Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Outpacing Evolution
It’s no wonder we spend so much of our time forgetting, losing, and trying to find who we really are. The industrial revolution changed the world in remarkable ways, most of those quite tangible. My pickup truck, the box of Cap’n Crunch our pantry now holds, the 10-day extended weather forecast from weather.com, all great marvels courtesy of that revolution. But less-tangible impacts are those that have lead us to self-help books and prozac. Whereas we’ve gone from pack mules to the iPhone in about 150 years, our brains remain essentially unchanged. But think of the pandemonium they are now in charge of trying to reconcile every moment of the day.
They say that in the Old West, folks drank whisky all the time because it was safer than water. Now we drink whisky all the time because it’s safer than having to face what’s in our heads.
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
Full Circle
Four years ago, I lost about 80 pounds. Shortly after reaching my goal weight, I went to my wife’s family reunion in the hill country of Texas. We rented a fantastic ranch called the Double B near Harper, about 20 miles north of Kerrville. It was there, while partaking of the great company and ample food and spirits that always accompany these occasions, that I began to run. For the first time in my life.
I went for a walk one day, just to try and get a few of those extra calories burned. There, on a lonely beautiful ranch road, among the gnarled live oaks pining for the sky, I just felt like running. I’d never had such a novel sensation come over me before. But it felt good and right. I’ve been hooked ever since.
Anton took off running toward me, with an effortless joy in his stride. The spring came back to my step, only seconds after conquering the impossible hill, and I met him as he bounded into my arms, the fruit of an impossible dream.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Coyotes, and time as an abstract
I wrote this a few months back , when summer night didn't fall till almost 9. It's a tale of my son's first run-in with time.
~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~_
Ha, but the Toddler God laughs at such wishes!
And so, around 8:45 P.M, just as dusk was falling full into night, Anton wandered silently into my office, eyes nearly shut from the overhead light (but beaming full as always), and dove headfirst, blanket, paci and all into the comfy green chair in the corner. “Good morning!” he intoned, mouth full of cushion.
And now, a step back.
When I first heard the lyrics to “I Believe” by REM, I couldn’t really make sense of the line “I believe in coyotes and time as an abstract.” I probably still don’t understand it. Especially the part about coyotes. But, anyway, at age 19, “time as an abstract” really befuddled me. How was time an abstract? Seemed pretty concrete to me. 60 seconds, 1 minute, 60 minutes, 1 hour. I like the order of it.
Confused, I asked one of my smart friends, and I’m thinking it was Eddie Sperr, who had no issue explaining to me that time was an artificially designed construct, somewhat inadequate, geared at helping us bring order to a complex world. I don’t think those were his exact words, but he explained it well enough that I remember thinking, “Well, shit, there’s another freakin’ tater skin to add to the compost pile of life’s imponderables.”
I just made that up – “compost pile of life’s imponderables.” Liking the metaphor.
But of course, the truth is that there are no neat, tidy, segmented spans in our life. A second is forever, it is never, it is now. Deep, man. But as Eckhart Tolle said (at least from what I could glean out of the 37 pages of The Power of Now that I was able to stomach), all that really exists is now, one long continual moment that is our lives.
I so very much like for things to be clear, clean, neat and tidy. But from what I’ve seen of life, it is seldom a methodical thing. Embracing the fact that the “abstract of time” is good for little more than helping me figure out when the next Episode of Dexter is – has gifted me one of life’s terrifying freedoms: nothing is as it seems but everything is mine to change.
Better said, life shouldn’t be a game of watching the clock, neither literally nor metaphorically. If we stay busy trying to compartmentalize things into neat packages, we won’t ever really see what we’re putting in those packages. And we’ll miss out on the fact, the wonder, that we can control so much more of ourselves when we start accepting things without constraints.
“Good morning” made sense to Anton. He’d slept for a good long while, and it was barely light outside. I guess he figured he’d awoken a little early, just in time for sunrise.
He believes in coyotes and time as an abstract, even though he can’t verbalize it yet.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
It's All About Perspective
Tony holds the time record for this race, finishing all 100 miles at an average pace of 9:45 per mile (at an average elevation of 9K - 12K feet with over 15,000 feet of elevation change). It's a brutal 100 mile run, as if any 100 mile run would be anything less than brutal.
So, again, the guy's my hero. Not just because he is so physically accomplished, but because his attitude toward running is so much more philosophical than technical. He seems to grasp the intrinsic fact that running brings us to a very primal state of being. One, as he puts it, that we tend to be "divorced" from in this modern age.
I was sad to see he didn't blow his own amazing record out of the water this year. But I learned a hell of a lot more about running by reading his post about having to withdraw. This monster ran seventy-eight freakin' miles battling giardia, for God's sake. And while, on some level, it make me feel a little silly for making such a big deal out of my struggles with 26.2 miles, it makes me realize that we all fight adversity. Obviously.
And while some adversity is certainly greater than other, judging it on a scale of 1-10 doesn't do any good. Applying a scientific metric to what is a physical, spiritual, and emotional experience sort of misses the point. It's what we learn from that challenge that enriches us and allows us to grow.
After all, Tony is one of the top 5 ultramarathoners in the world. In the standard marathon, I'm slower than Oprah. It's all about perspective, dude.
Friday, September 18, 2009
God Enough for Me
God Enough for Me
In his book Ultramarathon Man, Dean Karnazes tells of running more than 200 miles without stopping. Of this experience, he wrote, “The pain is the point.” When I first read that statement, I thought it was pretty cool. It made sense to me, at least on a cerebral level. After all, I’ve been through enough tough times in my life to apply my emotional suffering – and its subsequent catharsis – to Dean’s notion that the same holds true for physical pain.
Those who know me well may tell you that I am given to bouts of agnosticism and even downright atheism. For some reason, those bouts are balanced by moments when I feel so close to God that I feel as though I could reach out and touch him/her/it/them. Depending on who you talk to, I’m either schizoid, possessed by demons, or really onto something. I prefer to believe the latter of the three choices for reasons that need no explanation.
That said – and as a result of currently being in a decidedly non-agnostic frame of mind – I will tell you that one of the blessings of meeting my wife Anne is that I have gained an enormous new family that has welcomed me as if I were their own. I don’t have very much family of my own, so this was one hell of a freebie that God threw into the deal, pardoning my pun.
Fortunately, a row of portable johns was within yards. But, like the scared kid whistling in the dark, I walked past them and attempted to reach the next aid station. I didn’t make it. The “troops” began to advance and it was clear that there was no retreat. Thank God for the porta-john.
Understatement.
Sidestep for a moment: Probably the biggest challenge I’ve faced in my life is learning to accept and cope with Panic Disorder. For those of you who’ve ever had a panic attack, or suffered from the disorder that comes from repeated, prolonged exposure to panic attacks – you’ll know immediately that this situation was an enormous emotional challenge for me. For those of you who have not had a panic attack – try to imagine, if you can, being entirely certain that you are going to die. That is the insidious trick that panic plays on your mind. And although I have been treated for it for many years, and have learned to be almost entirely unafraid of panic attacks, there are certain times, certain situations – like ones where your body and mind are taxed to their absolute limits – that they still have tremendous power over me.
From the moment I knew that I was going to be sick – just before mile 21 – panic visited me immediately and attempted to assist in my body’s coup. This utter, complete, base fear comes straight from the adrenal cortex. Many psychiatrists agree that panic attacks result from the fight-or-flight response gone awry. Adrenaline and cortisol flood your bloodstream as if you were in a real emergency…but the damned thing is that there is no real emergency. As an example – think of how you feel when a car has pulled out right in front of you and you react quickly, instinctively, intuitively. You’re able to do that because of the fight-or-flight response. It really is amazing. But think about how you feel after you steer around that potentially deadly accident, get control of your car, and slowly realize that you’ve escaped. The adrenaline and cortisol begin to leave your bloodstream, your breathing begins to slow – but you likely feel shaky, bewildered, out-of-sorts. In panic attacks, the surge just won’t stop.
So there I was, leaving the aid station at mile 21, fighting those attacks, trying to forge ahead. But feeling an enormous sense of dread and fear.
After a few minutes of running, it was clear that the sickness in my guts was there to stay, at least for while. I stopped running and began walking. I seriously considered dropping out. The thought of Gatorade now made me sick to my stomach, so I grabbed a bottle of water from a gracious volunteer. Just to keep my mouth from drying out. I couldn’t really drink it, as every time I took a sip, the ferocious cramps came back.
I grabbed that bottle tight and held onto it for the rest of the race. It was my lifeline. And it acted like a stress ball in helping me find an outlet for my mounting fear and panic.
Within another mile, I reached “critical mass” again. I couldn’t imagine how I’d make it thru another four miles. I saw a police officer guarding an intersection. Sensing that I wasn’t well, he began to approach me. I pleaded with him to help me find a restroom. He pointed to a small travel agency just a few yards away. As I turned to dash to its door, I tripped on the curb and fell hands-first onto the sidewalk. Instantly, both of my legs seized in horrendous cramps. As I yelped in pain, the officer began to signal for a medic. But I pleaded with him not to. “I’m fine, I just fell, I’ll be OK once I get to the bathroom.”
Sitting there, in that small restroom, in some travel agency in Little China, in this city of
So, 86 degrees, heat index in the 90’s, not a bit of shade, sun pounding off the pavement, stomach cramping with every step…22 miles down, four to go.
Just keep walking. Keep clutching that bottle. Listen to the cheers of support from total strangers. They are on your side. They do care. Just ride that panic like a wave. Close your eyes, think of the heavens, picture the faces of all those that you love, smiling down on you. Think of the prayers coming your way from all over. Feel that. And tell the fear to go to hell.
Mile 23 approaches. And so does another low point. As nausea begins to come in waves, I can’t decide if I’m hungry, or sick, or both. I grab a handful of pretzels from a stranger’s bag. Seemed like a good idea, until I put one in my mouth. My mouth was so dry that I wasn’t able to chew. I almost heaved. I took a few sips from the dented water bottle. I still almost heaved. My stomach was having no more. Another visit to the luxurious portable bathroom facilities.
As I left the station, I considered – perhaps more strongly than at any other time – cashing it in and heading for the medical tent. Panic had actually stopped speaking. And I just had to ask myself “Are you being insane?"
Yes, totally insane…and totally determined.
Three miles to go. That’s just a 5-K. Hell, I could do that in my sleep. One foot in front of the other. Fortunately, my stomach calmed – no more mad dashes.
I wish I could explain the range of emotions I went through as my body teetered on the edge, half-stumbling, half-walking for the hour that it took me to manage those last three miles.
I don’t know if God works in a way that allows those who have passed on to lean down and touch us, to help us along when we’re weak. I don’t know if that’s a silly, childish fantasy designed to assuage us in moments of great need, of great fear. But I do know that I saw the faces of Michael, Jim and Janet every time I closed my eyes. I saw the face of my mother who has long passed. Of my friend Brent who passed from cancer. And I know that seeing those faces gave me strength and a feeling of purposefulness, of resolve, that kept me on my feet and that brought tears of joy to my eyes when I crossed the finish line.
That’s God enough for me.