runtothere

The days are finally long enough to go longer but it just doesn't feel like I am going that far despite the miles that are racking up. As a dogged distance 'jogger', I still don't understand how I continue to build muscle and efficiency on this regime. "It is better to be wrong than to simply follow convention," is advice given to the protagonist of The Power of One . When it comes to running, I flout contemporary customs involving speedwork and run my own runs, all of the time. Five years into my return to running I remain uninjured, running probably an average of 55+ miles a week (some are less, some are more). This was not a strategy, but the way to keep myself keeping on, getting out the door.* When I plan smaller mileage days, I find I want to skip them. And I have learned that I can manage going long even when cramming back to back (to back to back) long runs. Though not a strategy, it is demonstrative of the behavior of a type : the "endurance mo

The idea of speeding up is less appealing to me than stretching runs into the far distance. Sometimes I look at the gathering of trees in the hills that I run to and recognize where I'd once stored thoughts of what had been ailing me and am reminded of how enormous nature is, capable of absorbing so much thought and still go far beyond it, when those same thoughts, when trapped inside my mind, become unwieldy. Once in the forest, they blend in and gradually disappear: replaced with an almost inert snail on the path, syrupy summer air, the call of fighting jays. They beckon the mind out of itself and into the intricacies of creatures, plants, wind, weather. A unity is achieved, a balance restored. I occasionally speed up when I feel like it though, like to chase or pass the occasional other runner I encounter. But this month, I got a new training partner. It was after the rain. I was slogging up the steep, barely-a-trail that cuts straight up through the more tangled trees to the

cuddlie kittehs @ brushy mount? to go there expressly past  ersatz awards for arbitrary stopping points and Daily Planners forgetting what it means to try together but to be alone up there with the gorges, bluffs, and Platonic caves even a headlamp becomes a shadow so beyond things as to lose is to find the self, or the terrain, a breathing underworld what life is like underwater for years now all this grey coming down in strokes for traction, where’s the gravitude on this bed of ocean, where do I lie, or do I stand among wet sand a conch, and then the sleet in lines to fall while yet inclining to take that leg out of that swamp to feel the briars scratching the sound of a mind on doubt puffs white smoke, an effusion from the psychosomatic nature of feet for the underbrush that tears at this amusement of the motion to persist too easily slips out from under even the one who has done it. what is capable. no one has ever been here before, ever in reverse, the b

A great song featured on episode 60 of The Trail Show has a guy singing in falsetto: Back on the trail, back on the trail, we won't stop 'til we get up that hill . It has that same talismanic motivational power for me as the phrase: I eat hills for breakfast . When I think of these phrases on long runs, they make me laugh " which is nice " (link takes you to the almost eponymous Fast Show sketch) except that chortling internally makes me run slower. I love so much the 'mini training' that distance running gives; I do not know if it is because this was instilled in me through the Outward Bound camps that removed me from my otherwise asthmatic and, also, relatively inert childhood. But even on days when I am less motivated to get out, I know that once I get to the hilly forest, I will not regret the views, and also, that the fitness I build by getting out consistently will reward me on days when I really need to puff my way to an uphill panorama. And then, al

Actually, I do. It's when the little bugs and flies suddenly leap to life on an early spring day and probably inebriated with joy at being out again can suddenly fly directly into an uphill-induced, momentarily open mouth. Then down the gullet out of sheer velocity. Anyway, after imbibing said drunken fly, I had that "There was an old lady" song stuck in my head for the next 20k, which flew by as I couldn't help chuckling at the impossible song; I am sure I looked really sane powered by a goofy grin as I flew down the hill. Or maybe the fly gave me wings. So I am going to file this post under "nutrition". What spring looks like. Besides the flies.

How is it that we speak of "straying" from ourselves? What can you do to return to to yourself if you have strayed; how might you know if you have; how long does it take to return - and is there a point of no return? I would love to get answers to these questions from as many people as possible. Of course, it's possible to think about these things on a more global scale, too - like in the book The Mushroom at the End of the World , an anthropological meditation on the now capitalist implications of the pursuit of the matsutake mushroom (a book I learned only of via a review of its French translation ). It seems like we expect that we are able to fathom the consequences of our pursuits and wanderings, given our "rational minds" - even though even a single jog through the country park may begin out of several reasons, give rise to several more, so have several possibly conflicting consequences to keep track of. A mushroom, the matsutake , that was once used in