No Cars Go

I went on a run this evening, departing at 8:55 and returning at 9:50. This is approximately the length of time my last run took, though the distance is considerably longer: under 1.8 miles previously, 6.2 this time.

I'm impressed with the degree of improvement, especially in light of the fact that my cardio training between runs has been minimal (biking to work). The disparity may be caused by a better warm up and stretch prior to the run, or a more determined and better motivated mindset from the outset, or better nutrition and more available reserve energy. It is probably a combination of all of these.

For those that didn't take note, 6.2 miles is about 10k, which I ran in 55 minutes.

The time is not impressive to runners, but if you scoffed at my stats (or if you are remotely interested), please take a look at the map while I narrate.

If you look at mile 2, you can see a church directly south of my path. The First Baptist Church. If you take a look and the general environment, you can see that I have managed to escape the comforts of suburbia... meaning the path was unlit.

I guess I could hurry this along. I'm tired and don't want to write anymore.

I was moving at a good clip. I touched the street sign and turned around without changing pace, and was well on my way to finishing a kick-ass run when a spandex clad bicyclist flew past me, barking "ON YOUR LEFT" as he did so. He did not have the bike light required by law, and was going faster than he should have been on unlit road. I was wearing black and gray, so he probably didn't see me until he was on top of me. He didn't actually hit me, or touch me... Just startled me off the path enough for me to put my right foot where pavement met dirt. I rolled my ankle, stumbled a few feet, cursing, before falling in a graceful judo roll onto the lawn of the church, where I lay, listening to my heart beat, and feeling my rapidly swelling foot-parts pulse along.

I slowed my breathing, which had been steady and controlled. Without the noise of feet on road or breath in throat, I could hear that my iPod was still on, though I'd taken the headphones off to compensate for the dismal visibility. "No Cars Go" was taunting me from my pocket. I was two miles from home, with no cell phone, lying dazed and frustrated on the lawn of a sanctuary. It had been a fantastic run. My cardiovascular system had been operating optimally, my mental focus sharp, and my will to finish without stopping...slightly less powerful than gravity.

This is probably the ninth time I've sprained this ankle in this, or similar ways. I knew it wasn't too severe. I'd felt the pop, but hadn't heard it... Incapacitating sprains are audible. I wondered what I would do if this happened during a run in boot camp... if I would lay whimpering on the ground, allow myself to be shuffled to wherever broken recruits go while my comrades plodded on.

I would not. I would suck it up, keep a conscious tightness in the motions of the ankle and a soft limp in the right stride. I would get back up and fall in line, and finish, hoping the endorphins would see me through, hoping with every step that i would not step wrong, and praying that the shock of the steps was not making the injury worse.

I stretched it first, testing the weakness of the joint, finding the tender angles. I pulled my shoe off and folded my sock down, the doubled elastic giving minor support.

And I made the two mile run in decent time, without stopping again until I reached where I'd started.

I've iced it. I have a golf ball swell, which beats the hell out of a tennis ball. I'll be able to walk tomorrow, but its going to be stiff and weak.

I hate it this crap happens.


*morning update*
The whole ankle is swollen... Not just the side that got rolled. The whole area is acutely painful, and walking causes tantamount to anguish.

My legs are okay. I was expecting more stiffness, but I seem to have stretched it out. My right anterior hip flexor is strained, though, which makes lifting my tightly booted foot that much more difficult.

Live Wires

My attempts at personal improvement seem to come in spurts. The dystrophy becomes too much to ignore, and I revamp my approach to existence. This includes a serious and in depth cleaning of my room, reorganizing of my finances, sometimes the rearranging of furniture, and the creation of a To Do list from which the idle fat has been stripped. Feverishly good intentions take hold and I become ambitious and upbeat, and for a matter of weeks, I am the person I want to be.

But order cannot prevail forever against chaos when I must pit my resolve against entropic decay and my own creeping ease. It is an uphill battle of Sisyphean suffering, and though, when I first heard the sordid tale, I wondered why the poor man continued to roll his stone, I find myself following his cursed compulsion.

I become downcast when my boulder rolls from peak to valley, but have found that giving up on my toil only makes it worse—the bottom of the hill is lower than I previously believed, and I know I have not yet descended its full dismal depth.

And so, I push again, finding what I always thought was a perverse satisfaction in my futile work.

I have a new strategy. In the past, I always relied on finding a new source of internal energy, some hidden dynamo waiting, thrumming in the tangled darkness of my spirit. It may well be there, but blundering through the twisted jungle of humming power lines takes too long, and in the meantime, my boulder is giving in to gravity.

My conclusion, drawn only recently, is that my current power source must suffice, until I find that mystical machine, and I must divert and redistribute my energy, one line at a time.

My current effort is called the “Quit Smoking Weed Fitness Program”. I will explicate: Weed makes me lazy. Despite my atypical response to the drug, which is to get up and do something, I lose time and energy. I dumped four hours at a time into unremembered thoughts, incoherent scribbles, work out sessions that lack the focus and intensity required for improvement, and other confounded efforts. Also worth mentioning is the cost of the substance itself—another form of energy I cannot afford to waste. I have redirected the mental, physical, and financial energies into upgrading my flesh casing, the money spent on supplements, the time given over to a variety of beautifully destructive work-outs, supported with the desire, intent, and motivation of an unhindered mind.

It has been two weeks since I decided to quit altogether. I started a serious diet and exercise regimen only four days ago, and the difference is already apparent.

I will continue to push myself. Hopefully, because the energy sinkhole has been severed from the system, maintaining this intensity will be easy. The intent is to make change in my lifestyle, not just my weekly schedule.

There are other things that require improvement as well, obviously. I need to practice bass more, and write more frequently, and more professionally. Those things will have to wait until I prove that I can make lasting changes to my energy distribution. One step at a time.

I have a tendency to forget that a mile is made of steps. I find myself looking at the thousand mile walk, and breaking it into blocks of miles. I must not forget the steps.

And I must keep walking in the same direction.

of flickring intrest

I set up a Flickr account, because I have photos I want to share, and facebook makes them small. I think I let Flickr make them small too, but I don't care. Now people without facebook can see.

I guess I got bored...

I'm going to start writing again. I was overwhelmed by the sense that I was wasting my time... but it's good exercise.

I hate that I do this. I slack off regularly, my systems and functions breaking down with the faithfulness and reliability of a classic car. I don't keep my shit in repair, and this is what happens. At least nothing is broken... just need to refill the fluids, change the oil, get the tires aligned and all that jazz.

Later. Right now, I need to eat.

The Eight

I guess I should do these.

1. I can’t grow hair anywhere on my face except my chin and neck, and when that gets too long, I start pulling it out, hair by hair, as a fidget. Because of this, I stick with the clean-shaven look. For the most part.

2. I do not have, nor have I made, a single friend by taking the initiative and introducing myself. Everyone I know was introduced to me by another friend, or by force of circumstance.

3. I don’t write drafts. I build essays in layers, starting with the skeleton and adding until I have a finished product. It is a single process, and I can’t remember the last time I sat down and rewrote the result.

4. My first reaction when facing a problem is to apply violence. Conversely, I have never been in a fight, or actually attempted to solve a problem with force. I do, however, have more weapons in my bedroom than I have fingers.

5. I have had one girlfriend, ever. This probably has something to do with #2.

6. I have watched the Firefly series and the corresponding movie at least a dozen times. I want to live on a spaceship and defy the powers that be.

7. I get lost almost every time I get in the car. I have no sense of direction, no internal map, and no general concept of where I am geographically. Downtown Davis is a grid, arranged by letters and numbers. There is nothing confusing about it, but I still can't navigate it.

8. I also get lost every time I try to play music. I can’t keep the chorus, verse, bridge straight, nor can I remember when the transitions are. I generally don’t remember lyrics either. This and the previous probably have something to do with attention span—I’m in it for the ride, not to learn how I got there.

I have to wonder where these quirks come from, and how many of them the meds are supposed to solve.

Beats in the Dark

I'm going to try to run more often. I'm using my blog to hold myself accountable.

I ran tonight, leaving at 8:40, and returning at 9:30, running nearly four miles. I followed a new route and found a nice empty edge of this small town. This is not a fantastic time for a 4 mile run. I know I can do better, though I wasn't really running for time. There were several long intervals of dashes and sprints, which required a short refractory period. (yes, i know)

The night was thick with magic, the rich soil of the fields, the the scent of thriving trees heavy with leaves. My footfall set a beat to the orchestra of insects and the soft flight of the owls. Mice scrambled from their hiding places, crossing the paved bike way in front of me. The air was thick with flat-faced night birds, hungry, drawing in the night as they hunted on downy wing.

I found the edge of my town, and cared to go no farther. Next time I will. I was shy of the 2 mile mark this run, and I'd like to finish a solid 4 miles next time.

I love running fast in the dark.