time to pretend.

My social media circle is crackling with excitement and fraught with anxiety.

Long hours of training, strategizing, and preparing have led up to race day and now it's time to see what the shaping, reshaping, and honing has wrought.

Friends are excited.  Friends are worried.  Friends are brimming with confidence or drowning in doubt, in some cases brimming with confidence AND drowning in doubt.

I am not brimming, nor am I drowning.  I am strangely calm and nearly numb.

Not because I am supremely confident (I am not) and not because I am particularly sure that I will fail (I don't believe I will).

As my race has approached, I have told myself that I am excited and asked myself if I'm ready to go or worried about the outcome and, honestly, I haven’t gotten much confirmation that I am excited or, frankly, much of a response at all.

Calmness.  Numbness.

With all that has transpired over the last year and all the real life challenges that I've experienced, witnessed, or have learned of others facing, to suggest that voluntarily running a race, even one of great length, extreme obstacle, and (apparently) less than ideal weather conditions...to suggest that it matters all that much would just be pretending and pretending unconvincingly.

Not to say that I am NOT looking forward to the Eastern States 100.

I am.

It doesn't mean that I am NOT super enthused to gather with the tribe again, share our individual stories, and write new ones together.

I absolutely am.

And NOT to say that the prospect of being out and on-the-move for 30+ hours in high temperatures, soaring humidity, and predicted powerful storms isn't daunting.

It is.

But....

At this moment of my limited time on the planet, the “larger than life” narrative of running ultra distances is, well, nowhere near as large as life much less larger.  The ability to engage in aerobic activity that includes or transforms fully into physical discomfort or even pain is the privilege of those who are not weak, are not terminally ill, are in possession of the true luxury of leisure time, are among the living.  That realization lets a lot of air out of the ultra running balloon, but not nearly as much air as being weak, being terminally ill, not having leisure time, or not drawing breath takes out of life itself.

At no point during a race is my life at risk.  Even if failing to take proper care of myself nudges me in that direction, simply stopping alleviates the threat.  I have direct say in how at risk my life is when many do not.

Failing to reach the finish line won't bring life screeching to a halt any more than triumphantly crossing that same finish line will much improve my post-race existence.

It's amazing the trivial things that we elevate to such great heights and equally amazing the not-so-trivial things that we disregard or take for granted.

My legs will be tired and my feet will hurt.  Sounds nice to have legs that are tired and feet that hurt must think those that have neither.

My stomach will likely rebel and empty itself or refuse to be filled.  And then when the race is over, I'll eat as much as I want of whatever I want and my stomach will cooperate.  I will not go hungry and I will not be sick.  Others will go hungry, will be sick, as they have for as long as they can remember and as far into the future as they are able to imagine.

My distance to travel will diminish and in the end will be reached and should I fail to cover the desired distance on foot, I will get a ride to some other vehicle that waits to whisk me away to the comfort and safety of my home.  Guaranteed and never, ever in doubt.  Unlike those without a home or a means to get to where they wish to go or away from where they desperately need to be no more.

My mind will falter, will bend, and perhaps even break momentarily, but rest and sleep will return its faculties.  My brain will not cease to function, will not be damaged, or require parts of it to be removed.

No, I have not lost my want to physically challenge myself nor have I lost my admiration and respect for anyone who willingly takes on an endeavor that asks her or him to strive, to progress, to move, move, move!  I will forever cheer on friends and strangers alike and will laugh, tearfully, as they attain their goals and overcome those things that appeared to stand in the way of their progression.  I will continue to attempt the same and will shed tears and roar with laughter for my own efforts.

But...

I have known true sadness and had some that lay dormant dredged back to the surface.  I've known anxiety and worry over matters that really matter.  Seen others’ health deteriorate, their finances vanish, even entire foundations of life crumble beneath them.  I've whispered goodbyes, wailed goodbyes, sometimes too late to have them heard.  I have felt truly powerless, BEEN truly powerless to right wrongs and save others from pain and sorrow.

All of which makes me human, none of which makes me unique.

Running and finishing (or not finishing) a race is full of symbolism and the before, during, and after are rich with life lessons.  Rich with lessons about life. But it isn’t life and shouldn't be mistaken or misrepresented as such.

It is play.  It is joyful, privileged play, but it is still pretend.

And so I am calm and nearly numb.

And for the better part of two days this weekend, I will embrace the absence from reality and the privilege of not worrying about anything that really matters for a short while.

I will play and I will smile, and laugh, and likely cry.

Time to pretend.

half smashed.

Went and got myself all shook up there in early May.

Saying goodbye to a friend, breaking the news of that goodbye to the family, and then trudging through the days and weeks that followed in a lonely daze.  Usually, I'll write my way out of a funk like that, the letters initially fumbling around in the darkness, forming at last alliances in the eventual shape of words that finally band together into sentences that generate light enough to illuminate, however faintly, a way back onto the path.

Didn't happen this time, at least not in quick fashion.

The letters remained lifeless for weeks on end, not even making any noticeable effort to get to their feet much less team up with others to grant my sorrow voice.  To be fair, they'd given what they could in allowing me to give first report of the loss, but then they, I don't know, went into mourning or perhaps just fell over too exhausted from the effort to consider a return to action any time soon.

When runners can't run, they sulk and they fester.  They rot.  Even crap runners.

The same for writers, even if they are just hacks.

The letters, the words would not come, but I could and did still run though without the normal spark and certainly without the usual joy.  And, if you know me, that joy is pretty much the only point that I'm driving at in the first place.  To move forward without joy was heartbreak on top of heartbreak.

No sign of recovery in the letters, no hope of words, sentences, or healing paragraphs.

Deafening silence.

I tried to shrug off the not-writing.  "Just taking a little break," I'd tell myself, relieved that no one else was listening or needed convincing because the pitch was too poor to possibly end in a sale.

I tried to look on the bright side.  "You've got your health!"  Yep.  Lotta good that was doing me.

Wah, wah, wah, wah, wah.

What happened to seeing the glass as half full?  Had I really become a half empty guy?

There was a teetering on the brink of becoming a full blown "shit, that glass is bone dry, long since empty" guy until I really stopped and gave the whole how-much-water-is-in-that-damn-glass proposition a proper think-through.

Half full, half empty, what's the difference?

Well, Leon, the difference is...ahem, let me just stop you right there.  I get it, but, the thing is, pondering that water level requires a recognition of the container and what space is available within that container and there's something inherent in the word "contain" that makes me immediately think of confines, of fences, of walls.  Here I was struggling to reclaim the joy while using an expression that relies upon confines, fences, and walls, constructs that certainly do not bring me any joy in the first place. 

None whatsoever.

Confines are shackles and I can't bear the idea of being restrained in any fashion.

Fences conjure up thoughts of selfishness, entitlement, "mine, mine, mine" tantrums, and the expectation of being told to keep out.

Walls make me think of being indoors which makes me think of not being outdoors which makes me restless.

And restlessness motivates me, gets me moving, shoves me out of doors to scale walls and climb over fences.  Restlessness drives me to shed confines, wiggle free of shackles, and...MOVE.  Movement, especially when openly acknowledged and celebrated as a counter to confines, fences, and walls brings me joy.

Some obstacles exist beyond our control, but other times we put them in our own way.  Often we are personally responsible for the walls and fences that stand in the way of whatever has the greatest potential to heal.  Sometimes we block out the joy. 

It was there, cloaked in a fog of sadness and loss, but there all along.

I was still moving but not acknowledging the gift of that ability to move.  But it was there, as were the letters.  They hadn't been lying there unresponsive.  They'd been pressed flat to the floor of my brain by the weight of my guilt and grief, gasping for air and trying to hold fast long enough for me to step aside and let them rise.

That guilt and grief filled a depressing glass all the way to the brim and there was nothing positive in its being full.

Curse that glass, full or empty.

Well, that glass is no more.  I smashed it.  Not half way, but all the way.  Shattered it.

My heart can go on hurting while on the move, healing too by no longer being safely hidden, "protected" by those glass walls.  Those walls had me not moving, not fully.

Those walls had me sulking, festering, rotting, but that's over.

Those walls are smashed, shattered, gone.

Sulking, festering, rotting is not doing glad and that just can't be.

I'm going running in the morning with my eyes, arms, and heart wide open.  I'm going moving and let it be known, joy, I am coming for you.

Just saying that makes me think I may have already found you.

my goodness.

With so many snippets of news and not-news whizzing by at breakneck speed and in all directions, I have no idea why we click on the links that we do.

Or don't.

Or whatever.

Sometimes the impetus is obvious, the mention of a person or feat of particular interest, a stunning image from an uber-exotic locale or a headline posing as fact simply too funny/stupid/unbelievable/sad to possibly be true.  It could be the potential of a rare performance of a favorite song by a beloved or forgotten band or the revisiting of a memorable movie scene that left you breathless on first watch and promises a repeat performance.

For me, it is often the voyeuristic lure of seeing better-runners-than-I racing through lush forests, over mountain passes or along desolate desert trails.

Other clips invite viewing for reasons less explicable, and while some turn out so disappointing as to beg an answer why they were clicked in the first place, there are others that prove more than just reward for the visit.

Like this one:

A friend shared this clip on Facebook this past Saturday and while I scrolled right past numerous other posts, there was something about this one that made me stop, press the play button and watch...raptly.

The ten minutes of wonder seem almost too perfect and may well have been scripted and directed.  I choose to think not and will make no effort to learn otherwise.  Even if someone was to spoil the fantasy by confirming that these two ladies were just actors in a modern ode to joy, my reaction shall remain the same.

What does it have do with running?  Not a damn thing and who cares?

I could contrive a connection, pointing out how the tale overlaps with the venturing into the unknown of trail running, the bonds formed by two strangers sharing a common challenging experience, and the tearful release of completing a race you weren't sure you were capable of finishing.

I could, but I won't.

Fiction or non, the story of An and Ria moved me by reminding me again how much we take life for granted, how blindly and brazenly we muscle past the subtle wonders of the world to get to the next bullet point on our hourly/daily/weekly agenda.

We're all so bored, depressed, stressed, angry, disappointed, empty, bored (did I already say that?), over it, anxious, longing, demanding...entitled to whatever it is we don't yet and may never have.

We've been there.  We know.  We've already seen that, heard that, tasted that.

What else you got?

We.  Want.  More.

Dammit.

But we HAVE so much and have for as long as we can possibly remember (if we even bother trying) and we've never really bothered to be happy or thankful for that.  We say we are...like clockwork...near the end of each November, just before we lay on the f#@#ing horn because some jackass had the nerve to "steal" the parking spot two whole spots closer than the one we had to settle for in the parking lot outside of CollossalRetaileroftheMoment a few minutes before the stroke of get-it-before-they-do midnight.

And I'm no different.

I want too.

I want to laugh like Ria on that roller coaster.

Deeply and genuinely.

I want to fly again for the first time and feel the excitement, the worry, the anticipation.  I want to look out the window and whisper "my goodness."  I want to gaze down through the clouds, wordlessly, and think "how can this possibly be?"

I want to topple over in the surf and get a wet bum.

And I want to acknowledge every second of the adventure as gift given and appreciatively received.

Wanting the same for my daughters, I sat them down beside me and we tagged along as An and Ria took off, laughed, became fast friends, and together explored the new world of Barcelona.

Lily and Piper Bea watched hushed, bright-eyed and fascinated while I thought of my good fortune to one day see them take their own first flights.

"My, oh my, oh my!"

Indeed.

every leaf a miracle.

To state the obvious, I really love the outdoors.

I also greatly adore the act of running and the benefit, in moving faster, of getting to see more of the beloved outdoors in a days time than would be possible at a slower pace.  Not that I don't enjoy hiking, walking or even just sitting beneath a canopy of open sky.  I do, but, it is while travelling more swiftly that I find my greatest solitary joy.  A perfect blending of the release that is physical exertion and the inspiring exhibition of natural, remote settings, trail running makes me infinitely more capable of filtering out those things that might normally distract me from a full appreciation of how miraculous life can be.

Between science and all its explanations, the facts and figures that dwell within the phones and computers that have become appendages of our everyday, a globe that acknowledges having been explored, mapped and demystified, it has become all too easy to shrug off the miracles.

But they do exist.  Not just out on the trails, but everywhere.

I know it in my heart and all five of my senses confirm their existence if I heed the data those senses collect.

Feebly, I am unable to prove it or convey it to others.

Walt Whitman, the grand old poet who died on this very day back in 1892, was not so feeble.

As a teenager, I can remember reading his works and trying to fathom the scope and grandeur they evoked.  I couldn't.  Filled with flourishes and exclamations, his poetry refused to NOT acknowledge the wonder in all things, physical, spiritual, natural or man-made.

He praised action, physicality, movement, mountains, prairies, forests and oceans, but, within capacious musings, he cast light not just on athletic feats or the most fetching landscapes, but also upon the seemingly mundane, the otherwise shadowed or overlooked.

All things.

So on this day, in remembrance of an icon's passing but even more so in honor of his having lived and done so on such a grand, celebratory scale, I set my own sights on becoming ever more receptive to the joy of all things.

Rest well, Walt, and thank you for the prompting that ever leaf, every blade of grass is indeed a miracle.

Miracles

WHY! who makes much of a miracle?

As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach, just in the edge of the

water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love--or sleep in the bed at night with

any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with my mother,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive, of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds--or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sun-down--or of stars shining so quiet

and bright,

Or the exquisite, delicate, thin curve of the new moon in spring;

Or whether I go among those I like best, and that like me best--

mechanics, boatmen, farmers,

Or among the savans--or to the soiree--or to the opera,

Or stand a long while looking at the movements of machinery,

Or behold children at their sports,

Or the admirable sight of the perfect old man, or the perfect old

woman,

Or the sick in hospitals, or the dead carried to burial,

Or my own eyes and figure in the glass;

These, with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring--yet each distinct, and in its place.

To me, every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the

same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same;

Every spear of grass--the frames, limbs, organs, of men and women,

and all that concerns them,

All these to me are unspeakably perfect miracles.

To me the sea is a continual miracle;

The fishes that swim--the rocks--the motion of the waves--the ships,

with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there? 

do glad.

Today not tomorrow, that's what I've been saying.

So, when my wife's busy work/school schedule found her observing in an operating room for the day, babysitting options weren't available and I needed to skip out on work to watch Piper, I made the most of my time out of the office by dropping the car off for a much needed repair and heading to a nearby diner to enjoy a rare Daddy-and-daughter-and-nobody-else breakfast.

Piper Bea settled happily into her pancake, a pickle and a tall cup of chocolate milk.

I sipped coffee and listened to her tell me about whatever popped into her about-to-be-4-year old head.  Sipped, listened and smiled.  Taking full advantage of not being interrupted by her verbose big sister, Piper covered a lot of topics while we sat in our little booth-for-two.  She didn't make me swear to secrecy, but, all the same, I think I'll not share the details as it makes me feel like I alone was invited "in".

As we neared the end of our meals, the television monitor perched in the corner of the room showed the portrait of a woman celebrating her 108th birthday.  My not-what-they-once-were eyes couldn't read her name in the captioning and the sound of the TV was drowned out by our conversation and the crooning of oldies drifting from the overhead speakers...which was fine by me.

One hundred and eight years old.

Can you imagine?  You can't.  I can't.

Trying to imagine brings "today not tomorrow" right back into the discussion.  Perhaps if you make it the whole way to 108 you start believing that you'll never stop ticking and the days'll just go on and on forever.  Maybe that's the fear.

Or the hope.

Or maybe every day feels certain to be the last.

Who knows?  Not you and not me.

I silently wished that woman well and hoped that she was better able than me to make sense of the dizzying ways in which the world has evolved.

In that very same diner, two older (suddenly, mid-70's didn't seem all that old) gentlemen sat poring over a road map.  

Remember those?

I do and you do too.

But, maybe just maybe, our kids won't or at least not outside the context of museums and quaint postcards.  Of course, museums and postcards might not be long for this world either with any and all information available at our fingertips and the mail system, our modern day pony express, likely going the way of, well, the pony express.

I marvel at how much has changed in my lifetime.  Can't even begin to wrap my head around it, actually.  And, despite what my children believe, I haven't been alive all that long.

Here are a couple of the significant events that occurred in the year 1905, the year today's birthday girl was born.  The first forest fire lookout tower went into operation in Greenville, Maine.  Ty Cobb made his professional baseball debut.  A physics journal published the article that unveiled Albert Einstein's E=mc2 equation.  The Intercollegiate Athletic Association of the US was founded (it wouldn't officially become the NCAA until 5 years later).

One year earlier work began on Grand Central Station, the Wright brothers took their initial flight, fingerprinting was first introduced as a way to investigate crime and the ice cream cone was invented.  The ice cream cone was invented!

CAN YOU IMAGINE?  You can't and I could drive myself mad trying to...today not yesterday, today not tomorrow.

Piper Bea and I left the diner, she with cookie in hand, and we found the car repaired and waiting for us.

As we drove home, we passed by a beautiful restored farmhouse that I recalled residing in a different location just a few years earlier.  A construction/restoration group had plucked the once ailing structure from the ground, ratcheted it up onto a wheeled platform and towed it to a new, more idyllic, perch a few miles down the road.

I CAN imagine, but only because I saw it with my very own stunned eyes.  Amazing and certainly unthinkable not all that long ago.  I'm betting an undertaking such as this would have qualified as science-fiction back in 1905.

And I'm guessing "science-fiction' was hardly a household term at the time.  I should visit a museum to find out for sure.  Or, wait, I could just ask my phone...yes, I could actually speak into my phone and just wait one second for the answer.

Geez.

I have a 50-mile race coming up on Saturday, the FebApple Frozen 50 in Maplewood, New Jersey.  It seems a daunting undertaking this early in the year, especially with sickness and subsequent inactivity not too far behind me.

However, it doesn't seem nearly so daunting when held up against waking, rising and making one's way through the day, every damn day, for 108 years.

The woman in that photo was smiling and it was a beautiful, happy-to-be-alive smile.  Could've been taken a few years ago, of course, but that hardly tarnishes the message if she was, what, 105?

And maybe it was that smile that jarred something in my holes-punched-in-it memory about the number 108.  I did a little digging (you bet I employed my phone) and discovered that it is a Harshad number, an integer that is divisible by the sum of its digits (1 + 0 + 8 = 9 and 108 divided by 9 is 12).  That's a curiosity but what I found more interesting was the fact the "Harshad" is derived from two Sanskrit words, harsa and da.  Harsa means "joy" and da means "give".

Joy giver?

Seems too good to be true for the sake of this story, but it goes a long way toward explaining that lovely smile and the unmistakable happiness I felt in seeing it.

So, 50 miles?  A hundred?  No problem.  A blink of the eye really.  A joy.

Glancing at Facebook upon arriving home, I discovered a typo in a friend's status update.  She was sharing her relief at sneaking in a run before expected freezing rain began to fall.  "So glad" was accidentally replaced with "Do glad".

DO GLAD!

I love it.

I turn 39 this year.  Piper Bea will be 4 in April and her sister turns 6 just two weeks later.  People are celebrating 108 years on this planet.

What a gift.

How could you not do glad?  You can't.  I can't.

Do glad and do it today...AND tomorrow.

but the music pervades.

The kids had nabbed my phone, their two little heads fighting for best position as they huddled around the 2" x 3" screen.  I knew what they were up to immediately.

I don't have any games loaded onto my phone, but I do use the maddening little device to snap photos and handily capture the movements of my children that I want so desperately to be able to view whenever the mood strikes.

As it often does.

The girls too like to revisit their adventures, the mysterious sounds of chirping voices that they refuse to believe as their own.  I know just how they feel.  To hear your own mutterings cast back from a recorder instead of filtered solely through your own skull is to know distortion.  Lily and Piper are truly mystified by this disconnection and I, after nearly 4 decades of pondering, still often wonder what I "really" sound like.

And so they giggled as they replayed over and over a short clip of the two of them darting about a nearby park earlier in the year.

I asked them, for the thousandth time, if they enjoyed running and they dutifully recited the "yes" that they expect I want to hear.

Later Lily asked me, also for the thousandth time, why I like to run so much and I stumbled through the clumsy responses that I have offered her before but that always fall short of fully conveying ALL of my reasons and by doing so fail to actually answer the question.  

Regardless, I know Lily doesn't actually doubt that I love running, instead, as with everything she encounters, she simply seeks a thorough explanation and a deeper comprehension.

Her follow up question was a puzzling beauty.

"Daddy, what does if FEEL like to run so much?"

There are so many words in our confounding language and endless, truly endless, combinations in which those words can be positioned, making it that much more aggravating to be unable to select the right words and/or juggle them into the appropriate order to properly express something you know so intimately.

I tried.  I really did.  But, the knit brow and pursed lips were giveaways that Lily hadn't been brought any closer to understanding.

And then I heard the answer.

And that answer answered another lingering question.

Music.

Our entire household is captivated by the music of Iceland's Sigur Ros.  Their music had helped me make sense of my existence, or at least cope with not being able to make sense of my existence, through my father's accident and eventual death as well as the subsequent slow dissolve of my first marriage.  Years later, a recording of the band had served as musical accompaniment as Lindsay progressed down the aisle to an anxious-to-marry-her me.  The odd soundscapes have proven for me to be the only lullabies capable of delivering restful sleep on long continental flights.

The music infiltrates, brings tears, cleanses and in the end elicits smiles, even inexplicable but welcome laughter.

And late in long runs, certainly in the final hours and minutes of races that have truly tested my endurance, I hear this music.

I FEEL it.

As do my daughters.

Learning that by closing her eyes and REALLY listening to the notes of Olsen Olsen she could experience what it feels like to run so much, Lily unfurrowed her brow and a smile spread across her face.  She even flushed a bit.

She felt it.

She's loved Sigur Ros from the first time that we played them for her, but she's always asked why we like it.  The dilemma is that there aren't words to explain why, only feelings, only emotional reactions not describable, not really, in words.

There is just the music.

And there is movement.

Euphoria.

Joy. 

The same joy that I experience while watching my girls run.  And smile, And laugh.

And be.

in beauty may we all be.

Finally going to run again tomorrow and I absolutely cannot wait.

I'm half crazed from inactivity and the news of another funeral to attend later in the day on Wednesday.  I desperately need a reminder of the joy of movement before standing beside another coffin, turning from it to look into eyes so filled with loss that they're otherwise empty and knowing that I simply do not possess words to make any single thing any bit better.  I've stood in that spot too many times waiting on inspiration that never ever arrives.

And fresh on my mind, as I think of life, of death and of running, is the news of a visionary falling in the dry deserts of New Mexico this past weekend, leaving the trail running community stunned, as though life goes on endlessly for some but not others.

Nope.

Death comes for all of us, even Caballo Blanco, and the real race, as far as I'm concerned, is celebrating the beauty of life between now and then.  I feel certain that Caballo, if not early in life then eventually, understood that fully and left us having better run that race than most.

While seeking his voice on YouTube, my ears were rewarded with the words of a Navajo chant that seems all too fitting under the circumstances:

Beauty before me as I run.  Beauty behind me as I run.  Beauty below me as I run.  Beauty above me as I run.  Beauty beside me as I run.  Beauty within me as I run.  I see beauty all around.  In beauty may we walk.  In beauty may we see.  In beauty may we all be.