Slow Healing

It’s a bit challenging to sleep well with a broken collarbone. That probably goes without saying. Every little twitch and turn during the night wakes you up.

I somehow managed about 7 hours of sleep last night, which is pretty good with all things considered. I can’t say the bone feels any better or worse than it did on Sunday. It might be that way for awhile.

I am still hopeful to be running again within a few weeks time. But, we’ll see how it goes. I missed the mark by months on my foot injury last year. To an extent, a recovery timeline is out of your control, especially with something such as a bone break.

My bikes remain on their racks in my living room. Because I’m housebound right now, I see them almost every waking moment. I want to visualize myself cycling again and enjoying it. I think that I will eventually, but the experience will be different. I’ll probably be intentionally slower and more vigilant.

That’s sort of how it goes with age in general. We try to repeat the thrills of the past, the adventures that exhilarated us when we were young, and to an extent we can. Yet we don’t have the same cells in our bodies, nor do we have the same minds, to experience those adventures. So we go through the motions, and it’s mostly the same… but it’s a little different. Maybe the once-vibrant colors our eyes saw long ago are now dulled or our emotions are a little more subdued. Maybe we miss the element of surprise or the delusion of feeling invincible.

Healing is also a lonely process. Your pain is uniquely your own. The entire right side of my body remains bruised and bloodied. It has been two days of ripping bloody bandages off of my right side.

To the outside ears, it was a “bike crash.” That has little meaning without feeling. To my own nerves feeling the pain, it is constant misery. Your physical pain cannot be shared; it is monogamous, and clings to you for life. It also sucks. Still, I believe that pain is a necessity. Life and death are painful, so you might as well get used to feeling pain.

In time I will be back. How many times have I said that?

Eating Scones and Breaking Bones

I’ve read that it’s healthy to eat foods while they’re in season. This fall I interpreted that to mean that I should consume extra pumpkin flavored beverages and foods at Starbucks. Pumpkin spice lattes and pumpkin scones became regulars on Saturday morning through the months of October and November. Apparently this isn’t how you’re supposed to interpret “eat foods while they’re in season.” Oh well. I have no regrets.

On a more serious note, I had what may end up being the bike crash to end my bike crashes.

I was pedaling my road bicycle down the Riverfront Trail yesterday and turned into the Riverfront Park. Maybe because I’ve made this turn a hundred times in the last year, my eyes were focused forward for a moment, rather than on the path beneath the wheels. It turned out to be a critical moment to avert my gaze from the path.

Though the sun shone and the winds were calm that morning, a storm had hit the day before with severe winds. I didn’t take that into account. Some intense debris littered the road, included a large tree branch.

My front tire hit the tree branch and I flipped forward, sideways, and upside-down. I felt my head slam against the road first. I was wearing a helmet, but the force was enough to whip my head and nearly knock me out.

Then my shoulder hit and I immediately felt my collarbone break. I also heard something that you never want to hear come from your own body: “snap!”

Finally my hip landed with a loud thud. The pain was intense, and I knew that I was in very bad shape.

I was wearing a helmet, luckily, but I was still dazed. I was not sure what city I was living in or where I was going, and suddenly the trail seemed foreign to me. I was not sure what I did the past few days either. I just felt that I had to turn around and get home, wherever that was.

Due to the adrenaline and lack of logical thought, I hopped back on the bicycle and rode back. It was not for twenty minutes that I knew where I was or where I was riding, but somehow I still rode the correct direction.

It was an hour later, after X-Rays and a CT scan, that I learned that I somehow managed to ride the bike home with a broken collarbone and a mild concussion.

The adrenaline wore off the moment I stepped back in my apartment, and it was then that my right arm lost mobility. It was my right collarbone that broke. The pain surged quickly thereafter.

Later, at a nearby Total Access Urgent Care, I learned the full impact of the injuries quickly.

“Yep, that’s broken,” the X-ray technician said as he glanced at the first photo of my shoulder and collarbones. “It’ll be for the doctor to say, but the good news is, it looks like it’s the good kind of break.”

“There’s a good kind of break?” I said. I assumed all breaks were bad kinds.

“Yeah,” he said, “The kind that doesn’t need surgery.”

It turned out he was correct. The bone was broken but not displaced, meaning the bone would heal after two months in a sling and some physical therapy.

I regained my mental senses quickly and all of my memories returned. For that I’m also thankful.

I’ve had some nasty crashes over the past year. This was the worst one; it was enough, I think, to break me mentally. It raised a conundrum: how do I keep doing something I enjoy, when I seem to have a penchant for serious injuries while doing it? I’ve never been injured while running, after all.

Are my cycling days over? It’s difficult to say. I should be honest here though: they might be over. I have no interest in breaking the clavicle again. Certainly my cycling days are over for the remainder of the year. With bone breaks, the best thing you can do is nothing.

I guess it’s inevitable that these sorts of doubts flood my mind after such a crash. Maybe I’m just not meant to be a cyclist. Maybe I just have to commit to slow and leisurely rides from now on. What will I do?

I may feel young, but I know this bone will not heal as quickly as it would have twenty years ago.

Hopefully I am back on a bicycle eventually. To what capacity I’ll ride again, I’m not sure. Some cyclists bounce back quickly after bone breaks. They heal, and then they pedal with extra fervor. They love the activity. All pain is worth it. Suffering is hardly a reason to quit. Neither is a broken collarbone.

But I am not those cyclists. A part of me feels I’ve had enough bone breaks and ligament sprains to last a lifetime.

Every injury I’ve ever had has arrive via bicycle. You can only fall so hard when you’re on a run. You can only break so badly. On a bicycle, though, it doesn’t seem to be a matter of if your collarbone breaks in a crash, but how badly it breaks.

I guess time will tell what’s in store for me next. Though I feel down, I don’t feel “out.” I’ll focus on eating well, sleeping, and healing. There’s still life to enjoy.

I guess time will tell whether I hope on the bike again.

The Origins of Wind

I woke up just before dawn, stretched, and went for a brief jog that cut straight through downtown and then looped back to my apartment. I haven’t done much jogging the past few weeks; after a few half-marathons, I decided to spend November doing other exercises and activities. You can overdo anything, after all.

The weather forecast never indicated rain, though the skies were gaunt and the air had the metallic scent of an impending storm. Puddles blotched the streets from rainfall the night before.

A torrential downpour of rain slammed down on me shortly after I crossed the St Louis Arch. Gusts of wind gained intensity and lashed rain against my face. The wind, in my imagination, seemed capable of leveling each building and tree, and finally rendering downtown a pile of rubble.

Finally, I arrived back at my apartment, totally drenched.

I thought about when I was young and I always wondered if wind had an origin. In my mind, there was some faraway land, owned by wind’s creator, initiating these gusts and storms. Or did wind just appear out of thin air?

Obviously there is a scientific explanation for wind, but some things in life are best left a mystery. The unknown opens the imagination, whereas explanations kill it.

The rain stopped about as abruptly as it arrived. There was something other-worldly about it.

The escapist in me looks for these “other-worldly” signs. The day before, I crossed a rest station on the Riverfront Trail, and it reminded me of a train station. Suddenly I imagined the train station from Spirited Away that Chahiro took to visit the witch’s twin sister. It was the same train station occupied by various spirits, navigating a strange purgatorial world.

Would I take this haunted train, and would it take me on some fantastic adventure, away from the consumerism and hustle culture that seem to prevail in the city?

Spirited Away is an amazing movie. Who were these spirits, and where were they going? Brilliantly, the movie doesn’t tell us much. Like the origins of wind, it’s best left a mystery.

Managing Stress

I’m not an expert at managing stress, but I have picked up a few key habits over the years that have helped me maintain a decent equilibrium. In the current era of post-COVID work I’ve noted that many colleagues are constantly feeling extremely high amounts of stress. Some peers have told me that they are now pre-diabetic, and others have claimed that they feel constantly on edge, and that the feeling can be incapacitating. Sleep and exercise seem to have gone out the wayside. The trend is certainly troubling. This shift toward the “stressed and exhausted American” dominating the urban landscape has made me realize how vital it is to have stress-negating habits.

I believe managing stress effectively requires one to stray from the norm of Westernized work culture. What are the norms, and can some of them be prevented at all?

• Wake up early and check your phone immediately

• Rush to work via car, sit in traffic and a drive-through, and eat breakfast along the way

• Chug coffee to mitigate sleepiness

• Sit at the desk and stare at a blue screen

• Eat an unhealthy, oily and heavily processed lunch at the desk, and eat it quickly

• Drink an afternoon coffee to mitigate the post-lunch drowsiness

• Drive home and quickly eat a large dinner

• Plug eyes to phone screen, tablet, or tv screen while drinking alcohol in order to “wind down”

• Sleep with the phone next to your bed

When listed it seems obvious why people at work seem incredibly stressed. These habits are not only debilitating, they’re cancer-inducing, and the mental state of most employees is a key indicator of this. I don’t always do the opposite of all of these negative habits, but I do find myself straying from them as much as possible. Obviously the key is to do damn near the opposite of each bullet point listed above. Here’s my own “aim” for a norm:

• Wake up early (a necessity if working) but don’t check the phone. Exercise outside and let dawn be the first light that the eyes register. In a perfect world, we all sleep in at our leisure.

• Ride the bicycle to work if possible. If not, exercise before driving.

• Have one cup of pour-over coffee or tea before work (at most)

• Spend five minutes before logging into the PC either practicing deep breathing or meditating.

• Work with a standing desk, not a sitting desk (if you have a computer job)

• Take a five minute walk every hour, regardless of your Inbox (responsiveness be damned)

• Eat a healthy lunch (oatmeal or a salad), preferably outside and with people, not alone in a rat cage

• Drink water and electrolytes throughout the afternoon

• Ride the bicycle home from work

• Listen to calm music while making dinner

• Watch the sunset

• Read myself to sleep

There has been pressure, even in my own work culture, to trend towards the less healthy habits. For example, there is an option to work longer hours Monday through Thursday, and then to have Friday off. I opted out of this option due to the extensive time it tethers you to a computer screen on Monday through Thursday. I decided it’s better to have an extra hour for movement and “slow eating.”

The work environment is also typically rife with toxic foods. Potato chips, birthday cakes, candy bars, and hamburgers dominate the food scene. The post-COVID average weight gain shows it. To make matters worse, many employees now work virtually, and as a result move even less, while still eating a similarly terrible diet. One has to shield the eyes from the packaged stuff and opt for a salad or oatmeal.

After work, the phone screen provides a universe of dopamine. Avoiding this is difficult, and I still struggle with this one. But the phone interferes with sleep, so I try to unplug by 7 pm. Alcohol, likewise, destroys sleep. And a good night’s sleep, whether you believe it or not, is probably the best possible thing you can do for yourself.

I don’t always hit all of these habits; sometimes, adulting is tough and time is constrained. But I strive to make most of them routine. Addressing some of them has required some shifts in my own routine. For example, I enjoy metal music. However, it gives me too much adrenaline, and too much adrenaline places one in a constant state of “fight or flight”. I’ve had to switch my music a little. I still listen to some metal, but not as often as I used to.

If you find yourself in a constant state of work stress, you are not alone. By most metrics, the vast majority of employees are constantly stressed in America. I don’t recommend switching all of your habits at once—that might be overwhelming—but instead gradually addressing one habit at a time.

Let’s start with a good night’s sleep and add to that.

Dopamine Chasers

What is dopamine? According to Health Direct, dopamine is “a chemical released in the brain that makes you feel good.” It is created naturally and can be enhanced by external forces.

Dopamine is available in abundance. It’s provided on every screen and therefore requires only a click or a tap for quick infusion.

However, a limitless supply of dopamine is a Faustian deal. By constantly chasing the highs it provides, the body stops producing the previously normal amount of dopamine. Therefore the natural state of the dopamine chaser gradually falls lower. A world without screens becomes utterly depressing and for some, unbearable. Everything is trivial compared to the social media rush.

Riding a bike also provides a dopamine high, so admittedly I chase dopamine to an extent. And fall is my favorite season to ride the bicycle.

This morning two deers crossed my path on the Riverfront trail. The dawn sunlight gilded the trees and filtered through them, creating stripes of light and dark on the path ahead of me. It was about as ethereal as the Midwest can get.

Near the end of my ride I crossed paths with some construction workers and felt a deep sense of envy for them. Unlike modern “knowledge workers,” they were actually creating something. Not a fake thing such as a spreadsheet or a report, but something material, something useful. There is craft involved, in spite of the physical labor. I believe humans were meant to create.

“Don’t Take it Personally”

Dawn has yet to break as I pedal my bike over a road strewn with golden and rust-colored leaves. My front light blinks intermittently and with each brief flash, I glimpse the world around me, only to have it fade again. It’s just enough to see the occasional pothole or shard of glass. A pile of glass or a major crevice in the road potentially lie ahead, in the darkness, and remain unseen until it could be too late.

What a nice metaphor, I think, for our ability to predict the future. Maybe we can get a brief glimpse at some potential danger in the immediate vicinity. But we cannot see the disaster that awaits far off in the dark. Our bike gets nearer, but the great crash remains hidden. And then when it arrives, it wallops.

On another note, I’m thinking of “knowledge work”, which is my way of describing the modern computer-based job, and what it seems to be doing to the human mind. A part of me longs for the days when I could share a space, an office, or a lunch with friends, and feel a sense of collaboration… when purpose was derived more from care than from the mundane tasks at hand. Virtual collaboration is colder. Interactions are impersonal. Any sense of belonging is manufactured.

The knowledge worker is now beholden to the God that is Microsoft Teams, which dictates when your dialogue can begin and end, what you can and can’t see, and what you can and can’t hear. The SOP is the new bible. Forgetting to turn off mute is the new cardinal sin.

“Don’t take work personally,” they say. What an odd contradiction virtual work is. Human relations are less personal, yet work is taken more personally. People seem more on edge, more anxious, and angrier. It is both my perception and the result of every study done on post-Pandemic work stress. People lack sleep and movement. Aggression heightens and the cynic in me thinks we all need to just throw our PCs out the damn window and be done with it.

I shouldn’t take it personally.

Fear of Finality

The morning after Halloween, I rode my Giant road bike along the Riverfront Trail as dawn broke.

The faint sun was veiled behind a dense sheet of clouds. About thirty minutes into the ride, a fog drifted in and choked out the environment. I could see nothing but gray. The animals, the trees, and the river seemed to no longer exist.

I found my mind drifting like the fog around me. I thought about Halloween and what scares people.

I think at the core of what scares people is the fear of finiteness, which is entwined with the fear of death. That one’s existence and consciousness can be wiped out in a moment is what keeps people up at night. It is what has helped conjure various religions and the stranger superstitions such as astrology and tarot cards. Their purpose is to deny this fear from being. We want to believe there is purpose for our existence and that we will continue for eternity. What is it like to not be?

I see this fear played out in every facet of the world.

Corporations and governments, like all organisms, want dominance, but empires come and go.

Modern young adults like to speak of building legacies. They expect their life volumes will be in print forever, but said volumes are quickly lost in the library archives. This reminds me of the ending to Scorsese’s Gangs of New York. The city’s greatest gangster, who spent his entire life vying for power and control, is buried in the city. Then, over the course of a hundred years, we see nature steadily ruin his grave until it is barely perceptible to the human eye at all.

Money, like the tide, ebbs and flows.

Things fall apart, and things cease to be. But, this is only scary if it is denied.

It is not “ceasing to be” that scares me a fraction as much as something else: wasting the time in which I am.

“I Would Prefer Not To”

I find myself thinking about Herman Melville’s masterpiece of short fiction, “Bartleby, the Scrivener: A Story of Wall Street.”

In the story, a newly hired clerk named Bartleby is subjected to an intense day’s work. After being overworked he answers every task with a simple, “I would prefer not to,” and then he does nothing. He arrives at the office daily, but sits and stares at a brick wall. When pushed for productivity, he always gives the same answer: “I would prefer not to.” He enrages his colleagues, but holds steadfast with this routine to the end. He’d rather sit and think than succumb to industrialized society.

Bartleby is the hero of the story: he does not let others impose their realities over his own.

I look at my own to-do list and think that sometimes “doing” is overrated. Sometimes task completion is arbitrary.

Yet leisure, always, is underrated, especially in hustle culture. The morning ritual of drinking coffee or tea should arguably last for hours, not seconds. It should be a joy, not a chore.

We should dream when we sleep, and remember our dreams, and aspire to spend much of our lives asleep, not under-slept. Sleep should not be a hindrance to work: it should be the amplifier of livelihood.

And what about the to-do list?

“I would prefer not to.”

The Halloween Half-Marathon

Following my San Diego half marathon, I needed about a week’s worth of physical recovery. The few jogs I did were light, easy, and brief. My legs were sore.

I couldn’t rest for too long though, because I signed up to run the Saint Louis GO! Halloween half-marathon just three weeks after San Diego. Running two half-marathons in three weeks is asking a lot from a body that has never run an event at that distance before.

So I took an easy week, followed it with a more traditional training week, and then followed that with a “taper” week.

I don’t consider taper to be recovery, though there is some recovery involved. It is a reduction in training volume, but the training conducted still has a focus on race-specific movement. Taper is the final tuning of the instrument before the symphony. The musician has already rehearsed and the dexterity has already been earned through hours of practice; there are just a few necessary tweaks needed to deliver a rousing melody at the right pitch.

As running is somewhat new to me, I had no idea if my plan would work, or if it was feasible to run a second decent half marathon within weeks of the first one.

Physically, I felt sluggish and lethargic until about three days before the Halloween half-marathon. I had about three days of decent sleep leading into the event and ate mostly natural foods between my events, however. It wasn’t until two days before the Halloween half that I believed it could be a pretty good run; I woke up one morning and suddenly felt like my usual self.

The hours leading to the start were a blur. I arrived at the race with my girlfriend (who ran it with me), stretched, had an energy gel, and lined up near the start line. I felt loose and relaxed. I promised myself that I would not take this race out too fast (I was out way, way too fast on the previous one).

The challenge with this event was that it mixed 5k, 10k, and half marathon participants in the same racing pool. So as bodies propelled forward at the start, I had no idea who was running what.

Another challenge was that this event featured much more elevation than the San Diego event via some brutally steep hills. Whereas my San Diego race had about 80 feet total of elevation gain, this was estimated to have 500 feet of elevation gain.

I felt the elevation during the first mile, which was up a steep incline. Runners shot forward at fast cadences.

Hold back, I told myself. Just hold back.

As my calves tightened and the hill ahead of me steepened, I slowed my cadence. People flew past me. This was alarming. The race was just starting, and I was falling behind. I decided I’d let them take the lead here. This later proved to be the right move. It was only one mile of more than thirteen, and were plenty more hills to challenge me.

I passed my first mile marker at 6:26. This was about 20 seconds slower than my first mile in San Diego. I felt fresh, though, in spite of the early hill. I had 12 miles to make up ground.

I accelerated downhill, letting my longer stride give an advantage as I loped downward, and passed a few runners.

Mile three saw another hill, this one longer and equally as steep. My lungs heaved more than I wanted them to. I knew that I was still off of my San Diego pace, but still, I had to let myself slow a little. So I did. Then, like after the first mile, I accelerated downhill.

Mile four, mile five, mile six. I made no moves. I didn’t accelerate, or really do anything interesting. I just sort of plodded forward. But my pace was pretty good, and that was enough.

At one point near mile five, my pace faltered and several runners passed me. I felt my legs tighten and my hear pump louder. Then I arrived at an aid station and grabbed some water. I recognized one of the volunteers at the station from my running group.

“Let’s go Matt, you’re doing great!” He shouted. Suddenly my pain evaporated and I accelerated forward. I was back on pace.

I am Virgo, so I studied the course before the event. I knew that the hills only encompassed the first six miles of the race. The next seven miles would be relatively flat. A successful race, I decided, would be dependent on feeling fresh for the final seven miles.

Mile six proved to be devastating. It was the steepest hill yet. Winding and twisting along streets that cut through a rural Missouri landscape, it stretched brutally upward and seemed to have no end. Was this a hill or a mountain? My pace slowed and alarmingly so. My legs grew heavy and suddenly it was like one of those bad dreams where you’re running from a threat, but standing in place. For a brief moment in time I was a full two minutes slower than my goal pace. A runner passed me. Still, the fatigue was mounting. I knew I had to risk a bad time and slow down.

Then we reached the hill’s apex, and I realized that I was quickly recovering, and before I knew it I wasn’t hurting all that bad. I accelerated downhill again and found myself running shoulder-to-shoulder with the runner who had just passed me.

“How you doing?” He said. I was out of breath and managed to say, “Not bad.” I’m sure my face said otherwise. That hill hurt. I felt confident that I had enough energy to finish the race, but damn… it hurt.

I regained the lead over him, determined not to let up my quickening tempo, but heard his feet padding the earth close behind me. We passed mile seven. Six miles to go. Now the race begins.

I checked my watch. I was now even with my San Diego running pace. In that event, my pace had slowed down by mile four. I was relatively steady today and making ground on that race. This meant I had a shot at a best time.

Mile 8, mile 9, mile 10. Flat earth ahead of me, edged by trees and walls of their yellow and orange foliage. Every mile looks like the one before. My legs steadily tightening. My cadence steadily slowing. What was effortless thirty minutes ago was suddenly a struggle. Suddenly the aches in my calves from the earlier hills are in pain. My breathing is heavier. Here we go. Just focus on getting through this mile.

Mile 11. I’m still in this. I no longer have an acceleration in me; the fatigue is too much. It’s a matter of maintaining pace now. I hear the familiar runner behind me speaking to me.

“Thanks,” he says. “Your pace is bringing out the best in me.” He’s hurting too.

“Likewise,” I reply. There are no losers here. I love the camaraderie. We want each other to succeed. “We’ll get to the finish and hug,” I say. And so we run on.

Mile 12. Where is my mind? It’s on my legs. I’m tightening too much. The pain is getting intense in my calves, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I try to change my running form a little so that I land on my heels, not my forefeet. Anything to keep the pain at bay. But that doesn’t work either, so I stick with what’s natural for me.

I’m forcing myself to keep pace, but my pace is still slowing. However, it’s not slowing as much as it did in San Diego.

The last mile. My running rival passes me. I have to let him go. I’m taxed. To try and stay ahead risks injury. Better to just chug along. Besides, if I leave a little reserve in the tank, I’ll have enough for another best time on the next run. But damn it hurts. My mind starts screaming, “Just walk it in!” But I know I can’t do that. I’m so close to making it. I won’t let it count for myself if I walk.

Suddenly a left turn and I see the inflatable arch at the finish. I’m right there. One more runner passes me, and I notice it’s someone in my running group. He’s a great guy, and I’m glad he makes it. I spring to life and pick up my cadence. I run through the finish line, then hunch over. I’m in serious pain; the final mile was a blur. Everything hurts. I can’t pinpoint any exact source of agony. I high five my running group partner. I exchange a hug with the other runner who passed me on that final mile.

“This is your first year running?” He says. “Damn, you’re a natural at these things.”

My final time was more than a minute faster than it was in San Diego. And in spite of a slowdown over the final mile, I paced this one better. It was a best time. More of a struggle, but a best time.

I finished second overall in my age group. Not bad for a swimmer! And there were over 800 participants.

I got a pumpkin pie as a prize. I then ate some donuts and had a latte. I made it. The season is over. The journey is complete.

My running quest ended with the fastest run of my life. I’m triumphant, or that’s how it feels. But what did I win? What happens after the curtains are drawn? Where to next? What’s the aftermath? What is the grand life epiphany? Have I solved some deeper existential crisis?

I have some water and note only my own worn body and a free pumpkin pie. But the fall air braces me and the smiles at the finish are contagious.

I wanted to prove that I could bounce back, that the car hit last year wouldn’t take me down, that I was still alive, and frankly, that I still had life inside of me. I wanted to prove that I’d return, and run farther and faster than I ever had in my life. This was a personal battle. I didn’t give a damn what anyone thought about it. It’s a good thing I don’t, because running at these lengths is very, very personal.

My previously injured foot feels good. I feel good. I’ll take a few weeks off of running before prepping for the full marathon though.

Until next time!

Moving Forward to Go Backward

I personally find distance running to be a means of reversing course through the act of going forward. I think that’s why so many people discover their passion for it after the age of 30.

Endurance running is an act of discomfort, and potentially agony. When completely focused on each stride, on one’s breathing, and on the immediate environs, I believe distance running steadily rips off the facade that we created via adulthood.

Humanity never needed to run a long distance as fast as possible until relatively recently in history. Maybe it’s a draw now because there’s too much comfort in our lives. Maybe we’ve realized that comfort doesn’t necessarily lead to happiness, nor does comfort provide any important answers about our existence. A virtual meeting doesn’t make us “happier” than a real one, and an electronic purchase doesn’t make us “happier” than a trip to the mall.

So what do we do to rediscover meaning? We brutalize our legs and feet in half marathons, marathons, and ultra marathons.

I think back to the way I ran when I was young. Running was spontaneous and wild, a series of zigzags with no destination and only reckless abandon. It had no splits, required no heart rate monitor, was free of charge (all you needed was functional feet), and lacked a coach. It was always equipped with something many adult runners lack: a smile.

I miss those days and sadly know that it will now be difficult, if not impossible, to recapture them. I sign up for events and note my speed, my stride, my cadence, and my total time. I calculate, though I am conscious of my calculations. I push myself to exhaustion in an effort to reach some sort of zenith that really means nothing to anyone but me. And yet I still chase it.

This type or running, however, is fun in its own right. The chase is worthwhile, and I’m currently not sure why. And in this more predictable and calculated path forward, I try to bring back that wild youth, that gunslinger who was willing to dare a burst of speed up or downhill, willing to jump over a fallen log or stop and note the wildlife lurking in the underbrush, willing to deviate from all expectations. I try to revert back by going forward. So maybe the best I can hope for is a mixture of young and old.

Still, in spite of a watch on my wrist, with each additional mile I find myself hoping to rediscover the lost in me.

Cellular Renewal

I heard somewhere that the cells in our body are constantly dying and being replaced; it’s a lifelong cycle. Therefore, our cellular composition is different today than it was a decade ago. Our life is a constant process of death and rebirth, all the way to the final collapse.

Our memories are the primary means of linking our present self to the version of us that existed yesteryear. Many of the cells that actually experienced those events in our past, however, are dead. We maintain the memory, not the person who experienced the event.

Similarly, the body has a remarkable ability to heal itself, but even after a repair, it’s arguable that nothing will ever return to a previous state. I tore a foot, and the foot healed, but I don’t think the foot is the same as it was two years ago. It’s neither better nor worse; it’s just different.

Say your body is a CD, and over time the CD accumulates scratches. If one were to find a way to smooth the CD back to its original state, the CD would still not play like it once did. It would look nice, but it wouldn’t recapture the old sound.

How many aged bands struggle to return to the sound of their original album?

I find myself in a quest to mitigate time’s effects on me. I run farther, bike farther, eat better, and sleep better. I feel fresh, like I did decades ago. I’m told by my doctor that my biological age is 19. That’s pretty good, in theory.

But despite de-aging my biological clock, I know I’m not 19. And despite signing up for some endurance running events, something I’d avoided for years, I know that competition won’t mean the same thing to me that it meant in my adolescence. Maybe I can experience a semblance of that old feeling, but the newness of everything that youth experiences can never be fully regained. One can only be reminded of it. Maybe that reminder is enough.

Still, the dopamine rush from competition is close enough to what it was in adolescence. It’s not the same as it was back then, but the feeling of fun is still there. So it’s still worthwhile. There are still things to accomplish and things to improve on. I’m not going to collect another world championship gold medal in swimming, but I can continue getting faster for years, well into my 40s, and maintain that speed well into my 50s, 60s, and 70s. Maybe that’s worth pursuing.

“Matt vs. Time” is not a competition to maintain youth, or even to regain it. It’s an effort to keep the armor intact while time chinks away at it. It’s an effort to keep the CD running, even if it doesn’t play as well as it did on first purchase.

If I am now an aged band, however, there is no going back to the original sound. I have to accept my present state of being.

Fighting “time” is a means of continuing to do the things that I enjoy, without becoming a burden on the people I care about.

At some point, the cells I have at this very moment will die, and they will be replaced with something else. And that version of me will hopefully run farther and faster than the version of me that exists today. I won’t be young, but I’ll feel fresh, and better yet, I’ll be different.

A Quest for Sleep

I’ve been a light sleeper for as long as I can remember.

I have well-engrained habits from childhood that still deter me from getting a “good night’s sleep.” They started in high school, when I had to wake before 5:00 am at least 4 mornings per week for swim practice. I often nodded off in classes as a result of this, but even nodding off was not enough to overcompensate for severely shortened sleep cycles.

In college I made my sleep pattern worse by alleviating my lack of sleep with caffeine. This led to a caffeine addiction. I needed caffeine to prevent headaches, as well as to stay awake through a typical day. On a typical day I would drink two or three Red Bulls before morning classes and several cups of coffee before each afternoon swim practice. I would add another Red Bull, sometimes two or three, after my evening swim in order to stay awake for long enough to complete homework. It was not uncommon for me to have more than a thousand mg of caffeine on a weekday. I’m sure my daily caffeine intake was sometimes much, much higher than a thousand mg.

I’ve spent the better part of the last fifteen years trying to overcome my poor sleep habits that resulted from my college and high school experiences. Lately I’ve full realized that sleep is necessary for wellbeing. I observe it in my colleagues, who seem increasingly irritable in the blue screen era. I also observe it in myself. I read about the multitude of diseases, cancers, and brain issues that are linked to years of poor sleep patterns. I don’t want to be a “poor sleep casualty”. I want to be happy and astute in my upcoming years.

My quest for good sleep has nothing to do with athletic performance. I’m seeking longevity.

As a result, I have one goal right now, and it’s more important to me than any goal I’ve ever had: get myself sleeping well each night.

Over the last fifteen years I managed to slowly cut my caffeine intake down from over a thousand mg per day to about three hundred.

The last few weeks, I’ve lowered this caffeine further to about one hundred mg per day, which is the equivalent of about one daily cup of coffee.

I’ve stopped sleeping with a phone in my room.

I’ve started eating a more plant-based diet.

I’ve started drinking herbal teas with relaxing properties at night.

I’ve started taking small doses of melatonin to aid in resetting my circadian rhythm.

Still, in spite of these changes, there were two nights over the last week when I barely slept at all. When I struggle to sleep, I’ll toss and turn for an hour or so, then take early morning walks and read. My mind is too damn active. Sometimes it feels like it just won’t shut down.

My bad patterns are tough to kick. There is hope though. The other nights, the nights in which I did fall asleep, I managed to sleep for eight hours. I rarely slept more than eight hours before attempting to change my sleep habits. So there is hope in my quest for good sleep. But, I have to change further. I will do anything at this point to sleep well.

How do I eliminate these sleepless nights from my life for good? I realize that further changes are necessary.

• I’m going to quit drinking. For the two nights over the past week in which I barely slept, I drank wine the day before (not much, but it clearly is a factor). Alcohol is proven to disrupt sleep cycles. I might be getting more sensitive to alcohol with age. If quitting alcohol means sleeping better, I’ll quit.

• I’m going to quit watching tv at night (maybe for good?). I always found the passive act of watching tv to be a waste of good life. Clearly minimizing blue screen exposure from the phone is not enough. I need to adjust the eyes to darkness when the sun goes down. Instead of watching tv I’ll take a walk outside and let my eyes and body respond naturally to dusk.

• I’ll take melatonin and herbal tea earlier in the night, closer to sunset, to trigger an effect from the ingredients that syncs with a natural circadian rhythm.

• I’ll wear some noise-canceling headphones made for sleeping (I just ordered them). I live in an urban area. The urban noise, which lingers late into every evening, isn’t natural. Long-term, I shouldn’t live downtown. Who the hell sleeps well in a downtown area?

• I’ll practice meditation.

Of all my challenges in life, I feel that learning to get a good night’s sleep is my most difficult one. You can’t just kick 37 years of bad patterns overnight, or at least I can’t. But as stated, I’m willing to try just about anything to get my sleep in order.

The quest isn’t over. Hopefully this week involves a lot more sleep.

Story of a Half Marathon

My first half marathon event is over.

I signed up for the Pacific Beach half marathon early this year. My brother and I signed up together; it was supposed to be our “misogi,” which is best described as a challenge that has at least a 50% chance of failure. I try to complete a misogi every year if I can. Why do a misogi? I believe that most of us are too comfortable. As we settle into adulthood, most of us make the pursuit of comfort a pursuit when in fact it should be the opposite.

I had never run more than 3 straight miles before this year and spent most of last year rehabilitating some torn ligaments in my right foot. So, I figured there would be a chance that this event would end with the dreaded “DNF” (did not finish). It seemed like a fitting misogi.

My running improved faster than expected this year, and by June I realized that completing the event would not be an issue. The event transformed from a misogi into a stepping stone for something else. I decided I wanted to run longer and give myself time goals. I wanted to run a marathon. Better yet, I wanted to run a marathon at a good clip.

Still, I needed to complete this half marathon first. This was an important marker for me. That’s why I logged as many running miles each week as I could muster and spent the week before the event mostly resting.

My brother and I arrived at sunny San Diego, California, on Thursday at dusk. The sunset was a beautiful strip of glowing ember, even at the airport, and a gentle breeze soothed me even though the prevalent stench of pollution and car fumes was far from balmy.

My clumsiest move of the weekend happened outside the airport. My water bottle fell out of my backpack as I exited the shuttle for the rental car agency. My foot then his the water bottle, rolled, and I fell back, flat on my ass. It was like something out of a bad comedy film. I was fine, so I had to laugh at myself.

We ate Thai food that night (I had a tofu bowl because I have been mostly eating vegetarian for the past few months) and stayed at an AirBnB located just one block from the beach. The sound of nearby ocean waves and the crisp coastal air prevented any anxiety about the half marathon.

The next day was spent relaxing and enjoying San Diego city. We started the day eating açaí bowls at a local coffee shop, slurping lattes, and having cold water baths in the ocean (the Pacific water is freezing).

I had a warmup jog along a trail on the beach that gave an excellent view of the sparkling light blue water and a nearby marina. In the distance I could see the rolling San Diego hills, which are dotted with homes and trees.

The jog was a “shakeout” run (just allowing for some bloodflow after a day in an airplane). I did feel my right hip after my clumsy fall the day before, but the pain wasn’t serious.

Later that day we visited San Diego zoo, where I finally saw some koalas in person. Koalas are animals I admire more than almost anything except for the almighty sloths for their calm demeanor and smart priorities (eating and sleeping). As a light sleeper, I find it to be a lifelong goal to sleep more like a koala.

The half marathon arrived before I wanted it to. We woke up early, around 4:30 am, to prepare for it (it was slated to begin at 6:30 am). I ate some granola and drank some electrolytes, along with a cup of coffee, and did about ten minutes of foam rolling. This was the day I had prepared all year for: my misogi.

I didn’t know how many people were participating in this event. I guessed beforehand that it would be about 200 or so, but this was a wild guess. How many people would actually sign up to run for more than 13 miles (21 km) early on a Saturday morning?

The route for the event went along Pacific beach in San Diego. That’s why I chose the event over any other (no offense to Saint Louis, but if you’re gonna be in pain, you should be in pain on a beach!).

My brother and I arrived at the start line; it was packed. There were easily over a thousand people (we later found out there were about 1,500 participants). Whoa. This was going to be bigger than I thought.

My race plan was to begin the first three minutes at a fast pace, much faster than my targeted average race pace, while my legs were fresh. After three minutes I would dramatically slow down to a more comfortable pace, and then slowly build back up again over the next 90 minutes of running.

I told most people that I didn’t have a time goal, but admittedly I wanted to break 1 hour and 30 minutes. This was a significant marker in my mind because it was the pace required to break 3 hours in the marathon. It would require running faster than 7 minutes per mile on average, which I figured would be a formidable challenge for someone’s first half marathon.

A surge of adrenaline poured through me as the event started. I found myself near the front as the race began. More than a thousand runners were behind me. My cadence was fast, much faster than I intended. I checked my watch: I was faster than 6 minute per mile. That’s way too fast, I thought. I tried to slow down a little, but the excitement was overwhelming.

The first mile was over and I was still near the front. My GPS watch beeped: 6:12 for the first mile. Crap, I thought. That’s way too fast. I didn’t slow down enough.

Maybe you can maintain, I thought to myself. I kept the pace steady. The race led me up and down some winding hills, the ocean edging the path to my right and a beautiful park to my left. The final mile of the race was on the beach itself and required running on sand. It would finish in the sand. I would collapse, having completed my 13.1 mile run, facing the ocean, and I would raise my fists towards the heavens in triumph.

Another mile ended. 6:13 for the second mile. I was still too fast: way, way too fast. My heart rate had elevated near it’s maximum capacity. That’s not a good sign, I thought. And still, the legs felt pretty fresh. But I knew that I needed to slow down. My mind knew that my body would shut down before the end if I kept it going. Collapsing was now a bigger risk than running a slow time.

I slowed my pace down about 30 seconds per mile and a few runners passed me. Still, I felt more comfortable. My breathing steadied. My eyes focused directly in front of me. I kept telling myself to run my own race. It means nothing if you don’t finish.

I crossed mile 3. 6:30 for the third mile. A little slower, but still not slow enough. I decelerated further. At mile four, another runner passed me. Then another. I stayed steady. The other 1,470 runners or so were still behind me. And I was on pace to break 1 hour and 30 minutes.

I refueled near mile five. Shortly before an aid station I reached for a gel packet that was stuffed in my shorts and managed to swallow its contents while running. The taste was bitter. I coughed; my throat itched from the flavor. I had never eaten a gel while running at this intensity. That lack of practice with fueling, I realized, was my first rookie mistake.

A few minutes later I started to cramp in my right side. I tried to stretch it out with my hand, while continuing to run, and took some especially deep breaths. Another runner passed me. He was younger than me and looked impervious to fatigue. We ran alongside each other for a few minutes. He could somehow tell that I was cramping.

“Are you okay?” He asked. My face was grimaced but the cramp was subsiding. “Yeah,” I managed to grunt. He nodded and continue on. So did I. I was fine. I’ve had worse cramps.

Just ahead I heard him cheering for some other runners. “You all look great, keep it up!” He said. That’s one thing I love about the camaraderie of these distance events. It isn’t so much a competition between people as it is a competition among people. And in that competition, everyone has only one opponent: themselves. It’s for that reason that strangers in the same race are willing to cheer for each other and lift each other’s spirits up.

I crossed 7 miles, past halfway, and my legs still felt pretty good. I swallowed my second of three gels in spite of my stomach telling me not to. Then I took a cup of water from one of the volunteers and swallowed what I could. I coughed a little out. “You look great!” A volunteer shouted. I wanted to shout, “Hell yeah!” But I was too occupied with coughing to speak.

Keep the rhythm, I kept telling myself. You trained to finish this. You trained to break one hour and thirty minutes, and you’re on track.

At mile 9, I had to cross over an arched bridge. It was the steepest incline of the race, and as I fought upward with my tired legs, I realized that my pace was slowing. I checked my watch at the top of the bridge. I had slowed to 7 minutes per mile in the upward trudge.

I tried to race downhill to gain back some speed, and felt myself accelerate a little. But the watch said I only accelerated to 6:40 per mile, and that felt like a sprint. The fatigue was officially settling in. Pain becomes a frequent visitor in the world of endurance running. You might as well consider it a guest resident.

Four miles left. You’ve run four miles so many times. I fought to keep my feet kicking up, and focused on just one mile, my sole focus on keeping its time faster than 7 minutes. I crossed mile ten: 6 minutes and 47 seconds. Success! But it required everything I had. It was a sprint, and it nearly depleted me. How was I going to do it again?

I needed to swallow my final gel, but I didn’t want to. My stomach felt bloated. Still, I knew that I needed fuel. I forced the final gel down my throat, a little worried that I might puke it back out. I didn’t puke it out, but my stomach was telling me, “absolutely no more gels!”

Time itself, as well as my pace, was slowing down. Mile eleven felt as long as the first five miles combined. The legs were now refusing to keep up the fast cadence I had established over the past hour. You’re so close, damnit, I thought. Just a few measly miles. You can’t collapse now.

The race rounded a bend in another park and on the other side was the final stretch of pacific beach. The next mile was on a walkway beside the beach and the final mile was on the beach itself.

Another two runners passed me, and I felt as though I was in a bad dream where you’re running through quicksand, or where you’re sprinting but barely moving.

“You’re doing great! You look great!” Volunteers kept saying. That had to be a lie. But, I was still maintaining, still holding on. I suddenly wanted to finish more than anything on earth. Still, I shuddered at the thought of seeing myself on video at this point.

I completed mile eleven and the time was 7 minutes exactly. I slowed a little, but not as severely as I feared. In fact, I was doing fine. And I knew that as long as I didn’t collapse, I would beat my goal time.

Where I once galloped, I was now shuffling. But I knew I had to keep going.

I passed the mile 12 marker and followed the race path as it crossed onto the vast sandy beach. The finish was in sight, just a few minutes ahead. Waves lapped the shore to my left. Spectators cheered to my right. From somewhere beyond the finish line, pop music blared and people were celebrating.

In my fatigue, my feet slipped and skidded over the sand. It was like a movie where the protagonist takes his last agonizing strides as he escapes a brutal desert.

My eyes locked on every step in front of me. I maneuvered toward the wet sand that lined the ocean because it was firmer and more packed. I skipped over seaweed and seashells. I thought of that game you play when you’re a kid, when you run along a sidewalk while trying to avoid the cracks.

What a fitting end to a half marathon, I thought. The run ends where life itself began: at the sea.

With just one minute of running left, another racer passed me. I was close enough to the end, though, that it was okay. Let’s just end this thing.

And then I crossed the finish line and heard my name announced. I raised a fist and smiled. Volunteers rushed to me and gave me water and a banana. I bent over, resting my palms on my knees. I wanted to go to sleep in the sand, right there, on the spot.

The final runner that passed me gave me a fist bump. Another of the runners approached me and gave me a hug.

“You had a hell of a run,” he said. “Taking it out so fast and somehow maintaining and finishing well. That’s impressive.”

And suddenly I wanted to cry. Instead I limped around and absorbed the moment. I made it. 13.1 miles. I ate a banana and waited for my brother.

My final time was 1 hour and 28 minutes. I was two minutes faster than my goal time. I placed 5th in my age group, which for a non-runner in his first half marathon, and in a field of 1,500 people, I figured was pretty damn good. I’ll take it.

And so, a new journey begins. I hope that race was the first of many. I finished a half marathon. A foot that a year ago seemed like it might never heal, held strong. I felt good. I felt happy.

My brother crossed the finish line having ran the entire event as well. It was the first time he had ever run that far.

We celebrated with Mexican food and a San Diego Chargers baseball game. The 2022 misogi is complete.

I have a full marathon next year. That will be quite a journey.

Changing Seasons, and Retirement

The air is brisker at dawn this week, a preliminary sign of fall. Fall is probably my favorite season; as chlorophyll’s green subsides and is replaced by vibrant shades of rust, orange, and yellow, one can easily gain a sense of change in oneself.

I was talking about retirement with a colleague the other day as she approaches her own retirement. She told me about her best friend’s husband, who died suddenly of a heart attack while on a cruise, just months after retirement.

“That’s horrific,” I said. “All that saving, all that planning, and in the end it meant nothing.”

There’s a similar lesson in the acclaimed Korean film Parasite: the best kind of plan is no plan.

“That’s why I don’t want to wait any longer to retire,” she said. “I don’t want to wait for more money or whatever. I don’t want to wait to be rich. I’d rather just be free now.”

A lesson lurked beneath those words. There is a cost to having money. There is a cost to wanting things.

That cost is often freedom, and in a life that’s already painfully short and impossible to forecast, this cost tends to be much higher than people want it to be.

I’d be lying if I said that I don’t still desire things. There’s always an upgrade, and the rate of potential upgrades is accelerating as society turns its faith toward the credit card.

There is always a better car, or another car, or another shirt. Believe me, I can find them easily. Hell, there’s always a better bicycle. One can surgically make oneself taller, lift the face, dye the hair, and smooth out some wrinkles. All of these enhancements will provide a nice illusion: the illusion that time isn’t actually degrading you.

I try to take some deep breaths and absorb this present moment in time. How is this not enough? How do I not have enough?

I am not thinking much about the future these days, or even retirement. It can’t be forecasted, and hopes bring with them stresses. I’ll just be glad to enjoy this fall season.

Circle

They say that life is a circle and we end it at the beginning, but with a different lens to view everything that we think we’ve already seen.

I find myself stretching for a Wednesday evening run with my training group. I’m 37 and one year removed from a bicycle crash that sidelined me for the final third of 2021.

I’m at the base of a long hill on Delmar Boulevard. I decide to run with a few individuals who are both fast and experienced. They ask what pace I intend to hold. “I’ll just try to hang with you guys,” I say. I don’t know whether I can. We’ll find out.

A long uphill slope toward the Centennial Greenway encompasses warmup. I’m feeling light and fresh. Ten minutes in and I barely break a sweat. At least I can warm up with these guys, I think.

We cross onto the Centennial Greenway and stretch for a bit. Then we’re off to the races and I’m holding 6 minutes per mile (3 minutes 45 seconds per km). The adrenaline from my competition gives me an added boost. My heart’s racing and my cadence is increasing. Keep your knees up, I keep telling myself. I know nothing about running technique or if this is even sound advice. I tell it to myself anyways; it’s just a reminder to keep my form.

Ten minutes go by and I’m running should-to-shoulder with the group. They’re surprised. So am I.

I’ve been here before. I’ve competed before, just not on land. Years ago, lap after lap, swimming against the best in the world at the Lee and Jones Jamal Swim Center in Austin, Texas. I trained and competed until I had nothing left physically and mentally to give to the sport of swimming. Then I swore off competition.

I ended my swimming career as a master of technique but began it as a blank slate. I’m back to the blank slate, but this time I’m on land, hitting it with high impact. The vibe is familiar. The racing is familiar. The cast is new. I like that.

“Let’s see what you’ve got, Matt. I’ll keep you in check,” one of the runners barks at me. I get an energy boost and a desire to beat him. The old racing spirit is somewhere inside after all.

We’re forty minutes into our run and our pace is actually quickening. I check my pace. We’ve actually sped up by another 30 seconds per mile.

My midsection is tightening and I’m hyperventilating. I’m covered in sweat. I don’t know how long I can sustain this effort. Probably not much longer. I have to be close to maximizing my heartrate. My legs are tightening. My face is grimaced. Keep pace, I keep telling myself.

You’ve been here before. Competing, climbing. You swore you’d never do it again.

Thoughts of the early swimming days flood through me. Preparing for swim meets at age 12, at age 15. Stretching and studying competition. The endless hours chasing and being chased. The long climb from an overlooked age grouper to an NCAA Division 1 record holder.

It’s a different sport. I’m a different age. I retired from swimming in 2008, almost 15 years ago. I don’t understand running, at least not well, and not yet. I don’t even know if I’m any good, really, though I suspect I can improve a lot. That might be enough. The joy is there. If the joy is there, nothing else matters.

The run ends. Somehow, I won the session. I “fist bump” the other runners. It was an effort I never would have given had I been running alone. I’ve trained to the brink before. I know what it’s like. That’s a major advantage.

The added sense of camaraderie gives me an added sense of purpose and an added feeling of accomplishment. I haven’t felt that in a long time. It’s much more fun when you accomplish something with someone else. I almost forgot that I enjoy training with a group.

It’s a different sport and I’m in a different phase of life. I’m climbing, but I don’t know why, or what the destination is. I know there’s a marathon ahead. I know that I’m enjoying this process.

I also realize that somehow I arrived back at the start, albeit with a much different perspective of it all.

Hustle Culture

Hustle culture can seem omnipresent in the city.

Cars rush forward at the break of dawn because hurry is the queen bee of the hive. Stoplight to stoplight, interstate entry to interstate exit, drivers hope to save ten seconds, for the sake of being on time (the white rabbit is always a slave to the queen). Their mood and their morale are fully dependent on the mercy of the stoplight and the traffic congestion. The roads, and their vehicles, are therefore their masters.

Breakfast is not so much an experience as it is an inconvenience, solved via the drive-through.

Coffee is slammed, not sipped.

There are agendas for the day. Emails to answer. Calls to take. Appointments to arrive at.

The best to-do list, according to hustle culture, is one that forever adds and never subtracts.

To that I say, the best to-do list is one thrown in the garbage and forgotten!

A breakfast is better spent over three hours than over three minutes. Give me jokes, countless cups of good coffee (and no deadline to finish them), merry company, and sunshine! Let me taste real food and engage with real people.

A rushed drive to work is best replaced by a slow walk through a forest.

A screen is best replaced by a book, a painting, or a music album to listen to.

An obsession over retirement is best replaced by a spontaneous and fun hobby for today.

Fretting over the future is best replaced by contentment for this beautiful, precious moment, a moment in which we are aware of our own existence.

This is what I aspire to… which is why I’ll take my time with my coffee this morning.

Soldier On

It seems fitting that Dave Mustaine, the frontman of legendary metal act Megadeth, just released what some critics are already calling his band’s best album since Countdown to Extinction. The guy has an endless supply of vigor and musical fervor. He’s survived decades in an industry that sees most rock acts dissolve in a blink. And if you thought that he might mellow with age, you were wrong. The new Megadeth album The Sick, The Dying… And The Dead! is as fast-tempo’d and furious as anything Megadeth has ever dropped.

Mustaine survived cancer; his purported 51 radiation treatments, coupled with the pandemic, seem to have redoubled his artistic flair, as well as his awareness of his own mortality.

One of my favorite tracks, Soldier On, is about the desire to persist in spite of anything, or anyone, that life hurdles at you. It’s about the simple need to keep going.

The song makes me think about why I embark on long runs. Why go so far? Why push past fatigue, mile after mile, hitting the earth with a force equal to up to five times the weight of my own body? Simply put, because it’s only when you exhaust yourself fully that you understand who you are. Maybe it’s another form of Tyler Durden’s treatment for materialism (“It’s only after we’ve lost everything that we’re free to do anything”).

As the miles pass, the logical mind takes a back seat and a more primordial self helms the vehicle that is you. Your trivial anxieties and plannings for the future, your dreads and longings for the past, and all that’s left of your ego can seem to dissolve.

You’ve peeled every layer from the past that piled onto you over the years, and at the core is just an organic being attempting to persist, attempting to push forward, one step at a time. And that experience reveals an important part of what the core of your being actually wants: to soldier on.

Conversion to Machine

I enter age 37 with a desire to take a trip and get lost on a random adventure. In a banal daily work routine, which can feel like a constant slideshow of indistinguishable and bland virtual meetings, interactions seem progressively colder and more detached. Work hours pass in purgatorial fashion. All smiling is off-camera. All laughter is on mute. There is an agenda and we must tackle it. We must perform. There is no time for small talk. No time for warmth.

The conversion to machine is gradual and is predicated on the need for comfort.

I try to counter these dark feelings, which I write about freely here, with cycling. Cycling is purely for me, the most selfish of hobbies. Adults generally don’t give a damn that I can ride a bike really far. There’s no one to impress. It’s not like my old days as a swimmer, when I won to gain the adulation of everyone around me. I just find cycling fun. Adults are often too consumed with their own consumption to be concerned with activities involving movement. Cycling is my antidote to the soul sucking virus that is careerism.

Is there still a ghost in the adults of today, or has the spirit left the shell?

Virtual work means that jokes are followed by silence and emails are followed by a false sense of urgency.

“This is the new trend!” I’m told, but I note that the general population has gained misery, weight, and anxiety since the pandemic. There is always a trade-off for convenience. Faust doesn’t grant wishes without taking something in return.

Years ago, I was lost somewhere in Russia. It was a random trip I took while living in China. It’s a coastal city with a relatively friendly atmosphere.

Getting lost is actually pretty fun; cycling reminds me of that when I take a wrong turn. Trips remind me of that when I meander aimlessly through the foreign city streets. Adults hate being lost, but kids generally love it. Adults prefer predictability and assurance. A destination is the ultimate form of salvation for the worker. They want a linear path without bumps. Point A to Point B, and not a minute to waste.

Yet the white rabbit is always a slave to the queen, as Alice in Wonderland showed. But the modern adults wants pavement, an air conditioned environment, and a to-do list that forever grows, forever demanding haste. I cannot relate: I find solace in the rocky terrain of a faraway trail, where haste is revealed to be arbitrary.

I remember hiking Eagle’s Nest Hill in Vladivostok and quickly getting lost, somewhere off the trail due to a lack of focus, and not really caring. Time ceases to matter when there is no agenda. Can adults abandon agendas for awhile? Who cares if the paved route is far away? I remember being somewhere high, on a bluff, overlooking the city. So I still arrived at some interesting destination. It’s the randomness and unpredictability that I prefer. I was on the opposite side of the world, which is both thrilling and terrifying.

The computer, and its primary appendage the phone, is placed at the altar of the modern posh careerist. It demands of its flock a new form of faith and a false set of promises. Mortality can be avoided, it says, with the swipe of a credit card, the pop of a pill bottle, or the adherence to a politician. Swiping requires money, which requires work, which requires sitting and staring and hurrying.

May we all be lost somewhere, in a strange city we’ve never been to, and wander aimlessly, without an agenda, in search of new adventures. Maybe somewhere, in the midst of that wandering, we’ll reencounter our long lost inner child.

The Last Day

My last day spent as a 36-year-old was a stark contrast from my last day as a 35-year-old.

I spent my last week at age 35 bedridden due to a bicycle injury that prevented me from running for the remainder of 2021. On my last day at age 35, I dreamt of running, but struggled to leave my apartment.

In contrast, I spent my last week at age 36 running longer distances than I ever had in my life. With each run my right foot feels better, not worse. I often imagine myself running like a Kenyan, gliding over the Iten hills and along the top edges of the terrain’s escarpments. In my dream I possess the seemingly effortless fluidity of a Kenyan athlete. I snap from this vision and reality reminds me that I don’t have their running ability, but then again, arguably no one else does either.

Because I ran throughout my last week at age 36, I slept for as long as possible through my last day at age 36. I ate donuts and drank a brown sugar shaken espresso from Starbucks. In short, I indulged, and I don’t regret it in the slightest. I hadn’t indulged in awhile. I might as well be gluttonous on the last day.

I visited a doctor for a final evaluation of an elbow injury that I suffered from a bike crash about a month ago. The X-rays were negative. The elbow sprained, but it did not tear. No surgery is needed. Time will heal the elbow. It might be weeks, and it might be months, but it’ll heal. That news was a very nice birthday present.

I continue to heal the pinched nerves in both of my hands, remnants of overuse during a bike packing trip I embarked on two weeks ago. I’m still reflecting on that trip and will post more about it.

I think of these injuries and realize that even when I’m healing my foot, I seem to be injuring other body parts.

I am about to finish repairing my gravel bike. In that aforementioned crash last month, the bike’s front wheel bent and its derailleur, cassette, and hanger broke. Yet somehow I didn’t break. The doctor I visited told me I have strong bones. I think that’s true, but these crashes also add up over time. I don’t know if I have another crash in me.

“How are you feeling?” The bike shop manager asked me when I took my damaged bike in for a repair. He noted my scrapes, bruises, and swollen elbow. It was a question I don’t often get from anyone besides my immediate loved ones.

We always ask, “How are you doing?” This beckons the default answer, “Good.” I was surprised that someone would ask how I’m feeling.

“I guess I’m good today,” I said.

“I mean, how are you feeling mentally, after the crash? Are you okay? Because after my last crash, I was never the same again. I wasn’t the same cyclist.”

I was touched that someone cared to ask that. It had been awhile since a relative stranger showed care for my wellbeing. I absorbed it for a moment. Was I really okay? Am I?

“I think it might be time for me to only bike on trails and greenways,” I said. I took a deep breath. There was a sense of finality in my words.

“I reached the same conclusion after my last crash,” he replied. “I hope you feel better though and keep cycling.”

“I’ll definitely keep cycling,” I said. “Maybe not on roads though.”

I left the shop and looked out at the clusters of brick and mortar buildings, the gaunt sky, and the constantly flowing currents of traffic that carried with them the acrid scent of car exhaust.

36 is over. There’s no getting it back. I was flawed for that period of time and I’m flawed now, but hopefully I learned a few things through the passage of time. It was quite a journey.

I’m on to 37. I’ll wake up and go for a run. Mentally, I won’t be running through a concrete cluster before work. I’ll be in Kenya, gliding through a valley, or along an escarpment, as the sun crests over the horizon. Away from the screens and keyboard warriors of the sedentary west, and away from the common materialistic ambitions and plastic goals that inundate the office.

Miles from me, a lion will stalk its prey. I will steadily accelerate my pace; the village has long-been out of sight.

Implicit Connections, Necessary Journeys

Dawn shows signs of an eventual takeover by rendering the streets and adjacent buildings in a gaunt gray. I pedal out of my apartment at 6:00 am with my sunglasses hanging from my long sleeve tee. Both my front and rear bike lights blink. I hear the occasional motor in the distance as I maneuver west, where the horizon is darkest, where a few remaining stars still wink. For the most part I am the only person on the road.

Another cyclist pedals furiously the opposite direction. Like me, he wears a backpack and tee. We give each other a faint wave. There is an unspoken and implicit connection between us, one that many cyclists have, and because of this connection, a simple wave speaks a thousand words.

He’s also bike commuting. Our directions have a 180 degree difference and yet the endpoint is the same.

Two days before, I biked along Gravois Greenway. A cyclist behind me pedaled up and rode beside me, directly to my left.

“Where are you commuting from?” He asked. I told him where I was biking from and where I was heading toward. We chatted for a bit as we rode. We talked about our commutes to work, the exhilaration of arriving at an office with beads of sweat hanging from one’s brow, of pedaling up to the front entrance of the office building, of moving a distance through exercise that everyone else would rather sit for.

We road a few more miles and then parted ways. We didn’t need to say what specifically our connection was. It was implicit. The hobby of cycling can run much deeper than simple exercise.

I’m packing my belongings and preparing myself mentally for my most intense bikepacking trip yet. It will take days. My sleeping bag, food, and tent are ready. I’ll pick up my rented bike in Virginia and head north, towards Pittsburgh.

More than 300 miles of cycling and camping is not everyone’s idea of a good time, especially in the summer. But it’s my idea of a good time.

What if you get lost?

All the better.

Away from offices and screens: that’s where I need to be.

On a gravel road, one mile at a time, northbound.