Too Much, Too Soon

5 am. A steady rain pattered the concrete around me as I embarked on a morning run. A haze crawled through the downtown area and only the street lamps provided halos of illumination.

I was supposed to perform a 12 minute all-out effort after a 15-30 minute warmup. The day before I felt decent, but had a slight ache in my left knee and felt what could be a nascent shin splint in my right leg.

After a mile of warm-up I realized the pain was only worsening. The shin splint stabbed inside my leg. My left knee was visibly swollen and barely bending. I attempted a few 80 yard accelerations, but was unable to gain full-speed on any of them.

As I attempted one final burst of speed in my 12 minute run, I felt an additional twinge of pain in my collarbone (the one that broke). I knew that I was toast for the day. The body had enough.

In short, I reaped the consequences of attempting too much, too soon. I walked about a mile back to my apartment in the rain, completely unable to run.

How did this happen? Well, I was essentially bedridden for a month, and had attempted runs of one hour or more for 5 days a week immediately upon being cleared by an Orthopedic to run again. Obviously, this was not feasible at all.

It was a difficult experience for me; before the collarbone break I ran almost daily for 8 months with almost no issues. Suddenly it felt like my body was crumbling.

In a sense my body was crumbling. A collarbone break affects a wide range of upper body movements; I’m still severely limited in what I can do with my upper body. The lower body, unable to perform strength exercises, lost a lot of whatever adaptation to running I had accumulated.

By attempting too much running too soon, I invited a host of issues into my lower body. I have no choice but to take a step back.

I’d say that this is a lesson learned, but in truth I’m not sure. Time well tell. It has historically been my nature to overdo things. The blog title is “Maximal Matt,” not “Precautionary Matt.”

Sometimes I wonder if the end of me will come from an attempt to overdo an activity. Maybe it will be a 90-year-old attempt at an ultramarathon or a 100-year-old attempt to bike across the United States. This would be one of the more virtuous ways to go out in my opinion. The way I’ve always seen it is that you don’t truly know your limit until you’ve crossed it.

I crossed my limit the last two weeks; it hurts because as much as I want to attain the distances I feel that I’m capable of running, I know that this phase of running will have to be a slow build from a much smaller starting point.

When gloomy, I look for inspiration in runners who know how to always find joy in the experience. Camille Herron, the 100-mile world record holder for women, always seems to be smiling, even 80 miles into a treacherous trail run. Joy is possible, even in the suffering of it all.

Maybe I can’t run one hundred miles tomorrow, but I can still potentially enjoy the one that I can manage.

Getting Back Up: Returning to Running

I just completed a full week of running. I broke my collarbone on November 6th and completely avoided exercise for the rest of the month; I believe that healing something like a bone break requires as much rest as possible. In that timespan I lost a considerable amount of conditioning and mobility, especially in the arm attached to the broken bone.

I still have a lot of physical therapy to go before I’m “fully active”, but it does feel great to resume running. I notice my collarbone more often than not, but the pain is never more than a dull ache.

I’m beginning a buildup towards a marathon. I was asked by a friend if, considering the collarbone break, I intended to cancel my marathon event. The answer is, “Definitely not.” My marathon isn’t until the beginning of April. I tell myself that people have bounced back from worse. This is true. Hell, Bane broke Batman’s back and he still managed to heal and return for another fight.

There are some issues that I’ll have to deal with over the next few weeks. One is that for the next month or so I’ll need to sacrifice strength training for physical therapy. That’s just how it is. We only have so much time in the day. Strength training can enhance endurance running performance, but the difference is negligible compared to time devoted to actual running. I’m just glad that I can run right now.

My marathon training plan focuses my first few weeks on a specific running duration, with runs held mostly to a “perceived effort” intensity of “5 out of 10” or lower. This is part of a phased approach to training. The purpose of the first phase is to focus the body on adapting to a higher volume. I’m lucky that the first phase of running is mostly at a low intensity: I wouldn’t want to do much sprinting right now anyways, nor do I think it would be a good idea.

On Saturday, I did participate in a Saint Louis running event—a 12k run—in order to work on my pacing. Having been immobile for a month, I tempered my speed expectations and made the goal of this event to pace my run well. I did manage to do this. I negative split the run (the second half of my run was faster than the first half), which is the first time I’ve managed to do this at an event. If there is a “lesson learned” from the event, it’s that I switched to a faster gear of speed a little too soon; the final half mile was absolutely hellish.

I followed that event with a slow-paced one hour and 45 minute run this morning. And wow was it slow. However, it wasn’t as slow as the same run I did the week before. That’s a good sign; it means that I’m progressing, not regressing, and my conditioning is improving.

I’m happy with where I’m at, all things considered. It could always be worse. The collarbone broke, but the bone could have struggled to reattach. It could have required surgery. I could have ruptured a tendon, or suffered long Covid. I still don’t recommend breaking your collarbone—attempting to sleep is absolute hell—but there are worse injuries (though admittedly not that many).

Though bone breaks are never fun, I have no choice but to remain an optimist. Life’s too short not to find a reason to smile. Each injury makes me appreciate health that much more.

Health is a finite thing, a resource far more scarce than oil or gold. Bodily attrition continues gradually and eventually loses to the onslaught of maladies trying to break in. There comes a day when no Trojan Horse is necessary to enter; the gates collapse with the final push of Father Time. Yes, our days are numbered, so I find it purposeful to spend them doing the things that I enjoy.

Steps Forward

My first week of physical therapy for a broken collarbone is complete. I have about five weeks to go if I heal well.

The first week consisted of various up, down, sideways, and diagonal movements with the arm and shoulder. In some exercises I stood and in others I sat. In some exercises I could barely move the arm without pain, while others I completed with relative ease. Some exercises had me hold a towel, others a stick, and others a stretch band.

I do feel that my mobility is already increasing. I also like my physical therapist. My favorite part of physical therapy is actually not the exercises themselves, but rather the connection shared with a therapist. I have better recollection of a long conversation about pizza than I do the specific exercise repetitions I did.

I managed to run four days this week. I am beginning a “building” phase of a marathon training plan. This week only included slow-paced running, most of it done at a perceived effort of “4 out of 10.” The idea is to comfortably accumulate volume and adapt to it. I did not expect to begin training under these circumstances, but that’s life. We play the cards we’re dealt.

The bone aches a bit less with each run and the “bad arm” swings with a little more ease. I felt the bone for every second of the first run, but that aching feeling is already diminishing.

My running performance has frankly been terrible and that’s okay—my conditioning worsened severely over the last month spent in a sling—but I’m also improving a little each day. It’s only natural that the fall occurs much more quickly than the climb. I can tell by my heart rate and pace metrics that I’m adapting well though. The heart rate is steadily lowering while the pace is quickening, and that is just in one week.

After the first run, intense inflammation struck my right foot, the same foot that I sprained a year ago. With each day, though, this seems to ease a little, and subsequent runs haven’t worsened it.

That’s one difficult part about recovering from an injury: you emerge from a cast or sling with a weakened body that is more susceptible to injury. One has to tread carefully to prevent another setback.

I think of a Megadeth song, “Soldier On,” about the innate need to just keep going. Despite a few setbacks, I find myself striving to stand back up again.

Here’s to health in 2023.

Running through Pain

One should be keenly aware of the difference between fatigue and injury. Sometimes I walk the fine line between the two. I risked walking that line today.

A dense fog crawled through downtown and veiled the Mississippi River. It blanketed everything with gray, rendering the morning a shapeless purgatory.

Signs of life showed when a single gull glided through this fog, only to eventually have the mist engulf it somewhere over the Mississippi.

Later I saw the fog devour a flock of geese in similar fashion. Eventually the gray devours us all.

I trodded forward. My right foot initially ached and I could not tell whether the issue was bone or ligament. The cause was likely too much running over the weekend.

Again I found myself quickly fatiguing, though I did feel slightly faster and fresher than Sunday. As the miles passed, the pain in my right foot seemed to abate. That’s a sign that the issue is not related to bone.

I completed one hour and eighteen minutes of running, if you’d call it a run. My pace is currently an average of a full minute slower per mile than it was just two months ago at the same relative effort. However, it feels good to just finish.

My right arm ached less than it did on Sunday. That’s a good sign too. I was able to move the arm a little more (you need a little natural swing with your stride, I think). It’s getting there. I’m on the mend.

I have my first session of Physical Therapy today. Six weeks total, two sessions per week, and in theory I’ll be at 100%. That’s a very nice thought.

Declines in fitness can be precipitous. Then it’s a slow and grueling ascend back to where you were. That may initially seem unfair, but would it be worth it if it was easy?

The Expense of the Present

I had a dream last night in which I was on a party boat, somewhere near a far-off Pacific island, along with several coaches and teammates from my adolescence. The boat skidded over the gentle waves of a clear blue Pacific towards an ethereal sunset. The sun washed everything in gold.

One of the coaches on the boat was an assistant swimming coach from when I was eleven years old named Will. I found myself telling him about my current training.

“I’m 37,” I told him, “And I’m wondering if I’ve had enough. I’m broken down, but I can still do it. And yet, what more is there to prove? I’m still performing at a high level at this age, but how much longer should I go?”

In the dream, it seemed, I was still competing as an elite level swimmer.

Yet the coach’s eyes were transfixed on the ocean, and he was barely paying attention. He didn’t care. Competition was a long time ago for him. He had moved on and shifted his priorities. Here, it seemed, the priority was to enjoy the beauty that the world offered.

“Should I compete another year?” I asked. I gazed around at the other coaches and teammates, but none of them paid any mind. They were relaxing and having some alcoholic beverages.

“I think I have another 42 second 100 yard freestyle in me,” I added. Yet no one responded.

“I think I can keep competing, but I’m tired. What am I chasing for? Should I go another year?”

Finally, another coached turned toward me and shrugged.

I looked down and realized that I was wearing competition apparel, whereas everyone else in the boat wore trunks and beach shirts.

Obviously my days as a competitive swimmer ended a long time ago, but currently I find myself building towards a marathon.

Maybe the dream was a reminder that a focus on the future, a focus on plotting and competing, must come at some expense of the present.

As I rehab this collarbone break, I find my mind often thinking of “getting the arm back to where it was.”

And what if it doesn’t? The ocean remains unchanged. The sun maintains its beauty. The coaches of the past do not cast judgment.

An aging athlete should not lose sight of the present.

Resuming Activity with Frozen Shoulder

I ran for the first time in over a month today. I’ve buried my sling somewhere in the dark recesses of my closet, hopefully never to be seen again. I’ve been cleared by an Orthopedic for running, but not weight lifting.

It was a frigid morning and a blustery wind amplified the chill. I rode a bike through previous winters and from the outdoor activity was better adapted to the cold than I am now.

I ran one hour, and it was a long hour. There was pain involved, but most of the pain was in my shoulder, not my collarbone. I have a condition called “frozen shoulder” from the month spent in a sling. It will take physical therapy to reverse this over the course of the next six week. My targeted completion date is January 13th.

On top of the frozen shoulder I felt on the run, I fatigued quickly. A month of inertia will do that. I lost much of the conditioning that I spent the better part of the year building. An hour run at a slow pace was my recovery run through the fall season. Today it was a challenge to finish. My hoarse breathing was more audible and my pace was especially slow.

Still, I made an hour run. It was a steady run at a slower pace than any run I’ve done in some time. The positive is that my collarbone remains mostly pain-free and my shoulder didn’t worsen.

Today was, in summary, “day 1” of my start to marathon training. It wasn’t the “day 1” I hoped for or visualized prior to my injury, but I see a silver lining.

The month of rest gave me fresh legs. Aside from the collarbone and attached shoulder, I feel no pain.

Much of endurance running is a balancing act between minimizing risk for injury and maximizing volume.

So, I am starting everything on a clean slate. I have a fresh bone and a fresh mind. I have my first physical therapy appointment on Tuesday and I’m feeling optimistic again.

Rehabbing a Collarbone Break - Part 1

Today I returned to an Orthopedic doctor to check on the progress of my collarbone break. It had been two weeks since my last visit. The break occurred four weeks ago and I’ve been in a sling ever since.

Obviously, I was hoping that the bone has healed enough to rid the sling and resume normal activity.

I had some initial x-rays done on the bone, and a long wait in a patient room followed. Finally, the doctor entered.

“You’ve healed really well. The bone has reattached successfully, and I see material bonding the break together,” the doctor said (I’m paraphrasing). I cannot recall if he used the word “froth” to describe the material that reattaches bone, but I’m fairly certain it was this word. “You can take off the sling for good.”

The sling is gone! He then had me stand while he inspected the collarbone.

“I don’t see a knob there anymore. That’s a good sign. It looks exactly the same as your left collarbone. That means it really healed well.”

The doctor led me through a series of mobility tests. It was my right collarbone that broke, and my right arm had a fraction of the mobility that my left arm did. I was unable to lift the arm over my head, for example. I felt pain in almost every movement.

“You’ve been wearing the sling well. That’s good,” the doctor said. “The bad news is you have frozen shoulder. All the pain you’re feeling now is from your shoulder, not your bone. It’s from wearing the sling for so long and not moving the arm.”

I agreed to six weeks of physical therapy to regain mobility in my right arm. After six weeks, I’ll have a follow-up appointment with x-rays to confirm that everything has healed perfectly.

“You can perform basic stretching and mobility work, but don’t lift weights. Don’t lift anything more than ten pounds. A can of soda is okay. A gallon of milk is not. The bone is still healing,” the doctor advised.

“How about light running?” I asked.

“Running is fine,” he said. “You’re good for that.” I was relieved to hear that.

“And cycling?” I asked.

“Just don’t fall,” the doctor said with a smile.

I won’t ride a bike for a few weeks regardless. A fall right now would be too catastrophic.

It feels great to be out of the sling. Six weeks of physical therapy hardly seems like the end of the world!

I had a Starbucks latte as a celebratory beverage. I am “active” again and will resume running tomorrow.

Obviously there is still a lot of rehabilitation ahead, but everything could have been worse. The glass is half-full. The bone could have displaced further. That would have required surgery. I could have also had a worse concussion. The mind is a terrible thing to waste. As it was, I regained my senses quickly.

Six weeks! That means my final date of rehabilitation is January 13th, 2023. This is the date that I will have my final appointment with the Orthopedic and final x-rays to confirm that I am healed. Oddly enough, I finished physical therapy in 2021 around the same date. I cannot recall whether the final day was January 13th, but it was very close.

Now here’s to hoping I don’t end 2023 in the same manner!

Controlling Chance

There’s a desire in us to want control over a thing called chance. If you have mastery over chance, after all, you control your own fate.

How else can one explain the draw towards gambling, and the feeling of willing the cards into submission. “Luck is on my side,” we often tell ourselves, as though some deity named Fate is either an ally or a foe, and as though we can somehow bend the fabric of time and space in our personal favor.

It’s the desire to conquer chance that also leaves so many fearful of viruses, and so many obsessive with medicine. With the advertisements of a cure we see the means of preventing an arbitrary demise.

I also see signs of the human desire to conquer chance in the exercise industry. Athletes subscribe to every new fad and gadget possible in efforts to control their outcome. Dietary supplements, blood glucose monitors, ice baths, GPS watches, and VO2 Max machines are just some of the tools people use to control their outcome. I’m not criticizing these tools, as each of them can serve a useful purpose. I’ve used some of them personally. But with each of these “hacks” there is a desire to have control over one’s own outcome, to have finished the race before it begins, to watch the movie before the script is written.

It is this same burning desire to conquer fate that leads the modern Protestant-like athlete to overtrain. It is the overtrained athlete that sees success as a mathetmatical formula, as a means of “simply doing more at a faster pace.” The overtrained athlete wills his or her body towards a promised land, negligent of injury and pain perception. The watch shows a pace that must be maintained at any cost, on every day. Success is a matter of abiding by numbers.

It is this mentally that renders these types of athletes little more than the script in a computer program, rather than the programmer. The organic qualities of exercise are lost in an effort to gain power.

What is the solution? In my opinion, the solution is simple fun. It’s random, wild, and selfish fun. Exercise for the sake of joy.

Just watch kids exercise. They aren’t linear like adults. There is little planned because predeterminism is the enemy of a child, not the friend. Kids think little of athletic apparel, heart rate, or qualifying times. These are the dreads of the aged. And kids have something many adults don’t: smiles.

To relinquish control is a scary thing. However, as I’ve learned over the course of 37 years, we cannot control the future. We can make decisions that affect the future, but we never own rights to the final scene of the script.

We might as well enjoy what we have and save ourselves the existential dread.

Maybe luckily, I’ve never been good at gambling

Rehabilitation - Week 1

I started feeling significantly better approximately one week after the collarbone break. Though I cannot lift my bad arm over my shoulder, I am better able to extend the arm when it isn’t in a sling. Simple movements such as standing up and sitting down no longer hurt. Coughs and sneezes no longer send shockwaves of pain shooting through the shoulder and neck.

The key to recovery from injury is simple in summary and complex in execution: rest and sleep as much as humanly possible. I say that it’s complex in execution because adults have obligations. There’s a job to pay the bills, dishes to wash, clothes to launder, and errands to run. This is hustle culture, after all. “I’ll sleep when I’m dead” is the declaration of the productive. And yet obligations are typically hinged to stress. The body treats stress like it would any physical trauma. Therefore each stressor is a detractor from recovery.

I have to allow life to slow down a little. In order to heal the bone, I have to prioritize myself and my happiness.

Yesterday, meanwhile, I had a Zoom call with my upcoming marathon coach. I ultimately decided to team up with a coach because I have no running background and I’m attempting to cross personal uncharted territory. 26 miles is a long way to go for a swimmer who specialized in the 200 yard freestyle.

There was only one person I had in mind for coaching, and I’m happy with my choice.

Now is not a time for training. It’s a time for reposing, sleeping, and reflection. In the long run this is probably a good thing. I think we Americans overvalue work and undervalue rest. I had a long grind to the half marathons that I ran in October. The legs and feet needed a rest. With the extra rest, I also gain a few extra hours each day to appreciate the simple things.

I feel more comfortable resting at this stage in my life. My current training is a far cry from college athletics, where there’s a definitive ending to everything. Therefore, there is no rush to recovery. As a swimmer in college, I had four years to swim as fast as I could. The final times at the end of year four were final, and there would be no redos. Therefore, any significant injury could ruin everything. Worse, every vacation was equipped with the paranoia of losing a physical edge.

My timeline is stretched comfortably now. I look ahead in decades, not seasons. There is no specific time I have to hit and no deadline to hit it. I move for the sake of movement and joy. All times I strive for are arbitrary, and there is little pressure to hit them.

That in itself is reason to sleep comfortably.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Last Day

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I guess I’m good today,” I said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Running, and the Long Game

I’ve had a long and gradual running progression that began in late January and ended with a 10k event, the Summer Sizzler, last week. This phase lasted as long as it did partly out of a hellbent intent to overcome a foot injury from a year ago. I had one ambition this year: to not only heal my foot, but to run faster than I ever had before.

That’s about 7 straight months of running volume buildup. I decided the 10k race would be as good an event to end this “phase” of running as any. As July acceded to August, I realized that it was time to rest the running muscles.

The Summer Sizzler 10k took place at Forest Park in Saint Louis on a cool and balmy Saturday morning. My legs felt reasonably fresh, though I had raced a 3200 meter timed event just a few days before.

The runners gathered near the start as the announcer counted down to takeoff. The course directions seemed barely marked, with only a smattering of signs pointing which way; I hoped that I wouldn’t get lost. I settled near the front of the starting line, only allowing some younger runners (I later discovered both were under age 20) to start ahead of me.

The race started and I felt the exhilaration of being part of a large group embarking on a quest, an army of feet smacking against earth, bodies darting up and down park hills. There is an initial adrenaline rush that makes speed feel easy for the first kilometer or so.

About two miles in, I passed one of the two young males ahead of me. I sensed some of his fatigue and decided to take advantage by accelerating to a higher place. I had no real “race” goals, but knew quickly that I was already in second place, that a hundred people were behind me, and that the leader was 18 years my minor.

I kept the leader in my field of vision as my hamstrings and quads pushed me up a long hill that spanned the entire third mile. Eventually I noticed the leader slowing and I realized that he wasn’t running a 10k; he was only running a 5k and finishing for the day. I still had half of my race remaining. This also meant that I was firmly in the lead for the 10k.

I held my pace steady for the second half, only fading on the final uphill mile of the course, to claim a victory and pose proudly for the camera at the finish. I had something to be proud of: a year ago, I was not sure if I’d ever run again. Crazier yet, in college, my 10k timed run was about 56 minutes, and that was almost 20 years ago. On this day at Forest Park, one year after tearing several ligaments in my right foot, I clocked 39 minutes and won. I felt the closure from my foot injury that I desperately needed.

I am 17 minutes faster in a 10k than I was 20 years ago. Time is an illusion. That excites me more than any finish. I believe that I still have ample room for improvement. Regardless of how much improvement is in store, even if there is actually none left, I intend to keep running for many years into the future.

I remind myself that I am not striving to maximize my performance. I am in what I call “the long game.” The long game, for me, supersedes any “short-term outcomes.”

The “long game” goal has nothing to do with place, rank, or time. The aim is to continue having active adventures well into my 50s, 60s, 70s, 80s, and 90s. I’d rather be the first centenarian to bike across Europe than a winner of any near-term race. I plan on signing up for plenty of events and having fun with all of them, but the long-game is where I set my sights.

Playing the long game helps put my exercise into perspective. So many people frown while they run, eyes glued to GPS watches, their banter mostly about boring adult things such as stride length and cadence.

All those things are relevant to running, certainly, but a soul tethered to a watch will inevitably miss the joy of gliding through summer air on two feet, for miles on end, possessing the ability to outlast every other animal on this earth with human endurance. It is the closest we can get to our ancestors as they persistence hunted their prey, running until their targets collapsed and their bodies crashed to the earth.

If affixed to a watch, how can one have the courage to accelerate madly downhill with a smile on the face and a childlike reckless mentality? Steady pace is the way of the watch. Steady pace can be boring, though it does have value in allowing for time to connect and chat with other people. There is no gambling, however, in steady pace. I think we need to gamble every so often. Still yet, the eyes that only see clocks will miss the wildlife that envelopes the environment.

In playing the long game one can appreciate longevity. I do not necessarily mean life longevity. How much exercise can actually extend lifespan is debatable (probably not as significant a factor on lifespan as our genetics). However, I do believe that the quality of our years spent on this planet can be extended. I’d rather be a 60-year-old still running like a 20-year-old than a 60-year-old struggling to mount a flight of stairs.

So the 10k was exciting. It was fun, it put me in a great mood, and it left me planning the next run. It brought back the adrenaline rush I always felt from competition. Winning and breaking 40 minutes were welcome surprises. To quote Ozzy Osborne, “I don’t wanna stop.”

But now that 10k is in the past. The medal I was awarded is a bit of history. Life moves on to the next event and the next adventure.

Right now, I’m resting the running legs for my birthday month and focusing on cycling. Running will pick up again in September.

Next week, to combat mortality and 37 years on planet earth, I will bike up the Eastern United States, from Virginia to Pittsburgh. It will take several days and hundreds of miles.

It’s the next adventure, and a relevant stage in the long game.

Chasing the Personal Best

I had a pretty nasty bike crash last week. I was zipping through downtown and encountered a construction zone near the Convention Center Plaza. I made a left turn for a detour, thinking the detour road would be mostly smooth pavement, only to have my front tire hit a jagged crevice in the tarmac. My bike went over sideways and I crashed on my right side.

Lesson learned: never assume the road ahead will provide a smooth ride.

I slid over the pavement and felt the road peel away the skin on my right leg. My elbow and hip collided against the street with a thud. I knew immediately it wasn’t a light crash. I wished that I had been watching the road more carefully.

I looked around and realized that I was alone on that street. It was the cusp of dawn and the sun’s climb toward the horizon had rendered the streets in shades of lavender and indigo. I levered myself up and attempted to limp back home while carrying my bike. My apartment was only three blocks away. The bike derailleur broke, as did the hanger and chain. The handlebar tape tore up. The bike and I broke together.

I limped home and showered off the blood, then bandaged myself up. I had no anger or regret: the crash already happened and there’s no rewind button on time.

As the hours ticked by, my right elbow went numb and I realized that it was sprained. The sprain was not as severe as the foot injury I suffered a year ago, but I also knew that it would take several weeks to heal. By nightfall, there was almost no mobility in the elbow.

I joked that because the higher powers couldn’t injure my feet while I ran, they decided to hand me the occasional bike crash. We all need setbacks, after all.

Because of the elbow injury, I was unable to bike the rest of the week. So, I ran while maintaining my right arm in a position that was awkward yet comfortable. Each day, a little mobility returned to the arm.

This week was supposed to be my “season ending” running week. I had scheduled a 1600 meter timed run and a 10k run. I wanted to see what progress I had made over the last year, since healing my ankle injury from 2021. It was not ideal to be nursing a bunch of scrapes and bruises, as well as a sprained elbow, this week.

I believe that the body and mind treat all stresses the same: as a gravitational push downward on performance. Whether these stresses are from injury, emotions, or heavy exercise, stresses are essentially quicksand. Stresses are what age us.

My 1600 meter run was Wednesday night and when I showed up at the track to warm up, I felt surprisingly light. I still felt elbow pain but also accepted it as a part of life. Shit happens. Things break and sprain. Sometimes you fully heal, sometimes you mostly heal, and unfortunately, sometimes you just don’t heal at all.

I decided to look for someone in the race that seemed fast and just try to hang with them. I noted a young college-aged male in my group and overheard him saying that he was aiming for some fast times. So, I decided to try and run behind him for as long as I could.

I crossed the first 1600 meters (about a mile) and saw that I ran it in 5 minutes and 20 seconds. That was faster than the fastest 1600 meter run of my life, and I still had another half of the run to go! By my own standards I was flying. I felt fresh and limber. The college guy was just one stride ahead of me. I was keeping up. Everyone else was far behind us.

It wasn’t until the final lap of the 3200 meter run that the college guy pulled ahead by a few seconds. However, I finished the run in 10 minutes and 50 seconds. It was by far the fastest run of my life. A “personal best.”

I shook the college guy’s hand (he went for a fist bump and I awkwardly went for a handshake, being the old fart that I am). I was thankful because it is competition that brings out the best in us. I never would have broken 11 minutes had he not set a good pace for me.

I’m nearing age 37 and appreciate now, more than ever, any sort of personal best time in an athletic event.

The elbow is healing. Maybe when I was 21 I’d feel anger and resentment about my crash. That is the advantage of the late 30’s. Whereas earlier in life there might be a certain paranoia over outcome and control, I’ve finally gotten to a point where I can say, “to hell with it, let’s just roll with the punches.”

My 10k is tomorrow and I think it’ll be fun. I did a 10k in college and my time was 56 minutes. I know I’ll be significantly faster than that. I’ll hit a personal best time, smile, and celebrate with some coffee.

And that’s life. You hit some crashes, you do your best to recover, and you gear up for the next race.

Let’s hope there’s a next race tomorrow.

Party Like It’s ‘99

On Wednesday I finally saw Rob Zombie live for the first time. He was my favorite solo artist in high school and I still listen to his hits from time to time.

Rob Zombie is immortal. He possesses more energy and vitality than lead singers half his age. He’s highly mobile throughout his show and rocks the dance moves of a lithe professional dancer. He’s a perennial headliner for a reason. Viewing the elaborate stage setup at his show is like glimpsing into another gothic world. His bandmates are also perfectionists. John 5, the lead guitarist, is possibly the most skilled soloist I’ve ever watched. The guy can flat-out shred.

Zombie is currently 57 years old and looks as lean and fit as ever. He’s also vegan and has been vegetarian since childhood. This is noteworthy to me because most long-lived cultures I read about eat a relatively large portion of natural carbohydrates and a relatively lower amount of meat (not all, but most). I am not vegan, but I often consider this.

What was my takeaway from watching my teenage idol perform at a crowded amphitheater in front of thousands of fans? Love what you do.

Do I love what I do? I find myself yearning for my hours when I’m free. I love cycling and have gained an appreciation for running. I love connecting with other runners and cyclists who share similar goals, who find themselves aging, yet are eager to accomplish physical feats that they never have before. But that’s not what I do.

An aspiring marathoner told me on our jog last week that he’s training to “give his son a story of something that he accomplished.” That’s what I enjoy learning about: people on their journeys, and how those journeys parallel my own. What can I learn from them? How many miles can we actually crank out together? What is our true limit on this planet?

“Love what you do.” Watching Zombie was a reminder that I need to write more and create more content.