The boat dropped us off
And the day was grey
What drove me to sadness
Took me away.
. . .
And what is I and what?
The reason I’ve strayed
Is really just “She
. . . who must be obeyed.”
. . .
The boat never came.
The day was without.
What drove me to gladness . . .
Is the manner of doubt.
* * * * *
This was a two day poem. I started it last night and finished it today. It’s kind of mysterious. Kind of expresses relief more than … I don’t know … peace.
It used to be nights like this would give me a headache. I used to grip my easy chair. It is Sunday night. I guess I should add that information. Sunday nights were always hard. I’d feel constantly like my world was going to explode.
Monday was a different beast. Usually I would get to work early and play hard. Monday was a staunch day. Usually the staff was sad about Monday. I was in the habit of starting juries on Monday. A few on Wednesday but almost always on Monday. Whenever there was a big trial it always started on Monday. Monday was a day where I liked to come home at night. The trash cans are empty. I’ve taken them out Monday morning. They sit empty Monday evening. I bring them in from the street. This is the Monday that was and is. A different beast.
Tuesday was the second day of the week. Usually I’m starting to settle down by Tuesday. Tuesday was an occasional day of probation revocations. Some days these were really busy. I had to start giving one day of punishment for every probationer still imprisoned on Tuesday. Tuesday has no feel. It is an old joke. Older than Seinfeld and truer. Whereas the day of Monday is, if I am lucky enough a day of business, Tuesday is a day of competency. It’s a day to get things done. To move forward and upward … and onward.
Wednesday was Mittwoch. You started the day with more than half your week waiting and by the end of the day you were through with 60 percent of the week. Wednesday was a day that was diminishing for me. It was becoming less. But Wednesday evening for one day of the month, except for December and the summers, was always a treat. That was the day for Inn of Court. I don’t know why I was invited. I don’t remember everything I like about Inn or things I don’t like. But it is a place to go nine evenings out of the year and one of my favorite things to do.
Thursday was the best day of the week. By then you were churning. By then your time was yours and you were beginning to sense the turning of the day. The day always felt good at the end. Why do I feel like there was usually a yoga class or something? Maybe I’m imagining that. Anyway, Thursday was a day of efficiency. As much as Tuesday and considerably more than Monday or Wednesday. Thursday was the last pleasantly hard day of the week.
Friday was a day when I had business to take care of. But business seemed easy that day. I had a theory about Fridays. One per month was hard. The rest, three out of every four, was easy. Often during the late days I would go to the bar and have a couple beers. Then it was to the meat shop for some rubbed chops or steaks. I would make the chops or steaks on the grill and drink more for dinner. Then, if it was nice, I spent the evening drinking on my own, listening to music on Spotify.
Saturday was the best day of the week. I would run in the morning. Some days I would run for three hours. There was always something to do on Saturday. There was grass to cut. People to see. Saturday night was a night for music and looking forwards to better-ness with the burden of yet being able to create it. I like Saturdays alright.
The day that follows though Sunday? There’s really nothing good about Sunday. Maybe you view it as the last day of the week. I’m that case there is nothing but rush to the whole murky regard. Or maybe you view it as the waiting period before the realty of what you are all about can start. Either way, you sleep poorly. You wake up to face the newness of the week and you wish that you could just go back to sleep.
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There’s a few things I have figured out over the years running . . . and a few things I’ve not.
I’ll start with the here and now. So, I’m 51 years of age and I’ve been running since I was 23. I am definitely at the point where I should be slowing down.
I’ve finished eleven marathons. Most old guys who have run marathons accept the reality of age-related slow down and either quit or move on to so called “ultra” marathons . . . races of 30 plus miles that are sort of walk/runs for everyone. Speed goes, but endurance remains. So it is said.
I’ve got a fair reservoir of endurance, no question about it, but for the past few years injuries have been interceding. Particularly calf injuries. My calf muscles do not have the endurance of other of my muscles . . . probably because they have been doing all the work for twenty years whilst my ass and hip flexors have coasted along for the ride.
I’ve gotten into the habit of really running on the toes of my feet. This served me well up through about age 45. Now, not so much. As my trainer/therapist explained it, I’m doing 90 toe raises a minute for hours at a time. That ain’t happening no more.
So I’m trying to really get my ass into it. Get back onto my heals or the flat part of my foot . . . at least off the toes. I’m trying to stand up taller . . . and at the same time sit down and engage my core. It’s kind of impossible, because my ass isn’t what it used to be . . . not that it ever was anything. It’s really hard to grow ass muscles at my age. I could get ass implants, but I don’t think that’s the same thing as muscles. So, I’m trying to build muscle. My ass, for its part, objects. Because it is weak. It is “weak-ass!”
+++
Marathons are all about little mental tricks. One particularly good marathon I ran, my best time ever, I decided that I would respond to well-wishers along the way. In a decent sized marathon, there are always lots of spectators. Late in the race, after fans have been cheering for awhile, most runners will just run on by without ever responding. The fans are also a little fatigued by then too and going through the motions of cheering. “Yayyyyyy. You’re all winners.”
After mile 17 or 18, everyone running feels terrible and really isn’t of a mind to speak when cheered at. I decided that when people cheered for me . . . or even just said anything to me. . . I would respond. But I wouldn’t gasp out “Thankkkkkksss” as appreciation, like I was dying or something. When someone said, “Great job,” I would respond, “Oh, thank you. Thanks for coming out . . . . How are you?” When they said, “You look great,” I would say back, “Thanks, you do too!”
This provoked a lot of puzzled reactions on the way. Instead of just mindlessly cheering on strangers, the spectators would . . . snapped out of their monotonous well-wishing . . . take notice of me. This usually garnered a smile or friendly expression. Or even if they looked at me weird, that would help too. Either way, this little mind-trick really boosted my spirits. That race I ran a 3:13:53.
Teaching point: act like suffering doesn’t bother you.
+++
Now I just quoted my best marathon time to the second. I have complete eleven marathons. I can tell you the times for all of them, at least to the minute, and many to the second.
There was a Presidential candidate Paul Ryan, who became Mitt Romney’s running mate in 2012 and Ryan was a pretty young fit guy at the time he was trying to be important. I liked his politics. He was from Wisconsin . . . which is cool. But he let on that he had run “several marathons” including one below three hours. “What was your best marathon?” he was asked. He said, “oh. . . like three hours,” implying that he was a frequent runner of marathons and once hit the magic three-hour benchmark.
The fact-checkers got him. Point of fact . . . Congressman Paul Ryan has completed one marathon . . . in four hours.
Now that is perfectly fine. I take my hat off to anyone who runs a four-hour marathon. I’ve done it. I’ve done better. But I’ve also run marathons in more than four hours. This fifty-year-old body may not ever hit four hours again. A four-hour marathon is fine. Perfectly fine. At any age.
Hell, someone never completing a marathon at all is also perfectly fine. It’s not like you are a better human being because you run a marathon.
My point is this . . .among people who run marathons . . . people who really care . . . we know our fecking numbers. Ok. Ain’t nobody run a marathon “in about three hours.” You ran a 3:03. Or a 2:58. Nobody says, “oh yeah, . . . I ran the Chicago Marathon in about three hours.” It’s an obvious lie to anyone who runs.
Moreover, it’s a silly thing to have lied about. Who cares how fast you ran your marathon? No one! And then . . . he wasn’t even close to three hours! I never could get past that for Paul Ryan. Never could . . . my ideological solidarity with the dude aside.
+++
Here’s a little trick about training. There is something called a “recovery run.” What is that exactly? It’s basically a run of 3 maybe 5 at most miles the day after a long training run. The long training run of 20 plus miles is the lynchpin of marathon training. But the “recovery run” is also included in most training programs.
I hated recovery runs. The long twenty plus miler on Saturday or Sunday never bothered me. But having to run 3 on Monday . . . after a ball-ass long run . . . invariably these short runs killed me.
One Monday on a “recovery run” I was running with a very accomplished female runner friend of mine who used to help me with my Thanksgiving race, the Squanto Scamper. Emily would always bring scones to the Scamper. That day, as we were running, she asked me what I was doing. I told her I was doing a “recovery run.”
“Hmmm? What exactly is that?” she asked. Emily was a super thoughtful person.
“Well . . . I’m recovering!” Of course. What a silly question?!
“From what?”
“From the long distance of my last really long run . . . of course,” I said starting to grow uneasy in my certainty.
“Hmmmm? But what are you doing . . . on a “recovery” run?”
“Well, . . . I’m rehabilitating . . . I’m loosening.”
“Are you? Cuz you look like you’re about fracture into a million pieces.”
“I feel terrible.”
So I finished a brutal three miles and went onto the “interweb” to research. What was I doing? I Googled “Recovery run.”
Turns out I had it all wrong. I thought a recovery run was supposed to feel nice. Far from it. It was supposed to hurt. The point of the “recovery” run was to mimic the notion of the last three miles of a really long run. My body was still sore from running 22 the day before. The recovery run was like starting at mile 19 and finishing three more. These little runs were not suppose to be like trips to a spa. Far from it. They were supposed to hurt. “Recovery” meant that you would be tougher after them. The common denominator of all good running programs for marathons is running on tired legs. A recovery run was supposed to be hard. Running on tired legs late. Ok. I get it!
I have since explained this revelation to other avid average runners like me and each time it’s a eureka moment for my fellow runner. Or at least they act as though they have shared in this revelation. At least they are polite, when I explain this. Maybe they aren’t even listening. Point is, recovery runs are not easy. They are just short. They aren’t supposed to be easy.
I think they also may be thinking that I think too much . . .which I do.
+++
The last time I was in really good shape, it was 2015. I went up to Whitley County to run in a small Veterans Day Marathon. November is a really good time to run a marathon. Cool weather. Whitley County is a little rollier than you might think, but it’s basically flat. Conditions are strong for fast runs.
My training was impeccable that Fall. I didn’t miss a single workout. I had plenty of miles. I was thin. My week-long pre-race carbo-load was flawless. I checked into my Motel Six room, ate pasta at Chilli’s for dinner and was ready to kill it.
The race was two half-marathon loops. There were only about 300 total competitors, two thirds of which were running the half. I hit my half-way check point on a Boston Qualifying pace.
I should back up. I have always wanted to run the Boston Marathon. We can talk about whether that is really a worthwhile goal to have invested so much effort over the past fifteen years. Reasonable minds could disagree. But I want it! I want that goddamn light blue jacket with the gold horse emblem. I have been very close before. I’ve had technical qualifiers, but never before 2015 did I have the ability to run a qualifying time AND the financial means to actually go to Boston and drop a couple grand on the entrance fee and hotel and everything else to actually run the race if I qualified. I had that in 2015 and I was stalking Boston. I hit my number with a minute to spare halfway through. I felt great.
I set out on the second loop running . . . alone. There was no one else in sight.
Now there also aren’t spectators at a race like this one up in Whitley County. There just aren’t. There’s only thirty thousand people who even live in Whitley County and a challenge of a small-town marathon like this is you have to run it without crowd support. I like crowd support . . . as much as the next guy. See above. But I don’t have to have it. I have this weird DNA that I can persevere without that positive feedback. I can near my best in a running race on pure internal competition combustion.
But what I cannot do is qualify for Boston when I make a wrong turn . . . which I did . . . because the course was marked not that well and because there was no one, such as a race official considering what a small and volunteer-strapped race this was, to explain to my reptile brain (at 18 miles) that I needed to bear left rather than right.
Marathon reptile brain. You stop thinking cognitively late in a marathon, when you are really busting it . . . when you are really working hard. I do arithmetic in my head all the time on short and medium runs. In a marathon at 18 miles (with a 26 mile total distance) when I have been pushing myself . . . ask me how far there is to go . . . and I’m not really sure. Eight? Six? I don’t know. Can I just have a goo?
So I write my time checkpoints on my arm in black marker so I don’t have to think. Mile 16? Great. On pace. Mile 17? Even better. Got a little faster.
Mile 21? Hmmm . . .that’s weird. WTF? I had turned early and cut off three miles. I kept going for a bit, but eventually even my reptile IQ 47 brain figured out that I had screwed up.
This screw up oddly put me in the “lead.” I figured out what had happened and continued to run . . . confused and without a plan. I was talking to myself. Should I turn around and complete the course legitimately? What would be the point? My Boston Qualifying time was toast. I passed a solitary fan. “Congrats! You’re going to win!!!!”
“Thanks.”
Another runner passed me . . . an obvious gunner and way better runner than me. He wore a Northern Illinois Track Team singlet. He was maybe twenty-five and shaggy-haired. He looked at me puzzled and suspicious . . . not understanding how this old fart could have been ahead of him. He was right!!! I finished my “short course” marathon. A hundred yards from the finish and presumptively in second place, I walked off the course, bypassing the finish line. DNF.
I found the race director . . . and wasn’t very nice. He shrugged. “Pay better attention next time, loser,” he must have thought. He would not have been wrong.
What sticks in my craw about that whole thing is that in 2015 I was as good as I ever was. I’d never been better and probably won’t ever be . . . unless I can really get my ass into it.
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Posted in Creative Essay
Tagged competition, creativity, faith, friends, fun, hope, life, running, success, vanity, winning
All I do is never find me
Looking ‘round the house for me
Makes me want to come resign me
And whittle away the lock and key.
***
Steep I am this sinking fault
I draw the loose and chastened end
From where the snare be gripped with salt
Unto the burrowing count amend.
***
I’m at once alone without
A trellis or an oval spire
My sense is locking two en route
The precipice of the fire.
Today was a day when I went for the results of my test last Tuesday. The results, I am still unpacking them, are mixed.
On the good front, I am enjoying greater awareness of what happened. I asked, quite simply, what happened? I was told that I suffered a clotting of sorts that impacted my central core. The therapist put a circle around a structure on the map of my brain called a the “left side thalamus.”
In the world of stroke-ology, left is right and right is left. I still suffer some residual twitching-ness on the right side. Was I sure I didn’t suffer the right side more? Any blindness or other type of manifestation? No. I am sure I did not. Positive. Again, the tail is mild stroke. I had a mild stroke. It is a big deal. But I’m lucky.
I consider it a measure of growth and acceptance that I can ask the question. What went wrong? Also, on the good front, my IQ measures 130 … on the right side … and 117 by another measure. You’re always higher on one measure or the other. This is very good. The therapist thought she may have measured a 135, but she wasn’t sure. I am still smart. That is good. God almighty… that is good.
On the negative front, I still measure slower in getting words out to express what I’m feeling. This can be difficult. Basically the stroke has effected the central core of processing. But it has not impacted my IQ or other functions. There is some short term memory that is affected. This is remediable with better note taking. One problem I have with the test is that I was not allowed to take notes. It is what it is … or was what it was. Sometimes though, the need to “take notes” won’t always be immediately ascertainable.
But whether I’ll be able to make the “file” work in a timely manner in the future is questionable. Just as I may allow myself to contemplate getting better, I also must allow for the possibility that some functions are not going to be as before. In some ways I will have to find other avenues. This is very discouraging.
At the end of the day, I am fortunate. Blessed, but not surreally so. I think I can come back.
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I have twenty minutes to write
I haven’t anything to say
If just a scoff would serve the night
I wouldn’t write it anyway–
I have just time to get it right —
‘Words befall a twixt of May …’
If I could get it down tonight
What would you do? What would you say?
***
I’ve spent a few in thoughts of you
My best is yet before me
My thoughts are true but inky blue
I write them down forlornly.
It’s just a jotting — just a few
In morning since the night —
So lets not rant and lest we rue
I had just twenty minutes to write.
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Love endures
All day long
Maturity evokes a smile
Love sings a fiddler’s song
Marching steps to the mile.
***
When the East
Too soon I bring
I scarce a chance to reconcile
The easel marks me to the string
And march equilibrates a mile.
***
Love endures
With the night
Robust we are intense then none
A love that’s lost is one requite
With the fight unto the dawn.
***
When the West
Is here at last
The Sun shines until to the end
And darkness holds a salient repast
A fearless one and a friend.
In time
The metric sound —
Where the raspberries blow
Freedom shines all around
Like a postulate.
***
In a blurry
Well can you see the real
Where the weathervane blows
And Thomas Payne
Shines like no one knows.
***
On my measures
Wary on my wayward mark —
Shift like diamonds
In the light and the dark
Make my dreams come true.
***
With my vespers
The speech before me
And profess my wayward mark —
Pends beneath and prays before
I’ve rendered vessels in a spark.
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Choosing the ends to which she must
The lover chooses what he can —
When the reverend sun has burst
To some uncovered wretched plan.
***
Choosing the ends of which he must
Dominion casts her regional fate —
Death’s unrequited loves absurd
And bends the will to procreate.
***
Choosing the ends of their delight
They dream the bonds of Earthly spire —
Heaven is placed like no one’s home
Wreathing breath — like wind and fire.
The crescent creeps across the sky
In the gap between the trees
The campfire burns its light tonight
Darkened sense comes over me
—
Music counters the crackling fire
The voice of mandolins
In this darkness, dark desires
The prescient crescent always wins
—
The crescent creeps across the sky
The wind batts down the plain
All is gone for you and I
A winter mist refrain
Steven S. Wallace 