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A fragmented fourteen began in mist-grayed morning before 7am to push outta our neighborhood towards wrightsville beach and a fast start felt strong and feet beat smooth at 7.2 minute miles and the empty streets were colorless in the fog-swallowing-the-sun flatness but the pace was strong and the lungs pushed the first four miles at 7m12secs, unforced & easy, then the sunheat started pouring on the shoulders, torso slumping beneath humid pulse, the wetheat starting in and by mile five I stalled at the dreaded intersection of eastwood/ military cutoff, heaved thick sauna-breath, but there was little traffic so I kicked off coughing, breathless, heavy but determined across the bridge, that green metal jawbone overlooking the painterly ICW, a fresh breeze beneath now blazing sun, but soon I felt the gravity of heat and exertion and I felt a succumbing apathy to the act of running, the weight of muscle dragging bone, so pulling into the WB park was none-too-soon of a thing. After a pit stop I joined the other joggers and walkers to the beach where I remembered how nice it was to live at the coast, a moment of gratitude before turning into the sun and starting back up the sand to mercer's pier where I would hit the turnaround point, push my body in snagged pacing and passages of walking and waterless dread through the unscenic church traffic to a joyful goal of Home. (Fourteen like a russian lyricist performing wagner.)
Showing posts with label wrightsville beach runs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label wrightsville beach runs. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
A new april run followed by a memorial, a requiem.
Sunday at 6h40am I chugged a final dark coffee and crunched the gravel driveway towards the beach for a sixteen miler. a beautiful start to april while predawn-dark and cool and quiet, homes unlit and dogwood blooms pale but open and white in minimum light. Sunless flat trees began to fill out in form and I passed two folks walking dogs and smiling and the second mile ticks off as I run slowly and casually across market street, an impossibility any other time of the week, with barely a car north or south of my chuk-chuk-chuk of pace.
Gator trail has drained from my body, the recovery swift and impressive, but my footfalls remain flattened, unenergized, and I dread roadruns after such a carpeted trail run. But my saddle gait is passed and my jaw muscles do not ache and I contemplate eagerly the next long run. the umstead 100 passes this weekend (people are still finishing as I turn on Cardinal), with all the legs milling it out across eight loops of 12.5 miles and the bareballed guts of that distance, with the men and women driving forward from fourteen to thirty hours straight with headlamps and mudcaked legs and I am interested perhaps for next year, but I also know I don't want to ruin a longer running-life with one run of 100 miles; some never fully recover from such a thing. My skateboard and soccer knees may reject that distance, protesting quickly and finally, but the idea of a 100 miler is enticing and burns the mind a bit like a longshot high-yield bet.
A slight breeze cools me as I run the cross-city trail down Eastwood to veer out Rogersville past barking dogs and early porch lights. Time-caught churchgoers push me deeper down the road's shoulder. Up Wrightsville I watch a congregation gather outside the Presbyterian church, I admire the red jackets and decorated hats on the gregarious ladies, study the starched dark suits hanging from the thin, coat-hanger shoulders of an elderly man smiling to a man of thick build and big voice.
Debate mulls and fades to back of mind. I mentally mask a canvas for the next layer of image-application and I make a mental note to do so. I remember a poem I wrote about a tree in California. Quiet overcomes the Umsteads, the paintings and their secret images, the lifegoals, folds up the language-rambles and the clips of aesthetic-concerned essays. Airlie horses watch me pass from perfect rolling landscapes of viridian greens, king oaks, grey spanish moss, red barns of white framing beneath the fresh sun. Monet-moments pause by the Intracoastal Waterway with the crystalline reflections across mist-muted colors, the dry hiss of sea grasses. The ocean spills like tiny cups from a green-glass stillness, and the gratitude rises like prayer as I turn left at Mercer's pier, looking forward to being home with my wife and child.
*********************************************************
This is a moment to remember the father and son who were killed Sunday morning. Trey Doolittle and his father Ronald David Doolittle II were triathletes pedaling out a training ride as they cycled River Road at 9h30am. Behind them a fast car swerved wildly, running across grass and shoulder and 17 year old Trey and next his father. The father was pronounced dead at the scene and Trey sustained injuries that he would not recover from, succumbing about 24 hours later.
The man had cocaine, an open container, and was intoxicated. Personally the accident unleashes an anger, a rage so bleak and stark, so confusing. A man of 63 years of age, on a binge, crushed to death two healthy, beautiful people. The brutal irony is overwhelming.
My wife's best friend was killed when she was struck by a vehicle, riding her bike home from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and this terrible thing thrusts the associated pain right back to her being. Today I will run with thoughts of them, sending a white-light love to those who are also victims of this driver as they lose a friend, a partner, a brother, a father, an inspiration.
Gator trail has drained from my body, the recovery swift and impressive, but my footfalls remain flattened, unenergized, and I dread roadruns after such a carpeted trail run. But my saddle gait is passed and my jaw muscles do not ache and I contemplate eagerly the next long run. the umstead 100 passes this weekend (people are still finishing as I turn on Cardinal), with all the legs milling it out across eight loops of 12.5 miles and the bareballed guts of that distance, with the men and women driving forward from fourteen to thirty hours straight with headlamps and mudcaked legs and I am interested perhaps for next year, but I also know I don't want to ruin a longer running-life with one run of 100 miles; some never fully recover from such a thing. My skateboard and soccer knees may reject that distance, protesting quickly and finally, but the idea of a 100 miler is enticing and burns the mind a bit like a longshot high-yield bet.
A slight breeze cools me as I run the cross-city trail down Eastwood to veer out Rogersville past barking dogs and early porch lights. Time-caught churchgoers push me deeper down the road's shoulder. Up Wrightsville I watch a congregation gather outside the Presbyterian church, I admire the red jackets and decorated hats on the gregarious ladies, study the starched dark suits hanging from the thin, coat-hanger shoulders of an elderly man smiling to a man of thick build and big voice.
Debate mulls and fades to back of mind. I mentally mask a canvas for the next layer of image-application and I make a mental note to do so. I remember a poem I wrote about a tree in California. Quiet overcomes the Umsteads, the paintings and their secret images, the lifegoals, folds up the language-rambles and the clips of aesthetic-concerned essays. Airlie horses watch me pass from perfect rolling landscapes of viridian greens, king oaks, grey spanish moss, red barns of white framing beneath the fresh sun. Monet-moments pause by the Intracoastal Waterway with the crystalline reflections across mist-muted colors, the dry hiss of sea grasses. The ocean spills like tiny cups from a green-glass stillness, and the gratitude rises like prayer as I turn left at Mercer's pier, looking forward to being home with my wife and child.
*********************************************************
This is a moment to remember the father and son who were killed Sunday morning. Trey Doolittle and his father Ronald David Doolittle II were triathletes pedaling out a training ride as they cycled River Road at 9h30am. Behind them a fast car swerved wildly, running across grass and shoulder and 17 year old Trey and next his father. The father was pronounced dead at the scene and Trey sustained injuries that he would not recover from, succumbing about 24 hours later.
The man had cocaine, an open container, and was intoxicated. Personally the accident unleashes an anger, a rage so bleak and stark, so confusing. A man of 63 years of age, on a binge, crushed to death two healthy, beautiful people. The brutal irony is overwhelming.
My wife's best friend was killed when she was struck by a vehicle, riding her bike home from Manhattan to Brooklyn, and this terrible thing thrusts the associated pain right back to her being. Today I will run with thoughts of them, sending a white-light love to those who are also victims of this driver as they lose a friend, a partner, a brother, a father, an inspiration.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Lung Distance Logs IV e Feliz Ano Nuevo 2011.
A 39 mile week ended 2010, and a wonderful week of running it was. The sum of total miles for 2010 is lost somewhere in my journal, the thread of addition lost and never replaced, but ten months of running put the last count (in early November) at 1233 miles. Six weeks of Spring/Early Summer were lost to patellafemoral pain and funk, but most of the year was healthy. ~1450 miles is an honest estimate for the year's total, and a proud personal accomplishment.
Poverty, Richness and 2011.
The first day of 2011 passed across the pine-needled trails of Poplar Grove Nature Preserve, four miles of joyful smooth running. After a slammed week of work, with late nights and complex schedules, the noise of holidays, rampant consumer binges, heightened stress and lowered rest, the trails brought spiritual nourishment, brought the freedom and quietude to a still synergy. The lake was still, fracturing the reflections of winter trees with delicate touches on the surface. The trail ran easy, my forefeet, ankles and knees, thighs and then the hips finding a good pace-play. A few sprints peppered the legs and opened the faucets. A family and a few couples hiked around, dogs lulling behind, and there were two runners talking as they passed. But most of the run found me alone with my pace, my breath, the vast fields rolling towards the sand dune coast, and a prayer of Gratitude along the clay and grass. Nothing otherwise to note, except how fully synched Marley’s “Hammer” seemed when I returned to the car.
Sunday the Second was my long run at 15 miles. The alarm vibrated my pillow at 6h11am and my wife breathed deeply beside. My legs were curled into my abdomen, a strange sleeping pose, the residual imagery of a dream falling away from my mind, and I lifted my body. The total act of movement via hips, stomach, shoulders, was like a series of pulleys, with muscles counteracting, such as a crane's motion against a heavy wrecking ball. Eventually I pulled up my weight. The coffee was brewed, a cherry yogurt ingested, a Gatorade was mixed, and I pulled on shorts and a brand new singlet for the unseasonably warm morning, tightened my laces. By 6h55am I was latching back my fence and humming Marley, trying to keep a mellow pace for distance, aiming to hit the sunrise somewhere near the water.
Darkness yielded to fog, which dominated the landscape as I approached the coast, about four miles into the run. The sunrise was more of a gentle waking of the land, a radiance expanding across the fog and earth. I turned up Wrightsville and crossed onto Airlie, the prettiest part of the journey with manicured gardens, open fields, red barns and ancient trees. Airlie was sfumato, suffused by the heavy air, and neither the horses nor their meadows were visible. Grand oaks reached like burnt bone over the narrow, empty road, their gnarled limbs powering majestic and stark into the fog. An easy drift of thought, a language-sketch of the terrain, continued until I turned the sharp corner into the ICW. The misted light fell shallow on the glassed waterway, elevated boats caught flattened light on their sides; short piers jutted into the silver intracoastal like terse, poetic afterthoughts. It was a clean and fascinatingly new landscape.
Somewhere around this area was a group of runners, the Wilmington Road Runners, meeting for a group run. I never saw the mass collecting on the road and couldn't remember the address of the meeting, and my hopes of merging with them failed. Also, I was wearing down, too self-conscious. Some of the best talent of our area runs with the WRRC, and I am not an impressive runner on any level. So I crossed the bridge, continuing into the quiet beach morning, and pushed down the bike track onto the coast. My breath harmonized with the ocean, her choppy white froth, respiring wheezily into the fog. No surfers, no other pedestrians were visible. The beach was a milk-wash of fog. My mind was operating independently of my body, homeostasis like a glide, giving a stream-of-consciousness prayer for the blessings of 2010. At Johnny Mercer's Pier I pulled back into the loop towards home. Soon came a mass of runners in three formations, curling off of a side road onto Eastwood, and it was the WRRC, heading the opposite direction and looking fresh as daisies. Horses galloping. For a moment I felt pride at sharing the Sunday morning road with these runners, and I kicked as best I could, avoiding narrowly a collision with a few of them who had their heads tucked. The fog was clearing to a strong warm sun, and I finished my run with an okay pace and a positive spirit.
Poverty, Richness and 2011.
The first day of 2011 passed across the pine-needled trails of Poplar Grove Nature Preserve, four miles of joyful smooth running. After a slammed week of work, with late nights and complex schedules, the noise of holidays, rampant consumer binges, heightened stress and lowered rest, the trails brought spiritual nourishment, brought the freedom and quietude to a still synergy. The lake was still, fracturing the reflections of winter trees with delicate touches on the surface. The trail ran easy, my forefeet, ankles and knees, thighs and then the hips finding a good pace-play. A few sprints peppered the legs and opened the faucets. A family and a few couples hiked around, dogs lulling behind, and there were two runners talking as they passed. But most of the run found me alone with my pace, my breath, the vast fields rolling towards the sand dune coast, and a prayer of Gratitude along the clay and grass. Nothing otherwise to note, except how fully synched Marley’s “Hammer” seemed when I returned to the car.
Sunday the Second was my long run at 15 miles. The alarm vibrated my pillow at 6h11am and my wife breathed deeply beside. My legs were curled into my abdomen, a strange sleeping pose, the residual imagery of a dream falling away from my mind, and I lifted my body. The total act of movement via hips, stomach, shoulders, was like a series of pulleys, with muscles counteracting, such as a crane's motion against a heavy wrecking ball. Eventually I pulled up my weight. The coffee was brewed, a cherry yogurt ingested, a Gatorade was mixed, and I pulled on shorts and a brand new singlet for the unseasonably warm morning, tightened my laces. By 6h55am I was latching back my fence and humming Marley, trying to keep a mellow pace for distance, aiming to hit the sunrise somewhere near the water.
Darkness yielded to fog, which dominated the landscape as I approached the coast, about four miles into the run. The sunrise was more of a gentle waking of the land, a radiance expanding across the fog and earth. I turned up Wrightsville and crossed onto Airlie, the prettiest part of the journey with manicured gardens, open fields, red barns and ancient trees. Airlie was sfumato, suffused by the heavy air, and neither the horses nor their meadows were visible. Grand oaks reached like burnt bone over the narrow, empty road, their gnarled limbs powering majestic and stark into the fog. An easy drift of thought, a language-sketch of the terrain, continued until I turned the sharp corner into the ICW. The misted light fell shallow on the glassed waterway, elevated boats caught flattened light on their sides; short piers jutted into the silver intracoastal like terse, poetic afterthoughts. It was a clean and fascinatingly new landscape.
Somewhere around this area was a group of runners, the Wilmington Road Runners, meeting for a group run. I never saw the mass collecting on the road and couldn't remember the address of the meeting, and my hopes of merging with them failed. Also, I was wearing down, too self-conscious. Some of the best talent of our area runs with the WRRC, and I am not an impressive runner on any level. So I crossed the bridge, continuing into the quiet beach morning, and pushed down the bike track onto the coast. My breath harmonized with the ocean, her choppy white froth, respiring wheezily into the fog. No surfers, no other pedestrians were visible. The beach was a milk-wash of fog. My mind was operating independently of my body, homeostasis like a glide, giving a stream-of-consciousness prayer for the blessings of 2010. At Johnny Mercer's Pier I pulled back into the loop towards home. Soon came a mass of runners in three formations, curling off of a side road onto Eastwood, and it was the WRRC, heading the opposite direction and looking fresh as daisies. Horses galloping. For a moment I felt pride at sharing the Sunday morning road with these runners, and I kicked as best I could, avoiding narrowly a collision with a few of them who had their heads tucked. The fog was clearing to a strong warm sun, and I finished my run with an okay pace and a positive spirit.
 |
| Views of ICW from Airlie Road ~8am. |
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
sharpened knife, smoking french press, jesus and some dead.
transcendence. end of august. echoes of my mothers comment, sometime back in 1995, after a particularly rough drugrun: “sometimes we must just start over with what we have left.” a strange comment to keep close to awareness, to keep in mind, for some 16 years now. but I do. alchemy of necessity and loss.
leaf-frog. hallucinations abound when you are tired, hot, running too hard, and trying to provoke them. this is not something I encourage, only something I do. sometimes. running is not hallucinogenic, but it sure as hell becomes a cycle, like a drug cycle. . . and solid effort can blur the mind. . . . and so the leaf-frogs are a fine indicator of a good run—its when a frog scuttles across the way, with little hops, only to turn into a leaf upon closer inspection. wonder if marathon monks encounter these things?
speaking of the hallucinatory nature of things. . . . fire on the mountain, 1977, jerry and the gang.
august 30 2010. is this the final day of august?
beef bourguignon on the stove top, though I ain’t sure its gonna work. . . . . recently reading much on bourdain and marco pierre white. dvorak on the onkyo, sixth string quartet, with a French press and a crusted baguette. yesterday brought a solid run of nine miles, following a one mile warm-up walk and pleasure-stroll with my wife and kyote.
September 7th 2010. tuesday post-labor day monday.
six mile run. seven miles y’day. American landscape that is my body. song of myself. parallels of ab ex generation and the blog generation. . . the ME-moir and the nature of the solipsism of America, of identity, of community, of enclosed, label-dominated bodies that are, together and individually, America. human bodies tagged by consumerist assembly line machine. work becomes work becomes worker.
watched a good film y’day: Greenberg. imposed a cold self-consciousness however.
15 days until show. . . . . work progresses in manic episodes.
leaf-frog. hallucinations abound when you are tired, hot, running too hard, and trying to provoke them. this is not something I encourage, only something I do. sometimes. running is not hallucinogenic, but it sure as hell becomes a cycle, like a drug cycle. . . and solid effort can blur the mind. . . . and so the leaf-frogs are a fine indicator of a good run—its when a frog scuttles across the way, with little hops, only to turn into a leaf upon closer inspection. wonder if marathon monks encounter these things?
speaking of the hallucinatory nature of things. . . . fire on the mountain, 1977, jerry and the gang.
august 30 2010. is this the final day of august?
beef bourguignon on the stove top, though I ain’t sure its gonna work. . . . . recently reading much on bourdain and marco pierre white. dvorak on the onkyo, sixth string quartet, with a French press and a crusted baguette. yesterday brought a solid run of nine miles, following a one mile warm-up walk and pleasure-stroll with my wife and kyote.
September 7th 2010. tuesday post-labor day monday.
six mile run. seven miles y’day. American landscape that is my body. song of myself. parallels of ab ex generation and the blog generation. . . the ME-moir and the nature of the solipsism of America, of identity, of community, of enclosed, label-dominated bodies that are, together and individually, America. human bodies tagged by consumerist assembly line machine. work becomes work becomes worker.
watched a good film y’day: Greenberg. imposed a cold self-consciousness however.
15 days until show. . . . . work progresses in manic episodes.
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