdown, only to delay it. The “quest to fade less quickly.”

• Age with moderation, somewhere between the other two options. Remain active, but not intense. Take walks, but accept that the adventures of yesteryear must be replaced by garden walks.

Regarding these options, I vote to reject both moderation and surrender. Full speed ahead! Bring me the Grand Canyon rapids. If my 80-year-old body can’t handle them, let the turbulent waters swallow me as I fight to reach the end.

If, one day, scoffers say that the future 80-year-old man that I am is delusional for thinking himself still a warrior, I say I’ll pick up the metaphorical axe and let fate decide.

Metaphorically speaking, when I think of aging and death I think of the film Reign of Fire, specifically the Matthew McConaughey character, Van Zan.

In arguably the greatest death scene to ever grace a bad movie, Van Zan stands on top of a building, realizing his dragon adversary is going to kill him. He has lost his battle.

So what does Van Zan do? He suicidally jumps off the building with his battle axe, preferring to die fighting. The dragon devours the defiant and screaming Van Zan as he attempts one final swing of his axe at the beast!

If the dragon is death, I’ll gladly be Van Zan. And on my way into the dragon’s throat I’ll shout, “Come on, big boy!”

A Random Dream

My grandfather has been suffering dementia for over two decades. He’s in his mid-90s now, and as of this writing he’s still alive.

I haven’t visited him in years, but I’ve heard him described as a shell of his former self. I imagine a frail husk of a person, withered and weak, wizened and pale, moving here and there but not fully aware, wheelchair bound and incapable of much else besides weak breaths.

I had a dream the other night that I visited my grandfather. Before the visit my family members warned me: “You’re going to be shocked and horrified by his appearance. The person in that nursing room is not your grandfather. He won’t know you or remember you.” My grandmother, who is now dead, was also in the dream, warning me that the encounter would be a painful experience.

I opened the door to my grandpa’s nursing room and was greeted by a version of my grandpa that existed 30 years ago. He was mentally sharp, still possessing color in his hair, and he stood up on his own two legs. He joked with me and shook my hand. Behind me, my family was silent.

It seemed he had hoodwinked everyone, I thought, like Willy Wonka’s introduction in that old 70’s film!

“Don’t be fooled, he might look okay right now, but he’s in terrible shape and has no mind left,” someone whispered to me, convinced that what we just witnessed was only a momentary flash of acuity.

“Don’t listen to them!” My grandpa declared. “I’m fine, see?” And he shimmied a dance move, grinned, laughed, and took a sip of scotch from a nearby glass. “What a joke I pulled on everyone, huh!?”

Baffled, I proudly shouted, “See, he’s fine! He’s in even better shape than all of us!”

I woke up and thought about death, how grueling it is. Like a leech devours blood, age will drain someone of their identity slowly, over many years. If we live long enough, we will inevitably watch someone close to us die horribly.

I often suspect there is no soul or afterlife. Our minds contain our full identities and ability for self consciousness. Our concept of ourselves is therefore as fleeting as a shooting star, a flash in a sky filled with glittering lights that’s gone and easily forgotten. Blink and you’ll miss it. With the passing of the mind, a vessel remains with lungs that expand and contract, and a heart that weakly pumps blood through arteries. It is still something organic, like a tree, but tragically little more.

Identity is therefore fleeting, so it’s important to have a strong grasp of it while I can. It’s a valuable commodity for any person, more precious than any metal or money, because without it we are not fully alive. There’s no rule on how long self consciousness can last, but it tends to be shorter than one wants.