tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14341205875085833432024-03-05T20:27:16.024-08:00Run & Paint. . . . .posts regarding experiences of nature, internal and external, while running or painting or music. . . . . or a collection of ramblings by a painter who runs. (All rights of content reserved by author.)j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-71065909129355356152018-06-11T11:51:00.000-07:002018-06-11T11:51:56.646-07:00On the death of Anthony Bourdain ...On the death of Anthony Bourdain, or how an exquisite light can cast an abominable shadow.<br />
<br />
Can we quit saying, The struggle is real?<br />
<br />
When we speak of trivial stumbles, of pulling push-doors, of missing a button, when a salon-crafted coffee misses a mark, can we not use a vapid phrase, like The struggle is real.<br />
<br />
When we repeat, the Struggle is real, to say it in banal ways, we demean the struggle that many carry in our minds, our hearts, in our guts and soul. When we neglect the brutal reality of the struggle, how it has gravity, mass, talon and teeth, how it hunts us endlessly, we begin to fade from sight. We begin to lose our light.<br />
<br />
The struggle is real, its a fucking deathgrip, and the endurance to keep above it is a measured in life and death. This thing is a darkness that bleeds from our own hearts. This thing wears our bodies, uses our eyes. It speaks through our teeth and it hates us when we laugh. It drags at our faces when we walk with pride. It collects our moments like bones, to throw at us when we become happy, relaxed, or complacent.<br />
<br />
The struggle is real and it keeps stealing the lives of our mentors, destroying the minds of our teachers. The struggle is burying our thinkers beneath the Earth, the same they once carried on their shoulders. The struggle is killing the ones who take the time to search, to look and feel, to taste and translate the experience to us, to insert exceptional moments into our unexceptional days.<br />
<br />
When Bourdain was a child, his parents left him in the car, a comfortable backseat in Bordeaux, and they dined on food from the great kitchens of the world. It touched Bourdain in ways that took his heart to the realm of myth, stirred his young soul to wonder and passion. His exclusion perhaps became his intense interest in it, and he began to seek the things that were not easily available, began to mine deeper the things that were not on the surface.<br />
<br />
Let's talk about what its it's like when you contain the darkness of all of your worst nights.<br />
<br />
Let's talk about how it feels like when you tear, like a deep-rooted tumor, all good from the core of your being, despite the sun, despite a bowl of hot soup before you, despite the day, despite your friends, despite it all. Fuck it all. In spite of it all. Fuck it all and go.<br />
<br />
When you’ve been locked in the room where every wall is a mirror, the endless echoes of the terrible truth of yourself, the atrocious display of your ugliness, when you have been kicked by the ghosts of yr fears as you sweat in the middle of a linoleum floor, then maybe you know.<br />
<br />
When you have shifted through sweat and regret through sleeplessness, mulling things said, things not said, months ago/maybe years, and the room will not relent her mirrored haunt.<br />
<br />
When you quit answering the phone, when you quit laughing, when you quit crying, when you quit trying, because you are insulated in a rapture of lightlessness, that is when you know.<br />
<br />
DFW. Kurt. Chester. Chris. Kate. Tony.<br />
<br />
The struggle is real, people. The struggle is real people. This whole fucking thing is real, and it's a monster. It is killing our inspirations, our hopes, the lights that cut the fog, and it is murdering our friends when we were dancing unaware.j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-90854424046456399732017-07-10T19:35:00.002-07:002017-07-10T19:35:38.824-07:00Teak, a study in the luxury of hardwood.<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">i. Intro, smells like coffee.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I was the production manager in the saw mill for Dean Hardwood. Our operation was shoved on the side of the Cape Fear River, beneath the Isabella Holmes bridge. I directed a crew of about twenty men and women, with daily fluctuation in staff number, daily fluctuation of who showed up. We had around 15000 square feet of stacked raw materials, featuring all manner of lumber in all in various stages of preparation. We had finished flooring: black walnut, sapele, red & white oak, afrormosia, curly heart pine & yellow pine, Carribean pine, African and Philippine Mahogany, Zebra wood ... musical fukn names. I worked with woods I had never seen nor have I seen them since. They were beautiful and distinct, ranging in color from burled sienna to deep dusky red to oiled pumpkin to sunshine yellow. We ran familiar woods as well, like oak with her clean, even gradations. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The fragrances also varied wildly. Not unlike crushing mint or basil, the planing and cutting of various species realeased an olfactory peak. There were woods that smelled of wildflower crushed in coffee. African woods released spicy earths, wild animal skin, rich wet soils, dry sweetness like an oaked chardonnay, the burnt perfumes of Sapele.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">ii. Teak</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Finally, a wood like no other: Teak. Teak which conveyed an unmistakable odour ... a Gucci version of Cedar, whispering scents of frankincense, sulfur, truffle oil. A chocolaty Bordeaux poured into a cedar cup..</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">You get the idea.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I will return to teak in a few paragraphs. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">iii.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Our weekly output was strenuous. We'd load kilns in the morning, check moisture contents and the shaping of bundles (different woods respond with varying degrees of warping to the heated air). After loading kilns and setting up rip saws, after running massive boards through the 1950s resaw, after cleaning the faces of board on our 1940s double headed planar, we collected our work orders across docks and staging areas. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">iv.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I'm losing the thread but I'm arriving soon. It is a serpentine trail to the point, lugubrious and savory. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">You should see an angry resaw kickback a 10 foot piece of dense hardwood. Yiu can't force that shit in or it will impale the operator. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">v.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Beyond the flooring was the boat building industry of the day. In perfect boom, a frenzied peak of demand, no one would foresee the coming drought. The boat industry was half of my work week. Most of it was sapele or mahogany shaped into long, cornerless accent strips on one of two Weinig molders. The other demand wad teak.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The machines, whose age spanned some 40 years, could produce gorgeous shapes under the right configuration. It was an artful thing to observe. One was a 7 head, 1960s model perhaps. The other was a ~2004 with ten heads, punctuated by a universal head which could swivel to carve any face of the board. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The worst was the blades biting into a buried bullet or nail. You would hear an animal groan of engine, the cracked blade of frozen gear, the release of electricity from the whole of the machine. Everything stopped, a dead stop, the machine sensors tripped. The affected blades were ruined. Car accidents could be quieter.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">We worked hard. We worked early and we kept the saws screaming into evening. Kilns, forklifts, semi trailors beneath silos. The groan of the lifts wedging beneath bundles of heavy wood. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Tobacco smoke, the Cape Fear wrestling herself, geysers and plumes of sawdust, storm clouds spinning into thunder. All the while, the orders and the machines.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">vi. Teak</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I was in charge of preparing teak, and I prepared a ton of it. Palettes upon palettes, bundles upon bundles. The teak was cladestinely sent down rivers from Burma (or some communist country under embargo), arriving by arrangement in a country we freely trade with. The uncut trunks were plucked by cranes out of the rivers and auctioned to American brokers.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">vii.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Tom was my supervisor, drove a big red truck and preferred duck hunting to people. Teak is an oily wood, dense and enduring. Mosy of all, it is extremely important to boat building. The natural oils make it resistant to even salt water, salt air. Hence, it carries platinum value. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I was planing big boards for fighting chairs. The company was a classic American company up north. The company produced fighting chairs for Hemingway back in the 1950s, continued to craft the chairs for use today. </span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">We ran these teak boards on a planer from 1940 or '50 and you have to sharpen the blades before you ran that teak because each millimeter was worth literally hundreds of dollars. The bosses would watch the boards run, wincing at dust cloud in our faces, studying the results.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">"Run it through with another 1/16th on both sides."</span></div>
<br />
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;">"Yes sir" I'd say, the bosses breath releasing like a fan of money.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 1.5;">
<span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-1595608534320430852017-06-07T10:06:00.000-07:002017-06-07T10:10:22.604-07:00A note on National Running Day or whatever day it is ...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabp-RXHk0Z58V3SZRW9ZPt8q2z0jJ2Qnsy68x0UYsjDZ8v0drONc6rLDI32PcFUwon8bCDCps__VGjDxjLH2v1EvPwBFx0EVoQQQdZ_fGHTg5oidcj0n0gtULSFYEThRaLOYKCoyoGgY/s1600/IMG_20170412_161852_362.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgabp-RXHk0Z58V3SZRW9ZPt8q2z0jJ2Qnsy68x0UYsjDZ8v0drONc6rLDI32PcFUwon8bCDCps__VGjDxjLH2v1EvPwBFx0EVoQQQdZ_fGHTg5oidcj0n0gtULSFYEThRaLOYKCoyoGgY/s320/IMG_20170412_161852_362.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
i. To want to help.<br />
<br />
Opiate addiction is a local and national epidemic. The losses persist and the drug trade gains ground, gains flesh. Overdose is now the number one killer of American adults under 50.<br />
<br />
While I've fallen away from the active message of recovery, the cause remains close to my heart. I quit meetings because I was tired of people dying. Friends pick up a 90 day tag and, the next day, they're dead. (A large number of deaths in addiction are those who managed a bit of cleantime, making it all the more unbearable, a bit more tragic.)<br />
<br />
ii. The medicine of the mountains, of movement.<br />
<br />
My big goal, the long run goal, is a farm with goats, herbs, fields of vegetables where creatives can rest, recenter, spiritually detox. A place to begin the process of reclaiming. A place to connect with Earth, with body, with the fundamental rythyms of Being. A recovery farm can be a powerful experience.<br />
<br />
iii. The body as a prison, the body as a vehicle.<br />
<br />
To initiate a new relationship with the body is a key part of recovery. Beyond the obvious physiological damage of addiction, there is often sexual damage, emotional damage, spiritual bankruptcy. We carry resentment against a body that constantly betrays itself with craving and sickness. The cycle of push/pull, high/sick, good/bad. Behind every good moment was fear of the fact that it was fading and brief. Everything conveys a vacuousness.<br />
<br />
iv. National Running Day<br />
<br />
One day I put out my smoke and began a run with Kasandra. I began to run further and stronger. I began to feel good. My body healed, was resilient, could promise the endurance of distance. I found I could run across mountains, a prominent image-goal of freedom and strength. Movement was the ultimate medicine. Miles and mountains. A wild freedom of body.<br />
<br />
Addicts innately know endurance.<br />
<br />
To move through a practice of simple yogic movement, hikes and runs, roaming a field and kicking a soccer ball ... throwing a baseball. To run as prayer, as meditation, as praise, as lament. To move with the simple pleasures of exhilaration and coordination.<br />
<br />
v.<br />
<br />
To truly recover, one must reclaim the body, one must reclaim a positive esteem of the body. A fluid harmony. It is the earth in which we plant our spiritual garden, our actions of Life. The body is the one thing we keep our entire lives. We must help each other cultivate the gift of physical courage. Maybe then I can keep my own.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-86676775606022800972016-06-03T06:08:00.000-07:002016-06-03T10:01:17.785-07:00A little bit of a serial story.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<h2 class="MsoNormal">
<u><b><span style="font-weight: normal;">The Cowboy.</span></b></u></h2>
A Western Vignette, to awaken.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-weight: normal;">I.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Morning.</span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He awoke slowly but he might have preferred not waking at
all.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyelids spit an audible click as his vision jarred to light.
A blink like a ratchet half-stripping a bolt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The desert was halfway into her cruel morning.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His head pounded with a bone-bleached dryness, an echo of
the desert into which he was now swallowed. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A torso fell from his body like a man hung by
ragged jute sac. The body refused any initial movement. He swiveled his head and
his saddle answered back. Hand fingered through the thin waves of his brown
hair and he felt its grime. Scalp was matted and oiled with days of being lost,
days of wandering, days of hunger. He pushed his top leg, the left leg, felt
the bloody grind of foot into side of boot. The head felt like a foreign thing
atop someone else’s body and his hand felt a altogether separate animal.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The smell of the sunwarm leather, his horseless saddle,
where rested his head, took full hold of his olfactory awareness. Next, the
smell of minerals in dry dirt and broken trees.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>faint metallic mud, somewhere. The
smell of his tired body lifted from his denim blue shirt.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The saddle yawned beneath his turning head as he began to
lift himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A horseless saddle. The
heaviest damned pillow, the most worthless damned pillow. The one thing left in
this journey gone awry. No cattle bayed, no chickens squawked, no pigs rustled
thrush with grunts and snorts. Home was a helluva long ways away, somewhere
behind that sun. The fat-sided biscuits of those mornings were four lives away.
Butter and percolated coffee. A cut of bacon smearing her grease against a
heavy flour biscuit.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A horseless saddle is a ridiculous thing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Four lives away. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, Shit. That horse always was a fearful thing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
<b><span style="font-weight: normal;">II. Horseless saddle. </span></b></h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His eyes focused, tightened against the frame of space. A tumble
of dust knotted a spiral of hay, shot it into a vastness of empty, unpopulated
distance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The space was monochromatic at
glance, mosaic and busy on study. Such emptiness carried a full acoustic sense,
a music of its own sphere, untranslatable elsewhere, a secret language whispering
a primal history. A subsonic howl that tilted his senses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He half wished he could bind himself into that wheel of hay,
go to where it went, arriving with such ease and effortlessness. However, a
field of decision stared back at him, and it stared damn hard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His head ached with the the full measure of noise that an
empty desert could produce. He could barely pull up his body into the delirium of
sound that was his hunger, his thirst, his fatigue. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But he tried, mustered movement. Legs ground
into sand rubble, a shocking loudness, an upheaval. The wheel of hay kept
spinning, kept getting pushed to horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He lifted with the need of drink and food, he lifted because the desert
was alive and he felt the thrust of survival in his gut. He lifted and he sat,
a slump in his shoulders, ache in belly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All that space he now melted into, now surrendered his body
as a thing within the theater. Slumped against it.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nothing lives here long and neither will I if I don’t get
going.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He arched his body into an upright state. The gut punished
by movement. He pushed blood into his arms, legs, hands, feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowly he claimed his separateness from the
desert, withdrew his own thirst from that of the desert, collected a tiny bit
of spit from his cheek. </div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
A pulse skipped a distant gallop, thunder skipping across a
field of dust, the heart was a steady overworked thing. The ribs rebelled against
the muscles of the diaphragm, the exertion of breath and the unsteadiness of
it. A tongue moved against the side of the mouth like a muskrat crawling into a morsel
of scrap gristle. It was all too fucking much to bear, and the idea of it being
a permanent state seemed inevitable.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He was stuck in the desert and the sweet rot of the ancient
land seemed to already recognize him as one of its possessions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<h3 class="MsoNormal">
III.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To crawl from the
hole where one has fallen.</h3>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Waking chilly in an open desert startled him with the great
fold of space in it's infinitesimal business. A cool ground scurried with
insects and rodents. More heard than seen. A sense of sublime movement stirring
the landscape.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
The small grey bag was soon exhausted of its meager rations, the leftovers
of some broken Confederate body. Tack and some coffee powder. He bit the hard
crust of salt porc, let it grip his teeth and slowly release. He swallowed
hard the nutrients.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He noticed a slope in the land about 50 yards east. He<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>hoped. He collected his saddle and stood and
stumbled with tack still working his jaw. Sure enough. Deux en machina. A small
creek cleaved the land, the grand meltoff of winter.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There ain’t no Spring without Winter, no work without want.
Let’s get there. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-27822138101208519562016-05-19T21:09:00.001-07:002016-05-20T05:35:08.857-07:00To Run is Free.Dont let anyone ever sell you the run, dont try to buy the run.<br />
Find it on your own. Run your own life. The run is free.<br />
<br />
Again, the run is free.<br />
<br />
<br />
The numbers of the Run don't matter, neither the speed nor distance. The numbers are artifacts, consequences. <br />
Disregard the records we collect, measure ourselves with, impose upon one another.<br />
What matters is the Effort.<br />
<br />
Discard the noise and chatter of the commercial intent and get to the raw, majestic essence of it. A primal aching surge of muscle bone and breath.<br />
Nexus of run. <br />
<br />
Running is a psalm of movement.<br />
Running is narrative tangle of voice and space, running is symphonic crescendo and the dance of layered rhythms.<br />
Running is brutal, carries the grace of the Sacred, demands fluidity and meditation.<br />
Convirgence. Alignment.<br />
Running is the will to exert, the initiation of Action, it is the Hope of achievement and the Faith that Achievement matters.<br />
Running is the optimism to push beyond the expected, the status quo, to rebel against the contrived mechanics of our days.<br />
An ecstatic and private anarchy.<br />
<img alt="" class="spotlight" src="https://scontent-iad3-1.xx.fbcdn.net/v/t1.0-9/13244813_1168815926515296_2790712492338164006_n.jpg?oh=59d5d2a8a92449e3b67547ec1e0e0b31&oe=57CDAA28" style="height: 521px; width: 521px;" />j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-41570353183601443242015-11-08T07:03:00.003-08:002015-11-08T07:06:42.682-08:00 Thoughts while watching the first 17 minutes of The Life of Yogananda.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
(Love is the opportunity to admit someone else into your
energies, to wrap them, to contain them, and for them to contain you.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
i.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was born an artist with an gifted sense of the sublime in
our everyday, the awareness of our constant Divine everydayness.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was weaned from the spiritual elitism, from a sense of
spirtitual entitlement, and found a more refined sense of the diamond mind in
all places. Much of the maturity was found in following the footsteps of poets
and writers, of philosophers and thinkers, of mathematicians and architects, of
the great runners, warriors. I learned from those who already perched in
elevated stations and it was easy to see their greatness framed by culture,
framed by analysis, framed by a vague sense of idolization and hero-worship. I also
matured a spiritual awareness in watching the facets of life in everyday America.
In the raw country sides of poor America there is the most eleveated and
celebrated of faith. In the dilapidated mountain cabin that belches with hunger
and cold. From the detox units of various insitutions I regularly found myself
for a decade. I met countless prophets and teachers in the darkest denizens of
chemical dependency, of sexual depravity, of the desperate plights of the
american impoverished. “each one teach one” was a mantra I learned from the
mouth of an ex-con who learned it in meetings. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Faith tends to be strongest in times of struggle and doubt.
Faith blooms best from wreckage and massive shift. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I came to realize that the highest awareness of America was
the basic worker who performs the daily tasks without need of greater things, without
want of greater things. The farmer who works in contentment across his land,
feeds animals, watches the seasons manifest and take from the earth, who
watches the waters travel across her magnificiently diverse realms, from
mountain to ocean to glacier cascade. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The question only remains: does American life a conspire
against a higher consciousness? Does it hold hostage the higher spiritual
experience of this Life? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Is It possible to be a pure artist, that is a seeker of Light
and a sharer of Life’s Light, is it possible to be truly in touch with Divine
works? Does the erosion of Will to occupations, the constant bombardment of
fashionable wants and fake Newness of material excess, the sexual cravings of
advertisting, the wearied barrage of sadness and vacuous need that is our daily
experience at the covers of magazines, at the loss of deeper drives and
explorations, at the Higher Hopes of Discovery, does America want its artistic
aspirations? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do we cease seeking the truer things because we must have
rents, foods, fuel, travel, medical care, child support?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enlightenment in Mecca, in shalas, in Himalayan
caves, in ganges drapes of water. Know that you contain enlightenment that you
are always in its invironment/environment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To recognize that all spaces are sacred, that all lands
contain God and the potential for Higher Light, is a level of enlightenment.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ii.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if I said that, in pursuing our higher callings, all
things of the material world would be resolved and satisfied? What if I said
that, in pursuing God, God satiates all those Beings that would draw from our
Life source? The society is jealous, is envious, for many of us have disdained
our own truer aspirations for a new car, a body that holds well a fine cut suit
or dress, the number of likes of a picture on Instagram, a short moment of
honoring for an earthly accomplishment? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Everything in the worldly realm has been moved into the
theater of Lust and vice. To run, we now acquire numerous tools and gear, the
right shoes with the right science that alters our bodies into a different functioning.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We can learn, but we can also lose.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Can we participate in the American world and still find a
true englightments? Or must we break away into a hermitage of sorts, a removal
of Self from the lusts of a capitalist society? Can we balance the needs of a
capitalist society with the needs of a Spiritual pursuit? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was born enlightened and through the hard-mountain path of
growth, from the arms of an angry lost mother into the arms of the angry lost
world, the small mind of the child still wet with the ocean of consciousness, the
small infinite mind of the child, the connectivity and receptivity of the mind
of the child. The infinite child. To search, to discover and to integrate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We do not search for God above and beyond us, but we search
for the God light within and around us. The God is Us. We search for the
infinite synapse of our own cosmic experience to connect to the sphere that
elevates us. To push our clay pots of water into the magnificient river of
Being and into her refined states. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we dirty the Earth and her Oceans, so do we dirty
ourselves and our Minds. Our mind is filled with the needs of Oil and profit
and we lost essential knowledge and the ability of Prophecy. We are born to
share God and instead we take from each other that we might gain the lesser
valuable. The valueless.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to manifest God. Have I lost too much of the wisdom and knowledge,
the constant verve of my Youth? Have I lost that innate sense of Divinity? How
do I manifest it?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Practice sexual restraint. Be beautiful, be sensual, be
sated, be horny, be erotic and charged, be natural and contain one’s sexuality.
But know the meaning of it. Know the purpose of it. Understand the results of
it. And know that many of us are the Children of God, not of our Earthly
parents.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Practice the restraint of material want. The glossy magazine
world of America is a madness of Want. We must remove ourselves from the
moshpit of Lust. The mind of the consumer is a tiny microcosm that chokes on
its own suffering the whims of media heads. Let collapse the need to appear
well fashioned, well-heeled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Disregard the fears of worldly need. Do not worry about
foods, shelters, basic safety and needs. If we perform the work of higher
things, basic needs will be provided. This is the most challenging of
manifestations of faith, that we not follow the fears of our fathers and
mothers.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Drugs and alcohol. To be curious of these experiences is
natural. To move our bodies and minds through new shapes and perspectives is
beautiful and powerful. To become addicted is a spiritual opportunity if one
finds the path of awareness in detoxing and suffering. One must eventually move
away from it however, and the experiential wisdom is the most beautiful of
gifts from such lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Know that the cultural world, the societal world, in its construction
and in its deepest dynamics, would have you fail your pursuits of God. The envy
and greed of figure heads is too great to idly watch other’s find enlightenment
for free. Even the path of enlightenment has been hijacked and exploited for
glories and profits. Ignore the false claims of the material spiritualism that
dominates the New Age. Move away from the false prophets, the fake Gurus, the ersatz
teachers who speak from the lower mind about the Higher Being. They will
atrophy and rediscover God upon such failure. It is also a valid path.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do not judge your or anyone’s path to enlightenment. We will
all wrestle our Jacobian angels and we will resist and we will admit. The push-pull
of spiritual versus worldly will haunt our entire existence perhaps. But to
continually investigate, to continually recognize our our small and powerful
belonging to realms beyond the immediately identifiable, to remove one’s self
from places that are not healthy or even real, to constantly reclaim the
placeof the Divine within and around us, to preserve that place for the shred
of God we are and we represent. What part of the ocean are you? Which fish do
you feed? Which bird does your fish feed? Which plant is made new by the bird
your fish will feed? Which bee will carry the song of your most significant
role? Which lick of flame are you across which bark of which tree in which
forest?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How to move one’s self back into the realm of God. But, to
know we never leave the realm of God for we contain it, we are always in that
ocean, like a runner sweating into a rainstorm, we are always a part of the
cycle of release and absorption . to be an empty vessel of such life. To move
into such life. To be profoundly a part of said life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do no tbe surprised by the smallness of people, the feeble
mind of people. Many have no idea of the limitlessness of life. Neither should
we judge that, or alter that. The path will bring them to higher pursuits in
due time. The machine will spit them out across the feet of pilgrims. We will
find and preserve the light and share it freely, without malice, without want,
without thought of gain and profit and glory. That is the role of the light
seeker. To truly hold light, to not tint it into our own ego. But to thrust
that light into the spaces where it has been lost, where it is forgotten (even
as it pours itself across eyes, mouths, bodies, hands) </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberate the ego. Be proud, be joyful, be whole. But do not
confuse with work of the higher calling with the sense that you are a higher
Spirit. On the spirit, all things are equal, all things respond to each other
with equanimity. It is a burden and a gift. Great tragedy is equal to small
tragedy when one moves into the mind of the Spirit. And then there Is no
tragedy, but only a happening. A part of the thing that moves across another
thing like a chord of music.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To allow for the passage of light and rivers of awareness
thorugh the body without jealousy and without fear, without question or hope of
gain. To find oneself in the open fields of discovery. To allow for the chemical
needs to sweat from the body, to diminish from the mind, to not press into
unnecessary harms of endurance. There will be enough to endure without forcing
our own suffering. That said, to practice endurance in things that are hard,
that challenge us for long periods of time, be it running marathons, be it
yoga, be it gardening, be it working 10 hours, allow for any suffering one
feels to be preparations for higher levels of suffering we may yet endure. Learn
to be still and quiet in the most vicious of places, learn to not be distracted
by a constant shouting of the carnies of the cultural body, the flesh of the
lustful senses.</div>
<br /><div class="MsoNormal">
To find the overwhelming Being in one’s own body, in the
Light of Mind, in the service of this fleshed existence.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
iii.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(This essay has little to do with asana and absolutely
nothing to do with monthly subscriptions or Jade mats or yogitoes or SUPY or
any of the trends associated with Yoga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I do not profess an advanced understanding of Yoga. However, I believe
we contain Yoga, we contain Buddha, we contain the love of Jesus and various
Teachers. We are perfect beings wrapped up in imperfect confluences of Being.
Numerous rampant devils work among and against us.)<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
iv.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Love is the opportunity to admit someone else into your
energies, to wrap them, to contain them, and for them to contain you. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We explore this life, each other, and we pursue expansions
of Being through discovery and inspiration. It is a natural process of
yearning, cultivating, harvesting, and of burning. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However there are times when our explorations lead to a
sclerosis, to the forming of prejudices, to our own self-isolation. Those
seasons we must own, we must wholly contain, but we must also deconstruct with
creativity, with passion, with an enduring movement. We roam these fields with
a grateful, playful sense of simultaneous detachment and inclusion. We look for
a still center, resisting yet observing our tendencies of ever-forming prejudice
and preference. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We seek to serve as a nexus, an axis, to hear and amplify
the purer rhythms among the chaos of identity and desire. We see primal
patterns and we recognize something familiar.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To contain and express the Ephemeral in the Contemporary.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We seek to let form the shapes of the shores of
Consciousness and know they will be changed in ways that are subtle, ways that
are violent, ways that are artistic and metaphysical. We are that transient
formlessness yet we hallucinate things as permanent, as shape. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Identity is the poem of how we feel to the music of what we
desire in a language of the bodily Now. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Spirituality is the magnificent simple miracle, the prayer,
in each breath. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A kiss is the connection, the exchange of that breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A kiss can have everything or nothing to do
with the mouth and the body. A kiss can touch or not touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The body can have everything to do with the
spirit, or nothing to do with the spirit. I am not implying erotic intimacy, but
a moment between people. Maybe I am speaking towards the erotic, but I also
simultaneously move away from it. Culture frequently confuses sexuality with
intimacy and this is why we must draw the body from a deeper space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In a question of bodies, Yoga draws from the innermost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A posture becomes a suggestion of that deeper
undercurrent, the push-pull of bone and muscle against Mind and breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So should an artist’s tool perhaps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Posture is not bound to sanskrit definitions here.
Everything becomes a posture when admitted as such.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The saturation of sexuality in our culture should not
permeate the sense of the body in Yoga, Yogic philosophies. To become caught up
in the shape of a body, to miss the deeper expression of body, is to lose the
exchange of the body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The obsession of
the shape of body and the touch of flesh is the a symptom of the very
superficiality that I want to rage against in my work and Life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(While also including that superficiality ... Yoga is
perhaps the whole body of contrapostures, balance, including contradictions.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Meanwhile, to vigilantly maintain a sense of the Empty
Vessel in this uncapturable Mind/Body of Self. To offer it back, to proffer it
outwardly, freely and without reservation. And to practice always with the
notion of Progress not Perfection.<br />
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
v.</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
I slipped into the act of writing something very important
and now I have no idea what to do with it, where to take it, how to even hold
it, let alone manifest it. Few will read it and less will care and even I will
forget I wrote it.</div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-89463282842645580182015-10-13T07:37:00.002-07:002015-10-13T07:37:23.049-07:00Races for Profits, questions and concerns in the commercialization of running. A series.While this post may get blowback, may ruffle feathers, may upset the
apple cart, etc, I think runners are aware of the booming business of
race proliferation. <br /> More options mean more conveniences, but not necessarily better practices or better races. <br />
(Disclaimer: I've reduced my racing substantially for numerous reasons.
Family obligations, financial priorities, rebalancing life, and finally
the question of Why Race, leaving less races as a natural thing.) <br />
I enjoy supporti<span class="text_exposed_show">ng causes through some races, but I did some simple mathematics on a new "ultra" in my home area. <br />
The race is mostly double track, following a five mile loop that is
cycled 10X for a 50M relay and 6X for the 50k solo option. The race is
held on private land. The event is "capped" at 500 participants.
"Capped" at 500. <br /> The 50k is 65 dollars increasing to 80. The 50M
relay option is 40 dollars increasing to 50, same price as the 5 mile
race held at noon. <br /> Doing some averaging of numbers, (250 entrants
in the 50k, 200 entrants in the relay, 50 in the 5 mile) I figured the
total income would be around 29,500 dollars. Obviously there are costs,
including insurance, trail maintenance, three bands and beers. Camping
is included. Grilled foods will be sold and RV sites can be rented.<br />
Concerns would include sustainability, land impact, and trail
congestion. Sounds like a ball but 30k is a lot of dough for a race.</span><br />
<div class="text_exposed_show">
Anyone have any thoughts on the race-for-profit model?</div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-24543296691720971252015-10-04T07:10:00.001-07:002015-10-06T06:07:21.141-07:00Table Rock Ultra, a study in red clay, rock outcroppings and good ol' fashioned downpours.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cZoPWd9_2YHqI1dJ7vmC9xQ96xt6uHwHdg0acyzz6mfcUrky9g0fh4ER2DH3iWNhP6C-S4yvQlqpLM1kBVlSSRnGkMbxYqhv3Zwkjum6IIPdDT53HOjzJELwl06FWlmvv2S7xJ-G004/s1600/10827906_10153036401196869_1449562706621470966_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="307" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7cZoPWd9_2YHqI1dJ7vmC9xQ96xt6uHwHdg0acyzz6mfcUrky9g0fh4ER2DH3iWNhP6C-S4yvQlqpLM1kBVlSSRnGkMbxYqhv3Zwkjum6IIPdDT53HOjzJELwl06FWlmvv2S7xJ-G004/s400/10827906_10153036401196869_1449562706621470966_o.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Picture credit, Lonnie Crotts.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<b>Table rock 50k sept 26 2015. Leg One.</b></h2>
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(as yet incomplete and it reads well enough in this state and i may or may not finish it later. pulp aesthetic is the new varnish.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlGsqHgamP2goazVLYBuaWVDTbyvRjWv9ZwsDd_YxHcolBJ_o2FOLbAxDU9yL9k-IfNS6XcgCv0zZCUihl3gz6AMwo7YuNUcAl6zKfGfju1b94zjQWHO3yKAXvexNHSG1oxPrERbrvaI/s1600/12029849_10153758768536869_5204927340721594698_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWlGsqHgamP2goazVLYBuaWVDTbyvRjWv9ZwsDd_YxHcolBJ_o2FOLbAxDU9yL9k-IfNS6XcgCv0zZCUihl3gz6AMwo7YuNUcAl6zKfGfju1b94zjQWHO3yKAXvexNHSG1oxPrERbrvaI/s320/12029849_10153758768536869_5204927340721594698_o.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">what we didnt see in 2015, as seen in October of 2014. Photo credit Lonnie Crotts.</td></tr>
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Friday morning.</h4>
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My wife had attached a Disney poncho as a last minute
addition to the outside of my pack. It was flimsy and shredded at the seams and
I vowed to never use it.</div>
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In pursuit of a rain shell, I stopped at a local outfitting
company before starting the drive to Morganton NC. Wilmington has a couple of
shops and I chose the newer, more expensive spot to begin. They had a
beautiful Marmot for 100 dollars that I liked and posted everywhere were signs
advertising “25% off storewide” and I was excited, asked the attendant if
the jacket was discounted.</div>
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“No, I’m sorry. That one’s fresh in the door.”</div>
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I left empty handed, hit I-40, and within 20 minutes I hit
rain.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Friday evening.</h4>
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Six hours later I hit Morganton's historic downtown. I pulled into a
puddled parking spot alongside Catawba brewery for packet pickup and
proceeded<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to pickup my packet where peter piper picked a pepper .... never mind.</div>
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The drive had been a grueling, rain-blind thing with
multiple wrecks and a helluva lot of stop and go traffic. Stressful driving,
white knuckle hours. </div>
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I was glad to arrive but the rain persisted and the
light-fade of evening was not far off. I drove the final 30 minutes to the
camp and put on my Disney poncho and walked around the marshy land of Steele’s
Creek Campground to find a spot where my tent might find a slight lift of perch
above the collecting rain. Found a spot, near my choice from last years much
dryer affair, and set up quickly the tent, moved bags and a cooler into the
vestibule. Set up the stove, cooked up my wife’s wonderfully rich and filling
meatsauce pasta. A bit of a tradition, Kas almost always makes me my pre-race
meal and it never fails to warm me up, relax the nerves, and start the mind
thinking about the distance ahead.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWc1t37piaJH2uAdM66yop36l4vktfR0FnLs4eq2klwyY6YULR9hhX5rIsxdyIY-DjCPsA24PgL6l9zSxVq-3cRIYI0wvguJwvmgGF0R2A6IlC4tyJ7DvZ_0yYa9bGDeU4fKTmVjJq_I/s1600/12049182_1025033830893507_7157141625553069983_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdWc1t37piaJH2uAdM66yop36l4vktfR0FnLs4eq2klwyY6YULR9hhX5rIsxdyIY-DjCPsA24PgL6l9zSxVq-3cRIYI0wvguJwvmgGF0R2A6IlC4tyJ7DvZ_0yYa9bGDeU4fKTmVjJq_I/s320/12049182_1025033830893507_7157141625553069983_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My fine rain-protective Nemo tent making its stand on the banks of Steele creek.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sporked the last of the sauce into my mouth, collected and
consolidated race things, opened Celine’s Death on the Installment Plan to the continuing
thump of rain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Being absolutely alone on a rainy night with the
mountain-dark of night beginning to prey on one’s mind can be unsettling to me.
I was alone, I had no service, and the looming depression of previous weeks
began its work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I fucking started to tear, to cry, then to sob. Terrible
feelings<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and self-doubt and the
hauntings of my anxiety began to rip at me deeper. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I drove out for a call to Kas, said
hello, heard a quick NPR story which faded to static as I pulled into my
campsite. A few pages of the book, a brushing of the teeth, a check of the
battery powered alarm clock, and I was as close to sleeping well as I ever have
been while camping before a race.<br />
It may have been a perfect catharsis.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<h4>
Saturday, 2:30am. </h4>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Some nearby 50 milers are up chopping wood. It is loud and
intrusive and 3 and a half hours before the race. Appalled, I work to reclaim
sleep despite the hacks and bass thuds of logs splitting, rain spitting against
the rain shell of the tent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<h4>
Saturday 5am. </h4>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The 50 milers are roaming and calling out to one another.
Cars begin pulling in from hotels. Runners sit in cars and stay dry. The rain
has picked back up to a decent pace. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
5:30am. The lights of the starting area go up and an
announcement. Wheres my Disney poncho?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I crawl out of the tent onto a saturated and pooling earth.
Bathrooms are always a problem at races the morning of but Table Rock was
different. There was no line, just a wait for the current occupants to finish.
Ultrarunners and their clock-tight bathroom rituals. And all the homemade
pastas of the world converge the nervous pacing hours before the starting horn. Yet everyone sat in their cars listening to radios.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
5:44am. Alarm hits and I lay.
Repeat three times. Campstove and instant coffee, hot oatmeal, half a banana,
Vaseline in all the right spots, race bib, and a relatively calm morning before
removing my Disney poncho and heading 125 yards to the start.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
6am. Announcements are made and
people gather in various layers of speed ambition, the fastest moving forward.
I worry that I’m underdressed for the rainy day as everyone wears a rain shell.
Im wearing a sleeveless singlet and a neckerchief. Am I fucked? I’m fucked.
I’ll never finish this. If I get in trouble im in the middle fo the fucking
woods. God help me I’m fucked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
Brett runs up and announces
himself literally seconds before he is dq’d for not being present . My spirits
lift. He’s wearing a rain shell. I should’ve brought my Disney poncho. Its
gonna be cold at the summit some 20 miles away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
<h4>
“START!”</h4>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
Brett and I bid each each good
luck and strong legs and off I go with the head pack. Hanging in behind the
morning hacks and wheezes and the swishing trample of trail shoes on wet
mountain grass that is such a wonderful sound, we cross the bridge over
Steele’s Creek and began to move through the darkness towards the mountain that
we cannot see.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
First wrong turn happens about
mile 1.5 and it is the head group that makes it. Brief, but a reminder that
these things upset many a race effort. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
First miles were easy miles.
Passing double track fs road that leads into the first single track and the
churned, chewed red clay of Appalachia. Running on it was sketchy, like running
across red clay that a potter wets, prepares as slip. Grassy roads then roll
and build towards the deeper hollows and higher launches of stone and wood, the
mosaics of rock outcroppings and fallen leaves.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
It was light by the first creek
crossing and it was a knee deep cross that got the shoes good and heavy and the
mind reinvigorated. The rain was a patter and one almost anticipated a break in
the clouds, a false hope, but a real one.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
AS 1 was 4.8 miles in. everyone
seems to have looked at a course map and knew when to expect these things. I
had not. I was a little lackadaisical about these things. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fucked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
A mile later would prove the more
worthy crossing. One scaled a rock face and across the corner stood Brandon,
the co-RD and a helluva mountain runner himself, who had hoisted a rope across
the gushing rapids. The roar of the water was punk loud and I stepped in up to
my thighs. I was tight, slow, but I held the rope and kept moving across the
fairly strong mountain rapids. For a flatlander, it feels way perilous to make
blind steps across river stones, and it was not a brave or athletic crossing.
Frankly I felt a slight wave of embarrassment as I landed on the other bank.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
The course ran across the river
banks and had some fun push-pull of body, climbing and walking, a little
running, and the everpresent beat of rain on head and shoulders. The
temperature was mild, not warm at all, but it was just cool enough to keep my
questioning the cold of the summit and how that intense climb would affect my
body.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
Another few crossings of Steele
Creek, a continued downpour, a coupl’a GU gels later, my legs felt good, the
quads alive but not struggling, the core churning a bit strange but whatever,
the mind in a fine meditative space. The day was shaping up to a nice
performance. Not competitive, but an enjoyable push.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
We ran up a bit of road and an
out-and-back that led eventually to the upper point of a gravel road. AS 2 was maybe
mile 9. And there was much rejoicing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The volunteers looked at me with concern when
I asked where to go next … I guess there’s this expectation for a runner to
look at a course map before heading into the woods. I turned and started
heading back down the mountain road, gravel crunching every step of the way,
enjoying the fact that I would soon cross the half marathon point.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
I don’t remember many specifics
along the way here. I remember stopping alongside the road and relieving my
stomach and cleaning myself with a handful of leaves, but that’s for another
time.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
Halfway mark came just around 3
hours. I was making my goal time and I felt good. The next coupl’a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>miles were a brilliantly challenging trudge
up gravel road to the next AS at the base of the real profile trail. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiTCi4sbUn7ITpizznrIYqVyrL089zDdSql__0lA7l8FDMA9-3fwZo3YwaNTP0iXkQNOX8uYOaqgXqLMNFo16IsIG7R-zQ1TE1TMfC8I-QEFo5AvwMk49k3_S2yqbS_ir9QRRVtoAQt_g/s1600/12036844_1028852467178310_6745887121533902739_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiTCi4sbUn7ITpizznrIYqVyrL089zDdSql__0lA7l8FDMA9-3fwZo3YwaNTP0iXkQNOX8uYOaqgXqLMNFo16IsIG7R-zQ1TE1TMfC8I-QEFo5AvwMk49k3_S2yqbS_ir9QRRVtoAQt_g/s400/12036844_1028852467178310_6745887121533902739_n.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photos by Daren Wilz,Composited, mile 26ish of 2015 Table Rock.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 393.05pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh20cvw26KpRfwJJiFSl79NmOgWTMBXFqA9xZWdPhyQVJF8fUFQlp7v2UoHhyphenhyphenPG2Hz1qQ7k3vbWnkHDvcBSnlH0vQF6_5jbyXMZme1AQ7w9BUTLz_PcDP4faBJZI_RyOj00J42wP0vc8/s1600/1981767_891104674286424_6359844338122398189_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTh20cvw26KpRfwJJiFSl79NmOgWTMBXFqA9xZWdPhyQVJF8fUFQlp7v2UoHhyphenhyphenPG2Hz1qQ7k3vbWnkHDvcBSnlH0vQF6_5jbyXMZme1AQ7w9BUTLz_PcDP4faBJZI_RyOj00J42wP0vc8/s320/1981767_891104674286424_6359844338122398189_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Achieving the summit, but in 2014. Still love the spirit of the picture.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-36754981933047176392013-10-27T20:22:00.002-07:002013-10-28T06:30:18.036-07:00WC-50 mile trail race, 10.19.13.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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WC-50 miler, 10.19.13, US Whitewater center in charlotte nc.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">i.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To Begin
the journey is part of the journey.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a little after 4am when we arrived at the US
Whitewater Center and Kas and Kyote perambulated sleepily through the parking
lot while I collected my race packet, oriented myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The start/finish gate was built and sturdy
beneath the stout full moon (which had finished her penumbral eclipse a few
hours before).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Muffled activity stirred:
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>tents and tables, fire pits, runners
milling with headlamps and flashlights. There was the quiet of the gathering,
the whispered movement of preparations, the crews and family and the hopes of
the day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A manmade waterway divided the race area from the parking
lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Barely a creek’s worth of water
leaked by the obstacles of the concrete river.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The river separated the start area and the bathrooms with a high,
arching foot bridge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The darkness offered
no clue of what the trails held, not even where they were.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Man I am so stoked on these trails!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The markings are over the top, the trails are
spectacular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ran the loop a few hours
ago, a midnight run and they were just awesome!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nathan Leehman, one of two race directors for the WC-50,
greeted everyone enthusiastically, a light in the void of predawn, a voice launched
with excitement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when the race
director has claimed many podiums in prominent ultras (to include winning the
UROC 100k in 2013), you feel a deep push and heightened sense of ambition.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And with that elite athleticism guiding the
race, one finds strong competition, like Karl Meltzer who was wandering around
in his signature Hoka sleeveless shirt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8rn3P_8xq68LBUM4OmZFeTHkoLROvqGGr9nXkoUV08L7fiKxWosgeL7nlroYrHkaL_O44f0-BU7xSI-43vOhpjel3BVg_BByCGKnYVrtEjW-tZXfCwjMyBYRzr08Z3sPi1lNe-rCjib4/s1600/portrait+before+the+wc-50.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8rn3P_8xq68LBUM4OmZFeTHkoLROvqGGr9nXkoUV08L7fiKxWosgeL7nlroYrHkaL_O44f0-BU7xSI-43vOhpjel3BVg_BByCGKnYVrtEjW-tZXfCwjMyBYRzr08Z3sPi1lNe-rCjib4/s400/portrait+before+the+wc-50.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">ii.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Beforehand.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was early, that much we knew, and id snatched a few hours
of sleep from the grips of a baseball game.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our hotel was on Harris blvd, leaving us to cross an
ultra-quiet northern charlotte with the skyline in the rearview in rare
glimpses. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were driving through a landscape that had
changed much since I first left in 1992. The juxtaposing of charlotte’s layout
had always excited me, the dramatic shifts were a romantic part of driving through
her pockets … southern homes built with great pride and magnitude on one block
were checkerboarded against a block that economic stability had abandoned, hip
condominiums were phoenixed out of the shells of old factories and business
centers grew into old factory housing areas… it was the southern urban
wilderness of the Queen City, her wild patches of land sewn together by the
many railroad tracks, like a once-brilliant southern sundress of azalea colors
hastily repaired with material from an aged and sunbleached quilt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlotte held a peculiar aesthetic, a
mixture of southern industry rusting alongside glass-sided buildings of
post-modern architecture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Charlotte was
a bleak puzzle, a patternless sprawl, a calculus riddle and I-85 explained the
koan of space as we pushing through street lighted woods alternating against
total darkness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Chic condominiums with luxury cars, maintained planters and young
oaks beneath clean street lights; working class neighborhoods settled during the
70’s, brick and box shrubs and chimneys, the slow drift oaks, the quite meadows
where an occasional car garage collected spare parts and old tires, memories of
acres of sun-stretched fields of Indian Trail where my grandmother had grown up
and left but where, when I was a small boy, we’d visit every other Sunday among
the smells of rich creambutter sauces and fresh greenbeans, okra and squash,
the smell of cigarettes and heavy perfumes … the slatboard farmhouses leaning
into horse whinnies and slow-roaming cattle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Sweet tea and the percolating fragrances of strong S&D coffee
mingled with smells of wild flowers and hay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Later there were the record stores on central avenue where I bought circle
jerks, misfits and the damned albums, met the ramones, saw nitzer ebb, dined at
the Indian restaurants by Eastland mall, bought french PHOTO magazines to see
the art and learn the language, danced and drugged at the clubs nestled in transitional
industrial areas (park elevator, pterodactyl, milestone), read and heard poetry
at the new bistros, watched dopesick kent play a vicious acid jazz sax in a
coffee shop on north Davidson, the galleries nearby showing interesting
paintings (long before the hook NoDa was established), walking the mint museum
and her starched apparel of Victorian gloves and the intricate ceramics of tea
service and 19<sup>th</sup> century linseed varnishes, the sounds of a nascar
race in cool Sunday afternoons, the fishing ponds of Earnhardt property where
my granddaddy would take me with a lunch of Vienna sausages and pork and beans,
a thermos of hot coffee, earthworms, blood worms, the cages of noisy crickets
whose guts would squeeze out against my hook on long lazy days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I loved charlotte and had an interesting journey there, and
now I was returning as a trail runner on her scree and hills and red clay and
the familiar landscape that I explored as a child in my grandparent’s backyard.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picked up my packet, pinned the bib, and began
scavenging.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was concerned, having no
coffee no breakfast and no real clue as to what we’d find but seeming to find only
powerade and water but no hot water for the instant oatmeal and tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a bummer to find no breakfast options
available and I cursed myself for not stopping along the route, for not
bringing a camp stove.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Nor was there
anything close for a quick errand.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Having no breakfast would contribute to the difficulties of
the long day to come.</div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">iii.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>The Guts of the Race.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
4:50am and the day was damp with drizzle and a chilled
humidity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The pre-race meeting, general
advice, the “runners ready, set, go” and off we herded, some 60ish runners
following a flat straight route, following orange ribbons into a narrow de
kooning-like, pthalo-blue opening in the woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Reverse womb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were contained in
a single track train, the runner in front of you pacing against the runner in
front of them, the strange shadows of milling legs cast from multiple headlamps
behind, the morning chatter, the start of breath, the newness of the trails,
and the perils of nighttime running and the terrain became my primary focus as
European accents layered into southern accents and male and female voices and
the sounds and smells of wet leaves under footfalls.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
the trails were challenging as they sliced like wild dry
creekbeds into the woods, pushing across man-made obstacles and rock
outcroppings and fallen trees and quick cut turns ascending bursts of hill and
just-as-quickly descending with a slight ski effect and wooden platforms
crossing steeply sloped ditches and mile one chirped off and the trail
continued into the bumpy charlotte landscape, still immersed in total darkness
but for the pierce of headlamps.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every so often, you’d see one of those headlamps shudder,
thud into the ground, the light swallowing itself to a grunt.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The line thinned out mile by mile and I found myself, as
usual, running alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There may be a
headlamp in the far distance on either side, but I was running alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Running at night on unfamiliar trail
translates (for me) to a lot of head-down running and I lost the trail for a
half mile or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I followed headlamps and
backtracked to the point of disconnect to fall back into the train, exhale
frustration.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The first loop was 12.98m in 2h27m and all I really wanted in
the last five miles was a bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
traversed the ¼ mile to the bathrooms, did my business, and moved back down to
the trail, downing the coffee kas had brought me, grabbing some gu chomps and a
gel and getting back on the trail within 25 minutes or so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a great re-entry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The lack of breakfast was fully on me as the sun broke grey
against trees and the drizzle percussed on leaves and I obeyed the trail
through the woods, occasionally hearing another runner somewhere in the early
morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The one valiant hill, called
goats hill, was short but launched a decent grade of red clay and after the
crest, you fell back down a hill and twisted through more charlotte woods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was unable to see trail on either side,
unable to see 15 yards or so beyond or behind my current point.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My stomach barked for food and my guts churned against the
pad thai I’d shoveled down the night before.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It had been a delicious meal but I’d expected repercussions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And they were upon me for the first few hours
of running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finishing my second loop
(26m) in 5h10, I headed straight to the bathroom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a warm reception from my family and a
moment of false humor with a volunteer, I had to get out of sight to cry and
pee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt devastation and emptiness at
a depth not known for quite some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
felt failure and self-loathing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I washed
my face and knew the challenges ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My goal had been, privately, an 8 – 9 hour finish; I was reaching the
halfway point in very unstellar time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
grabbed watermelon and dipped a corner into raw salt, finished my coffee, declined
the bagel my wife had brought, wished I had a hot chocolate or hot black
tea.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paced a minute, collected my
mind, headed back out within 15 minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The 50k mark came and I was still running but I found a tweak building
in my right knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Downhills became increasingly
painful and uphills began to heave with the hands-to-knees push of
powerhiking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I pushed out to the first aid station and took some flat
soda, powerade, cliff blocks, watermelon and moved through it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I already knew the knee was going to be the
biggest challenge and it only got more painful.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I was swiftly reduced to a power march, totally alone in the wilderness,
no ipod, no hope of reaching my goal-time, and dredging through an
ever-worsening headspace of slow miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>This was where the current mental and spiritual health turned on me with
an ugly cruelty, and the agony of solitary struggle began in earnest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With about three miles of trail left to the start of my
fourth and final loop, Karl Meltzer passed me, running well, looking fresh, and
thriving on the mileage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was about 8
hours in, 1pm, and I cheered him as he humbly thanked me and offered an
encouraging thumbs up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard the distant
jubilation as Karl finished the race, winning the thing and setting the CR to
8h24m (which Nathan would explain was about 1h30m longer than Karl had
originally believed it would require).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I finally exited the trail head gate but was unable to run
the flat dirt road back to the start/finish point and when I tried, the right
knee buckled and screamed, felt like someone was jabbing a flathead screwdriver
into the knee joint, twisting and stabbing at the meat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was an insurmountable pain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finished the third loop with my bib already
half-removed to surrender it back to a race director.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My family embraced me and I fought back an emotional release
out of embarrassment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I milled around,
took the only advil I had (an advil cold that my wife was taking for her
ailment).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Watermelon, a handful of
m&ms, two gels in the pocket and about 20 minutes with my wife charging me
to continue forward (“I can’t run” I said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“then walk it,” she replied.).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was ready to officially drop when Adam, the other race director, handed me a
belt buckle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“You’ll earn this,” he
said.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a fucking gorgeous piece of
hardware, and I felt a slight break somewhere inside.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was 2pm, and off I marched. I stopped 100’
out, considering a return to get my ipod for the final loop, but didn’t want to
risk heading back in and getting comfortable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I flopped the feet, one in front of the other, and passed the 1/3m of
flat dirt road in an agonizing effort at jogging, only to limp back into the
trailhead into the final 12.98 miles of my race.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfVavde3NYvDE2aZ96NvEtEYIKJITaAydosipy18ibwvPHbXIi1kE44fgjvbKJXp92-E6i1Sg5WkOwlD6Ib6z103zs40yWPQYFActbmceTAVnpaVBdNuTv1YsBCE-ixRAIHUslPmHUys/s1600/crossing+the+line+loop+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbfVavde3NYvDE2aZ96NvEtEYIKJITaAydosipy18ibwvPHbXIi1kE44fgjvbKJXp92-E6i1Sg5WkOwlD6Ib6z103zs40yWPQYFActbmceTAVnpaVBdNuTv1YsBCE-ixRAIHUslPmHUys/s320/crossing+the+line+loop+2.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">iv.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Final Loop</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was nothing unique about the final loop except for the
fact that it was the last one of four.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
have never been so tired, so spent on a race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I literally considered napping in the middle of the trail. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I feared i might do damage to my knee. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I caught up with a few folks; a few folks
caught up with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four people passed me as i crossed the midpoint of the loop. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were running, smelling the barn, and I
tried to run but was immediately stopped by the knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ironically, the legs felt strong and capable
but for that knee joint ... the damage was from 20 years ago: I’d been slide tackled by a leg hooking against my sin from behind and i fell awkwardly into the leg, the patella jumping to the side of the leg right. the coach punched the knee cap and it leaped back onto the top of the joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gave me few problems it but could be aggravated to wake up the weakened tendons & ligaments.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On an ultra journey, one will find things, collect things, lose things, enter strange
spaces of self and ramble the mindbody like a personal inferno narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is difficult sometimes, but
necessary to explore. The introspect, the solo exploration of Self is the point of these things for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I saw no one for
miles at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Completely alone in the wilderness in the middle fo a well-attended race. </span>I did find my humor at
the 5.5m aid station, a refreshing thing, but as soon as I moved back to the
isolation of the trail, my mind guttered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I had hoped to finsh the race by 1pm, go to Southpark, go to a café, go
to a record store, go to NoDa, but those hopes were disappointment
now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One has a lot of time to think on an ultra— it is a moving meditation, a transcendent experience, an upheaval of the Being not
unlike a sundance or a sweat lodge or an acid trip.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Memories wash against the shore of consciousness, bringing
things left behind, strange memories, remembrances of friends, some alive and some that died ... tragic birthday accidents, ALS, alcoholic liver failure, fatal brief relapse … i consider relationships, my history of sex, the history of connections
lost to any infinite number of things … studios I have known, paintings I have
worked, sold, lost, abandoned… language collected on sleeves of paper, prose or
poems, music and concert ... i relive sexual experiences with forgotten lovers or i build sexual
fantasies or my attention drifts into heart rates and the soreness of my feet or my right shoulder or
the llammas of Penland or the dreams that built my life journey … I remember
the illness of withdrawal & hangover, pangs of hunger, i recall coughing out the cold of mornings with a smoke as i set up mis en place in various restaurants… any number of things pass through the mind like wild children chasing fanstasy... you pray for yourself, you pray
for your fellow runners, you send love to your family and friends, you revoke
the prayers, curse the choices that brought you here, you whince and you feel
like an asshole.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of it, over and
over again, a loop of jumbled entangled feeling-thought.<br />
And then you roll through the long final 1/4 mile of flat gravel road, you limp and gimp it home, you feel the settling of bodymind as you sprint the final 30 yards, reluctant and angry, but you sprint for photographs and dignity and false triumph.<br />
And so i finished. And that was that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I shook Adam's hand, got my buckle, my wife embraced me with great
pride and joy, Kyote shouted that I was great, and I collected the few things
kas had left (she was the best crew I could ever hope for), changed into
something dry and warm and less smelly, and we moved out.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraph" style="margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.5in;">
<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">v.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Moving on.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I saw Nathan on the way out and he gave me a big prop for
finishing, for “gutting it out.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have
to offer big gratitude to his positivity just for keeping me engaged in the
goal of finishing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes we need
another’s light to find our own path.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I plunged into the passenger chair, let my head lull across
the shoulders, released the race with a long exhahle (for the time being) and Kas let purr the car,
pulse some easy reggae.</div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">vi.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Aftwerwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There was a cup of hot coffee, a bath with Epsom salts, tiger
balm on the knee.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There were strombolis
with more hot coffee and cheesecake and there was quiet reflection and the stirrings of
confession, there was disappointment and rambling resentment, a sense of failure at not meeting or exceeding my
hopes, all that alternating with the joy of being finished and the gratitude of accomplishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> And </span>I was grateful to be clean and
warm and now holding a 50 mile belt buckle, my first ultra-buckle, and I was grateful for easy breath and strong body and quietening mind. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I stretched a few struggling postures, forward folds & triangles, some
marching down dogs, two Advil, a big glass of water and I soon fell asleep to
some shit on television with my right knee throbbing in certain motions that
wrongly twisted the joint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was a good sleep after a rough day.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">vii.<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";">
</span></span></span>Epiloguish type write-up.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
The feeling of accomplishment is not
full.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The race </span>was tired and bitter and
hollow. T<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">he ultra was a powerhike, certainly not a run. T</span>hat quality
(or lack of quality) of experience indicates that it is high time for a revision of my running
goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is time to reinvestigate the
intentions of signing up for an ultra. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Going back to my original goal, my original vision:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to run across mountains. I wanted to mill miles with grace and power
(internal and external) across the mountains i have always loved, and I have accomplished that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have felt bliss and
raw connection to earth and sky and heat of sun and fire of muscle, of
mind and
trail, life path and trail’s terrain, I have released demons across
miles and I
have reclaimed joy and ecstasy in Massanutten, the Uwharrie range, the
Appalachians of Georgia & Virginia & N. Carolina ... I have run Grandfather mountain, Leatherwood mountains, Black mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>To run wild with ecstasy and
lucidity, to push into a nexus of body and earth, to inhabit that
synapse of heart and footfall cadence and distance covered…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> to have joyful movement, to</span> have
the power and the freedom to run terrain, that was the point and the vision.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Likewise, to lose the embarrassment of my body’s shape, to run shirtless on
primitive trail and feel a full release, to know “real freedom is now
possible” and to
express that profound truth with joyful movement, to lose the fat kid self-image, to find hard body and strong breath, the resolve of training, these were also the goals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
If my times are slowing, if i am running less and less, if the distance is
doing damage to my body, if my mindspace lacks gratitude and surrender and
exploration, if there is no balance of darkness and light, well then I have lost the intention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If my mantra becomes “lets
just get this fucker finished,” I am accomplishing no growth, no joyfulness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am rutting into ugliness and suffering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In fact, I am rutting into ugliness for hours at a time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
And especially with the damage part: Maybe it is time for choice. I love my daily runs, those anonymous unromantic worker hours that release me to breath and body, that immerse me in tired environment to reinvigorate the mindbody, that build endorphins and accomplishment. I love my daily runs, whether the distance is 5k or 15k, and I ponder whether I am at a fork in the trail. I question the health of my body and it's miraculously intricate structure. I ponder whether ultras are still beneficial to my whole. Without question or pause, I'd 86 all future ultras to retain those daily runs and sustain the benefits. <br />
My right knee is still sore and swollen. Am I faced with decision, with the choice ...: Perhaps.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I allow for a bad race, I know I made errors and it is frankly
a little embarrassing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that
Leatherwood 50 miler would be a paramount challenge, that the charlotte race
would feel so much faster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had planned
to ‘race’ the WC-50.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> I even took
an hour at Leatherwood to make coffee and re-settle myself … I lagged very
little at WC-50 and still came up 30 minutes later.</div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many of us wanted to match
Karl, to run his race effort … but chasing Karl Meltzer for two hours before
sunrise on unfamiliar trail at his opening pace, then trying to sprint out to
reclaim ground after a half-hour and backtracking … I just should’ve paused and
grounded and released.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I felt good,
all the way up until I didn’t feel good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I got locked into running others’ races and not settling into my own
cadence and experience but rather getting ego-ridden and angst-fueled and
kicking from ego, not from heart and spirit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A lot was learned and a little was earned at the WC-50.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am still resting the knee three days later
and re-evaluation on future races continues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Meanwhile I am sincerely proud to have at least completed the race, no
matter how unspectacular, no matter how little grace and light came from the
experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<br />j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-31127717392458782492013-04-30T08:52:00.000-07:002013-05-01T12:53:51.444-07:00Leatherwood Mountain 50 miler, take two.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Welcome to Ferguson NC, home of the Leatherwood
50 miler.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Friday April 19th... driving into Wilkesboro`in a raging storm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Roads were puddled,
vision was addled, mountains were lost in clouds. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I found Dixie Donuts nestled on a random intersection, stopped for coffee
and a donut, exhaled, and the combination made the drive all good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The lady at the counter said I was one of several runners that day. We were close. I was nerves and road-fatigue.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We arrived at Leatherwood and, after much
debate regarding camp or a dog-friendly hotel, the rain paused
long enough to pitch a tent by the river. Then, dominance and wind, a vicious storm resumed. We stripped the campsite, moved under a stable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Kas heated plates of pasta and served us in the tent. I devoured the meaty sauce, sopping the tomato sauce with
black olive baguette and butter and hot tea. Runners arrived,
looked around, reunited. The meal was delicious and my mind was settling into evening. Pre-race dinner and meeting. The storm continued and black mud was churned under the feet of runners, their crews, dogs, vehicles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jennifer Pharr Davis (who holds the FKT for a
female through-hike on the AT, maybe the MST also) spoke that night for the
pre-race dinner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A flood of people were </span>showing up,
representing North Carolina’s solid outdoor/running community. There were also folks from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Michigan, Ohio, Montana, Coastal South Carolina, Georgia. </span>Charlie Engels was lining up, Brandon
Thrower, several MTC runners, with Mark Connolly and Tim Worden at the controls for the gig.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
7 am Saturday, 4.20.13, brought a crisp air and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>clear sun, a moment of silence for the
victims of the Boston bombing, the national anthem, a quick “racers
ready, go.” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We opened with a 9 min pace
behind Tim’s bike for an easy roll out, where Jason observed that no one was
pushing pace… exchange of names, home towns, notes of running,theories of what laid ahead, etc… Breathing accelerated, deepeneded, slowed,
and the first mile chirped as we turned into the premier unpaved climb.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We kicked up the gravel road, then power hiked, then ran as the gravel road sliced into my first wrong trail... run back into the crowd towards a summit for a display of long-reaching
vistas.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mountain meadows and vast
stretches of misty green.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> A mountain lake. </span>We followed
yellow ribbons and savored the scenic sections of Leatherwood Resort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Horses grazed fields in morning ease and we
continued running… another wrong turn, jamming down a paved road for a ½ mile
or so (singing jane’s addiction “coming down the mountain,” feeling good),
before rolling back to where we lost the course. Four of us on that detour, and two took off again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Into the trails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mountain
meadows, high in fields of tall green grass in otherwise pale earth, a spring yet unpigmented … traces of spring in little white flowers on rock faces, like lace forming
on the escarpment. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Real masculine
mountain lines, jagged, cut, sucking down shoes, cool mud, cool
morning, oily sweat of exertion. altitude.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This was not Umstead multi-use trails or even knotty mountain bike trails. These were horse trails. Runners ganked for the trails for one day, but they were trails made by horses and traveled by horses …<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fist-sized stones were oiled by red mud on
steep ascents and steeper descents.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Power climbing became the prominent traverse with downhills working at the knees and hips, jumping side to side like moguls to control
speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Dead </span>leaves covered trail
and there was gamble and risk in each stride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Clusters of people moved forward with howls of laughter as we slid on
asses and skied on mud-caked shoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One fella
lost both shoes in a mud crossing, losing one to the mud, and when turning to
retrieve it, lost the other to mud.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were maybe five miles in (excluding distance gained while lost) and over an hour
had passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leatherwood would be about
endurance, not speed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had long lost Jason and a few others I’d hoped to run
with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Getting lost was demoralizing,
adding work to a strenuous enough course, when a third wrong turn left me feeling disastrous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“its just not your day”
one guy remarked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> My spirit of competition weakened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The storms of Friday had stolen ribbons and I was studying
the terrain, less observant of the yellow-green ribbons, which blended
into the new spring colours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My
competitive energies had dissipated and I was running my own trail in my
own space in my own journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That is the gift of ultras, and I had found it earlier than expected at Leatherwood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Again, as with most races, I found myself alone on some unknown trail in unknown territory. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had to consciously remind myself to
appreciate the moment, to be here in this stride, on this mountain, in this body. I thought of the yoga class I normally taught at that hour, 9am. I teleported myself into that yoga studio, on a mat. M<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>y mind looped through mudmuck and skylight, but
my thoughts were feeling gravity with every ascent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I was loosing light and purpose and I wanted it to be done. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">Then a lift of fog, a pleasure of running mountain.</span> And a sinking and grovelling. Seeds of Cycle.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The trails were spectacular with beauty in sections, with
other sections passing through filtered light of graybrown and becoming only the push of
legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peaks came and went, with the
first seven miles surging upwards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The course ribboned the surrounding mountains with some really nice
runnable sections and then deposited us into a community of homes on a road for an aid
station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gummy bears and heed and
salt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Peanut M&Ms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The road split into a dirt road, very
runnable if you had legs, flat and fast… gorgeous pastures fenced by powerful
oaks, beech trees, cypress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mountain cabins.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shed roofs
made of road signs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The sun was
brilliant and the sky was as deep as any cerulean in a tube of
oil paint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dogs ran up,
licking hands and pressing their muzzles into palms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I do love a dog and this was a mental
lift.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The morning was fresh and the air
was clean and miles accumulated with a relaxed effort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The reprieve of the opening 25 mile loop was soon
before me: a shin-deep river crossing of mountain cold water that fully
reinvigorated the legs and mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My feet
absorbed the coolness, my legs boiled their excess heat and swelled into the
water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I paused for a few extra moments as
the sand rolled through bruised toes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then it was time to get the hell off the dirt road and back onto the trails.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More trails, more ascents, descents. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was harvesting intense climbs, short but
steep, and was still alone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
brutal at moments, overwhelmed at moments, grateful at moments. I was soon
joined by two others and, as I ran down a hill, I caught my right shoe on a
stride which folded my leg back, bringing my right knee full onto the edge of a
rock as my left leg anchored my movement back to vertical.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I felt the stone cut in across<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the lower patella.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hobbled for a moment, tested the movement
of the joint, sprayed some heed across the wound, checked the blood flow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gashed knee at mile 23,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>because I knew someone was going to get hurt
on this course… another 2 miles to the stable, the start/finish/loop area, and
I asked for some disinfectant. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
ugh. some blood & the pause. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the stable, the base of the run, I sat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was waiting for a bandage and bactine for a
good forty minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Talking dogs,
talking running, talking weather … <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Slowness of the medic, a kind-faced man with a mountaineer’s sense of time, with my seemingly thick curtain of flesh folded back
from the knee, exposed mess and blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Again, all competition drained from my mind and legs. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">"Thanks" I said as he taped my gauze and told me that he had gone to the same college as my wife. A helpful soul who told me to pay attention to that knee and to wash it. </span></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
I had lost all concern for time, for racing, and I walked down to the
camp to check on my dog.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I set up the pocket
rocket, boiled some coffee, had a hot sugary cup of Columbian .…. A good hour
break (debating privately and seriously a drop), a change into new socks and trail shoes,
half the race behind me and the other in front, I ran up ambush trail to start
the second loop at roughly 12:30pm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Several bodies had passed, my mind was in an unsettled space, and I
vowed to finish the second loop if only to achieve 40 miles for a technical
ultra distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09531s2dFFa3M-3WD5S8dAmlmJZDWby9c3_lyzEmSLqC69OsktAezJqw-OIvvGtlJ48DJXDJnCRbyTcdmp787Xm9LsJ_W_OcPF-IkzYRPB3Xk156XW2qYbDVM_NsDxwEhvhUEnj5JRRM/s1600/IMG_0527.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh09531s2dFFa3M-3WD5S8dAmlmJZDWby9c3_lyzEmSLqC69OsktAezJqw-OIvvGtlJ48DJXDJnCRbyTcdmp787Xm9LsJ_W_OcPF-IkzYRPB3Xk156XW2qYbDVM_NsDxwEhvhUEnj5JRRM/s320/IMG_0527.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Kyote ascending Ambush Trail.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Up and up and up we climbed, finding some rolling trails to
jog, and though my garmin had died, I estimate 15 min/m at best.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then the complement to climbing, massive body
jerks down supersteep leaf&rock&scree, running tight moguls, jamming
hips and trying to control acceleration in the falling momentum of body. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here we found some more mountain beauty, the
reason I’d come, and my bad space lightened a little.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ipod came on around mile 28, loosening my funk.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Less than runnable course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Horse trails occupied by runners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Endless scrambles that left the legs gasping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Areas that were runnable were muddy, tarry,
or my legs were just too anaerobic to push a decent pace.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The muscles of cycling and stair running proved
the key muscles of the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had been running
on a treadmill on alternating 4.5% - 10% grades and then jogging/power hiking to
a peak grade of 15% for 8 weeks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Trail
miles every other run. Core work and power yoga to build the back and abs and
lungs, though I’ve had a sprained psoas for 6 months which limits core work and
yoga postures.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But that was my training, and it would’ve been
fine for a lesser course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I considered
dropping. I considered cutting course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
kept moving forward though.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Relentless
forward motion as they say, albeit sourced in a determination to just finish the loop.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
More of the same, muddy single track with rare bursts of rolling trail, gravel road, one sun-soaking snake stretched out and lazy, miles of
ascent, reggae, an out-and-back that passed flat, perfect green meadows of
long green grasses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rich and
rewarding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Another section felt like
western states with sunbaked clay, juts of rock, a sweet overlook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I finished the second loop, traded bracelets,
paused and exhaled the forty miles of work behind me …. brilliant volunteers... the knee was sore, my
mind was grumpy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I saw Kyote, Kas, Maya enjoying
the sun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I grabbed S-caps, had amazing homemade
breads, pocketed a couple more gels, was off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I joined Brew Davis and Brandon Thrower to
get up the last loop of 10 miles, knowing that I had to get out of the stables... a body in motion stays in motion.<br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
Power hiking, an
effort at peeing ( far too rare in the day), and some
conversation… I eventually ran on, trying to keep my wits and legs intact,
trying to smell the barn, but the last loop was straight fukn gnarly and my 1.5
hr projection spreading to nearly three hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The worst series of false summits and power climbing I’ve ever
experienced were about 7 miles in, meaning 47 miles in, and the misery continued for a mile,
leaving me absolutely bankrupt of energy and momentum.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was beat down, and my mantra became
“just finish," the gloom occasionally interrupted by a misfits song, a
groundation rift, a view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At the last
aid station, a local fella told me there was a bear at the bottom of the trail and
I just figured wrestling a bear was part of the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately I never saw a bear, though the final
three miles were horror on the quads and femurs like a bears teeth and claws…<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> the trail dumped into the paved roads of Leatherwood resort, tennis courts and cabins... </span>in the final mile of non-technical running, I thought of my
friend Lee who had recently died... sad
moment... <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>I thought about work,
friendship, family, things I’ve lost, things I’ve gained.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I meditated my existence and I gave thanks for being clean, sober,
healthy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I sent namaste vibes to the
mountains and those still traversing them... i continued<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>into a
tangent onto trail behind cabins before emerging to the final paper-lamped
chute and finish gate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eleven
hours and fifty one minutes, with eleven hours of those being actively
hiking/running 50 miles of mountain trail. Rarely have I been so proud of finishing something.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
Rachel, Tim, Brew, Doug and many others
finished up soon thereafter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>David dropped due to aggravated knee tendons. A dozen others dropped mid-course, though many had
dropped in recent weeks from the 50 miler to the 50k or 10 mile race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Leatherwood was a powerful run, and my family was key to my
finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kas pushed me, quietly but firmly (once I
finished my coffee) back onto the second loop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Her glare was reassuring, rectifying, threatening, like a sergeant might
glare.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kyote had great fun and was much
help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kas had already taken our camp
back down to the river, where I shortly collapsed into the bag for a cold
nights sleep, relieved to have rest.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWaRifmTc0rRa5jAxnOvnJKjaweA6ttg7X1055w7J2ZAvo2mNNLQ-MWeaSxtfS44CGB6BOve4YH3p8A_YI5qEezCpdOcmA-FBmGnWpNYd0XUOF9pktktowP8rCw6gZY8cKRnrPTMFSypo/s1600/IMG_0540.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWaRifmTc0rRa5jAxnOvnJKjaweA6ttg7X1055w7J2ZAvo2mNNLQ-MWeaSxtfS44CGB6BOve4YH3p8A_YI5qEezCpdOcmA-FBmGnWpNYd0XUOF9pktktowP8rCw6gZY8cKRnrPTMFSypo/s400/IMG_0540.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Campsite.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Le Fin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sunday morning was a slow breakdown of gear, a drive to Boone for breakfast at the Bagelry. We stretched legs on King Street then drove to the Blue Ridge Parkway where we hiked a mile or two of the
mountain-to-sea trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kyote ran and ran
that trail, falling two, three, four times, but getting back up and hitting it
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Kas and I noticed that the trail was surrounded by debris and the trees look like they had been
splintered by tornados.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No other hiker
was seen, nothing but quiet and air and evergreen and the white circles blazed
on trees. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perfect walk through
the woods with the family, one of those moments I live for, and my gratitude
swelled ... as did my feet and legs, but not beyond expectation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hitting the road to return home, there was an
easy vibe, a will to be home, but not a rushed thing… we allowed the time to be
here, and here, and here, to be in the journey.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That’s the lesson taught by ultras, especially Leatherwood.<br />
<br />
Props to runners, volunteers, crews, dogs, and especially Mark and Tim for putting this whole mess together. I hope to be a part of the Leatherwood Ultra 2014 to see the evolution of this race, its participants, and its times. <br />
<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw4FY1HLxBSmjzAzmtbk6ic-DQyNGh-T91onzl9QfrXUfdJPHwwoGxeazY-SyuAu0y0hDCmaQbXHeXbEAGPuNpP89nl4gcK756K_bEi0aKtuUPPFOw9kdKgaHFFKz0r3iN3AYV2-cvLw/s1600/IMG_0567.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNw4FY1HLxBSmjzAzmtbk6ic-DQyNGh-T91onzl9QfrXUfdJPHwwoGxeazY-SyuAu0y0hDCmaQbXHeXbEAGPuNpP89nl4gcK756K_bEi0aKtuUPPFOw9kdKgaHFFKz0r3iN3AYV2-cvLw/s400/IMG_0567.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Overlook, Blue Ridge Parkway.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJCMimZ7YSbuKhGybNldyZBsI19LRSSnpUh2BMyTvZqPJt8M98a9aif2viHV8Zp601GzQkIW2JSHIBw7Kv3q5pPULJWTcfB2j0w-IOX1WGDJM1aP_WEe9Y_sMLzGZBHzE3jVfl5AIaxM/s1600/IMG_0556.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOJCMimZ7YSbuKhGybNldyZBsI19LRSSnpUh2BMyTvZqPJt8M98a9aif2viHV8Zp601GzQkIW2JSHIBw7Kv3q5pPULJWTcfB2j0w-IOX1WGDJM1aP_WEe9Y_sMLzGZBHzE3jVfl5AIaxM/s400/IMG_0556.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">More of the MST Scenery.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mnrA9HT3sqO4tG88fuJoK-PA-t7twEYETjDdzV5u1mtYihGPTYcKpN8hZkJHxxFAsJctxhZwK8K465sqxEY9CP5mrf9XlK4REYuoIi2c8GAoZv4WTuQVwgt6HMYIeLHBqGDdGnImXRs/s1600/IMG_0555.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3mnrA9HT3sqO4tG88fuJoK-PA-t7twEYETjDdzV5u1mtYihGPTYcKpN8hZkJHxxFAsJctxhZwK8K465sqxEY9CP5mrf9XlK4REYuoIi2c8GAoZv4WTuQVwgt6HMYIeLHBqGDdGnImXRs/s400/IMG_0555.JPG" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mountain to Sea Trail.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-78203799746871901082013-04-22T18:38:00.004-07:002013-04-24T18:14:39.453-07:00Leatherwood Mountain Ultra, Take One.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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Meditations on leatherwood mountain 50 miler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Four days until line up.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinQxIjmbTVk3fNEFpnBJgsk_vBqT8sU6d3wmCbpOIZVQwDpEl1xWdNoc76xDc9bRgnfNBn7yNg_h5J101t301L62lIEusOa3K12rCyMELuEZUdEXfz6EfA0MokwwiuTTTReeEiPD2Xac/s1600/IMG_0493.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjinQxIjmbTVk3fNEFpnBJgsk_vBqT8sU6d3wmCbpOIZVQwDpEl1xWdNoc76xDc9bRgnfNBn7yNg_h5J101t301L62lIEusOa3K12rCyMELuEZUdEXfz6EfA0MokwwiuTTTReeEiPD2Xac/s320/IMG_0493.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Seven years ago, I began jogging with my girlfriend. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was training for a marathon and I was
trying to get clean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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She'd run pre-sun hours on the wooden slats along the cape fear. I'd follow. I'd follow and I would foam at the
mouth, gasp air into my beet-face, stomping and barking through dawn. My stride was a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>heavy, broken cadence, a struggling thud & plod. My sweat was a gelatinous ooze, a cold murky petroleum of stale drink, drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But, every run, she’d drag me across her miles, talking
music, talking poetry, talking water and sky, until I was gasping out a 13
minute pace and feeling the accomplishment of a morning run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Grab some coffee & a smoke, try to hold
out the cravings.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The running escalated and the other shit diminished, albeit slowly
and arduously. Goals evolved, gradually expanded. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I began jogging </span>alone because I wanted to jog. Sobriety and running wrestled and conspired against each other. Passing the Barbary Coast,
panting and ridiculous, I might stop, enter, order
a beer and another. The next run, I might set a goal to get past the bar, to get to
Chandler’s Wharf, run repeats on the hill by
the governor’s mansion... and I may or may not make it past the bar on the way back. But I was
earning progress.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
I embraced the meditation of movement, the medicine of movement. My thoughts opened, free-roaming the poetic space of things, sometimes coherently, sometimes wildly hinged like a monkey in branches. I still had the delirium of evening, cravings, but there may be a pause, a softening. I might observe something interesting: the quirks of light, an unusual face, a formation of birds, a boat on the river, a handwritten note on the ground.<br />
<br />
I noticed the runs easing up, a settling of body, the presence of rhythm. Miles of nostalgia, mood and memory, self-confrontation. The run, the act of a run, appeared an organic and ever-evolving thing, akin to a drawing or a language. I learned that a run could be an artful expression of the mind and soul.<br />
<br />
Eventually I bought running shorts, read Dr. Noake's The Lore of Running. Kupricka, Roes, Koerner… ultra-runners, 100 milers, fifty milers, Western States, Leadville... I learned basics, I worked nutrition, I dropped
from 200 to 180 to 175. My constitution improved, my spirit found grounding.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
Eventually I distilled the
ultimate image, the pinnacle, the goal-vision of myself, that I’d run on the power of my own body through the trails of magnificent mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That I would have the freedom, the strength of body, the command
of mind, the consistency of effort to endeavor such feats enthralled and intimidated me. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That I could
be powerful enough to run up a mountain, healthy enough to enjoy it,
spiritually sound enough to be present in the act... I did not need to be a lithe Kupricka bounding through miles and rock faces in bare feet. I wanted to be a reborn man, running through and with the Land. The vision was a reclaiming of body, a reclaiming of the mountains I'd always loved, a rebirth of belief.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The journey has been a powerful process, exploring my
darkness and my light. Now, I face a 50 mile
trail run in the mountains right beneath my second home, Boone NC in the Appalachian
mountains. Boone,
where much of my chaos found an opening.<br />
<br />
The runner girl is now my wife and crew.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She's seen a few ultra races at this point, and she'll be crewing the Leatherwood Mountain ultra in four days.<br />
<br />
I am nervous. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">My pre-race agitation is as wild as a wolf under a full moon. </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
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<br />j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-80097572011503808422013-04-12T06:38:00.000-07:002013-04-12T06:38:54.883-07:00an effort at a poem (& paint) during an april storm, a week before leatherwood 50 mile mountain trail race.<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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4/12/13 at 9:02am.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Namaskars, thirty & a bow.</div>
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j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-48374737591562450242013-01-28T13:24:00.004-08:002013-01-28T13:24:57.648-08:00my first entry, from three years ago. an ego retrospect.I am not a fast runner. <br />
<br />
I believe that work and
physical activity is natural, and is a natural pleasure of being. the
pleasure of physical motion, of movement in any form, is the soul’s
expression of joy in the clay of our bodies. i am an average runner,
maybe a little less than average. i grew up playing soccer, which was
80% running/ athletic endurance with perhaps 20% ball handling skills
(charlotte soccer in the mid-eighties was not yet an elevated sport.).
beyond that i ran a few miles each week, and that slowed until running
was a false memory behind a cloud of cigarette smoke in my early
thirties. three years later i’m an active runner, running 4-5 days at
an average of 25 - 35 miles each week. <br />
<br />
i shot dope and
drank from waking to passing out daily for fifteen years. i traveled
from detox to rehab as my primary forms of recreation and socialization.
physical activity fell into the background, though my sense of belief
in physicality did not. it was only replaced by narcotics and alcohol,
synthetic endorphins. . . . the belief in the physical experience, the
corporal experience, was merely subverted to a drug experience.
otherwise i served tables in a large, formal dining room, which forced a
certain amount of swift activity weekly. that is, when i was employed.
<br />
<br />
so is it possible to retrain the body to excel
physically, of its own strength and endurance, and to drive the
endorphin production back into a normal range? is it possible to
literally out-run one’s active addiction?<br />
<br />
I am not a
fast runner. I run for love of motion. I run in love of my body, it’s
ambitions and achievements, its potentials and its limits. I respect my
potentials equal to my limits. I run in love of music I sometimes
enjoy, trees and bird-formations I frequently pass, the psalm of
foot-falls and breath and the work of the body all in synch and whole in
form & function. . . . . I am not a fast runner, but I run my
angers out. I run my joys out. and then I savor the rush after a five
miler, an eight miler, a thirteen miler, an occasional eighteen miler. .
. . I run not for numbers, but for the journey of the miles. I run
through landscapes and hopescapes and mindscapes and memory-fields and
mathematics and painters’ histories and their work. I run through bach
and mingus and mahler and modest mouse. I run through French and
English and german and sometimes I run through zen koans and zen silence
and digeradoos. I run through traffic exhaust and the frozen moisture
of my breath and the windchapped lips and the drenching salt-lines on my
clothing and shorts. I run through holidays and mornings and
afternoons and I run with my son, sometimes with my wife, but mostly
alone. sometimes alone in a crowd however. . . . .<br />
<br />
<br />
Christmas
day—running gear and a book, murakami’s what I talk about when I talk
about running. . . . . went running, as necessitated by goals and gifts,
though a brutal rain in a miserable wind in otherwise mild day brought
an edge to the experience. . . . somehow hardcore, running at night, in
good new gear, against wind and rain storm, four miles deep in
determination. then thai food for dinner on a well-earned appetite.<br />
<br />
jan 4 2010<br />
<br />
2h44pm. <br />
<br />
the
winter has arrived in Wilmington, at least for a week. it is newly
2010 and my coldest run ever was yesterday, sunday, the day of my long
run, with only 9 miles kicked out, but in a freezing air against a
bitter Direct Wind that left me fearing frostbite on my face. just the
other day I was mocking the cold gear at the local sporting goods store,
especially the sports scarves, and there I was, on the far end of my
loop, turning into the frozen tears of the unknown distance back home.
so I just kept running, eastwood blurring then blinking and blurring
again, as into mayfaire plaza I turned, thinking the road was
windtunneling and running into the sun a few minutes may warm my face
back up. but there the wind was again, like a scoffing demi-god, like a
nemesis. and I ran. it was after all the only way to get home.<br />
<br />
bitches and fugues.<br />
<br />
running
is a meditation painting music running cuisine. . . . . all connected.
running connects the peripheral, the lost, the scattered. . . . . .
paint fills in the maps legs discover. and legs will generate contour
maps, will uncover internal and local networks simultaneously. . . . .
really quite spectacular, even if quiet and private. . . . . of course,
introspect is not always the case in a run. sometimes it is “good god
how much longer do I have to run.” sometimes it is a pure mental
blankness, sometimes static, sometimes colors, sometimes fugues of
quietude or fugues of bach or fugues of odd memories that lap
erratically against the back of the mind. . . the run is the vehicle of
the mind’s transformative journey—a concentrated mental alchemy. legs
and tired mind the lead of lab. <br />
<br />
jan 10th. ran six
miles and dreaded every step. I’ve hit a wall and it hurts to even pull
a two mile lap. . . . . but of course, if I set up a two mile run, or a
five mile run, come the last half-mile of the distance I am swift,
effortless, deer-like. . . . but that ease only comes in the final
blocks of the rounds: so a psychological block on physical exertion. . .
. ? the cold weather is also defeating, even with my new cold gear. <br />
<br />
jan 13th<br />
<br />
Haiti
was hit by a serious trauma last night. registering a full seven on
the scale, the earthquake devasted the entire area of the capital.
there is no way to count the deaths or to track the emerging corpses,
but it is a start to say that all surrounding shanty-towns are rubble
and many are but sloped graves now—children women men. . . . .<br />
<br />
January
15th. a warmer day in upper 50’s and the beach was filled with
runners, walkers, cyclists, and a few tourists. ran six miles
following my eight mile run y’day and feel a bit spent. but the weave
of other active bodies, their machines or lack thereof, their ipods and
beer bellies and tights and brightly colored hats and the shimmer of sun
on the seemingly new ocean and the intracoastal swaying in sailboat
breezes beneath the bridges of Wrightsville beach and foot falls echo
the miles approaching and receding and it is the final swoop of breath,
almost warm but certainly January bitter on throat-lungs and the whole
experience of running burns the diamond of the mind.<br />
<br />
and
I am not a fast runner, just a body moving ahead on both legs. . . . . I
push my body, feeling air across cheeks and knees and hair falling
heavier with sweat and I do not question the difference between jogging
and running and I do not seek the approval of others, but I am enamored
by the communal sense of the Public Run. . . . the public run. . . .
while a bit bizarre, it occurs to us runners (many environmental and
worried bout carbon footprints and now green races like the bi-lo
marathon are more and more common) but we crawl into our vehicles and
drive somewhere to run. we arrive and sweat and nod and stretch and
drive back home to shower and sip hot cocoa or energy drinks but the
irony is obvious to me: to drive to run. . . . . and speaking of green,
now companies are putting out green shoes, meaning the soles (gels,
insoles, inner shoe) are made of organic materials. this was,
apparently, not at all the case before the new awareness. there are
tons of various running shoes absorbing oil and milk and coffee grounds
with diapers in every landfill of every populated area. . . . . . I had
no idea. many donate shoes to causes and poor countries and even
inner-city charities, and those are wonderful options, but still we
drive to paved landscapes to pursue green activities in rogue-material
shoes. . . . . and tech shirts and the little sweatshop hands that
frequently make these clothes are a whole other issue. . . . <br />
<br />
MVI. four miles with little man. . . .<br />
<br />
a
total of 63 miles this year as the eighteenth of January reached 63
degrees. . . . a wonderfully warm day with kyote and myself circling the
neighborhood, Marley on the ipod (which hooks into a dual speaker
system on the jogger stroller), pulling our strides long and easy on
some “easy skanking” which ky enjoyed much. a run this saturday of 9.3
miles.<br />
<br />
wednesday and January the twentieth and the
southern sun bleaches the day into the pale-brick and graying asphault I
love so much. . . . no run but a brisk jog-walk (powerwalk to the elite
practitioners I suppose) with ky ‘round the block. . . . sometimes
moving is enough. <br />
<br />
Haiti experienced an aftershock
today, eight days after the massive earthquake that has killed an
estimated 200, 000 people, and once again brought the capital
port-au-prince to its bony, dusty knees. <br />
<br />
new iron and wine cd, as well as violent femmes original 1982 release on cd. both are enjoyable, runnable. . . . .j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-1238422019162120362012-11-12T11:25:00.000-08:002012-11-12T11:25:49.522-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2 style="text-align: center;">
<b>"This may be difficult." </b> </h2>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Paintings by <b>Jay Edge</b>.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hosted by The Upstairs Gallery at Caprice Bistro, </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
November 15th 2012 through January 2013. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Opening will be held on Weds. November 15th, 6pm - 9pm. </div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-13053498381940978582012-10-24T11:48:00.000-07:002012-11-06T11:55:14.151-08:00a trail run in october.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Juking through the trail, the trees &
roots of blue clay, its not fast but i'm working, running,
midmorning october, orange leaves under long blue shadows, jarred
horizons push and pull, merge and blur like a rothko, hips shift in
quick tag of earth and eyes root to the trail, the mud-spine
switching back against ankles & knees, lumbar and
shoulders, and i'm aiming for a rapid cadence that smooths the work,
shortens the stride, less jar to the kicks, a smooth roll of
thrust/lunge, thrust/lunge, and i'm keeping the shoulders rolled back, neck is long and throat is open, breath steadies to fill the chest, the mind is even and quiet and tuned in.<br />
thin layers of breath move with heat from chest into muscle, exhale steam, a fugue of moves, symphonic.<br />
<br />
it's my creative act to articulate a trail well, to immerse myself in that
work, to grind down the whole being over a distance, to emerge from a passage of earth exhausted, quiet, fulfilled,
its an act of artful expression. this is where i find my core, in raw nature, this is my honest primal place... when running, the world's noise can straight fuck off, fall away, dead october leaves fueling a fire... when i run, i can burn the world from the inside out, my own private anarchy, my own graces and brutalities.<br />
catharsis and meditation, the falling of leaves, the nature that shares an infinite spectrum of moods, the rothko-thin layers of thanatost and libido, glazed into a whole form of a man, an illusion possibly, a body, succumbing to nothingness and everything, moving through it until the bones fall away from the soul. </div>
j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-82791637234773805062012-10-04T07:10:00.000-07:002012-10-08T06:57:20.276-07:00A Run in the Uwharrie Range....in pursuit of some moving ecstasy, in liberation of mind and spirit, as
a private act of rebellion & anarchy, there is a run, something primitive in
the act of running a trail. it was time to move through some of god's good land on the momentum of my angst, on the power of legs, on the remaining keenness of mind and near the land of my birth, the familiar rolling pastorale of my formative years, is a range of mountains that carry my youngest memories. they carry the cathartic and carefree remembrance of running the wooded acres behind my grandparents house, a boychild moving in new earth. it feels good to be back home, in the piedmont of nc, good to be in the ancient land of the uwharrie.<br />
<br />
i. the medicine: a few hours of solitary running in a gnarly stretch of woods where i can feel self-reliance, where i can move into intuition, in the movement of the soul, where i can ascend and descend mountains that carry the history of their birth and formation and the archaeology of use, where unknown generations of Indians ran on leather soles chasing animals and children and women and each other, not knowing the game was timed. to fall into that trail, wholly immersed, you mark the blaze and fucking run until the breath is lost, the body is wrung out with salt crystallizing on the bellies of muscle and the vision blurs and the landscape fades to a deeper space, a world beneath the mind, at a bodyless vortex, mud of body and mud of earth, river of mountain, river of body, cuts of blood and bone and the primitive stoneface steep against october mountain, clashes of body-wood through narrow chute of limb and branch, endless spiderweb entanglement (like a beekeepers hat on head), the pale green mosses of rockface thrust, the diagonal cuts of limestone and the irregular face of granite, low pyramids of white quartz like some ephemeral timekeeper, the sienna and ochre carpet of fallen leaves and the secret surface beneath, a rare splash of yellow-orange on a branch, wheatgrasses brushing leg in low meadows, the dull light beneath a still thick canopy of hardwood leaves, the undulating horizon from which streaks of sun pour down to splash trail bright, a strobe effect of light and shadow, slope of space, the ever bending horizon the everbending body the jut of leg and the pistonhammer feet ache on stone protusion and the gut churns at the prospect of being waterless and the mind just burns on, an endless light fueled by a Divine spark that exists here, in this space, on this trail, in this mountain, and is, for this moment, Yours. an absolute moment of Existence, an absolution.<br />
<br />(ranger warned me that "the snakes are out right now, moving, and the rattlesnakes are moving, seen a few in the past two weeks, rain brings 'em out, and they are ill-tempered, yeah, ill tempered right now...be careful")<br />
... and to be IN the acoustics of the motherearth, to be present and alive in the land... had driven 3 hours to arrive here, had driven anxious and energized, music blaring the whole way, and here was the quiet of ancient mountain woods, containing me in my traverse, shirtless with thin-soled shoes, two bottles and a sweat-blotched map that was (literally) dissolving with each paused orientation, a thunderstorm moving in from the northwest, black and bleak, but the day so far was sunny and clean-aired though the trail was puddled with overnight rain and the rocks and downed trees were as slippery as polished cement beneath a pickup truck oilpan and that ideal weather ended two and half hours in when the sky shot down raindrops, the size of golf balls, a cool but muscled/fisted rain, and i found a service road to runrunrun back through a hunting camp and up/down until being deposited back at the parking lot.<br />
aww man & oh boy! soul was revved and language and cherokee and twombly and the rip of land beneath the kick of foot restored the ache to be alive, the will to be a part of this lifething, the mad courage to go forward and to do. proud to be here, alive, and able to offer something, if only a body and the language of legwork.<br />
<br />
ii. and thirty minutes up the road came a clearing of clouds and morrow mountain state park and i decided on a quick loop across fall mountain trail where fire had devoured part of the landscape and left strange charred forms, previously tree trunks, now a surreal display of natural sculpture, and somewhere two miles in i lost the trail and descended a rocky scramble to the shore of Pee Dee River and, realizing my errant direction, backtracked, pawed up the scree past what looked like a dismembered still and back onto the red mud/blackened soil surface and craggly oaks and the flat rocks like stacked iron pans reaching off of the shallow summit and ended that run with a sink-bath before heading to salisbury for a thai meal. all in all, a 17 mile day in the uwharries, three hours of good wholesome running...<br />
<br />
iii. and thats that. and what is that? an exjunkie kicking miles in ancient wilderness earth, shirtless and proud and burning the body open... the power of movement, the power of body: a grateful thrust of his entirety.j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-71421723444781020052012-09-05T14:02:00.004-07:002012-09-07T11:43:28.077-07:00labor day run in remnants of isaac.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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... gotta get behind the mule again, shoulder plow into hard earth, bend to the wind and start the work of miles and pigment.... early morning run, grayblack day like soot dusting dawn, the torso arches into moderate pace, the heart leads, a pulse feeling fires of late summer, coals of burning lungs, fatigue in the launch of leg... an arrhythmic event of muscle versus mass... when, now, like a promise broken or fulfilled, storm collapses onto land, the vast flat land, bending on asphalt, empty windows of resting homes become shallow and pale... rain applaudes itself as a bleak black horizon pushes down on earth... shoes absorb puddles to swell heavy, eyes sting, lips collect the rain, shoulders and back cool and the body opens, kicking fluid into inhale, feeling length in stride, a body in push, and the back arches like a bow, an arrow of effort jamming into the blind courage of distance... regardless of mindcloud, the questions, despite clouds of exertion rolling through mind and muscle, riding blood, the histories of this moment building like a cacophony in mind.... the continuum of habit is a history to be admired.... bending back tall as pushing heart into rain, churning legs, churning wind and rain, fury of it all, something staged or hollywood with lightening and thunder, naked chest pounded by tiny fists of rain, the body's gravity, the breathlessness, the soul heavy in solitude of the rain run, the ridicule of such an act, raw arrogance and fuck it all-ism, the angst of the legs. . . . fury of it all, solitude of it all, kicking like a mule in a storm-rattled stable. . . . and then the paint, the paint is dry and the runner is wet, irony... the vigor of yearning, the proof of form, the time-starched hopes of charcoal and burnt sienna and red oxide, ochre and cerulean, the burning of a figure silhouetted by rain and angst and cloud, raging against apathy, charred lung and brilliant whiteheat light... a clay sag in the rain. . . . the work is the love, the work is the meaning, the work is the nexus. the work is the bones in this heavy sack of clay doubt, the work is the pursuit... paint, ecstasy, illumination, equanimity... work is anything that brings you love. work is the proof, is the gift, is the expression of god. j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-57052577731921082482012-08-27T07:30:00.006-07:002012-09-03T13:42:05.084-07:00Kunga Yoga, Kunga Running. (still in edit, but whatever.)<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
As cosmic collaboration would have it, I found myself registered for a 220hr yoga teacher training program three days before the commencement of a three week immersion program. New to the art and practice of yoga, my connection to the power, the medicine & synergy, the joyful work of disciplined movement, all was aligned sufficiently to alter life-rhythms (my own and many others) and embark upon the journey. Welcome to Kunga Yoga Teacher training at Shell Island Resort in Wrightsville Beach, NC.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kunga Yoga is a yogic belief-system central to Wilmington Yoga Center, the hosting studio of the ytt school. At the philosophical core of Kunga Yoga is the belief that Yoga is a service, is an act and offering of compassion, and that practice is an opportunity to reconcile. Kunga yoga believes that everyone is a yogi, that yoga is accessible to every body. In serving our bodies in asana and pranyama, we build a personal strength that can translate towards a communal power. <br />
Kunga yoga brings a monthly theme to its classes, and that theme is introduced into each Kunga class, often connecting the category and flow of postures.<br />
Kunga yoga classes donate a percentage of proceeds to a charity, annually chosen. The young girls of the Home for Hope in India are 2012's recipients, and there is a trip organized at the end of the year.<br />
<br />
<br />
i.<br />
Rather than write anecdotes and vignettes describing the three weeks of ten hour days of practice, posture work, reading, studying, refueling and resting (rich days my friends!), I persuade you to check out a class or a workshop (<a href="http://www.wilmingtonyogacenter.com/">www.wilmingtonyogacenter.com</a> for those in the area). Yoga practice is a transformative, expansive, magical thing, and every yoga experience can be a gift to yourself and others. <br />
<br />
ii.<br />
Yogic philosophy is a direct complement to kicking out distances. Burying the mind in the solitude of miles makes yoga feel more elegant, more nuanced, more subtle. Braiding in both, in yoga as in running, is the idea of space, openness, breath, heat, and, most importantly, a strong communion with the earth beneath you as well as the clay that composes you. Clay and breath and light, light that emits various levels of heat.<br />
<br />
iii.<br />
<br />
I came to yoga from a spectrum of injuries. Yoga was a gentle, a healing or nurturing meditation; a preventative, in-the-meantime deal. Soccer stretches. I quickly learned that yoga can be equally physical, massively challenging to strength and mind and endurance. Forgotten areas of my body struggled with basic movement & patterns of movement. Tensions poured through muscle thicker than blood. Slowly, a new body, a waking body, merges into breath through posture, distills mind into focus, a calm, engaging meditation towards inner-stillness,. It is a process, a gradual process. A journey.</div>
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<br />
Yoga contains running and running contains yoga.<br />
<br />
Moments in my trail running have a sacred lucidity. Likewise, I have fallen deep into my body and inner-bodies during shavasana, exploredvast mad spaces during cycles of surya namaskar B... felt fires in core and legs while holding warrior 3... yoga and running are acts that open the body to new aptitudes, open the heart to new experiences, nurturing a healthier, happier person. Both stabilize the body and mind. Each is an action rooted in gratitude. <br />
<br />
iv.<br />
I think all creative actions can be an ascetic. Drop labels and the cultural models, let fads fall away, minimize the noise of a thing, transcend to your own expression of an
act and search out the ascetic root. Find a mindful connection to the act. Sculpture, masonry, cooking, writing koans, cleaning, story
telling, sketching a rock, skipping a rock, reading, meditation .... in every creative act is an ascetic potential. More to this later...<br />
<br />
v.<br />
Yoga, the physical elements (only two of the eight branches
of Yoga), is a meditation that moves through postures and patterns of
breath. Asana and pranyama are powerful practices, but I would extend
Yoga to include running, cycling, swimming, jumping rope, dancing,
eating, having sex: anything can move towards a yoga-based practice.
Anyone can find some form of yogic practice and celebrate that immediate
place. Start here and now by noting the here and now. Breathe into the
three spaces of your torso's cavity, filling the belly, expanding the
ribs, lifting the heart, and then pouring that breath out mindfully from
the belly. . . . yoga dirgha breath. A mindful nodding of the head, a
roll of the lower spine, scorpion pose, walking to the mailbox, any
mindful movement can capture the spirit of yoga. Everyone is a yogi,
and it does not require a mat to find your yoga. to move consciously,
to feel the weight of one's body on the support of an earth, to yoke the
love and heat and strength of a challenging posture, to remember the
steadiness of breath and the awareness of body and mind, and then to
project that as an energy into our relationships and community, it is an
offering. movement as prayer. an exalted, basic Act. <br />
<br />
We do not learn yoga so much as we excavate the yogi within us.<br />
<br />
**********************************************************************<br />
<br />
Interestingly, noted Yogini Sharon Gannon argues that asana does not mean posture, but translates as "seat." Meaning a stable connection to the earth, to the processes of the earth, to the dynamics of a moment, to being still and conscious, reaching from within with compassion.</div>
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j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-543126184235854642012-06-19T09:02:00.004-07:002012-06-19T09:02:37.092-07:00The history of surface. Approaching summer.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Got some New Seeds shaking around the
seedbag. Ink on rice paper. Language charged fresh, muscle charged
flesh. Sandalwood and ts eliot. Shostokovich, holy lands,
projective verse & newspaper excerpts, transfer drawings and vast
hee-hawings. . . monotypes, titles forgotten, brokenspine books,
libraries empty in the rain, l.a. rose
gardens, ecstasy in the vein in north decatur & the cold fear of
speed versus the lax heat of dope, coastal miles and the whispering
sand of lowtide runs, the push of body through heat and fatigue and
doubt. . . . sexual tension or creative tension,
an energy source, like the clangor of rachmoninoff, schoenberg, the terse verse of buk, a fullmoon thing,
ebb and flow and oxbow. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
i am a freerange mind: Uncaptured, mostly. A
trek covering some 38 years of wondering, wandering. Jesus. Je
suis. Sex and creativity and running are all just a hunter's
instinct. A freudian exertion.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Imagination and sovereignty. Let
collapse the constructed mind and quit clasping the umbilical culture
that binds. Burn into dance. Pour into intuitive existence and be
enraptured by what waits. Amaze yourself. You ARE a phenomenon.
Imagine, cultivate, ruminate, be sovereign. Desire something beyond
yourself.</div>
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</div>
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Dance your spinning world around, rumi,
gibran, st. paul. . . whoever gases the grand ideal.</div>
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</div>
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ii.</div>
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</div>
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Palettes sit newly sealed in white,
previous layers of colour covered in strange geography. (I get lost
in the narrative of topography, the history of surface.) The dried
puddles of once-pigment, ridges of brushes, weight of touch and drag,
the valleys where mixtures were diluted, exhausted. Now white.
Titanium white. The total of all light and its pigments. A
historied topography absolved of specific struggles. Clean. Start
new. Spin out of your dwelling, your rut, your denizen, your
mindnumbness.
</div>
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</div>
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iii.</div>
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A coastal run of 14 miles, an
unrushed&freelyworking form kicking sand through a earmix heavy
on modest mouse and marley. Dehydrated launches of legs lose power,
cramp, pull into stomach like a band weakening around a wrap of
papers, like a scroll. The muscle and mind and desire unravel to a
lost momentum, the settling of blood in feet and swelling and
discomfort and the final fallaway of mind from the work at hand.
Meditation becomes something ugly and debased; the act works against the
focus. No longer a positive, but a mind full of suffering, the
escape of which was the reason for running in the first place. End
of a cycle, pause of a process, like knowing that a drawing is complete. Hit the garmin and
breathe.</div>
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<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
iv.</div>
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<br />
</div>
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Form that is not simple, but elegant
and ancient. Ephemeral. But above all, Elegant. Miles' sketches of
Spain, Stravinsky's rites of Spring, drums and the slap of feet. Ink
on rice paper. Sole on dirt. The nimble seriousness of this life is
best expressed not in contours, form, layers of language, but in the
body. The calligraphy of the erotic, the powerful bending of the
yogi's body, the armature of mind in synch with body in synch with
trail that runs like rain down a mountain. The cadmium red-orange burn of quads. The dance of the original hunt. The gasp that is
a hymn, an Om, a settling of chaos into rhythm. Illumination by way of the physical: sometimes you must push the body to quieten the mind. </div>
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Let the madness drive.</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-19253223167521511642012-05-14T14:01:00.000-07:002012-05-23T12:31:40.532-07:00stretching canvas, stretching body, stretching mind. a big pile-up of words.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Massanutten running & a mashup of a May
catch-up, mid-april, mountain running, a grand exodus of the familiar, injury and a heel defeated and a run de-footed. a mention of the yoga gradually stretching into the routine to knead body of jangled knots.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
i. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Massanutten is a mountain resort that
lays outside Harrisonburg Va, butting up against skyline drive and
george washington national park. The mountain looks like a muscular fin, a
massive, scalloped jut of limestone and evergreen, anchoring april sky
against that lush bucolic landscape of farm and town, quiltwork, dairy stacks, silos.
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This area of the Virginia blue ridge is
wrapped with miles of trail to include Kaylor's knob, the
massanutten trail, the AT, and the many color-blazed trails that Massanutten
Resort and the IMBA carve and maintain. Daily trail-play and one
road 5k (with my wife on the occasion of the Boston Marathon!)
brought a total of 50 miles in four days of running, with three days
of running lost to travel. The heat was frying sweat on rocks, lifting finally a storm out of the afternoon scree wednesday, but the heat was detoxifying, energizing. despite my lack of a runner's world physique, it was
refreshing to run shirtless in splits and minimal shoes in self-reliant solitude. it was indian and pure and playful. minimal intrusion and maximum output. a judgement free zone of zoning out into a run.<br />
<br />
its a minimalist act, a good run. . . . a gel, some food, two
handhelds (strong Heed and cold h20), an occasional
hoop-whoop chant to avoid startling a bear around a blind turn, and the burning of foot and leg and core and the fade-out of jabber and mind-clutter and false fears. another body or no other body, music or silence, sky or ocean or mountain or earth, a run can be as simple and raw as one wants. . . . some good old-fashioned trail running across the rockpiled appalachians, where overlooks let vision hang like a hawk in the wind.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The thing, for me, in running a mountain with
shallow lungs, with coastal lungs, with ex-smoker's lungs, is the
difficulty of climbing. While it is a joyful and rewarding thing, I slow on the uphills, powerhiking, running only what I can. I try not to judge my run, my body,
my efforts, or my abilities. When I do run, it is a pace that invigorates,
focuses, challenges, while maintaining a pleasure in the run
itself. To lose the run to the abstract credentials of a runner is the work of thieves. To see a mountain push out of a farm's fields while running a dozen miles is a gorgeous thing, and to work your way back up
switchbacks and limestone vertebrae teething out of the spine of a
mountain and to peer across vast american space with a turkey
taking flight or a deer bounding across splashing leaf to disappear
in wooded, dusted siennas. . . . to burn thighs and sole and breath-dried mouth down a mountain, it carries the lithe language of nature back into mind with the fragrances of animal, evergreen, exertion, sex, spirit, sun-hot rock. To run a mountain is a constant amazement, an ecstasy of movement coalescing through space.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Now is much resting, stretching, and massaging
out the soles of my feet with a roller from where the limestone
outcroppings of the mountain trail beat the shit out of them. My body works into some yoga recently and the body appreciates, my breath, my serenity, appreciates it. I can feel the openness of my chest, the lengthening of muscle and the engagement of core. I run with a whole sense of connectivity, feeling the relationship of momentum in my right leg to my left shoulder and elbow and wrist. I feel the drop of chest across knee during tired moments and I feel the flatness of chest against effort-driven gasp. I feel a solid body, even with the mileage sinking beneath my hopes. But ultimately, the numbers are just another layer of abstract credential, a false signifier of joy in an act.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
ii.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Currently I feel good, healthy, optimistic. No races, no expectations, just a mindfulness of the current Being I occupy. A faith in a good orderly direction. There is even a series of paintings starting in journals and mind-canvases. There is language forming towards something, there is interest in various things, a passion underlying efforts, and there is a generous love that forms beneath my thoughts in quiet moments. I am trying to be a good person. Miles and pigments and language act as armatures of my faith.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
iii.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
To move towards and with something-- to
flow with the movement of an energy and commit, that is the freeing
key. That is the lesson and the point and the reward. Raw faith.
The full-life confidence to be mindfully present, to be engaged, to
be kind with a generous love. The kindness to be generous, the
love to be kind.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some days move towards a gradual requital, a denial or a refusal; it is a gradual and unconscious
shift. These days are tiring, daunting, cumbersome. To breathe
into the act, cycle the work as ocean and muscle and heat. to burn a
thing anew. to keep at it and to stay in it, that is the work of the day. be a movement that gasps into the earth, burning with something fully of a moment and yet ancient, ephemeral, a hymn or a howl. be the fire and blaze.</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-59523887012867107362012-04-02T18:45:00.001-07:002012-04-02T18:48:29.791-07:00Gator Trail 40k (of 50k) 2012.<br />
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Flash back one year ago to the 2011
Gator Trail 50k. Held on the trails of
Lake Waccamaw State Park, Grant Egley's event was my first ultra and, in terms of
mileage, it also contained my first marathon. The 31 miles passed as
a personal triumph and cornerstone in my running life, imparting a
new philosophy regarding my body, my mind, my abilities. The people I
met were as supportive as they were diverse, and they were enjoying their lives. Amazed and proud,
emboldened and sovereign, I felt I could gain speed and confidence in distance running. I
was hooked. Fast forward through a MTC shirt run, Grandfather Mountain Marathon,
Weymouth Woods 100k, Wrightsville Beach Marathon, 1800 miles and 370
days.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
2012 Gator Trail unfurled a new set of
issues but the biggest was my 3h30pm shift. A vicious list of
reservations had already populated the seating chart and there was no
getting out of the shift. So, Friday's shift clocked out around
midnight and the 5h30am alarm sounded Saturday with the dripping of
coffee and a boiling h20 pot for oatmeal, some gear loaded up and
then the family and we were off. Slightly Stoopid and a sunrise and
a reunion with some familiar faces, the line up and briefing, and
Grant's easy countdown to begin the big kicks into the sand and roots
and lake mists of this coastal salt lake.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This was a jaunt and taunt run with a grand sense of reunion attached. Mark Long, Bill Wiemer, Donald Drees, Marie-Ange and Stephanie Carter were there and I had something invested in each of their successes. My run was more of a social thing with some trail mileage sandwiched in. I had not planned on running the full
50km and, this being a looped event, I had easy options to drop in
increments of 10k. A DNF bothered me little, rather
the DNF-factor alchemized towards a rare opportunity for a
“disposable” race. My decision and strategy was to charge ahead
until the chain slipped the gears- just see what my legs held. The
result was a great deal of play and excitement and an actual lead on
the first lap. I've never been in first before, so to try a
front-runner position was a helluva lot of fun, even if a total flop. Alternating pours of rain
cooled the legs and torso and kept me feeling like a wild wet wolf on
a hunt, invigorated. But I also knew my limits were hanging after the 18 mile- 20
mile mark. And when I fell into third while urinating behind a tree, I felt part of my wolf-fight yawn.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Around mile five, a female caught up to
run in synch with a bit of conversation, saying that this was her
first 50k with one prior marathon. Her name was Leaanne and she
turned on some mad afterburners about mile seven and became a
Trysports-jerseyed flash in the woods. The girl was killing it,
running the sandy access roads like it was the loop at Wrightsville
beach, running the technical sections like she was navigating a low
tide beach. She ran with a grace in the work that few accomplish,
and she powered through for an overall first place after leading for
nearly a marathon's distance. Marie-Ange was nearing with her artful
form, and I was reminded of the strength of the local female running
community. (New Hanover county boasts many talented female runners,
but I don't know if the Gator Trail has ever been bested by a female.
. . Leanne put up a great set of miles to get to that line.)
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From there it was a good progression of
miles with alternating rain in the flat light of an overcast morning.
The surface of the trail offered passages of churned black mud and
faster sandy stanzas (packed and manageable from the rain), staccato
roots biting into stride with an increasing aggression as the miles
accumulated in the legs. Breathing went ragged in the warming of the
day and a consequential humidity, and my pace began struggling
towards 8m30sec on the third lap. My IT bands and quads were getting
slowly microwaved and, with one more loop to finish but an eight hour
shift ahead, I formally dropped at mile 23.99 and 3h 16mins. I thanked Grant for putting on
another great race, and he thanked me for coming out and
participating. This is a man who created the Mississippi 50 mile run
several decades ago, and who remains so humble to us stumbling
newbies, so his graciousness is a diamond kindess. His wife was
awesome and warm, offering one of her famous sandwiches. I shoved my
soggy self into the car to start the process from trail running shoes to Danskos. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Sushi and coffee and a shower and the
time clock and I am polishing silverware and taking drink orders on
a 9-top. Work went well and finished well, excluding a setting
fatigue and a voracious appetite for every plate of food I served. Especially the grouper filets and pommes frites and chocolate mousse. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many lessons came across my body,
including:
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
a.) the need to pick up some S-caps for
the Southern running season (thanks Brett!).
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
b.) Extend the long runs-- if your
body is only accustomed to 18 mile runs, then 31 miles holds too much
unknown, too much unencountered muscle damage. Your long runs in training constitute the high-water mark for stamina in racing-- Adrenalin only forgives so much.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
c.) I need to learn to run through
the pain. I continue to enpower the difficult parts over the
passages where I run well, and the difficult miles cost all
benefits of earlier exertions.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally and d.) I've learned from the
Weymouth Woods and from the Quintiles Marathon that the training is
as much about the recovery as it is about the actual race. To
prepare the body for the work and the damage, and to teach the body
how to heal itself, is as important as learning the footwork to take
roots on a trail.And I felt good after the race, a minimal discomfort.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I think these are universal
obstacles, and tomorrow, I will get an easy ten miler on some trails
to start kneading the legclay back to a workable shape.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-80487386577266201782012-03-20T11:35:00.002-07:002012-03-21T14:16:14.483-07:00Wrightsville Beach Marathon 2012.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.50pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
The marathon distance is the ultimate racing distance. Her 26.2 miles carry poetry, legacy, myth, denial, redemption. And while it is a race-able distance, a road
marathon remains a deceptive and difficult thing. Its a destructive road. The body, the ego, the mind, they become greedy
and volatile against the abstract guts of a clock. 26.2 miles donates much time to lament and regret and
doubt, to believe, much time to run hard the body and to relent. Here is the thrill of effort,
the strength of the collective, the intervals of adrenalin-fueled kicking. There is a loneliness that swallows whole the harrier into the deepest void of his being. . . the promise of
a mt.olympus wall, a community of sound support and guidance
across the best and worst miles of your day. It is an internal and external event.<br />
<br />
The Community.<br />
<br />
The race director, the
army of volunteers, the crowds of supporters, the mass assembly of good folks pointing the runners in the right directions and handing
out water and gatorade and gels and smiling and applauding and
commending us by name (the bibs actually had your first name printed
beneath the number- a very cool detail!!), the student band playing
by the golf courses of Landfall, the encouraging residents of
Landfall who clapped and saluted in their front yards (a curious
head-cocked dog by their side), the throngs of folks lining Military
Cutoff and camping behind the finish lines, the massage therapists
and the sponsors willing to place their bets on the success of this
event. . . . it just gives a participant a real feeling of pride to
be at the core of that love. The Wrightsville Beach Marathon was a
very special event filled with special people. And there were runners, of which I was one.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
The Race.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This was my second marathon, my first
being the Grandfather Mountain marathon of July 2011. I entered the
Quintiles marathon 2012 with certain time goals, a fair training
background, and a plan. I nurtured a newbie's fear and I carried
that burden as a self-enclosed and
solipsistic feeling. I had doubts and hopes. Saturday night by 10pm, I
wrapped up my last table and my mind was stoic and meditating the
run, and I breathed myself to sleep at home beneath a novel by 11pm.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
March 18<sup>th</sup> was a sunday of
5am alarms, dark coffee, a gear bag and a 6h40am starting line. A 3am thunderstorm had moshed through overnight and
settled as puddles in the street, and it was now lifting into the air
as fog. I was moving through the fogged darkness with wu-tang and
doubts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Arriving, the ribbon of runners already
wrapped the blocks of Mayfair alongside the endless trolleys
and buses serving to transport the participants to the Wrightsville
beach park. The morning remained totally dark and the breeze was wet
with chill. Runners sprinted the lawns and boarded the trolleys.
The ride was a grumbling parade of engines and chatter. Banter crescendoed on the bus and entire
running resumes were listed to no one in particular-- whole catalogs
of running experience were thrown up like a loose leaf manuscript to
fall across the ears of riders. It is a nervous fellowship before many races.<br />
Arriving at the start area, the WB Park had
settled into the pre-race routine of port-a-john lines and high-knee
sprints and endless stretches and nerve settling. Track club jerseys
amassed, pace groups shook hands, racers looked determined, and the
warning bell sounded. A countdown ticked off to 6h40am and a pick up
truck with a mounted camera led the opening files of runners along
the loop by the Atlantic ocean, over the ICW on the metal-grate
bridge and, by mile 3, I had lost sight of the lead runners for the
remainder of the day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The first few miles of my race were
swift and strong. No less than fifty dogs and their humans stood and
waved and barked and wished us well. The fog was thick and felt
clammy on the skin. The puddles in the street were splashed and
kicked, and I nailed early and full-footed a few puddles. I missed
my first attempt at a water cup, around mile 4, knocking the entire
cup of water against the neighboring volunteer. It was not a moment
that generated optimism.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From there the race was a lot of
straight burns down Military Cutoff by dancing red dragons and a dozen
different tents and fans with various signs. In the crowd cheering
was the race director, Tom Clifford, as well as Olympic trials
marathoner Christa Iammarino. (Its a pretty cool thing to have a
top-listed Ironman competitor/runner and an
elite marathoner rooting for you.) Cutting into Landfall, one
follows the major roads through the wonderful landscapes and
architecture that define this destination neighborhood. Golf courses
read like impressionist paintings in the lingering mist, and I asked
myself on a few occasions why I had not chosen golf over
long-distance running. But I had some 18 miles to go. A crowd of
excited laughter offered free high fives, and the runners took them
up on it. (The guy in front of my tried to slap-sting one happy
spectators hand and I got a kick out of that.) Then it was a
half-marathon down and one half-marathon ahead and I had pounded for 1h31min straight. I felt good for a minute. Gel, water,
gatorade. Rocky's theme song. A song by Journey. Motley Crue. High
School Band performing from a gazebo at the corner. Back down
Military Cutoff where I see someone I know: “Jay? Jay!!” and I
felt good for a moment. I shopped here Thursday morning. I wonder if they have that new book on the Civil War. Back into Landfall, around a bend following
the well-marked route. Another Ironman pointing the way. “Hello
Jim,” I said to the familiar face and I felt good for a minute.
Miles collected like seaweed around my ankles and I hit mile 21 at
2h32 minutes. The wall settled on my quads and IT bands and
shoulders and any hope of a comfortable, fast finish was shot. I was running through an imaginary ocean. From
here it was the work of trudging and the final wheezing howl of hope as
the miles clicked off. With agony and lethargia, the mile-marker
signs would show up around a corner. The out-and-back that wrapped
up the final 10k was plodding and
broken up into walk-run-jogs distances. (Note to self-- breaking a marathon up into two ten
milers and one 10k is not a manageable distance.) Faye missiled by. I felt good. Tyler. Ange. It was nice to see someone familiar. Abruptly, I got a cramp in my right
hamstring that nearly brought me to the ground, and it persisted for
two minutes before relenting. One woman grabbed her face and
recoiled when she saw me limp into the cramp. It passed, she passed,
the race continued. I saw a friend from life drawing, a fellow
artist. She yelled my name is fond surprise. I felt good for a minute.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
The Finish.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="border-bottom: 4.50pt double #000000; border-left: none; border-right: none; border-top: none; margin-bottom: 0in; padding-bottom: 0.03in; padding-left: 0in; padding-right: 0in; padding-top: 0in;">
The distance kept unfolding true to the prescribed mileage of a
marathon. So the race director was not going to let us waste our
time on a short marathon! I lolled myself about that. .
. . “Go Jay!” they cheered and the Garmin hit 26.2 with another
two blocks of folks waiting. I had missed my goal by 7 minutes at that
point but I was still sub 3h20m. The final stretch was an
embarrassment because I was the only runner for the whole distance,
my misery fully illustrated by my lagging gait and my slack
jaw. But then I saw my wife smiling, my son yelling, and the
white noise of my pain filled up with joy and pause and I stopped to
give a high five to Kyote. He didn't respond, and I felt myself
going, going, lurching forward, so I launched back into the final
kicks where cheerleaders surrounded me with pom-poms and greetings.
I was ecstatic to be done, and my fuel tank was absolutely bankrupt.
My medal was given and I was proud to put it on.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
Something of a Postscript, an Epilogue: A collection of effects.<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Things got tricky here. Exertion and
goals and adrenalin and whatever got me and following a Gatorade
recovery drink, I headed back over to my wife and proceeded to bawl,
to absolutely manically bawl into her neck. I had failed my BQ goal
by 8 minutes, finishing in 3h18m06secs, and I was ashamed and angry
and forlorn. I waddled over to wipe off my stench, to get a fresh
shirt, and catch a moment away from the crowd. The crying kept
gurgling up, and then subsided as we re-entered the expo area. I got
a massage on my legs (courtesy miller-motte tech school), and roamed
around for a cup of coffee. The race was done. A quart of orange
juice, a plate full of gorgonzola chicken, and an advil was the
prescription du jour.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Revisiting this, I learned something.
My time fails the BQ of 3h10mins, but I am above A-Standard
qualifying time for the JFK 50m by 22 minutes!!! And this is a wish
list race, so the accomplishment is revitalizing. I will
return to the Quintiles if the cosmos allows, and I will look at this
running year with great amazement as I became a sub 3h20min
marathoner. And please excuse my effusive tone here, I am not
boasting or self-celebrating. Rather, these are acts that shock me,
that shake me to my core with gratitude for the years of new life
that I have outside of the bars. To have overcome the negatives of
my history and to alchemize into something worthy of my body running
well for 26.2 miles is nothing short of a miracle.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A huge thanks to all who brought this
race together. A prayer for the race director's family who
experienced a tragic miracle two days prior to the race. A prayer
for the fallen runner (who has improved). A prayer for the
staffer who was struck by a drunk driver, suffering a broken ankle
and bruised ribs.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Much gratitude to those that support me
in my life, and I hope is that I return the love in equal amounts.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
.
</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-85086881821336726492012-03-14T12:46:00.000-07:002012-03-14T12:55:59.022-07:00march 13 koan-poem.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
bradford pears in bloom, bach's
fugue for string quartet, the body in movement is a fugue and three
miles becomes eight and its almost spring. . . the run, the body, the
stride, this muscled gasp of form like a fugue, a layered rhythm of
intricate little intelligences, converging where the distance is no distance but a continuum, a hemingway sentence sweeping towards a
kerouac paragraph. . . the yawning fire of the chest, the pleasure of movement, the
anticipation of spring and fragrance and easy beaches and bright musics. . .
. spring is a run, is the joyful howl into a quiet neck of
the woods where sleep wolves and where swells the earth, viridian green and wet.
</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-74742859832399394622012-03-03T10:55:00.001-08:002012-03-07T10:31:17.736-08:00Run for Ray 2012 and a nocturne.<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
i. 13 miles among friends and family,
kyote's third birthday, the woods. The collective aspects.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Run for Ray Trail Race is an absolute
hoot, a grand gallivant of a mud-romp, and it's continued growth is a testament to the fun of running through the woods. Three options of distance, 3m 6m
and 13m, brought a total of around 280 folks, with all the familiar
faces organizing and
maintaining things, keeping a smooth flow in the mass, keeping the
cause in mind, keeping the vibe respectful of it's roots of charity. Mo, Mincher, B. Brandon, the Underhill family, the volunteers, all were magnificent- many thanks to
those who assisted the race's fourth annual success.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The 5k was fast, the 10k was fast, and
the 13 miler kicked super-quick with Clifford, Hatchell, Hustrulid, MA Smith, and many other local talents tearing up the course. I
passed much of the run solo, sometimes isolated, but I kept falling
back in queue to see runners ahead and behind. It was a great race, and half of a great race is a great course. . .
the grand ol' trail.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The trails at Brunswick Nature Park unravel by the sleepy marshes and the black tar of town creek. Into the
woods the black and red clays cut, leaning into electric tower
swaths of land and striding by waterlilied ponds, cat tails, mountain bike paths. The trails for the 13 miler
are mostly narrow single track, interspersed with a few fast shoots
of gravel road spineing the park. Some trail sections are older and smooth, deeply grooved into the earth, but most of the trails are new, engineered
and labored by SORBA and Coastal Land Trust
volunteers. Puddles were frequent and feet were wet. Sections twist
and carve into sandhill with switchbacks and serpentine modulations
across banks of longleaf pine, hardwood. After two laps on the more
familiar singletrack, runners were flagged (or bodyblocked, but that's a different story) into a new section of
trail composed mostly of spongy, freshly upturned soil/sand, a few
mudslide berms, and a fine drift through new land. This section went
on for about 1.5 miles before it cut back into the gravel road to the
sidewinder trail to bring the mileage home. The top runners finished
in the 1h30m range, and they were all salty smiles and easy postures
and kind words as I came through the finish chute. A positive group
populates this race and that's why it's my favorite local event.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
ii. the personal.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Run for Ray, the inaugural 2009 shot, was my first trail race. It was a 10k across blue clay mtb trails, cold and all new and balling with a bit of blood and a lot of endorphins. I was immediately addicted. The R4R still serves as an annual benchmark, and I'm proud of my performances and progress as a runner, glad for my continued enjoyment in running the woods. My gratitude is deep to have found trail running to pull my body out of the destructive habits.<br />
2012 has kept my
knee runnable and the trail felt solid beneath my
strongest efforts. Kyote turned three years old while throwing
rocks into mud puddles and running alongside people that choose healthy forms of recreation. Time on trails, time with family, birthday pizza and jokes, then a good shift at work: it all adds up to a good day.<br />
It's what trail running
is all about, communion and community. The
burning of body as it passes along earth, invigorated and enthralled, searching a larger concept, a larger sense of boundary, a deeper confidence, an expansion of self and self-image. Pursuit of a coordination, a synchronicity, an alignment with something higher than oneself. A kindness that is accomplished by good, healthy work. I'm not preaching, but most trail runs feel like a Sunday morning to me.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hope to see you out there next year.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
iii. rest.<br />
<br />
Nocturne on a surly, a dozen miles
deep on a february night, thinblade moon slicing clouds in a
starless blanket of silver fray, run for ray 13 miler still detoxing
outta bones but a mellow sway of a bicycle is the right medicine for
right now. quiet wilmington night under the buzz of street lights and the gravelly roll of tires.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Meanwhile its a stomach stuffed with
good foods but a mind stuffed with miscellaneous, with noise and clutter, fragmented idea,
lost lyrics of song, family concerns, work stress, body aches. . . the norm. for
now, fresh air and the quiet clicking of geared pedals, a
rejuvenation, a pause; the simple slow cadence. in pursuit of a decrescendo of the cacophony. the work to soothe
before a few paragraphs of dos passos and sleep. sometimes you just have to bow out for a moment, collect yourself, exhale the stale light. </div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1434120587508583343.post-84710207371916898992012-02-23T11:48:00.002-08:002012-02-28T20:03:50.377-08:00blue clay, a run in winter, nostalgia tinted trails..<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
i.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
something akin to kerouac when running
a trail, hardclay slicing through thin pine zips and the leaden arms
of old oak, just thinking and kicking by the rainblack muds
collecting tiny footprints out of the woods, trailside threshers in small
leaf-eruptions, just thinking and kicking, crossing a footbridge,
meditating ricepaper layers of poetic continuum, untangling my years
on this earth into a ragged narrative, thrusting towards a meaning,
discovering and forgetting, a constant rebirth of breath, of falsity
and faith, an image whether goya schnabel turner or richter,
inhale and exhale broken by a moment's scramble of rootbruise
misstep, arch growls and eases forward towards next stride. a brief beat lost and stalled, like a cursor at the end of a paragraph, blinking.<br />
<br />
deja vu at the sound of a train -
the familiar, a promise in the sweetness of america, a rustle through
the woods, quiet (but for depth of breath), listening to that distant
train, a corso whistle, a snyder grind of track, a set of solo legs
burning winter out of muscle and mind, the wet smells of pine / oak,
coltraine birds spilling notes into air, the strangely full february
air and the coldest morning yet in winter, 28*F at blue clay and no
one else around. . . freedom to recall the coffee-and-burnt-oil tire
stores of concord, the kannapolis trains pumping canon mills into the
market before the fadeout and blight, the paintings of foscoe
bedrooms where grandfather mountain slept, salisbury bridges of the
wpa bridge overlooking lugubrious morning trains. . . luxury of memory, the
luxury of forgetfulness. the loss of language is transcendence into body.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
ii.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Thoughts of batting cages with josue, his questions, a
pier, a quiet intention perhaps. Then the accident. Years later,
the driver of that fatal vehicle is found responsible for the
accident. Rasha, contrition. The unbelievable irony of time,
sometimes a moment requires years to reconcile. A lifetime, perhaps.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
iii. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and tonight, after work, the fog of downtown wilmington smells like something out of a dfw
short, a mix of burning diesel and tattoo ink. . . . a strange smell
for a surreal foggy night with the cape fear lapping up misty light
under a partial moon. A werewolf's desklamp. An undertaker's dull
light. a writer's distorted view of things.</div>j.edgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05095296197750559931noreply@blogger.com0