Injuries and Setbacks

My plan was to began preparing for an October 1st marathon starting the first week of July. However, a few setbacks derailed those plans.

The first issue stemmed from a timed mile event in late June. I completed a timed mile (about 1600 meters) in 4 minutes and 44 seconds, which I was happy with because my goal was to break 5 minutes. However, I found myself limping after the finish. A tweak in my groin became a lingering pain that steadily worsened over the next week, and I naively attempted to run through it, which only exacerbated the pain. I went to an orthopedic and was informed that I strained my groin.

A few weeks of rest and physical therapy followed, and suddenly it was August. I resumed running. I told my marathon coach that it seemed practical to have a “Plan B.” Less than two months didn’t seem like long enough to prepare for a marathon, so I switched my goal event to a later date. I signed up for another marathon on October 28th, and switched my October 1st event to a half marathon, with the intention to use the event as a training exercise.

Then, a week after resuming running, COVID hit me for the first time. Three plus years after the onset of the pandemic, COVID was the last thing on my mind. I had returned from a vacation in Utah and was suddenly running a fever. I was inside when the fever hit me, resting under a cool A/C. An hour later I had the chills. Then I had a sinus headache, and a sore throat. Then my bones ached.

The next day, I tested positive for COVID.

That was all last weekend. Now I’m hoping that the worst of COVID is behind me and I can resume running. This running cycle has been a stark contrast from the last one. The last one went off without a hitch, whereas this one seems to abide by the saying, “Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong.”

There is plenty of time left to develop fitness, however, so I don’t think I’m anywhere near the point of giving up.

Sunday Recap

Sunday morning I went for my weekly long run on the Katy Trail, starting at the Lewis & Clark Boathouse in Saint Charles and heading east. The skies were overcast and the temperature was mild for June. I felt much better than I had the previous few days. I ran for about 12 miles and felt fresh from beginning to end.

I had struggled with sleep for the better part of the last week. It’s an ongoing and maybe lifelong struggle. I finally slept decently Saturday night and was thankful for that. I’ve been trying a glass of kefir at night and it seems to be helping.

Sunday afternoon I watched The Flash, which I would describe as simple amusement. These superhero movies are difficult to justify a theater ticket price for, but I wanted to go to the cinema. Michael Keaton is very good in it. I’m a sucker for nostalgia and am a huge fan of the Tim Burton Batman movies. Having Keaton reprise his role as the dark knight was enough for me. Maybe that’s all a movie actually needs to be worth watching.

I’m digesting the new Avenged Sevenfold album, Life is but a Dream. So far my favorite song on the album is “Cosmic,” which seems to be about reincarnation and eternal love. A close second is probably “(O)rdinary.”

Five years ago I was in northeastern China and planning a beach trip to Dalian. Time is a subtle yet merciless adversary.

I finished the book Abdi’s World, which is an autobiography of one of my favorite athletes, Abdi Abdirahman. He’s the only marathon runner to qualify for five Olympics. There’s a key takeaway regarding his longevity: he’s capable of experiencing joy and fun.

I try to refrain from staring at my Garmin watch when I run for that reason. Fun should be the objective; it’s what will keep me going far after many of the young studs have hung up their shoes.

Some days we’re fast and other days we’re slow, but hopefully we’re smiling regardless.

The First 800 Meter Race!

Yeah, I actually participated in a track meet. A swammer, at age 37, entering himself in a track meet for a running race. Why not? Life is about trying new things, even if they’re a little uncomfortable. I don’t want to revisit the pool; I’ve chased the black line at the bottom enough times.

So I entered myself in the 800 meter run. I wanted to practice sprinting, and the 800 seemed like an intriguing distance. Compared to a marathon, at least, an 800 meter race is a sprint.

So I’m at a 400 meter track on a Saturday afternoon, it’s blazing hot, and the track has a black-colored surface. In other words, I’m running in a sauna.

They called my heat up and my lack of attention span immediately got the best of me. A meet official was explaining where we had to line up. I was distracted and staring at the clouds, honestly, and thinking about how cool my new bandana was. I wore it over my head as a sweat bandana.

I had bought the bandana the week before. It has a nice assemblage of desert-themed colors dyed onto it. Since I wore a racing team singlet, the bandana provided some stylistic flair.

Then before I knew it, the other runners were walking to the starting position. Oh crap, I thought. Where am I supposed to go? Maybe I should’ve paid attention. What is the starting position?

Then the gun went off and I started running. Whoops.

I wasn’t sure what an 800 meter track sprint should feel like, so I was a little conservative on the first lap. After crossing 400 meters I realized I had plenty of energy and picked my pace up a notch. I caught some runners and gained on the lead runner.

I finished in second overall, just a half-second out of first. The winner was 10 years my minor though. Not bad for an old dude with his head somewhere in the clouds I guess.

Next time I’ll take it!

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.

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.

Know Yourself

I run along a small section of the Riverfront Trail several mornings a week. It’s a one-and-a-half mile straight path, paved along the Mississippi River, spread directly in front of the St. Louis arch.

On this path, someone spraypainted “Know Yourself” in bold and colorful font on some raised cement barriers. It’s probably been there for years. I cross it on almost every run and on some days, if I’m feeling spry, I jump over it.

I think that knowing yourself is a challenge on two fronts. First, it takes courage to test your mental and physical limits. You have to pass a threshold to know where the threshold lies, and that involves pain. Significant, significant pain. Second, knowing yourself means confronting your dark side, and that takes courage. Just look to Luke Skywalker or Jung for reasons why. The dark side is an ugly place and a convenient one to turn a blind eye towards. I’m not sure most are willing to look at their demons with eyes wide open. The dark side of the human soul can reach horrifying depths, but overcoming one’s dark side first requires accepting its existence and seeing what lurks there.

Knowing yourself, the good and the bad, probably nurtures some self-confidence. It leaves you impervious to external remarks because you create your self-perception internally. Verbal attacks tend to hurt most if you accept them as reality, and you’re more likely to accept any opinion if you don’t know who you are. If what your attacker says is true, but you recognize it as true and have already confronted it within yourself, you can shrug off the attack. That’s essentially how Eminem’s character won the rap battle at the end of 8 Mile.

Recently I told someone that one of my goals with endurance running was longevity: that I want to keep running and cycling into my 80s and even 90s. That’s the truth, besides simply enjoying the exercise: I do it because I want to live. The races are just a fun bonus. I was laughed at for saying that. Well, what can ya do? Everyone has haters. “You run marathons for longevity!? Yeah right.” Later in the conversation I was sarcastically called “Longevity Matt.”

It would be easy to feel offended by the skepticism, but I shrugged it off. I know what I want well enough to discard external critics. Maybe five years ago I’d have taken it personally. Age has at least given the gift of “knowing myself” better, and knowing yourself begets wisdom.

I can only conclude that literally jumping over physical barriers, especially barriers with a message such as “Know Yourself,” is a healthy daily ritual.

Return to the Riverfront

The aftermath of the marathon involved about three days of total rest and another two weeks without intensive exercise.

I think it’s important to fully heal both mind and body after a taxing event such as a marathon. I’d rather not return to running until every joint feels fresh and limber. I’d rather err on the side of too much rest than not enough.

This week I returned to cycling on the Riverfront trail. It was my first time on a bicycle since I broke my collarbone last November, nearly two full seasons ago. There was some anxiety in getting back on the bicycle, as expected. My pace was much slower than it was last year, as expected. I made it though, and it was nice to trigger the endorphins through the act of pedaling.

Mid-ride along the Mississippi River I saw the same family of turkeys loitering about that I often encountered last year. Upon seeing me they dashed to the nearby underbrush to hide, as they always did before. The foliage around me was a lush green and I was hit a by harsh wind that pushed from the south. My bike crawled forward where it once zoomed.

I think it’d odd that in the time it took for nature to decay and be reborn, my collarbone broke and self-repaired.

Lately I’ve had recurring dreams of a return to competitive swimming. In each dream I’m my current age and attempting to swim with programs from my youth. In each dream, my return is something of an intrusion. The swimmers and coaches don’t want me. Worse yet, they’re confused as to why I’d want to return. Didn’t I do all of this already? Why repeat the past? In the dreams, I am oblivious to the signs around me that life moves on and I am no longer physiologically the same. Age brings new priorities. I shouldn’t be ignorant to what they are.

I think that I am well aware that a downward physical slope is inevitable, and probably near. I also have no interest in returning to swimming. Maybe the dream is a reminder not to get caught up in my own obsession with performance. Life is short, after all, and time devoted to competition is time wasted not enjoying oneself.

It’s also a reminder that I’m given the option to have fun. I can take the opportunity or make exercise something burdensome. Why not take advantage of that opportunity and smile?

Story of a Marathon

I barely slept the night before my first marathon. I managed two hours of sleep at best. That’s typical for a night before a race. As a college swimmer, I rarely slept before the first session of NCAAs. The good news is, a sleepless night before a race is so routine for me now that it doesn’t phase me.

I woke up at about 4:00 am and quickly made myself a smoothie with some banana and pineapple. I stretched and foam rolled for about 30 minutes, made myself a pour-over coffee, and left for the metro with my girlfriend, who was going to run her first marathon with me.

We arrived at the race start about an hour early. It was still dark and about 37 degrees Fahrenheit. I had a long sleeve tee, a hoodie, and sweatpants over my racing apparel.

Time seemed to be moving at breakneck speed. Suddenly I was standing behind the inflatable arch where the race was to start. I was in “Corral A” because I entered myself at an optimistically fast time. Thousands of runners were lined up behind me. Better prove you belong in Corral A, I thought.

I moved around and tried my best to keep my mood jovial. I did some mock “dance moves” and smiled. It’s important to stay relaxed before any sort of race so that the muscles and lungs work as they’re trained to. I took off my hoodie and long sleeve tee so that I was only wearing a singlet, racing shorts, and a hydration belt. I tossed the hoodie and tee aside. Some lucky person will have those now.

In that hydration belt, I managed to stuff seven energy gels and two 500 mL water battles filled with electrolytes.

Suddenly the race started and it was as though I was moving in a current filled with thousands of fish. I told myself that I’d be conservative for the first few miles. I passed some runners and I was passed by others; I paid no mind. The first mile, in particular, felt like I was just stretching the joints through the act of jogging.

My watch suddenly beeped to signify that I had crossed mile one. My first mile was 6:47 (4:13 km) and I had plenty of energy to spare. That pace was much faster than my goal pace of 7:30 per mile. I removed my cheap gloves; my body was heating up quickly.

Mile 2 was uphill and I eased my effort a bit more to conserve energy. My game plan involved being conservative for the first 18 miles. I had never never run a full marathon, after all, so I needed to ensure that I finished. My watch beeped and mile 2 ended: 6:51. I knew then that I was going to hit a good overall time, barring an unknown setback.

Miles 3 through 12 involved a series of loping hills through downtown Saint Louis. I accelerated a little while running downhill and slowed while going uphill. My overall pace actually quickened. I was often talking to people, giving spectators fun gestures, and smiling. It felt like I could go all day. I figured this was how I should be feeling for my first marathon.

At mile 12, the half-marathon runners diverged from the marathon runners. This was one of the main challenges of the race: there was no way to really tell who was doing what. We all started together.

If I was initially swimming downstream with an army of fish, then it was as if I and a select few other fish diverged into a much smaller tributary, leaving the half marathon group behind.

Suddenly there were much fewer runners and spectators. What once felt like a festival suddenly got lonely.

Miles 14-16: I had a back-and-forth race with a larger and more muscular man wearing a hydration vest. This is the odd thing about the marathon there are races within the race (makes me think of the movie Inception and its premise of people having dreams within dreams). In t his showdown I would speed up, then he’d speed up, then I’d speed up. Neither wanted to give way. This was probably my biggest mistake of the marathon. Eventually I overtook him and never saw him again, but my victory came at a significant cost that I wouldn’t realize until later.

Miles 17 and 18 were mostly downhill and I accelerated my pace even more, thinking I should take advantage of the downhill miles. This was the second mistake of the marathon. Parts of the legs actually have to work harder to run downhill. Between this move and the race I had with the muscular guy earlier, I would soon be much more fatigued than I planned. My initial plan was to keep my feet on the brakes until after mile 18.

Mile 19 hit as I entered the Saint Louis Arch park. It began with a steep incline into the park. My hamstrings seized almost immediately as I went uphill, and I was shocked that they started to cramp. This can’t be, I thought. I’ve been feeling so good all day. They can’t give way now. In fact, I had never had a leg cramp during a run. I can’t be sure, but I think that my hamstrings paid a price here for my earlier race with the muscular guy.

My stride shortened, my legs tightened, and a runner passed me. I kept running, but my form was deteriorating. I weighed some options in my mind: I could either stop and stretch the legs before continuing, or I could just keep running and hope that the cramping eased.

I decided to keep going. I felt that stopping ran the risk of not being able to start again.

I ran past a large crowd, where several members of my running group cheered for me. This gave me a boost of momentum. I drank a large amount of electrolytes from my hydration belt. Minute by minute, my cramping subsided. I was in the clear. My pace quickened a little. I was okay.

Miles 20 through 26 would be on the Riverfront Trail, where I run every week.

Though my legs never fully regained their freshness, they managed to keep running at a desirable pace. Even during the race I was regretting that earlier battle with the infamous muscular guy. The cost of that small victory was a significant amount of pain in the final miles.

The Riverfront Trail went 3 miles north alongside the Mississippi River, then took a roundabout before returning south, where the marathon finish line waited.

I checked my watch. I was on track for a marathon time that was about 20 minutes faster than I thought I could go. I had to keep running though, and my legs already had one close call.

Another brief-yet-steep hill caused my hamstrings to seize again. I felt the early signs of cramps return. Please, universe, I thought, don’t let me cramp. I want this finish too bad. My range of motion lessened and I felt like I was trotting without bending my knees. I couldn’t stop though; I was too close to the end.

I drank the last of my electrolytes and had my final gel. My pace slowed further and my legs kicked up less. But, after a few minutes of slower running, the cramps somehow eased again. My pace quickened a little and I felt that I was in the clear.

I passed a crowd of volunteers working an aid station. One of them told me I only had two miles to go. I nodded, but refused a water. Hell, I thought, I only have fifteen more minutes. What good will another water do at this point?

I regained a little form and managed to pass a runner with one mile to go. I knew by this point that I was going to make it. I was going to run the entire marathon without stopping. I could feel a burgeoning excitement.

I heard a steady crescendo of cheers as I neared the finish. I left the Riverfront Trail. I was minutes away. The finish was on the other side of an abandoned cluster of buildings. I ran past the buildings and my pace quickened a little more. Some energy returned to me.

I had to continue straight ahead for another quarter mile before turning right. Then I had to run up a steep hill; the finish was at the crest of the hill. What a cruel joke to play on a marathon runner.

As I made that final right turn, I gazed up the hill. I saw the inflatable arch where the course ended. A clock hung from overhead.

It read: “2:59:20.”

I realized that I could break 3 hours in my first marathon if I hurried. I hauled myself up the hill, abandoning all thought, just wanting to cross as quickly as possible. I threw up some “peace” signs for the crowd, to make it look like I wasn’t in severe agony, though I definitely was.

My final time was 2:59:54. I crossed and hunched over. I breathed deeply.

I had just completed my first marathon. I bit my lower lip. Everything hurt and I wanted to cry, not so much from the physical pain as from the emotional triumph. I felt like I had endured enough on this journey. I was hit by a car while cycling. Then I broke my collarbone in yet another cycling crash. Then I was stabbed in the face by a tree branch. I had done my share of “getting back up after a fall.” I needed to stay up as I finished the marathon, and I did. My shoulder, back, and hip have scars from my falls. I removed the stitches from my stab wound the day before the marathon.

And yet there I was, standing past the finish line, a marathon finisher. I closed my eyes. Don’t cry, I thought. Don’t you dare cry.

I walked around for a bit and absorbed the moment. I trained hard for this, so that I could say for the rest of my life that I can run the marathon.

I also realized that my time qualified for the Boston Marathon; it wasn’t part of the plan, but qualifying feels great. I’m definitely planning to attend next year.

I stuck around and watched the other finishers. My girlfriend finished the marathon as well and ran up the finish triumphantly. We experienced our first marathon together, which is icing on the cake. Or maybe it is the cake. Anyways, we finished and half-limped home.

What is the aftermath? A whole lot of soreness coupled with happiness. It’s to say that you did something extremely challenging, something that would involve setbacks along the journey and plenty of reasons to give up, but you pushed through it all and somehow managed to run 26.2 miles without stopping. And to show those close to you that it can be done.

I‘m going to rest for a few weeks and enjoy life. I’ll get back on the bicycle in the next few days.

And in the back of my mind, I’m planning how to make the next marathon even better. You never know when the last one will be, but I hope that was the first of many.

Pre-Marathon Day

Tomorrow is the marathon I’ve been training for through all of 2023: the Saint Louis GO! Marathon.

The training cycle was perfectly imperfect. I liken it to a work of art that has what appears to be a major flaw; ironically it is the flaw that renders it beautiful. The Sistine chapel draws attention because it’s bent. I realize that my own marathon is not comparable to the Sistine chapel. What I mean to say is that the flaws that initially appeared to be major detriments actually ended up helping the bigger picture.

The cycle began shortly after a collarbone break and ended with a face laceration that required stitches. Through the training plan, though, I somehow managed to complete every single run that was listed on my plan. I only missed a run the first week, when my collarbone was still in too much pain to jog. It almost seems ironic that my legs have never felt healthier and I’ve simultaneously never endured more random accidents.

Time showed that the setbacks helped spur motivation. I gained as much from the difficult moments as I did from the “good days.”

On my last group run, which was one week before the marathon, I found myself running uphill through a neighborhood, completely alone. It was shortly after dawn and the sun’s glare was nearly blinding.

I focused my eyes for an instant on the sidewalk beneath me, which was often crooked, broken, and holed. I wanted to be sure that I didn’t roll an ankle. And in that instant I felt something stab me beneath my left eye. I knew immediately the stab wasn’t good.

A few seconds later I realized that I’d been stabbed by a low-hanging and jagged tree-branch. I knew it was bad, but was unsure how bad.

I completed the run, sat in the car, and removed my sunglasses. As I did so, a river of blood poured down my left eye. The stab cut me open just beneath the eye. I knew immediately that the cut would require stitches.

I drove to a nearby Total Access Urgent Care, where a nurse cleaned the wound with saline and stitched it up. The cut ran deep; I could tell that both from the saline’s burn and from my own reflection.

How on earth does one get stabbed by a hanging tree branch? I don’t know, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

It’s important to remember that it could always be worse. I was told that if the tree branch managed to hit the eye, just half an inch higher, I’d likely have lost the eye entirely.

It almost seemed like a fitting closure that my first long run began immediately after healing a collarbone break that resulted from a fallen tree stump, and my last run ended immediately after getting stabbed in the face by a tree.

It seems tree branches and stumps are something to be conscious of going forward.

I’m fine, and this week’s runs felt as I wanted them to. Tomorrow is the marathon. I had my stitches removed this morning, just in time. My legs are fresh and the wound on my face is closed.

Tomorrow I’ll embark on a 26.2 mile run for the first time. To be honest, I’m not nervous: I think it’ll be a good experience.

If there’s one thing my life has prepared me for, it’s to embrace imperfection. I think it’s in an endurance athlete’s nature, or at least the nature of most endurance athletes, to want control over every variable. I learned a long time ago that this is impossible. We aren’t robots, though we want to install ourselves with perfect programming. Our minds are fallible and our bodies are asymmetrical. It’s only through the embrace of the imperfect that we can attain some semblance of peace of mind.

Though this training cycle began and ended with some rare injuries, I believe my run tomorrow will begin and end with a smile.

Running 20 Miles

Today I hit what was probably my best run yet. My coach assigned me a two hour and thirty minute run, with about 45 minutes of it at marathon goal pace. I’m late in my training cycle, which means I’m doing a higher percentage of event-specific work. This equates to a lot more “goal marathon pace” runs.

The run ended up being just over 20 miles (32 km), the longest run of my life. Better yet, it felt pretty good. By pretty good I mean, body parts weren’t straining, tearing, cracking, wobbling, or shutting down, and I also didn’t lose consciousness. I’d be lying if I said I hit mile 20 and said out loud, “damn do I feel great!” So good is a relative description of feeling as far as 20 mile runs go.

Adaptation to long runs is a slow process. I didn’t get to this marker overnight, though it may seem that way since I just started blogging about my running journey. I’ve jogged routine 5ks for years upon years. Last year I finally built up to a half marathon; a marathon is simply the next logical step.

My marathon preparation, like many things, is partly a result of COVID. With everything shut down, I was fortunate to realize the value of being outside. I needed the outdoors because the claustrophobia of being inside with little interaction was suffocating. And what better way to explore the outdoors than to learn how to run and ride a bike?

I felt light on my feet the first two miles and knew pretty early that this would be a good session. By “light on me feet” I mean that a brisk pace (for me) felt effortless. Some days you feel like you’re floating. Others, like you’re Atreyu’s horse from Neverending Story, Artax, drowning in quicksand.

I crossed the Saint Louis Arch around mile 1, descended via an inclined walkway down to the Riverfront Trail below it, and then embarked on what is essentially a long 9 mile stretch north alongside the Mississippi River (and back). There are some brief-yet-steep hills during the first few miles, but the rest of the path is mostly flat.

I remembered to wear sunscreen this time after the pale winter sunlight managed to burn me the week before (courtesy of Nordic ancestors). Three hours later and I see no signs of sunburn, so that’s good. Nothing like telling people you got burned by running on a Saturday morning during winter.

I practiced fueling again; I took one gel before starting the run and an additional four gels during the run, each separated by about three miles. This time I wasn’t hacking my lungs out due to the gels’ gooey substance, so that’s also good.

I averaged sub-7 minute miles on my marathon goal pace, and that’s great for me. Granted, I overdid the effort a little. My ideal pace for a marathon should be about ten seconds per mile slower than what I hit today. I was a little overzealous. Sometimes though, you just need to know your limit and take a risk. I learned that as an elite swimmer. I was glad that I held a steady pace and finished strong.

The final two miles were odd because by the time I returned to the Arch, it was flooded with tourists. Some of them were more than happy to take up the entire walkway while strutting by in large groups without giving so much as an inch of space for a lone runner. They typically do this because they’re staring at their phones while walking. Other tourists would stop and take photos on the “far side” of the walkway so that you inevitably run through their shot.

One angry Karen-like woman who was in the process of taking a photo of the Arch even managed to bark at me while I ran, “Stay out of my shot!” I kept running and smiled. Note that I was on a walkway with nowhere else to go, unless I turned around, which I was definitely not going to do. Also note that the Arch is an inanimate object that will not move an inch within the next century. The “shot” wasn’t exactly going anywhere.

On a side note, if you aren’t sure what a “Karen” is… Wikipedia defines it as “a slang term for a white woman perceived as entitled or demanding beyond the scope of what is normal.”

I believe it’s important to ignore miserable people rather than let them suck you into their abyss of gloom. Emotions are contagious. If you’re happy and have a strong enough reality in which your happiness resides, you’re likely to make a lot of people around you happy. If you engage with anger, you’ll create more anger. That’s just how the universe works, or at least from what I’ve seen. So I deflected the comment and kept running. It was too nice outside to deprive myself of joy. And hey, if you can’t wait two seconds for a runner before taking your precious little photo of an inanimate object made of steel, learning some patience might be of benefit. Just saying.

So I finished my 20 miles and my legs felt thankfully healthy. I’m four weeks away from my first marathon and I can feel the excitement building. I have a goal time, but to be honest, I’ll just be happy to cross the finish. I think that alone will be a remarkable experience.

Marathon Training Update

I’m one month away from running my first marathon. It’s been a journey and I think that I’m adapting to endurance running well.

Last Saturday was my longest run yet—a 19.6 miler (31 km) along the Riverfront Trail near downtown St. Louis. It was a stellar run that I really should be thrilled about (I think at the end I was too tired to be thrilled). The first seven miles were supposed to be relatively easy, followed by another seven-ish miles at marathon race pace. The remaining miles were easy again.

The first seven miles featured some of the breeziest sub-8 minute mile running I’ve done. I felt light and lithe, and the running felt effortless, like I didn’t have to force anything. That’s the best feeling; it erases all mental stress of “hitting a pace right.” As a swimmer, it’s what you hope to feel during warmups before any big race. Thanks to my swimming days, I know that this typically means I’m due for a good day. Note that it isn’t always the case, but it does tend to be.

The seven miles at marathon pace were difficult, and I may have overstrained a little in an attempt to keep the pace under 7 minute miles. However it was also less strenuous than the week before, which is a good sign because the duration was also longer. The week before I had about 4 miles at marathon pace. Next week I should dial back the effort on marathon pace so that it actually resembles my marathon pace. Note to self.

The run took me all the way to the Riverfront park, approximately 9 miles north of my apartment, before I turned around. I was alone on the trail with the exception of a few cyclists. The sun was surprisingly strong, which I didn’t fully grasp until my sunburn settled in afterward.

One thing noteworthy about this run was the accumulated fatigue that became more noticeable in the final miles. Although the final miles were supposed to feel easy, my legs felt heavier and their joints more strained. If I felt like a spring for the first seven miles, I felt like a dump truck full of bricks on the final 5. To me, this is the point of these long runs: to adapt the legs to these distances. The final miles hurt, at least for me. I was a swimmer and before last year, I had never completed a run of more than 5 miles. With each of these long runs I’m literally entering uncharted territory.

The good news is that with each long run, the fatigue hits me at a higher mileage. The first long run introduced me to “leg shutdown” around mile 10. Then 12, then 14, and now 16. So it seems that with each successful long run, I’m afforded an additional two miles before extreme fatigue settles in and slows my pace to a halt. With only a month left, the final two miles of the marathon (26.2 miles) will probably hurt no matter what I do.

The other purpose of these long runs is figuring out how to fuel. I’m a hair shy of 6’5”, which means that I inevitably need more fuel than most people. I’m pretty sure the average marathon runner is a good deal shorter than me. My plan on that last long run was to attempt to digest five gels, as well as about a liter of water. I find that whenever I take more than three gels on a run, the gel’s substance seems to stick a little in the back of my throat, which forces me to cough. On this run I was coughing every minute for the final 9 miles of the run. That’s pretty damn annoying and a sign that I might need a different brand of gels.

The morning after that long run, I had an easy 10-mile jog with my running group. I held pace with little strain, which is also a good sign; it means I rebounded pretty well. I then took Monday off and on Tuesday had a high-intensity session. The main part of that “high intensity” workout involved two 10-minute threshold runs, a recovery, and five 2-minute fast runs. I hit my highest speeds yet. As in, the highest speeds I’ve ever hit in my life. Pretty cool for a dude turning 38 this year. Again, it means I’m not too broken down from endurance running six days per week. I’m in a good position for being a month away from the marathon.

Marathon training has to be a personal journey. The motivation has to be internal because truly I’ve found that people around me generally don’t really give a damn about it. Even if they do, they probably don’t understand the magnitude of what it requires. Most don’t know how many miles a marathon actually is. Some people do care I guess, but really, you have to prepare for a marathon because you love running or it won’t be sustainable.

“Oh, you’re running a marathon? Well don’t get hurt.”

“Why do you want to run that many miles?”

“I can hit that mileage in my car.”

These are the sorts of responses I often get. I could lash back, which the athlete in me often tells me to do. “Don’t get hurt walking up the stairs, wuss.” “I want to run that many miles because I know you can’t.” “Have fun sitting in your car for a lifetime then; I’m sure that’ll keep you healthy.” However to do so would be petty and pointless.

I look to role models like Tom Brady and how he handles his critics. Brady handles every criticism with grace. He shirks off their condescending remarks with a smile and continues doing what he enjoys, critics be damned. He responds with class and consideration. It’s a brilliant way of interacting with opponents. Brady knows that the best way to lash back at an opponent is to show that you aren’t phased by that person. Happiness is the ultimate weapon, and that’s one of the many reasons why Brady always seems to win. Brady’s enemies just can’t bring him down to their level.

One more month and I’ll be scratching “ran a marathon” off the bucket list…

The Long Run

Saturday was my longest run to date: 17.75 miles (28 km), with about 30 minutes of it at my goal marathon pace.

The mind, like the body, can wander to distant places during a run of this duration. I found my own thoughts bouncing between old memories and an acute attention to the present moment.

I ran along the Riverfront Trail and noticed that although the trees are still barren—they stand like an endless army of crooked dead things lining the Mississippi River—there are some animals returning. This is a precursor to spring. I saw some American robins hopping around in the grass, for example. I haven’t seen those little birds in that area for several months, though I’m sure they’re elsewhere in the city.

The second half of this run was against a harsh wind that blew northward. I ran directly south for almost 9 miles to return home. In times like this I suspect it’s less fun to be tall.

I felt fresh at the end and finished my run with plenty of energy remaining in my tank. I try to finish most runs feeling this way. If you deplete your system too severely, you may sacrifice too many future workouts for an exercise to be worthwhile. At times that may be okay: you have to cross your threshold to know your own boundaries. I’ve been beyond those boundaries enough times to have a good balance now. Still, I do find myself willing to cross it on occasion. It can be a nice reminder that I’m alive.

One thing that keeps me running is my appreciation for the running community. Events can barely feel like a competition between people because most runners tend to support one another. I’ve often seen runners who’ve finished ahead of me remain at the finish line, cheering for me and the others as I complete my own journey.

I really enjoy being a part of this sort of culture, especially as someone who primarily runs and bikes for the sake of longevity. It is a competition that elevates everyone and is a far cry from the stereotypical “cutthroat” American work culture competition, in which every victory must come at the expense of another (running is, at its heart, a sort of spirited rebellion against the adult status quo).

This mutual respect and desire to see everyone succeed also makes participation in running events more sustainable, which is exactly what I’m looking for: something to keep my adventures active for decades. Who wants to finish an event feeling both crushed and beaten? Running a distance event is itself a significant victory. Most of your coworkers probably couldn’t dream of walking as far as you just ran. As far as I’m concerned, you are a champion.

While peers hobble around with first-world conveniences and wax nostalgia for “youthful” days in which they moved with vitality, endurance runners seek the most treacherous mountain yet.

I suspect many runners are on similar journeys to me. I see mutual fighters against mortality, people seeking connection with an ancient part of human DNA. A long run therefore stretches to the extremes of past and future. It might be a search for answers to questions that can’t be articulated, and that’s okay: the odds of finding the answer were impossible anyways.

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.

Ice Cold

The Saint Louis air was frigid and dry on Sunday morning. I exited my apartment just before dawn broke and I exhaled a visible plume. I quickly wrapped my arms around my torso and shivered.

The run was through Simpson park, my first run in the area. I noted a river glinting silver to one side of me. The desiccated and barren trees made it seem like something crucial in the park was missing.

I was on a group run but somehow still lost in thought. My mind traced back to a night terror I had several nights prior.

In the dream I was swimming in a mysterious river’s dark waters, against current. Storm clouds gathered suddenly and my stroke rate accelerated, eager to escape the river. Eventually I made it to some shore, where a group of parents stood vigilant.

“Where are the kids?” One of them asked me.

And suddenly in the dream I was a coach, and I was supposed to be leading a team upstream as part of a workout.

The rain pelted everything. Thunder roared. Shadows stretched. Panicked, I jumped back in the river in search of the athletes. One by one, I started to find them. I woke up wracked with guilt.

I don’t know what the dream meant, if anything, but I find it interesting that I’ve had several memorable dreams about rivers over the past few weeks.

I finished the group run feeling fresh, which was a surprise. The day before was the longest run I’d ever completed: 16.9 miles (27 km). The fresh feeling in my legs was a good signifier that I’m adapting to longer distances.

Looking ahead, I am signed up for a running event on Saturday, a 15k run. I have it in me to run faster than I ever have before if I choose to push myself, and that’s exciting; improvement usually is. I’m not sure, however, that it’s competition that engages me with running. I think I’m running because it has been some sort of act of self-healing. I’m feeling steadily more rejuvenated. Through the act of running I see potential longevity.

There is something about the imperfection of an outdoor run that makes it perfect. It’s always too hot, too cold, too windy, too rainy, or includes too many hills. I realize through outdoor endurance exercise how little control I have over the universe. My lack of control is somehow freeing. A surfer can’t catch anything good by fighting against the current, but rather has to take what is given, even if it’s almost nothing. Similarly I can’t have a good run by exerting beyond my limits, and I can only fight snow and ice so much. It’s a game of patience. There’s a brief period of time in the day for some runs, and then a whole lot of waiting between the gaps.

Life happens between those gaps.

Healing Bones

I had my followup visit to the Orthopedic this week. I’m in what I would consider the “later stages” of healing a broken collarbone.

I was told that the bone is about 80% healed. The x-rays still show some hairline fractures that need to close, but the actual break is callused and together. There is some pain, and still some range of motion to restore, but the trajectory is positive.

I’m continuing with another six weeks of physical therapy (two times per week, one hour per session). I’ll also continue with my at-home exercises. I anticipate feeling near 100% within a few weeks.

I’ve realized over the past two months one brutality of civilization: it doesn’t wait for a broken bone to heal. The work doesn’t stop, nor do the chores or daily obligations. The journey towards reclaiming your health can be a lonely one: no one fully understands your battle as you do.

I may participate in a group run, for example, but no one else would realize that a cold gust of wind can penetrate my bone and cause deep pain. Nor would they know that I spent the previous 8 weeks just trying to make my right arm operational.

It is the same with the little struggles I’ve had. It was more than a month before I could physically tie my own shoes, drive a car, and lift an object over my head. Putting on clothes was a struggle, as was showering. It’s amazing just how much you can lose when just one bone breaks.

That’s how it should be though. That’s life. We have things to shoulder and always will. If everyone and everything around me stopped because I was in pain, there would be no obstacle to overcome, and therefore no triumphant feeling when the journey out of pain is finally complete.

Sometimes the only option is to embrace the maelstrom.

The Pain Debate

A few days ago I watched a runner struggle to complete an 8-mile run due to what appeared to be severe knee injuries. As a result of her injuries she ran nearly straight-legged, as though her legs were stilts. Watching this run made me wince. I still don’t know how it’s even possible to run without bending your knees at all.

It is often a mistake, I think, to label “pushing through injury” a virtue. For many, though, pushing through pain is not only a virtue, it is a badge of honor. I do wonder if it is linked to the post-Industrial quest for something better in the distance, a quest that requires an eternal struggle for more.

Pushing forward in spite of injury rarely if ever improves anything. Doing so is often the equivalent of jogging on a high-speed treadmill, or jogging underwater in the midst of a powerful ocean current. Any attempt to move forward will just throw you back more violently.

I think of a story that I read in the book The Way of the Ultrarunner. A Kenyan runner was brought to England in order to run, and hopefully win, an ultramarathon event. At the event he was comfortably in the lead with over half of the race complete when he suddenly stopped. He grinned and didn’t appear to be in pain. When asked why he stopped he replied, “I hurt my toe.”

His sponsors could barely contain their fury. Hurt his toe? Of all the things elite athletes have powered through over the years… why would an established marathon runner stop for a sore toe? Yet his fellow Kenyan runners praised him. They saw the good in prioritizing and cherishing his body.

In the debate between which is better, I lean towards the Kenyan runner’s approach. I think back to two incidents from my adolescence:

In the first incident I was at a high school swimming practice. In the middle of a long swim I developed what felt like a severe stitch in my side. It was piercing to the point that I struggled to breathe. I stopped swimming and climbed out of the pool. An assistant coach was running the practice and quickly barked at me to resume the workout. I left the pool anyways. I trusted my instinct, which told me that something was wrong.

“Just get in the water, it’s nothing you can’t toughen out,” he kept saying.

Though he was furious, I felt that I did the right thing. It can be difficult when a figure of authority has a conflicting opinion to your own, especially when you’re young. Yet life is short and health is shorter still. What if the issue was catastrophic? Is finishing a boring swim practice worth permanent injury?

In the second incident I was a bit older. During a high school flag football game, I took a nasty fall on my elbow while sprinting. A golfball-sized swelling developed on the elbow and I could not bend it for several days. I do recall seeing a doctor for it. Eventually, after the swelling eased a little, I was pressured to compete at a swim meet, though the elbow had not fully healed. It still didn’t bend without pain. Yet I felt immense pressure to compete from all sides; in fact, I don’t think there was a single voice in my ear telling me not to compete.

I did reluctantly compete through the injury, and in retrospect I regret doing so. The elbow healed, but the muscle healed a bit oddly around the bone, and now there is a popping sensation, albeit a painless one, each time I bend the arm. It was not until recently that I visited an Orthopedic who assured me that although the injury healed a bit oddly, it would never cause an issue (just a harmless “pop”).

And what if the injury did not heal well? How much would I have regretted giving into social pressure and competing through my injury then?

You often walk a fine line when deciding whether to exercise through pain. You can feel immense pressure from both peers and from time itself. Maybe there is a marathon in two months and you suddenly develop an ache in your right knee. Do you run through it? Do you find a method of strength training to address what might be a physical deficiency causing the injury? Do you make a change to your technique that potentially minimizes the chance of the injury worsening?

Whatever you do, I believe there is virtue in erring on the side of caution. There is a time to maximize effort, and it’s not when you’re injured. You cannot opt to return to a routine that caused your pain in the first place. It is pointless to resume the activity that caused your injury without at least first evaluating whether you can make an adjustment that may prevent recurrence.

I admittedly find caution to be difficult. I often want to challenge myself. I often have a little voice inside my head saying, “If you can just overcome that pain in that one little part of your body, you can make it.” Admittedly, I’ve also had instances where I pushed through an injury that was fairly severe (and paid for it for months afterwards).

My own history has shown me that caution rewards more than risk when it comes to injury. Hopefully I can find the courage to stop myself on a run in the event of a hurt toe.

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.

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.

Braving the Cold

Much of the United States had a record cold temperature this week and a blizzard to compliment it. It was a rare “white Christmas”, one of the few that I’ve experienced.

I embarked on long runs on both Christmas Eve and Christmas in spite of brutally cold temperatures and icy conditions. The ground was coated with ice and powdery snow, and the winds were harsh, but I ran regardless.

To many this probably seems reckless. My broken collarbone is still healing, and the cold seems to dig into the bone itself. The slightest gust of wind triggered pain where the break once was. It was an uncomfortable sensation that I hope isn’t permanent.

I risked falling again because I find myself needing the movement. I was cautious though; I ran at a slower pace than usual and slowed to a near-halt when the ground looked slick. I didn’t fall, though on a few turned corners I slid a little.

I continue with my physical therapy. If all goes well, I only have three more weeks. My physical therapist was shocked yesterday at my fast rate of healing. Of course there are still issues, but for only having been seven weeks since the collarbone break, my arm is doing well. I’m raising the arm over my head comfortably now, lifting light objects, and opening heavy doors without fear. I’ll be back on the bicycle very soon.

We can only change so much. I was the sort of kid that saw a hill and mostly wondered how fast I could sprint down it, and the attempt often involved a fall. If I am being honest, when I see hills I still think the same way. Whether on a run or a bike ride, there is a need for speed that I can rarely tame.

I have three prominent new scars from the last bike crash. The most severe scar is on the right shoulder; it will never vanish completely. That crash saw me land on the right shoulder, which is what caused the collarbone to snap. I will start putting vitamin E oil on the scar to minimize the appearance. The other scars are on my right hip and leg. It was initially fearful that I broke three bones: my collarbone, hip, and right femur. However, only the collarbone actually broke. The other bones were severely bruised but stayed intact.

A colleague once told me that I was insane for cycling in cold weather. Exercising in the cold, however, is laughably easy if you have the right apparel. I had to bite my lower lip to prevent a harsh response. I think it’s insane to let the body languish without movement and natural sunlight “because it’s a little cold outside.” It’s even more insane to avoid doing something that you enjoy. Cold is just discomfort; there’s nothing crazy about being willing to experience discomfort. Without discomfort there is no adaptation, and an organism that refuses to adapt will perish under the slightest of disturbances.

Intentional discomfort is not the norm in modern culture. The norm is office cookies, heated car seats, social media grandstanding, and fake pleasantries. Some of these things may be harmless in small doses, but all are crippling as “norms.” None of these strengthen you (maybe cookies if you are preparing for hibernation).

I ran a total of 18 miles (29 km) between Christmas Even and Christmas alone. It isn’t the most I’ve ever run in two days, but considering the harsh weather we’ve had, I think it’s enough. I built up my mileage a little too quickly, which caused a shin splint in my right leg about two weeks ago, but fortunately this splint seems to be subsiding now. I am pretty well acquainted with pain at this point. A splint is the least of my worries.

“Swimming would be very good for your collarbone and shoulder when you’re ready,” my physical therapist told me. “It will help you get your strength and range of motion back.”

I haven’t swam much the last few years, but I do think it will help me regain my range of motion.

In the meantime, I’ll continue running in the cold.

Loss Aversion

We hate what we lose more than we love what we win.

This generalization of the human mind has been proven on a neurological level. Through evolution, our neurotransmitters have become wired so that the hatred of losing outweighs the love of winning. This was pivotal thousands of years ago in preserving our species. If dwelling in a cave, you must protect your very finite resources, which is far more important than risking limbs for another banana.

I find myself spending upwards of one hour each day rehabilitating my broken collarbone. I have physical therapy twice each week. Whatever exercises are assigned to me to complete at home are completed both in the morning and at night. I find myself obsessed with getting something back that I once had. The thought of losing complete mobility is unacceptable.

I do not think it’s the thought of winning anything that motivates me. I think it’s the fear of losing the complete mobility I once had in my right arm. I do feel confident that at some point, the mobility will return.

On my first day of physical therapy, my arm could not rise to a 90 degree angle. Currently it is comfortably rising to 145 degrees. So, it’s getting better. The difference isn’t tangible in days, but it is in weeks.

In truth, “100%” is a constantly changing target, which makes it difficult to gauge in the first place. Regardless of how well things heal, my 100% at age 37 will be different from my 100% at age 16. Biologically, I am different. My 100% at age 60 will likewise be different. It may not be better or worse: it will just yield different results.

A blizzard is creeping towards Saint Louis. With it, the temperature will be 0 F (-17 C). Winds will lash city concrete, brick, mortar, and metal at upwards of 30 mph (48 mph). With the windchill, it will be as cold as -25 F (-32 C).

My logical brain tells me to stay inside and avoid frostbite. My risk appetite makes me want to brave the streets and to take the risk, in order to prevent a loss of running fitness. The solution, maybe, is somewhere in the middle of two extremes.

Losing hurts, and I’ve lost many times in 37 years. I think of those losses still, though I don’t obsess over them. The past is already written after all, whereas the future is a blank page. For example, I almost won the NCAAs in 2008 in the 200 yard freestyle, but I was passed in the final yards. For many it was my defining race, something to cherish; after all, I was faster than American-record pace at the halfway mark. When my mind replays this race, though, it doesn’t think back on it as fondly: it searches for ways that I could have won. Loss aversion even affects memories. The blessing here is that I have always had a motivating memory to keep me moving.

I will continue to lose: it is a part of life. Losing is not dying though, as my continued existence has proven. Maybe it’s just a lesson to value what we still have and enjoy it. Maybe it’s a motivational tool to just keep going after a difficult loss. Losing often propels us forward.

If we don’t finish our first attempt at a marathon, for example, we’ll need something to get back up and reattempt the run. The hatred of having failed must be enough to make us want to try again.

And it’s always worthwhile to get back up.