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?

Winter Run

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fall Ride to Riverfront Trail with Mission Workshop Apparel/Bag

I took my gravel bike and some new Mission Workshop apparel on a fall ride along the Riverfront Trail (about 24 miles/38 km total). It was a cool 38 degrees F (3 degrees C) but I felt warm (without overheating). Mission Workshop products are on the pricey end, but made of high quality materials. They tend to last.

Mission Workshop

Bitter Nostalgia

I’ve spent a good portion of the last month feeling nostalgic. I’m nostalgic more for a feeling than for a period of time. Specifically, I find myself pining for the awe and wonder that youths feel when gazing at everyday things that we adults glance over. Awe for nature stales with time, and in its place stands our endless agendas. The act of stepping on an acorn, once an incredible feet, is just a smudge on the shoe. To go back…

I went to an amusement park last weekend. Six Flags Saint Louis. I’ve always liked rollercoasters. This may seem strange to those who know me because I am prone to get intense motion sickness. I’ve puked on a lot of rides over the years. I’ve vomited on my brother enough times that he won’t ride with me anymore. Those who join me at amusement parks either find this to be hilarious or disgusting, or both. If you’ve ridden a rollercoaster with me and I haven’t puked on you, I was probably close. You probably either loved it or hated it, or both.

I don’t know why I keep getting on rollercoasters. I guess I just like being upside down that much. They always throw my insides into disarray, and I keep returning to them regardless.

It was the same last weekend. I arrived at the park and quickly chowed down a funnel cake, then rushed to “The Batman”, a feature rollercoaster at the park. I would describe it as one minute of organ discombobulation. I was already sick halfway through the ride, and was unable to do much for an hour afterward. Damn, it was fast though.

Then my stomach got a little better, and I rushed to another ride, and then another. And finally my stomach had had enough. It had capitulated. “Ride one more damn rollercoaster and I will puke everywhere,” it told me. So that was enough for the day.

Yes, it’s cool being upside down. But the amusement park also taught me that not all nostalgia is good nostalgia. A lot of the magic I experienced as a kid at the park was gone. In its place I saw reality. Overpriced food that makes you feel like crap, hours of waiting in line while amassed by a putrid human stench, games designed to steal your money for prizes that will get thrown away at some point anyways. I guess amusement parks aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

Not all nostalgia is good. Sometimes it’s okay to grow up and see the truth. I still long for the eyes I once had that could stare enraptured at a simple flower or cloud for hours. But I don’t long for the feeling of being captivated by an amusement park.

Halloween month at Six Flags