The Quest for More

Upon reflection, I most often find myself feeling broken by my own quest for more. It can seem like I am trapped within a Sisyphean fate; each acquisition is a larger stone to push. No purchase has patched the void that started the quest for more.

The fire that lights my hell is therefore the notion that I do not have enough.

A feeling of inadequacy transmutes into a craving for something better.

This craving for something better pries open the wallet, for the sake of better days ahead.

The opening of the wallet compels the purchaser to work the hours he or she would rather be idling.

It is difficult to reverse this sick pathology, which is so well-engrained in consumerism.

At the core of my quest for more I see that there is a social element to suffering.

When fully engrained in consumerism, I compare myself to others and vie for what they have, or for more than what they have. It is the dark side of the competitor. The sense of “enough” is therefore not internal. I adhere to the perceived expectations of others, and the expectations of consumers is always to have more. So I acquire more, which requires more labor, which curtails freedom and cripples the mind.

At the same time, I sense that the “old me” is still alive, which means that there is still hope to say “enough.”

I hope to eliminate “lack” from my vocabulary.

Donations

I donated my single-speed State Bicycle yesterday. Ridding the bike was probably overdue; it was essentially my starter bike. At the time of purchase I figured it was a bike that could get me anywhere, and in a sense it did. I logged hundreds of miles on it, maybe thousands. That’s some serious pedaling on a single-speed bike.

It was a poorly fitting bike. The store employees warned me so when I purchased it. I bought it anyways out of desperation for a bicycle; bikes my size were rare in the pandemic era.

“This isn’t your ideal fit. If we give the fit a letter grade, it would be a B minus or C.”

As my mileage increased over the last year, a nascent lower back pain also spread and worsened. The pain increased to a point last week in which I was barely able to ride after a few minutes of pedaling. And that was in spite of rarely using it (my primary bike is my gravel bike). I found myself constantly having to “stand” on the bike and “stop for stretches.” The pain would linger after the ride. Last week it was severe enough that even sitting upright caused severe pain.

In a nutshell, the bike had to go. Cycling isn’t supposed to be about fighting a crippling back pain. I’ve had enough injuries this year already and spent my share of time in physical therapy!

I decided to donate the bike because it wasn’t that costly in the first place (it’s a State Bicycle 4130 that had already been through a crash, which caused some damage). Plus, someone might need it… who knows. And hopefully it fits that person better than it fit me. I figured I’d find more meaning from giving the bike to someone in need than than I would from selling the bike. So I dropped it off at a donation center and said goodbye.

I can’t say I’ll miss the bicycle, though I’ll remember it was the bike that “started my new journey.” The back pain was too severe for me to miss the bicycle. The crash was too traumatic.

It was the bicycle, after all, that I was riding when I was hit by a car last summer. I’d still get flashbacks when I rode it. I prefer not to think about that moment.

I have a new bicycle, and I had it professionally fitted at the bike shop this time. I do believe now that having a professional give a “thumbs up” on a bike fit and make some detailed adjustments is worth the time and cost. Having a quality bicycle is also worth the cost for someone who is becoming increasingly obsessed with cycling!

The new bike is a Giant Defy Advanced. It seems ready to handle thousands upon thousands of miles in the upcoming years. More details in the future…

Cyclical

I find it fascinating that my indoor plants have an innate understanding of seasons. In spite of their environs’ artificial temperature and a routine watering that’s ambivalent to seasons, they bloom in spring, as if on cue. They operate on a cycle and know the start and stop points of that cycle, even if fully removed from the weather conditions outside the window they sit behind.

It leads me to wonder how much of our own behavior is innate and how much of our own thoughts, feelings, and actions are cyclical. I suspect the unconscious mind dictates more of my own actions and thoughts than I’d care to admit.

How much of me is on autopilot?

This year’s spring has felt delayed. I’m not sure I believe it even started. It was snowing last Friday at a time when I would expect to be out in shorts and a tee shirt. Still, it’s notably greener outside. There is change in the air.

Regarding change, they say we become more bound to our habits as we age. “He’s stuck in his ways” is a popular way to describe it. To be stuck in my ways is my greatest fear. I’d rather be a plant with new flowers each spring.

With each year I find that change requires more discomfort. Change becomes difficult. We want to believe we’ve mastered this thing called life, and therefore being a novice ironically becomes more terrifying. We want to be proven right. We want to be complacent and have nothing more to struggle with. At least I do.

Despite that innate yearning to be done changing, I aim to be a permanent novice. That requires routinely starting with nothing. It requires a lot of winters leaving you with barren branches. Yet that’s what’s required to grow flowers.

I hope the continuous effort to renew myself is worthwhile. I need movement, change, and paradigm shifts. I need to learn from other people. That means I should often be proven wrong and I should often acknowledge that I was proven wrong.

It means looking back on old blogs and cringing, but also acknowledging why I’m cringing and being able to articulate how I’m different now.

Who knows, maybe I’ll gain some wisdom from the whole ordeal.

Degreaser

I had a flat tire in the exact middle a long bike commute last Friday. There was a mix of sleet and freezing rain pattering down on me. I found myself especially fidgety due to being forced to change the tire in a dangerous location.

Changing the tire was a messy affair. My bibs were covered in bike grease by the end of it. Due to my shakiness I severely cut my left thumb and it continued bleeding for more than 24 hours afterwards. When I returned home, the inside of my left glove was wet and syrupy due to all the bleeding through the remainder of the ride.

I washed the bibs several times but it wasn’t enough to remove 100% of the grease. I have to live with the rest.

My thumb will scar; it’s quite a hot mess.

Still, there was a confidence boost from having managed to change the tire in what most would consider miserable conditions. I managed to bike to my destination. After arrival someone remarked, “In this weather? How in the hell!?” Maybe I just like pain too much.

I also have an unhealthy perfectionist in me that I need to eradicate. This side of me finds living with stained bibs, or stained anything for that matter, difficult. At the same time, that’s life, and my own journey at the moment requires that I learn to live with imperfection. I have enough scars that you’d think I’d be over this by now. Our clothes stain. Our skin scars. Everything new degrades with time. Life moves on. Fighting degradation is a losing battle, so you might as well embrace it.

We are perfectly imperfect, as the saying goes. A grease stain is a reminder of where I was, a memory of a unique struggle. Maybe a little grease and a little scar tissue deserve to follow me after the act.

Another Place and Time

I believe that the best songs transport you to another place and time.

Your destination upon listening might be the place and time in which you first heard the song. It might awaken what you were thinking, feeling, and experiencing upon first listen. In this sense the song is constantly an automatic time transport back to the first listen. It is an echo of a moment in which you may have seen and felt the world differently.

The song may just capture the feeling of a specific moment, hour, day, or year in your life. The melodies remind you of thoughts and emotions from that era. Maybe it’s a moment you’re nostalgic for. Maybe it’s someone you pined for. Maybe it’s an angry metal song that evokes teenage rebellion.

Today I listened to Helvetesfönster by Ghost and it brought me back to a day in high school. Suddenly I was on a science class field trip to Paramount Carowinds theme park with my classmates. Or was it Bush Gardens? I took trips to both in high school and now have difficulty distinguishing the specifics of each. It was more than twenty years ago. I have a strong memory, but memories do fade.

This was before cell phones and smart devices. It was a time when one only accessed the Internet via a slow dial-up connection, when companies didn’t track us via the gadgets in our pockets.

I was content to sit and stare at the passing wilderness that walled each side of the road. I thought about how there was something special in that moment, sitting and staring, surrounded by peers who also sat and stared. I thought that our youth would end before we knew it, that we’d all move on and many of us would forget about each other, that we’d vie for good jobs and social status, and that ultimately we’d lose what made us genuine, if we were ever genuine to begin with. We’d have families and become consumed by their relevance. We’d have money and be consumed by its investment potential. We’d become what Holden Caulfield called “phonies” if we weren’t phonies already. We’d be fully absorbed by the rush of it all. We’d never again just be glad to sit and stare.

Sitting in absolute silence while a song plays and watching trees whir by a window somehow made the modern world’s anxieties seem trivial.

One of my favorite songs, Like a Stone by Audioslave, played on that bus ride. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard the song, but the song was relatively new at the time. It seemed fitting to think about life while listening to a song about death. That was when we were capable of just listening to a song, when songs weren’t a means of multitasking or a drug for numbing our hatred of a moment pressing down on us.

Like a dream within a dream, I was listening to a song within a song, and it felt nice to return to a simpler time.

I wish to turn off the noise and just listen to a song again.

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.

The Cost of Energy

I pedal up a steep incline five miles north of the Gateway Arch. A wild flock of turkey loiters ahead in a grassy patch. A harsh wind rocks me from the side and I feel my bike teeter in response. Winter seems to have extended its shadow far beyond its form.

The relevant debate these days is over the most efficient form of energy. Energy affects a lot of costs, but most conversation focuses on the cost of a motor vehicle. Gas prices are soaring, after all. People need energy for transportation, and the need for energy renders them powerless to the price at the gas pump. And in the debate, said energy must be nuclear or green.

My legs renew themselves constantly on this 30-mile Saturday ride. I summit another hill and I catch my breath as I pedal lightly. I sprint for a brief stretch, just for the heck of it, maybe seeking my long-lost inner child, and I coast afterwards. I fatigue and then recover. Rinse and repeat. Endorphins flood me at the finish. I feel a rush of excitement as I arrive at the Chain of Rocks bridge. Adventure is always optional.

My body’s energy moves me forward. Thanks to being a homosapien I can scale long distances (we have some of the most efficient cardiovascular systems on the planet).

That is not to say that cars don’t have a place in the world. Not everyone can ride a bicycle; it is fortunate to have the opportunity and shouldn’t be taken for granted. Yet car ownership is brutally abused by culture, which has led to some unnecessary obsession over gas prices.

Still, I don’t ride a bike to “save money on gas.” It’s just what I prefer; it’s more fun.

I finish my bike ride and in my fatigue there is a sense of strengthening, of knowing that muscles first need to tear in order to strengthen.

San Francisco: City and Coast

I drove a few miles north of San Francisco to absorb the breathtaking views of the Northern California coast. I had been far removed from the ocean for a long period of time, which can cause a rebound of relief upon returning to the coast. The Pacific breeze was steady and harsh.

I enjoyed clambering down the rocky cliffs edging the beach and walking along the sand; in spite of the freezing water, there were a number of surfers in wetsuits.

I do believe that Northern California has some of the most incredible geography on the planet; it’s rare to have the ocean, mountains, and a bustling city within such close proximity to each other.

After returning to San Francisco I walked along the pier near Union Square and ate a good dinner.

It can feel like pandemonium for someone not used to a city of its magnitude; traffic is a constant assemblage of skateboarders, cyclists, and car drivers. Still, I was constantly impressed by the cycling community in the city and the cyclists’ ability to mount some very steep hills.

San Francisco and Mission Workshop

I followed my Sonoma County visit with two days in San Francisco. I stayed at Union Square downtown, which is considered one of the must-see areas of the city.

I started the morning with breakfast at Honey Honey Cafe & Crepery, where I had some excellent breakfast crepes and coffee. I then took a two-mile walk through the city en route to visit my favorite company, Mission Workshop. They’re based in San Francisco, but I had been ordering products online from them for a long time.

Mission Workshop specializes in bags and technical apparel. I find their craftsmanship to be top-notch and it’s an added bonus that their weatherproof bags are made in America. That’s a pretty rare thing these days. Their technical apparel tailors toward an active lifestyle, with a strong emphasis on cycling.

I had the pleasure of meeting Darius, who is managing the shop. We had an awesome conversation in which we talked about how cycling can be a way of life and a means to connect people. One of the several things that drew me to San Francisco, after all, is its strong cycling community. I also enjoyed hearing about how the Mission Workshop crew vigorously tested a lot of their cycling apparel through a wide array of weather conditions.

While I was at the store I picked up the Mission Workshop long sleeve cycling jersey. It has a cool and soft next-to-skin feel and seems capable of handling a wide range of temperatures. The jersey’s aesthetic and materials are both of the highest quality. I’m stoked to see Mission Workshop putting out some fun new colors as well.

Hopefully I can return to the Mission Workshop store before too long; it’s awesome to see a small company that’s willing to put so much emphasize on quality with their products, especially in an Amazon-driven world.

After visiting the Mission Workshop store I ate lunch at Tacolicious on Valencia street. Their housemade chorizo tacos were especially awesome.

If you ever visit San Francisco I highly recommend checking out the Mission Workshop store. There’s truly nothing comparable in the apparel industry that I’ve found!

Armstrong State Park and the Redwoods

After driving south from Healdsburg and through the Russian River Valley, my route was towards a mountain pass near the pacific coast. The route was vertiginous, topsy-turvy, and I occasionally caught glimpses of the Russian river at the nadir of the valley to my left.

We made a stop at the Armstrong State Park and hiked there to see the famous Redwood trees. Many of them are over a thousand years old, having lived through fallen empires and regimes, famines and diseases, and who knows how many extinctions of species. They can tower over 300 feet and require the Pacific’s wet and temperate climate to survive.

Walking through this forest is an ethereal experience. The forest is also known for its “banana slugs,” but sadly I didn’t find any.

Sonoma Wineries: The Caves

Bella Vineyards offers wine tasting in a cave. It’s much farther north in Dry Creek valley than the vineyards I visited the day before and pretty well tucked away. I drove through gentle green slopes and crossed what seemed like countless vineyards on the way. Though the day high was supposed to be 87 F, the morning was cool.

I may be a convert to Zinfandels now. They are more robust than Pinot Noirs and seem to assault the tastebuds more quickly with their fruity flavors. They’re also sort of a paradox, because though the initial taste is heavy with fruit, the wine has a dry finish.

Dry Creek is one of the best valleys on the planet for growing Zinfandels. Some of the vines in the region are more than a century old.

One of my favorites at the tasting was the dessert Zinfandel (I didn’t know such a thing exists), so I bought a bottle. From what I understand (and sorry if I’m butchering winemaking 101, experts), a dessert “Zin” (this seems to be the lingo people use these days) is harvested relatively late and the grapes are then picked late in the season, which allows more of the sugar to process. Maybe I’m totally wrong on this; I’m going based on what my host said when I was more focused on my tastings.

Regardless of how it’s made, the dessert Zinfandel at Bella Vineyards is very good.

Next up for the day was Truett Hurst Winery, which is closer to the Dry Creek vineyards I visited the day before.

It was truly a Zinfandel kind of day, though I also tried an excellent Chardonnay at Truett Hurst. After finishing off the tasting I wandered through their farm; there were a few goats grazing in the area.

Sonoma Wineries: Dry Creek

Papapierto Perry winery sits on a hill overlooking Dry Creek Valley, which is a prime location for growing Zinfandels thanks to its scorching summers.

I sat within the winery’s patio shade and sipped Pinot Noirs on a cool and breezy afternoon. All of the Pinots were great but their 2019 Perry and 2019 Nunes bottles were standouts. As stated in a previous blog, I’m no connoisseur, but I definitely tasted hints of raspberry and oak in both bottles. These wines also paired excellently with dark chocolate.

Dry Creek Vineyards is about a mile from Papapierto and is better known for its Zinfandels (though I also tried an excellent Chardonnay here). We sat in their picnic area and absorbed a healthy dose of sunlight (enough to burn my arms in just one hour). I can’t say that I’m quite a Zinfandel convert, but I was impressed with the precision and care put forth in their winemaking.

After finishing off these wines I ate a good pizza in downtown Healdsburg at PizZando and took a long walk through downtown.

Northern California has a strong cycling community that never ceased to impress me. The infrastructure allows it; cycling can easily become a way of life out here.

Sonoma Wineries - Windsor and Russian River Valley

Notre Vue Vineyards

Notre Vue sits on a bluff overlooking Windsor. The afternoon sun was bright but mild; it left a light sunburn on my nose.

This vineyard made me realize that I’m not exactly a wine connoisseur, though I love the taste. Upon tasting the first Chardonnay I stated, “I’m definitely registering a certain buttery flavor.” I then overheard the hostess say to a nearby table that their Chardonnay lacked the signature buttery taste known for the wine. Okay, so I’m not an expert.

Their Pinot Noirs were excellent and the view overlooking Sonoma was breathtaking. The wine drinking, coupled with a tasty charcuterie board, left me feeling lethargic but content.

The pizza I had afterwards made me feel even more lethargic, and consequently even more content.

Matrix Vineyards

We drove north through Healdsburg (a beautiful little town between Russian River Valley and Dry Creek Valley, rife with tasty restaurants and shops), then rounded south into the Russian River Valley to Matrix Vineyards. They have some award winning Pinot Noirs; let me just say that I hadn’t really tasted Pinots until I visited Sonoma. The winery sits adjacent to a resplendent little pond. Green rolling hills follow in the distance. I watched various birds while I drank, including hummingbirds and cranes.

I found it interesting listening to our host tell us about why vineyards (at least for these grapes) must sit on a slanted hill. I don’t recall the reason; I was a little tipsy by this point if I’m being honest. I also enjoyed listening to why the best Pinots were grown in the Russian River valley. It has to do with the region’s diverse climate; steady fogs, cool Pacific winds, cold nights, and hot summers. Pinot is difficult to grow.

Most wineries in Sonoma require a reservation before visiting. While this may seem like an annoyance, it adds an added layer of space and intimacy with your environs.

At night we ate in Healdsburg and walked around the downtown center.

I could spend a year in this region without getting bored!

Northern California: Wine and Fog

Two days in Sonoma County have done wonders to revitalize me from an excess of screen staring and arbitrary work. Tomorrow I’ll watch whales swim through the Pacific Ocean and hike through the famous redwood trees at the Armstrong State Park.

I landed in San Francisco and greeted my girlfriend on Saturday afternoon (she arrived two days earlier). For a city of its size I was impressed by its architectural cleanliness. The weather was chilly and a light fog sifted through the downtown buildings. An intermittent rain tapped my windshield as I drove through downtown. Even when rainy I find Northern California to be beautiful.

Driving up to Sonoma County and tasting the wines made in the region is an experience I’d like to freeze in time. I’d never been exposed to wines of this quality before. Northern California is the best wine region in the world.

My body can’t metabolize alcohol like it used to and that’s okay. Two tastings is more than enough these days. I’ll enjoy what I can.

I find it interesting just how much has to go right to properly ferment grapes, particularly Pinot Noirs, which are popular in the Russian River valley. Even fog plays a vital role in these grapes.

A fog creeps over the valley from the Pacific Ocean and simultaneously cools the grapes and maintains their proper acidity. It prolongs their growth thanks to an added protection from the sun. Pinot Noirs only grow under conditions that are particularly difficult to maintain.

One of my favorite movies, Sideways, has a famous monologue about Pinot Noirs that I’ve been thinking about. The film’s protagonist is an especially conflicted and wounded human being and shares a soul connection with the grape and the extreme demands that it requires to blossom.

Like the movie’s protagonist, I share a soul connection with Pinot Noir. We are who we are. We should embrace it. Quoted in the film:

“It’s a hard grape to grow, as you know. It’s thin-skinned, temperamental. It’s not a survivor like Cabernet that can grow anywhere and thrive even when neglected. Pinot needs constant care and attention, you know? And in fact it can only grow in these really specific, little, tucked away corners of the world. And, and only the most patient and nurturing of growers can do it, really. Only somebody who really takes the time… to understand Pinot’s potential… can then coax it into its fullest expression.”

Maybe I’m a pinot noir. Or maybe I’ll find out tomorrow that I have more in common with Zinfandel. Still, the pinot noirs out here are the best I’ve tasted. It will be difficult to downgrade my palate; tasting wine in Northern California feels like home.

Here’s to my favorite grape.

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.

Weekly Plunder: Week 27 - “Darkness at the Heart of My Love”

After successfully completing a 5-mile run at a St. Patrick’s Day event yesterday, I find myself quietly content. It was the fastest run of my life. That, for a 36-year-old coming off of a severe foot injury, is unexpected. There were a few months last year following the car hit where I wondered if I’d ever run again. I paid a physical therapist for multiple sessions per week through December and January out of desperation; my foot is finally functional again.

I am preparing for a 30-ish mile bike ride this morning. Though the competition yesterday was fun (to be honest, I find competition to be utterly intoxicating), I no longer find myself at an age where I yearn to “chase an athletic pinnacle.” I’m not training; I’m preparing for a quiet few hours along the river. I’ll see the same flock of geese that I encounter multiple times per week. They recognize me now, I think, because as I pass, they regard me with a near-rude nonchalance. They used to fly away. Now they keep loitering about in place.

If there is enough time when I return, I’ll skateboard a little, and do so badly. Something about having hobbies that you suck at is invigorating.

I am “in the game” now not to “beat people,” but for a splash of sunshine and to reenact a recurring dream, that as I ride over the Chain of Rocks bridge that takes me across the Mississippi River, I’ll keep riding into a spirit world, never to be seen or heard from again. I aim to be lost in time, to let this day feel like an eternity, to exist only in the now.

I have a strong relationship with the bicycle because my body is its gas, my legs are its pistons, and my hands are practically laced together with its brakes. It is a unique symbiosis of human and machine. There is also a darkness at the heart of my love; each pedal forward is, I must admit, a fight against my own mortality. At the heart of all love one can find a dose of darkness.

What I’m watching: Servant, season 3. I was intrigued by the first two seasons of this M. Night Shyamalan series, but I find season 3 to be repetitive. It has its moments but I can’t say I’m enraptured.

What I’m reading: The Midlife Cyclist by Phil Caves. This is more about embracing one’s “second life” than it is about cycling (but it does have some useful cycling tips).

What I’m listening to: “The Darkness at the Heart of My Love” by Ghost. Impera, the new Ghost album, dropped on Friday. I’m obviously a fan and I’ve had it on repeat since Friday. It seems to be an album about the eventual fall of empires. This is my favorite track on it. It’s not the lead single, and it’s not necessarily a ballad either. It’s just different, and yet it speaks to me. It’s also the inspiration for the title of this blog.

What I’m doing: I’m packing for a week-long trip to Northern California. Bringing my best camera for this one!

A Return to Running

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mitakpa

Mitakpa is impermanence. From what I’ve gathered, it is arguably the core of Buddhism.

If Mitakpa is impermanence, it obviously means that, well, nothing lasts forever. Everything changes and nothing can be held eternally, kept frozen in its present state. Even stars die.

Suffering therefore stems from attempting to cling to the current state of something. Wishing to prevent change breeds anguish. This attempt to keep something “as is” can be directed toward a person or thing, or even toward oneself.

Buddha’s final words were notably a reminder that nothing lasts forever, that all things die. “All things change. Whatever is born is subject to decay…” he said. “All individual things pass away.”

What are the consequences of a false sense of Mitakpa?

“I will do that when I retire,” we constantly say as we withhold our true desires. We prescribe ourselves to the false notion that our time is everlasting, drawn from a fountain that pours with an infinite water supply. By wasting this year we believe that we open the gates to our eternal salvation, many years from now, a “promised land” lurking in a hypothetical future, a future that was written by someone else.

But our cells steadily weaken and degrade, whether we choose to withhold our desires or not. My own mind, body, and spirit will not be the same in twenty years. I have limited influence on my rate of decay (and some things could change for the better). Your control is also limited, and a better health insurance plan will not prevent the inevitable.

The smartphone deludes its owner into believing it is a key to immortality, having been given access to an entire world of information at all times, and given infinite lenses from which to view strangers. But these Faustian things drain you of your life force while falsifying your sense of being. They tell you that you exist in an eternal state of watching and consuming. Their manufacturers want you to believe that they are a medium of absolute power. Meanwhile, they insidiously accelerate your sense of time, rendering your brief stay on this planet even briefer. Days on a phone feel like seconds. Years feel like moments. Nothing is created but a few health issues from long periods of staring.

Bodily enhancements delude us into thinking we will prevent cellular degradation. A sag can be countered with a lift. Bad diet can be countered with a triple bypass. But no number of lip injections can keep a person from eventually withering away. Surgeries may tighten your skin, but they will not prevent your insides from rotting.

“Well, once my savings are high enough.” This is the antithesis of Mitakpa. This is a heralded phrase in this day and age. And yet the concept of “work until retirement” is relatively new in the scope of human history. Death is the only certain retirement. “Retirement” claims to be heaven, but for most it is tragically brief and limited.

Mitakpa also sheds light on the dangers of materialism. We want our acquisitions to remain as pristine as they were when we bought them. But cars rust and dent. Paint chips away steadily, revealing spots of ugliness beneath the lovely pastels. Kitchen flooring needs replacement. Objects collect dust and we constantly fret over maintaining our aura of perfection. Maintenance requires money. Yet we truly own nothing.

Meanwhile, industry constantly redefines standards of what perfection may be. This definition shifts according to what industry requires for economic growth. Clothes must be cleaner. Cars must be faster. Jobs must offer better “benefits.” Skin must be smoother. Social acceptance must require more time on the phone.

So we acquire more and more, needing that “one thing” to bring a sense of inner peace, and the hole inside us deepens. We obsess over keeping more things in a “new” state of being, in a state of permanence, our futile attempt to defy Mitakpa. And our suffering worsens, and we decide that we suffer more because we need more. And it hurts that much worse when the things that we purchased are inevitably destroyed or cast aside!

I do believe that there is relief in accepting that life is brutally short and that control over one’s own lifespan is limited. Letting go of the romantic sensibilities of materialist-driven salvation, and evading the Hollywood endings meant only to keep one subjugated and downtrodden, can at least give one a sensible grasp of his or her own true power.

The crux of consumerism is the suggestion that the consumer has deficiencies; there just isn’t much power in that.

I say this because time is precious; if you are aware that this current hour you find yourself in is unique and beautiful, you may be more apt to make the most of it. It will not be forever, but it can be incredible.

Let the chasers play the industrial slot machines.

Underrated Art: Manhunter

Though Silence of the Lambs is the most renowned and critically acclaimed film to feature the fictional serial killer Hannibal Lecter, the 1986 film Manhunter is arguably superior (I believe it the greatest serial killer film of all time). As decades have passed, critics have increasingly acknowledged that Manhunter was tragically overlooked.

While Anthony Hopkins’s manic performance as Lecter captured an Oscar, the version of Lecter portrayed by Brian Cox in Manhunter is chilling in a far different way. Cox plays Lecter with an understated detachment to emotion and suffering, making him much colder than Hopkins’s version. He is an empty vessel that follows a violent pathology and lacks any ability to decipher right from wrong. Cold and calm indifference disturb the viewer more than ferocity in this film.

What also makes Manhunter so disturbing is how it hints at deep similarities between the FBI agent hunting the serial killer and the serial kill himself. The film dares to suggest that it takes the mind of a serial killer to catch a serial killer, and one could posit that the two are born with similar souls. The editing and color hues emphasize an eerie symbiotic relationship between law and lawbreaker. This play with duality is territory that The Silence of the Lambs barely treads on.

Manhunter was ahead of its time, as was its beautiful and haunting synth-laden musical soundtrack. It’s well worth listening to the motion picture soundtrack. Do nothing. Just listen. I find it to be a very immersive experience.

Here’s once of my favorite tracks, “Seiun / Hikari No Sono”.

The Burden of King Sisyphus

Greek mythology tells us that the Gods punished King Sisyphus for his vanity.

For all of eternity he must heave a heavy boulder up a hill, only to have it roll back down, so that he must repeat the task. His existence is an eternal loop of a burdensome action.

According to Wikipedia, modern tasks that are both laborious and futile are considered Sisyphean.

What is the modern Sisyphean fate?

I wake up and manically check my phone for urgent emails and urgent messages. Rinse and repeat. Urgency ends with a funeral.

I lie in bed and watch TikTok or YouTube or SnapShit, late at night, the glowing screen frying my brain. I lack sleep but I am up-to-date. I can’t miss the latest, I can’t miss anything, the dopamine is so lovely! I must constantly check. I must constantly unlock the phone. Rinse and repeat.

I will compare myself to my social media network. They’re traveling where!? How did they find the money? I need better photos to keep up with the Joneses. I need better statements to show my social value, to be up to par again, to have “likes.” To have the most “likes” when I’m dead… will that have left behind a legacy? Will I have made my mark?

Our media and mundane tasks can deliver us a Sisyphean fate if we are not careful.

The Sisyphean fate ensnares the victim in a reactive state. One reacts to a boulder too heavy to manage. The boulder taunts with weight and gravity and the lifter cries eternally, determined to try again and again. To post again, to work again. I’m so close to having enough. Lifting gives dopamine. “I moved it a little and it felt good.” The lifter is merely a programmed response mechanism, constantly lifting, constantly checking the boulder, constantly exasperated that the hill is just too damn high.

How does one escape the Sisyphean fate?

Seems easy to me: stop trying to lift the boulder and own your own time!