Leatherwood Mountain 50 miler, take two.

Welcome to Ferguson NC, home of the Leatherwood 50 miler.

Friday April 19th... driving into Wilkesboro`in a raging storm.  Roads were puddled, vision was addled, mountains were lost in clouds.  I found Dixie Donuts nestled on a random intersection, stopped for coffee and a donut, exhaled, and the combination made the drive all good.  The lady at the counter said I was one of several runners that day.  We were close.  I was nerves and road-fatigue.

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.

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. 

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.  A flood of people were showing up, representing North Carolina’s solid outdoor/running community.  There were also folks from Michigan, Ohio, Montana, Coastal South Carolina, Georgia.  Charlie Engels was lining up, Brandon Thrower, several MTC runners, with Mark Connolly and Tim Worden at the controls for the gig.  

7 am Saturday, 4.20.13, brought a crisp air and clear sun, a moment of silence for the victims of the Boston bombing, the national anthem, a quick “racers ready, go.”  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.  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.  Mountain meadows and vast stretches of misty green.  A mountain lake.  We followed yellow ribbons and savored the scenic sections of Leatherwood Resort.  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.

Into the trails.  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.  Real masculine mountain lines, jagged, cut, sucking down shoes, cool mud, cool morning, oily sweat of exertion.  altitude.   

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 …  Fist-sized stones were oiled by red mud on steep ascents and steeper descents.  Power climbing became the prominent traverse with downhills working at the knees and hips, jumping side to side like moguls to control speed.  Dead leaves covered trail and there was gamble and risk in each stride.  Clusters of people moved forward with howls of laughter as we slid on asses and skied on mud-caked shoes.  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.  We were maybe five miles in (excluding distance gained while lost) and over an hour had passed.  Leatherwood would be about endurance, not speed.

I had long lost Jason and a few others I’d hoped to run with.  Getting lost was demoralizing, adding work to a strenuous enough course, when a third wrong turn left me feeling disastrous.  “its just not your day” one guy remarked.  My spirit of competition weakened.

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.  My competitive energies had dissipated and I was running my own trail in my own space in my own journey.  That is the gift of ultras, and I had found it earlier than expected at Leatherwood.  Again, as with most races, I found myself alone on some unknown trail in unknown territory.  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.  My mind looped through mudmuck and skylight, but my thoughts were feeling gravity with every ascent. I was loosing light and purpose and I wanted it to be done.  

Then a lift of fog, a pleasure of running mountain.  And a sinking and grovelling.  Seeds of Cycle.

The trails were spectacular with beauty in sections, with other sections passing through filtered light of graybrown and becoming only the push of legs.  Peaks came and went, with the first seven miles surging upwards.  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.  Gummy bears and heed and salt.  Peanut M&Ms.  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.  Mountain cabins.   Shed roofs made of road signs.  The sun was brilliant and the sky was as deep as any cerulean in a tube of oil paint.  Dogs ran up, licking hands and pressing their muzzles into palms.  I do love a dog and this was a mental lift.  The morning was fresh and the air was clean and miles accumulated with a relaxed effort.  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.  My feet absorbed the coolness, my legs boiled their excess heat and swelled into the water.  I paused for a few extra moments as the sand rolled through bruised toes.  

Then it was time to get the hell off the dirt road and back onto the trails.

More trails, more ascents, descents.   I was harvesting intense climbs, short but steep, and was still alone.  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.  I felt the stone cut in across the lower patella.  I hobbled for a moment, tested the movement of the joint, sprayed some heed across the wound, checked the blood flow.  Gashed knee at mile 23,  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. 

ugh. some blood & the pause.  

At the stable, the base of the run, I sat.  I was waiting for a bandage and bactine for a good forty minutes.  Talking dogs, talking running, talking weather …  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.  Again, all competition drained from my mind and legs. "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.  

I had lost all concern for time, for racing, and I walked down to the camp to check on my dog.  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.  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.  

 

Kyote ascending Ambush Trail.

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.  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.  Here we found some more mountain beauty, the reason I’d come, and my bad space lightened a little.  The ipod came on around mile 28, loosening my funk.

Less than runnable course.  Horse trails occupied by runners.  Endless scrambles that left the legs gasping.  Areas that were runnable were muddy, tarry, or my legs were just too anaerobic to push a decent pace.  The muscles of cycling and stair running proved the key muscles of the race.  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.  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.   But that was my training, and it would’ve been fine for a lesser course.  I considered dropping. I considered cutting course.  I kept moving forward though.  Relentless forward motion as they say, albeit sourced in a determination to just finish the loop.

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.  Rich and rewarding.  Another section felt like western states with sunbaked clay, juts of rock, a sweet overlook.  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.  I saw Kyote, Kas, Maya enjoying the sun.  I grabbed S-caps, had amazing homemade breads, pocketed a couple more gels, was off.  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.
  
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.  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.  I was beat down, and my mantra became “just finish," the gloom occasionally interrupted by a misfits song, a groundation rift, a view.  

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.  Fortunately I never saw a bear, though the final three miles were horror on the quads and femurs like a bears teeth and claws… the trail dumped into the paved roads of Leatherwood resort, tennis courts and cabins... in the final mile of non-technical running, I thought of my friend Lee who had recently died... sad moment... I thought about work, friendship, family, things I’ve lost, things I’ve gained.  I meditated my existence and I gave thanks for being clean, sober, healthy.  I sent namaste vibes to the mountains and those still traversing them... i continued into a tangent onto trail behind cabins before emerging to the final paper-lamped chute and finish gate.  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.

Rachel, Tim, Brew, Doug and many others finished up soon thereafter.  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. 

Leatherwood was a powerful run, and my family was key to my finish.  Kas pushed me, quietly but firmly (once I finished my coffee) back onto the second loop.  Her glare was reassuring, rectifying, threatening, like a sergeant might glare.  Kyote had great fun and was much help.  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.

Campsite.

 Le Fin.

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.  Kyote ran and ran that trail, falling two, three, four times, but getting back up and hitting it again.  Kas and I noticed that the trail was surrounded by debris and the trees look like they had been splintered by tornados.  No other hiker was seen, nothing but quiet and air and evergreen and the white circles blazed on trees.  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.  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.  That’s the lesson taught by ultras, especially Leatherwood.

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. 

Overlook, Blue Ridge Parkway.

More of the MST Scenery.

Mountain to Sea Trail.

Leatherwood Mountain Ultra, Take One.

Meditations on leatherwood mountain 50 miler.  Four days until line up.

Seven years ago, I began jogging with my girlfriend.  She was training for a marathon and I was trying to get clean. 

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 heavy, broken cadence, a struggling thud & plod.  My sweat was a gelatinous ooze, a cold murky petroleum of stale drink, drugs.  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.  Grab some coffee & a smoke, try to hold out the cravings.

The running escalated and the other shit diminished, albeit slowly and arduously.  Goals evolved, gradually expanded.  I began jogging 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. 

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.

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.

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.  

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.  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.  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.

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.

The runner girl is now my wife and crew.  She's seen a few ultra races at this point, and she'll be crewing the Leatherwood Mountain ultra in four days.

I am nervous. My pre-race agitation is as wild as a wolf under a full moon. 

an effort at a poem (& paint) during an april storm, a week before leatherwood 50 mile mountain trail race.

Horse

Gallop

Heart

And the heavy gray vines of line.

4/12/13 at 9:02am.

Bad brains & surya

Namaskars, thirty & a bow.

The staccato percussion of a

sky-collapse storm. 

Meanwhile.

Burnt bone black on field of flake white,

it is earth of raw canvas,

Music & movement against/within

An open mouth of thunder. 

Dust of charcoal rolls a broken line,

Echo of a lazarus body.

It is image-jump,

 Wild

surge of mind,

horse gallop heart.

It is haste and the colours of mood.

A frenzied visual jazz,

paint is rope, muscle, language and psalm. 

Paint and her dance

Is perhaps a brute’s

version of

a long-gone

elegance.

my first entry, from three years ago. an ego retrospect.

I am not a fast runner.

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.

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.

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?

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. . . . .


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.

jan 4 2010

2h44pm.

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.

bitches and fugues.

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.

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.

jan 13th

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. . . . .

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.

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. . . .

MVI. four miles with little man. . . .

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.

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.

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.

new iron and wine cd, as well as violent femmes original 1982 release on cd. both are enjoyable, runnable. . . . .

"This may be difficult."  

Paintings by Jay Edge.

Hosted by The Upstairs Gallery at Caprice Bistro, 

November 15th 2012 through January 2013. 

 Opening will be held on Weds. November 15th, 6pm - 9pm.   

a trail run in october.

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.
thin layers of breath move with heat from chest into muscle, exhale steam, a fugue of moves, symphonic.

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.
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.

A 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.

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.

(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")
... 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.
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.

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...

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.