(Not) Only the Lonely

I ran probably 10 of the 13.1 miles of the Chester River Challenge with a girl I'd never met and will likely never see again. About three miles into the race, a group of us settled into a comfortable pace and pushed along as a pack. Running face first into a 30-40 mph headwind on the second half of the course, this girl in blue and I pushed ahead of the pack.

I've run with a number of folks, but I don't think any of them have had the same foot strike pace that I do. Blue girl did. You only heard one set of feet pounding pavement. We didn't talk much. But at one point, we turned out of the wind down a stretch of hilly, country road, were off mostly on our own, and the thought of running that road, in that weather, as a training run was in my mind, since the rest of my body hurt.

"Sometimes this whole running thing is a bleak, solitary pursuit," I said.

"Yeah, it is," she laughed.

But for those miles, for the couple shared comments, for those common footfalls it wasn't.

Human loneliness seem to be the basic condition for two of my life loves: running and writing. Both have solitude as a building block. Both require you to turn inside, to see what is there and to do something with it. And maybe in the end, both are an answer to this condition of loneliness.

The medium of poetry isn't language, really: it's human loneliness, a loneliness that poets, having received it themselves from earlier poets, transfer to their readers. Like bees in a honeycomb, writers and readers experience isolation and solitude communally and collaboratively. - Dan Chiasson, The New Yorker, reviewing Olena Kalytiak Davis's new book.

Maybe writing, especially writing as personal as poetry, is the writer saying, "Hey, this fu**ing sucks. Anyone else?" And the act of writing, the reaching out, if we stumble across some universal feeling or nerve, or at least one other nerve in one other person, the loneliness might abate.

Music can probably be included as a means of combating the lonely. I am not a musician, but I hear it in Delta blues. And I hear it in Sturgill Simpson. Simpson seems to be connecting with a number of folks, Rolling Stone Magazine called his "Metamodern Sounds in Country Music" one of the 50 best albums in 2014.

I dig the way Rolling Stone blurbs it along with some Simpson lyrics:

"Marijuana, LSD, psilocybin, DMT, they all changed the way I see / But love's the only thing that ever saved my life," sings Simpson. The Kentucky-born singer-songwriter's breakthrough album features plenty more folk wisdom, delivered in a singular barrel-aged baritone.

Since a friend shoved me in Simpson's direction, I have been listening a lot, and he seems to fit any mood, from cleaning the house, to happy hour, to morning coffee, or sipping whiskey under the stars.

Running, writing, and music all seem to be born out of an elemental loneliness. They all feel like ways for the runner, writer, musician to bridge a perceived gap, to connect with something, or someone else. And, lucky us, the act of doing, or reading, or listening, can sometimes let us know that someone else out there gets it. Gets us.

Back Road Peace, Dark Wood and Rebirth

Runners are creatures of habit. For the past 10 years, I have had known running routes mapped out in my head. When I walk out the front door, I know specific routes from two miles to 20 miles and everything in between. I know where to turn around for a 10 mile route. I've tread many of them many times.

Saturday I ran a new route, on a new road. It's a road I've driven and been driven on since before kindergarten, with friends that have lived down it. But I had never run it. Back roads, tree-lined, almost full shade. During a 6-mile run, two cars and a tractor passed. Some deer. The tail end of a fox making scarce. I went without music; the roads are narrow and I didn't want to end up an unwitting hood ornament.

There is a peace on running a back country road that exists nowhere else. Most of my road miles have been run on Oxford Road or St. Michaels Road, with cars and trucks whirring past. Or through Easton with small town hustle all around.

Saturday was a reset button. A new route. Solace. Back road peace.

Dark Wood. Tree-lined roads lead my mind to Dante. After studying the Inferno in college, Dante's dark wood has stuck with me.

Midway in the journey of our life
I came to myself in a dark wood,
for the straight way was lost.
Ah, how hard it is to tell
the nature of that wood, savage, dense and harsh --
the very thought of it renews my fear!
It is so bitter death is hardly more so.
But to set forth the good I found
I will recount the other things I saw.
How I came there I cannot really tell,
I was so full of sleep
when I forsook the one true way.

Dante gives us the perfect losing our way metaphor. The opening lines to the most poetic mid-life crisis in history. I have a framed print of Dante and his guide Virgil navigating the dark wood together.

I frequently have those dark wood moments. I wonder if I am on the right path; I wonder if I am lost or have wandered astray; I wonder; I wander. My paths are more meandering than direct. Rather than the one true path, I often feel like mine is a singletrack trail or a country back road. Where do back roads lead?

Rebirth. Spring gets all the credit for new life and rebirth. It's the easy sell. But fall has always been my season for rebirth. Each fall is a new school year. A new grade for the girls, the clock turned back to zero, on top of the foundations they have built in the past years. New teachers. And new students for teachers.

Cooler weather, sloughing off the tired heat of summer. Needing to pull on a sweatshirt or sweater in the evening. Stout beer salivating. My energy usually resets in the fall as well. Fall races for our running peeps. Field hockey for the girls. Football taking over Sunday televisions.

For me, fall is about rebirth. It's about new running routes. It's about reconnecting and navigating the dark wood in the journey of our life. Dante will tell you about it. But nobody named a football team after the Divine Comedy.

"Existentialists in shorts," creating meaning on the run

"Running wasn't just exercise or a hobby, or even necessarily competition, for them. Basically they were existentialists is shorts. I wanted to be one, too." -Scott Jurek, "Eat & Run."

Sometimes you create meaning with each step of a run. Sometimes with none. Mostly it's a happy medium.

I start out noticing every step. The impact on landing, the effort to move my legs. The first part of a run is an in-body experience. Everyday mind.

Each step moves further into consciousness. The body starts to fade into the background. The mind wanders. Wanders with the music. Wanders, thoughts flitting like birds out of mind. The breath is still there, and the movement. The body doesn't hurt, yet. I don't notice the miles or effort.

Then it comes back, the body. The breath reconnects, the legs are pumping, the arms, everything is in sync, connected, but different from when I started.

On long runs I can drift between these states--in body, out. On those, exhilaration can meet delirium.

I am running right behind some deep revelation, something life changing, if I can only run a little faster, reach out and catch it, grab it, tackle it.

But it's rarely about that revelation. I'm not generally fast enough to catch it. It's then that I get that it's the first step where we create meaning in a run, and every step after, not just some elusive magical step.

It's the knowledge that two, four, 10, 20, 50 miles are underfoot, logged by will, effort, discipline. I've put some order on one small part of the day, in my own way. I've seen things that no one sitting inside got to see. I've lived. I've reminded my mind-body-soul that we are free and mobile, sometimes. When we ask.

I run because

I run because it changes me. Those times when I want to stop and sit down, but my mind and body go on auto-pilot and push on and find what's on the other side of quit.

I run because life throws so much shit at you that you have no control over, whereas I choose to run, I choose that test, that challenge and what it asks of me and how I respond.

I run because when I am hopping tree roots and slipping down singletrack, single-file between people I've never met, all at the same cadence, breathing in the trail and each others' collective energy, I know there is something more and larger than me.

I run because I see places and meet people and learn and experience things that I could not any other way.

I run because sometimes I wonder if I can and there is only one way to find out.

I run because it connects my feet to the earth and the air and water. It is elemental and so am I, and together we remember.

I run because of the experience of traveling to a race with a group of friends and the finish line re-living, re-telling; a post-race meal or beer together; and traveling home together, changed a little.

I run because there are times, sometimes, where there is only motion and breath and the world and I are...

Response to Sunday

It's the same shelf at Newscenter, full of random books at the end of the aisle. The first time it was Merwin's The Shadow of Sirius. It didn't belong there and I've never seen another copy in the store since.

This time the shelf coughed up Jules Renard's Nature Stories.

It's Sunday evening. Rain swirls outside, but it is quiet in here, which amplifies the dervish out the windows. Three girls are sleeping. I've got my second evening coffee and am dwelling somewhere between the couch and Renard's animated countryside.

The evening caps a day that started with a 10-mile mudfest of a trail run, where Shaun and I scared up a half-dozen deer darting ahead of us across Little Florida Trail at Tuckahoe State Park.

As I ran until and through my legs hurting from climbing; as I ran short of breath and ski-sliding down muddy hills, I was at times part of the trail, at times my lungs, heart and breath, at times thinking about Renard and what he would see in the woods, on the trail, through the rain. Both what he would see and how he would say it.

It's something of a three-part process: observation, interpretation, expression. Being mindful and receptive to what is there, having it resonate and work through, and reordering it into a personal/universal form of expression.

For people, the possibilities of self-expression are staggering. For a bullfrog, less so. This morning they drank in the rain, the creek, the footsteps of runners passing by and sang it out in one bellowing, continuous note. To our ears, the bullfrog has one note, one word, one song in response to the world.

Tonight, the house is still quiet. In the kitchen, the oven is pre-heated and I've got a mind for baking flounder. This morning's run started with talk of the backwards notes of the mandolin, and with a looking forward to spring and summer fishing. My response tonight, it seems is preparing flounder and cueing up Blues for Allah.

I Suck at Guitar Hero...

Running affords more scenery, but not deeply seeing what is there. More deeply than driving or riding a bike, but not as deeply as walking. Or stopping.

Sometimes seeing more is the thing. Sometimes seeing deeply. I need both, in turns, and maybe even at the same time.

The act of running, walking, stopping--the form and shape and substance of a run, journey, trek, is like the act of writing, of what form and shape writing takes. Whether prose, poetry, prose poem, fragment, meditation, essay, or if it includes all these components depends on what it has to say and how it needs to be said.

I suck at Guitar Hero. And I am cool with that. I see how I might get better at it if I spent some time playing it over and again and then think about the waste of time that would be versus spending on the things I want to focus on (don't worry, I've got plenty of other things to waste my time doing ;)

C.D. Wright, Gary Snyder, William Bronk, and Robert Hass regularly amaze, inspire, and confound me. Forrest Gander is starting to do the same as I read more of him.

I think about how to take/push my writing to the next level (whatever that may mean). How to make my words and thoughts worthy of the page, worthy of the canon, worthy of their (the words') readers and the time they give to reading them. I think how cool it would be to be taught by my writing models, by those whose words inspire me, provoke me, make me want to write, to be a part of that tradition, that expression. To have an audience with them. But also to have that time to dedicate. To writing.

And then I think that by finding them (the writers); by reading and re-reading; by studying and talking about them; they are already teaching me.

What I need to write the way and stuff I want to write is to commit. Again. Each day. To commit to myself. To commit to the writing. Commit to the time, commit to the study. Commit to putting word to paper or screen. To let fly. To revise. To throw away and start again and continue until things properly kick ass.

Get to the odd rhythm. The unpredictable line. The song that surprises,
circumscribes a rhombus in place of a box step.

Snare the word in the corner that nobody else saw, or wanted. Marley's refused builder's stone.

Plumb the deep for symbols. The ones that wash the soul in recognition, that speak the names and mind and image.

Kinda Like Free Beer

Running is an aesthetic experience. Wait. Ascetic? Well, maybe that too sometimes, but I'm talking ripe with the sublime, not beating yourself with sticks, wearing burlap running shorts.

There are times out on a run, where my body and mind have emptied themselves of everything but the rhythm of breathing and foot strikes, and I'll come across sunlight, mist, and clear sky above, playing games with the surface of a river or pond. Or come face-to-face with a deer who's decided it's a better idea to freeze than to bolt.

Often it is a run-in with nature (or Nature), but it can happen in town or a city as well. Times when the run feels like it happened, in part, to put me in front of something or to give me the opportunity to experience something I would have completely missed if I hadn't gotten out there. What do you do with that?? Personally, I like to say, "thank you," and smile.

Predictability vs. Spontaneity

Predictability is the sun rising every morning. Spontaneity is waking up and driving (or running) to somewhere you've never sat before to watch it come up.

Predictability is going to work 5+ days a week. Spontaneity is not knowing exactly what any particular day will hold and being open to possibilities. Spontaneity, for me, is also the conversations I have with our 3-year-0ld daughter on the way to daycare.

Predictability is getting up to run in the mornings, often on the "da corner" of Aurora and Idlewild in Easton. Spontaneity is 48-hour notice to do the Trans Tred Avon Challenge, or running to Rise Up Coffee, or 3:30 a.m. 20-milers.

My life and my running seem to require both predictability and spontaneity. Being able to predict things (correctly, let's say!) is comforting and reassuring. Spontaneous adventures, conversations, moments, decisions is life-affirming. It spins things around.

I like knowing I am going to get up and run a few mornings a week. I like not knowing who is going to meet up, what we are going to talk about, or how the run will go. It's also sweet when we can mix things up and do something different without much planning or notice.

That's the view from the brim of the coffee cup at the moment. Happy Friday and weekend running.

How to Respond?

A young trail runner--in April, Ava and I hit Idlewild Park in Easton, where she decided she was going to do her own trail running. Up and down the hills, turning off to stop at the top of the hills to wave, and other times just mowing by them. She kept at it, back and forth, having an absolute blast. At its best, that's what my running gets at.

A quick update from the last post--young Samuel had his first surgery this past Friday, May 16. All went well, and this afternoon, they performed the second part of the surgery, closing his chest again. He has lept the hurdles as they've come, one at a time. There are more ahead. He is likely two to three weeks from where he might be able to come home.

Watching and waiting with Samuel, Susie, Chad, and Julian, causes sensible and insensible people to ask, "What the $%# ?" Maybe me more than others, as I seem to be wired to go that route (English and philosophy are open-ended question-asking fields). One of the tenets of Buddhism is the idea that "life is suffering." So what do you do about that? How do you live your life? I tend to take a more celebratory approach, but it comes back to suffering at some point, doesn't it?

Your life is your answer to what you do about suffering, at least it seems that way to me. I don't pretend any special wisdom (or much wisdom at all), but when I look at my own life, there seem to be some recurring ingredients I throw into the crockpot full of existential stew. So here are some of said ingredients, in no particular order:

Humor - this is a big one for me. Not humor in a knock-knock joke sort of way, but in a find humor wherever it peeks around a corner, pants's you, or hits you square in the face. There have been some big dogs who go that route--from Einstein, Mark Twain, Gandhi, and one of my favorite zany writing cats, Tom Robbins, who raps whatever enlightenment he can impart in an ill-fitting, rag-tag, funny looking wrapper.

Writing - I largely attempt to make sense of things by giving them voice, airing them out, or trying to arrange them in some fashion that they either become clearer or just make room in my consciousness for something else. I've never had any talent for visual arts or music, so for me it's writing, whereas for others, you might construe it more broadly as "creating."

Running - it seems like whenever I take a break from running, it always comes back to me, somehow new. I have had some of my most "aha-ish" moments during runs--I can remember running along The Strand in Oxford when an idea for a thesis in a philosophy paper hit me, and almost began to write itself. That isn't the norm necessarily, but there are moments like that throughout my running. After moving home back home from Raleigh, getting back into running, distance running, was a big factor in transforming my life and motivation to go back to school and get off my arse.

It could be that there is in some way a microcosm for life woven into a long run--feeling good, moving along, enjoying scenery, when the energy level drops, breathing becomes labored, legs hurt, will sinks, and suffering is in full effect. I have had those moments in the JFK 50 miler (mile 30-ish), the Holiday Lake 50K, and just long runs in general--where it is all I can do to keep pushing forward, but I stumble smiling (I am demented :) and looking to finish in whatever way I can. I mentioned it in an e-mail to Joel and Landy I think, where you get to that point in a long run, where you simply stop asking why and just do it.

I have a lot of "why's," but I like not dwelling on them, pounding them out a bit on the road or trail, and then allowing myself to be okay with having why's. Where running and philosophy meets and running smacks Phil on the back, shoves him to the ground, calls him a dork, and dusts him to the finish line. Don't worry, Phil is resourceful, he's not going to just lay there.

Child's Eyes - I tend to look at life and live it, child-like. I enjoy having fresh eyes, and am constantly fascinated with how our girls see the world. I think they are right more than grown-ups in their spot assessment of many situations. And kids have more fun than most grown-ups, let's face it. In Zen Buddhism, they call this outlook, "Beginner's Mind."

Live Uniquely - I don't care much for labels, categories, or stereotypes. The coolest people I meet are those who can't fit into a broad categorization--he or she is a "blank." (I am not sure what that would look like?) I enjoy surrounding myself with said people, and trying to follow the example of living life on your own terms.

Savor - if life is suffering and there are going to be some rough spots, all the more reason to drink deeply of the good stuff.

This all sounds preachy and cliche, but I guess I am trying to jot down some of the things I can point to as helping make up my own response to suffering, to stuff that doesn't make any sense, to unforeseen hardship. A reality is that, whether or not it directly affects us at any given time, it's going on all around us all the time.

I've been trying to think of a quote or two to tie this together, though it's more like a sprawl or spew. But here are a couple worth checking out from runner, philosopher, physician, scribe George Sheehan:

"There are as many reasons for running as there are days in the year, years in my life. But mostly I run because I am an animal and a child, an artist and a saint. So, too, are you. Find your own play, your own self-renewing compulsion, and you will become the person you are meant to be."

"The answer to the big questions in running is the same as the answer to the big questions in life: do the best with what you've got."

"In facing life, no one knows exactly what is going to happen, what is going to be needed, where the search for the Grail will lead. The best we can do is be prepared. Running makes you an athlete in all areas -- trained in basics, ready for whatever comes, ready to live each day, fill each hour and deal with the decisive moment."

So there's a big, messy foil ball for you: suffering, running, humor, creativity, beginner's mind, and drinking it all in. What else? Thoughts? Bueller?

Acknowledging the Herons

Spotting a heron on Papermill Pond is an unspoken conversation with both Nature and the running gods--it dials me in to the world and often helps psychologically create, or further, a good run. Photo by Robert Grieser, courtesy of CBMM.

I would consider bringing a heron along with me to Hagerstown on Saturday, if it was practical. My friends on Papermill Pond along both St. Michaels and Oxford Roads, scoping a heron often gives me a mental lift and kick-in-the-running-shorts during a long morning run. They've been good for running and for a two-way smile with Creation, a grinning glimpse possible only by putting the time in outside.

There are games, signals, and mental marks all along my frequent routes for runs. This past Friday, on an 8-mile out-and-back up Oxford Road, I passed geese pitching in; startled some whitetail deer across from Waverly Road, and (figuratively) tipped my hat to a heron stationed on the shoreline. It was one of those "why I run" moments, which frequently occur during early morning runs.

Yet, the head-shaking moment came passing the YMCA, both coming and going, with folks plodding along on the treadmills, elliptical trainers, stationery bikes, and stairmasters. I am sure there is something enjoyable about shooshing along to Headline News first thing in the morning, much the same way as a hamster supremely digs the wheel he runs on in his cage. The key difference I see between the two--the treadmiller and the hamster--is that the hamster is making the best of the surroundings he's dealt. The treadmiller chooses his/her wheel.

I don't mean to bust on the cardio-moles here. This is my own, leaning askew perspective--a mindset developed from running outside in a variety of temperatures, seasons, and times of day. I will hop on a stairmaster or treadmill in a pinch and enjoy the workout, but I would rather run in 20 degree weather outside for the adventure of it.

Did someone say adventure? The calendar says that the JFK 50-miler is this Saturday, November 17 with a 7 a.m. start. Training and health have been makeshift, as has been well-documented in past entries, but feel like they have been moving slowly in the right direction. I ran my 8-miler on Friday in 1:13:32, at a sustainable pace, for negative splits, with a good pace for the last 2 or so miles. That puts the pace at a hair over 9-minute miles without really dropping the hammer.

Conditioning, nutrition, equipment, weather on the tangible side; momentum, determination, Aries-like stubbornness on the intangible, will be telling factors for Saturday.

Funny, somehow I have already moved my running outlook to the other side of the race, appreciating runs of any distance; savoring the setting; running just to run, not as part of a training plan, but as a way of life, a way of being; and acknowledging the herons.