On Plant-Based Eating

I have no doubt that plants have a capability of healing the spirit that borders on mystical.

Add a few plants to a living room and you’ll probably find your own blood pressure lowering. It could be their mere presence doing the healing. Numerous studies have documented this. Run in an area with trees and you’ll find what anxiety you have will slowly diminish as the minutes tick by. Hiking is often seen as a therapeutic exercise not because it involves a lot of walking, but because it involves a lot of nature.

To this date there has been nothing made by humans that matches the healing capabilities of plants.

I mention this because I’m writing about something that I’ve told almost no one: I’ve been focusing on a plant-based diet. I can’t help but wonder: if the presence of plants soothes the mind, does favoring plant consumption heal the body?

I mostly keep my dietary habits private because diets tend to emit strong emotional reactions from people. At some point in recent history, diet became an ideology. The idea of “arguing about diet” with other people does not appeal to me. I’d rather just share my thoughts and experiences.

I do think that there are numerous moral justifications for striving towards veganism. One of the top reasons for me personally is that the American diet tends to be heavy on animals that I consider to be both highly intelligent and woefully mistreated. Industry commits some pretty horrific acts on these animals.

Urban American dog parents, for example, find the idea of eating dogs to be diabolical if not purely savage, yet are frequently eager for their bacon and sausage. Why, other than cultural norms? There is nothing to classify a dog as morally superior to a pig. Both are intelligent and highly affectionate species of animals.

My switch this year was not a sudden shift in belief. I planned to switch to either vegetarianism or veganism a long time ago. When I turned 21, I promised myself that I would switch to a plant-based diet before age 40. This year I’m turning 38.

My initial desire to eat plant-based food was a mostly selfish one: the potential for longevity. I’m too aware of the rates of heart disease in America, and to put bluntly, I want to live. I aimed to switch before 40 because I figured the body would only become more susceptible to disease in middle age.

I never planned to switch to veganism for the sake of athletic performance, but I can safely write that so far, my results as they pertain to running are bettering my expectations. I’ve heard arguments both for and against veganism as it relates to athletic performance. To that I respond, athletic performance is pretty secondary to me at this stage of my life. I was already an athlete with a full collegiate career and retirement, so I’m not “chasing” marginal gains.

A vegan diet can be broad in food intake, and I should emphasize that I focus on plant-based whole foods. I’m not munching on “vegan cookies” all day. I am fully aware that being “vegan” does not necessarily make one “healthy.”

I find myself feeling better by the week. I’m convinced that I’m healing. My aches, pains, and stresses are minimal, and at the same time I’m running more miles per week than I ever have in my life. I’m recovering from intense exercise well and sleeping steadily better. By every metric I am more fit now than I was before I broke my collarbone (I started experimenting with vegetarianism a few months before my collarbone break, and have been attempting veganism through 2023). Obviously time will tell how this diet transfers to running and cycling events, but I don’t see a plant-based diet as a detriment to my exercise. So far, I’d say it’s boosting my performance.

Sustaining veganism practically requires the ability to cook ones own food, in my opinion. Don’t just quit eating meat and looking around for microwaveable meatless foods. It helps to have the ability (or learn the ability) to cook meals with all-natural, plant-based ingredients that you enjoy. Otherwise it can be an act of masochism.

I find that eating until I’m full is key, and that requires eating what can visibly appear to be larger portions (the food is less calorie dense). On a diet without meat, it can take a very, very full plate, or several plates, to fill the stomach. But enjoying what you eat is the only way to make it sustainable.

I’ve been mostly enjoying the recipes in Dan Buettner’s book, The Blue Zones Kitchen. My own dinner staples have been mostly from the book: herbal minestrone, tofu stir fry, and corn hash. I like to supplement those with buffalo cauliflower or air fried kale chips. I bring this up to emphasize again that a consistently hungry vegan will probably not be a vegan for long.

I observe that there are a lot of sick people in the US right now, which is one of the reasons I want to mention veganism’s potential. A lot of sickness can be remedied through food choice. That’s especially difficult when grocery stores are plagued with 90% processed crap and when fast food tends to be the most affordable option. Affordable veganism is possible and can be relatively easy to prepare. A primary problem, in my opinion, is that it’s not a common part of our culture; those who need it most are often unaware of its existence.

So if you’re reading this and had floated the idea of veganism before, I say give it a try.

Range of Motion

With each passing day I find myself regaining a little more range of motion in my right arm. Recovering from a collarbone break is a long process that requires patience, but patience is not a skill I naturally have. I’d like to snap my fingers and poof, find myself magically at 100% health. Healing is not always measurable in days, however.

I heard an interesting metaphor for the process of aging: you are essentially stuck in quicksand, and at some point you will fully sink. The most you can ask for is a few tools to shovel the sand away temporarily. Some of these “tools” include diet, exercise, and sleep. Without them, you’ll sink faster.

“Just keep moving” tends to be my own mantra. Or as the bone break taught me, “Use it or lose it.” Four weeks in a sling cost me a great deal of mobility that will take awhile to regain.

To think that I was set back so far from just a month in a sling is eye opening. A life of inertia is surely crippling to one’s range of motion. I see it often in the office: the typical office employee could never dream of running one mile, nonetheless 26 miles. Heck, I’m not sure most can jog 400 meters comfortably. Can the typical employee even kick up his or her feet? It seems doubtful unless supplemented with some sort of cocaine-like stimulant beforehand. Granted, many do not care, as money and career are supposedly the priority, which culture does preach. I also note though that most are oblivious to the gravity of what they’ve lost. I’ll choose mobility any day.

A 40-year-old sedentary type and a 40-year-old routine exerciser are not biologically the same age range. This I’ve seen visibly. Their vitality and appearance are vastly different, almost as though they are not both Homo sapiens.

At running events, for example, it is common to see a 50-year-old capable of running fast speeds for hours at a time. It barely seems possible when first introduced to such feats. I remember running the mile as a child, for example, and winning by default simply because most of the kids couldn’t run the whole thing. Yet it is easy when swept in the excitement of such an event to believe that the norm is to cover vast distances, often at a quick base, with just your feet, and to do so well into your later years. An office will remind you that it is not the norm in America. The norm is a struggle up a flight of stairs. The norm is a pained shuffle from the car to the desk. The norm is a drive-thru food order, or these days, a phone app food delivery service.

As I write I realize the magnitude of my own desire to “just keep going”. Above I mentioned quicksand. Most nightmares I’ve ironically had since childhood involve running, but feeling slowed, or sinking in quicksand. In nightmares that involve swimming, the pool is often too dark for me to see and I quickly find myself lost. Or maybe my goggles leaked water to blind me. This doesn’t surprise me because nothing scares me more than stopping. I don’t necessarily mean stopping a daily exercise routine either. I mean stopping movement. Stopping the bikepacking adventures, the runs, the ocean swims, and the occasional game.

If given the choice, I’ll choose motion every time. Give me a shovel and I’ll see how long I can stay above the quicksand.

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.

Moderation

When I think of moderation I often think of conformity. I think of social acceptance, safety, and barriers.

I don’t particularly like moderation in a number of instances because moderation is often predictable. It is often an expectation. It is is supposed to be routine.

Driving a car is moderation. It is the expected form of daily transport. It is sitting and parking, obeying and paying. It is a blast of air conditioning that alleviates the natural elements. It is a sedentary act, and we often prefer sedentary acts to strenuous activities such as cycling.

Casual daily walks are moderation. They quickly become one’s expected number of daily steps. They are a counter, a means of getting blood flowing. I find this dull. I’d rather run or hike up a mountain. I’d rather injure myself on a longboard. I’d rather go unconscious from overdoing a bike ride.

Pop music is moderation. Pop music is lyrics deemed safe by a label and melodies deemed catchy by a producer. Pop music is numbness to counter the blandness of most routine activities. One doesn’t listen to pop music so much as one uses it to distract from one’s own boring act, whether it be a boring exercise or a boring job. Pop music is often edgy enough to be sensual but not so edgy as to be transgressive. It is “safe sensuality.” Why play it safe?

That said, there are certain habits that I must moderate, particularly as I get older. Sleep, for example, is becoming more important for my mental acuity and wellbeing. My body also does not process alcohol as well as it did ten years ago.

But an overabundance of anything can be detrimental. Our bodies are mostly water. We are literally walking oceans. And yet even too much water can kill.

Likewise, a life stuck in moderation can kill the soul.

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.

The Best Cycling Times

My opinion: the two best times to ride a bicycle are dusk and dawn. Besides witnessing the sun as it renders the world in a more ethereal multicolored palette, being outside at dusk and dawn somehow syncs the mind with the natural sleep pattern that is meant for our biology.

Riding at dusk in Missouri also allows me to view one of my favorite “angry” birds, the American robin, during its feasting time. These aggressive little things flutter down from their nests to pluck worms from the soil. In grassy fields to my left and right, I can visibly see the plump worms being hoisted from the earth!

And at dusk, as shadows stretch and dominate the landscape, the tiny bird silhouettes are magnificent in sheer number, if not size.

These birds are fearless and territorial! They have a severe Napoleon complex, believing themselves bigger and stronger than their human opponents.

One time I was walking in Tower Grove park when an American robin flew down and landed on the path directly in front of me with a worm in its beak. It stared me down!

It was as if the little dude was saying, “You’re in my world now, ya wuss. And these worms are mine. Just try and pry them from my cold dead beak. See what happens.”

Orange is a powerful color, and these orange breasted birds are clearly distinguished by the color.

Maybe I like them because I connect a little with their mentality. Pride is underrated.

Sometimes I similarly wear an orange cycling jacket when I ride a bike in winter; there’s no proof that orange makes these birds “feel tougher”, but damn does it feel fly to rock some orange. Try me, the color beckons.

One thing I learned from the competition days is that belief is a necessary precedent to accomplishment. A little American robin mentality never hurt anyone.

Fall Cycling : Vest Test Run

On Sunday morning I cycled along a section of the Riverfront Trail, which runs alongside the Mississippi River. I started at the south entrance, which I entered by maneuvering through downtown and crossing Broadway Street (a slightly dangerous lane due to its traffic… currently searching for alternative routes).

I started the ride wearing some thermal base layers, a fleece, a cycling vest, and some liner gloves (approximately 48 degrees F/ 8.9 degrees C). Due to the high intensity and the lack of stops my body heated quickly. The fleece’s hood had to be pulled off and the vest unzipped. It was a fun and sweaty ride.

I took the ride to test a new cycling vest from Mission Workshop. Lightweight but insulated, it was excellent for maintaining warmth without overheating. It also looks nice.

It was also a relatively brief ride; I went about 12 miles (19 km) north before circling back around (24 miles total). My primary thought was that it’s amazing how beautiful something organic can be shortly before its death (note the assemblage of fall leaf colors that dot the landscape, cling to the trees, and dance in the wind.

Some photos from the apex of the ride, at North Riverfront Park:

A rare warm front hit Sunday afternoon. It was likely the last day “tee shirt day” of the year. I spent the afternoon outside at several Augusta wineries (Montelle and Blumenhoff). The mood was festive, yet serene:

I slept better (in spite of a day spent guzzling wine and coffee) than I had in weeks. To me it underscored the importance of sunlight, of movement, and of joy.

Regarding minimalism, it was also a reminder that “possessions” are not my enemy: mindless consumerism is. My bicycle allowed me to race for miles along the Mississippi River. My vest and fleece kept me warm for the journey. It’s therefore my “stuff” that allows me to enjoy my hobby outside in conditions that I’d otherwise freeze in.

Patches of the Riverfront Trail involved a gravel road (my road bike was barely equipped for it). This has me on the hunt for a solid gravel bike. Not because I “want to buy more stuff”, but because I want a solid bicycle that can handle gravel.

Cycling is a hobby, and hobbies often involve ownership of material things (but they don’t have to be expensive material things). I don’t believe in “purchasing nothing” so much as I believe in “purchasing wisely”.