Writing & Running

Saturday 11:29 am. One week before the Spartan race. One day after WIFYR (pronounced whiffer) 2014.

He planned to run earlier, but at least he felt rested. It’s going to be hot.

The past week was incredible, amazing, and tiring. The drive to the Waterford school in Salt Lake City was an exercise in patience. But once in his classroom, Ann Cannon and the rest of his class blew away his expectations, every, single, day. His only regret was skipping exercises for the race, other things were just more important.

Most important choice today: New Stuff 2 playlist (Grouplove, Imagine Dragons, Of Monsters and Men, Capital Cities), General Conference (prep for speaking assignment tomorrow), or Bruce Hornsby (Hot House and Harbor Lights).

I gotta go with Bruce, last run before the race, I gotta go with what got me to this point. Forty five runs, 382.4 miles, Bruce was his only companion on most of them.

Spider Fingers starts playing, the Nike app counts down, legs start pumping, carrying him away. By the mouth of his cul-de-sac he’s settled into a rhythm, breathing regulated, right hand a cup holder carrying the mini bottle of water that keeps him hydrated.

The goal is to take it easy this close to the race, only eight miles today as opposed to the usual eleven. And the biggest relief is no hill today. He’ll miss the view above the cross overlooking Spanish Fork, and the challenge. But when he’s done he won’t miss the pain.

The first mile feels great; it always does. But he’s painfully aware that the first three miles, can make or break him—too fast and he’ll run out of gas. Even knowing that he’s disappointed when the Nike app gives him a time of 9’55’’, but he keeps going at the same pace. The lesson he learned two weeks ago won’t be repeated today—must remember that next week too.

The trail along the Spanish Fork river always feels safer the second his feet cross onto it. Running against traffic in order to reach the trail he’s compelled to be alert—often jumping into the weeds in the rough shoulder to avoid peril. For the most part people are kind and take a wide path around him. But there are always a few who don’t, the ones in such a hurry he worries they don’t even see him.

Once on the trail he can relax, let his mind wander—people watch. Saturday around noon is a busy time on the trail. There’s pretty people, interesting to look at but they fade as quickly as they appear—that may happen to them in life too, at least on the prettiness scale. So little fabric required to cover them. He’s not jealous.

There’s young people, old people and in-between people. He considers himself more in-between, but expects that a survey would place him in the old camp. He likes the ones who smile and say ‘Good morning’ best, especially if they look as tired as he feels. That’s my people. Tired but still working at it. Nice enough to acknowledge others doing the same. He always waves even if they don’t, sometimes he manages a word.

He runs past most of them. The fast runners, the smart runners, usually go earlier in the day. An old couple holding hands catches his eye. A desire to be like them, happy, and old, well… older, and active, and together out in the sunshine and the beautiful surroundings. Can it ever get better than that?

Approaching two miles Bruce kicks into The changes. This is the perfect running song. A snappy drum beat carries the tune and his feet. Several times he has to shuffle to get back on beat, that’s the kind of dancer he is. Actually this is the closest he gets to having any sense of rhythm at all. He sneaks a look behind him, no one there, no one visible in front either. He bounces his head side to side, then, up and down. His feet keep going whether he’s tired or not. Perfect dancing, er, running song.

He writes these thoughts in his mind as he goes, worried a little that his writer friends will expect a better description of the music. Unfortunately that’s not in his vocabulary, tempo, notes, instruments may as well be a foreign language. This is what it’s like to be a writer—he uses that term because his teacher Ann said he could, not so much because he believes it.

This sparks another thought. He needs to add a sense of smell. Well, that’s right, but the dominating smell is that of himself, not at all pleasant. Sorry other trail people, thank goodness for Spanish Fork wind. The other smells that are more pleasant aren’t easily describable, again mainly due to vocabulary. He’s a city boy. So imagine this, the trail follows a river and is lined with trees dropping cotton fluffs like snow. A horse pasture and open fields are on the other side of the trail—think farm smells and you’ll be pretty close. There’s a golf course and park along the way too, cut grass and the like. If you have allergies think of a lot of sniffling. He doesn’t have allergies, but he doesn’t remember vivid smells either. Maybe he’s just blocking them out. First world problems have nothing on writer’s problems.

The music carries him forward—that’s what Bruce does for him. Still feeling mostly good his lungs begin to strain. Across a wooden bridge he stays between the bolt heads, a thin, straight line. His feet thump out a hollow sound against the wood, contrasting with the pavement. Past the chain link fence keeping him out of the golf course, or the golfers in. Perspective is everything. His body is looking for rest. But he won’t allow it until three miles, plus the hill exiting Canyon View Park. His throat is dry, anticipating the first swig from the mini water bottle clutched in his hand. A second wooden bridge brings him to the park. He rushes past a family reunion in the pavilion on his right, glad he’s wearing the hat his son gave him for Father’s Day this year. Not only does it block the sun, he feels more incognito.

The three mile mark, then the hill happens so fast, and then a walk-break. A gulp of water moistens the dry desert in his throat. He breathes long and deep, crossing the road following the trail to dripping springs. The walk is short, no more than five minutes, then back to running for fifteen. Sections of this trail have a canopy of shade. He revels in the shade, wishing it would last longer; but grateful for it just the way it is--cool.

Beyond the canopy there’s a new bit of graffiti. “Let me tell you about the birds and the bees…” He knows where this is going. This is a popular place for immature, vulgar expressions. But wait, this isn’t vulgar at all. In fact he marvels at the subtleness of the message. For the record he doesn’t condone graffiti in any fashion. But if kids will be kids, kudos to this kid. The penmanship is completely legible without any crude images. Must have been a girl. The spacing is neat. Have you ever tried to write anything with spray paint? It’s no work of fine art, but the length alone deserves some amount of appreciation. And the topic, it was, well, thought provoking to say the least—even if it wasn’t original. It took thought to make this choice. And the ending, really left him hanging, wanting more, “The moon and the stars… .” And it ended with punctuation. Bravo. He wanted to talk to someone right then about any of it, but especially the moon and the stars.

He ran to the top of the paved trail then flipped a u-turn choosing to ignore more graphic expressions painted there. On the way back he couldn’t resist capturing an image of the subtle work for future reference, possibly in a blog post. Who knows? He didn’t want others to see him in the act, that combined with the glare explain the image quality well enough.

Back running he crossed the four mile mark. Feeling as good as could be expected he started mentally planning for his half way task: 60 burpees. If you don’t know what a burpee is just wait, he’ll explain below. He had to wait for several cars before crossing the road again. His patience shrinking with each successive pounding of his feet. Across the street and swiftly past the golf course practice range he noticed some neighbors working on their game. What are the odds? I guess in Spanish Fork they’re pretty good. He followed the high fence to the entrance to Canyon View Park and descended the winding trail there. He passed the tall nets that prevent exceptional drivers (golf driving range drivers) from wreaking havoc on the peaceful park.

As he came around the pond a random guy wearing top-gun-mirrored-sunglasses, in a red convertible, sneered at him. Hey buddy at least I’m working on something more than my social status. Sheesh, everyone’s a critic. This is almost mile five and you know, I’m getting tired. He had to stop himself. Pretty people, with pretty things, always fade, but he wished he could melt into the pavement right there.

Don’t let ‘em see you sweat they say. Too late for that. All he could do was keep running, past the open grassy area back to the pavilion where the reunion was not only still going, but new arrivals continuously poured in. He slowed to a walk as he left the trail heading into the parking lot. He scanned the area looking for a private place, his first choice eliminated by the reunion. The old softball diamond across from the pavilion was empty. And there was a shade tree and picnic tables. In other words cover.

He walked to warm down, to get ready for burpees. He was close to the five mile mark, but didn’t quite make it. After a few minutes he stepped into the shade. He removed his phone from its armband security and placed it on the picnic table. He set down the mini water bottle, took off his hat and sunglasses. After looking around he replaced the sunglasses—he needed at least that much of a mask. Hey, it worked for Clark Kent and Clark’s weren’t even sunglasses. He reasoned that once he started running again he’d replace his hat completing his disguise. He imagined people asking him if he’d seen some sick looking dude with red hair flopping around in the grass in the direction he’d come from. But with his hat on he’d comfortably reply “I must have missed him.” Then he’d break into a run and escape without being detected, all because of the hat.

He twisted his back and stretched his arms. Unable to think of anything else to stall with, he began by jumping up, hands high above his head, then immediately dropping to a planking, or pushup position, legs snapping back in unison. He executed a pushup, then snapped his legs back under him springing up, ending with another jump, hands raised above his head. One. He did it again. Two. By the time he hit ten he was breathing heavy. That wasn’t so bad. Eleven. Bull gato. This sucks. His goal of sixty eroded. I’m stopping at thirty. He made it to fifteen then immediately started walking. Walking somehow eases the pain and the humiliation, maybe because he was now a moving target. It took several minutes before he was ready for the second set.

I can do this. He coaxed himself. After doing fifteen more he changed his mind. I can do forty five. No, sixty, I’m doing sixty. I can do sixty no matter how long it takes. He walked for several minutes again. Then he walked some more. Ready for the third set of fifteen he looked around. More people coming and going. He tried to obscure himself behind the tree and the picnic tables. It didn’t help.

By the time he reached forty five his lungs were burning and his legs threatened to cramp up. His mini water bottle was already empty. He casually walked over to the drinking fountain near the pavilion for a refill, and to buy himself some time. The water was cooler than he’d been drinking and was exactly the refreshment he needed. He trudged back to his spot to finish the final fifteen. It was a struggle, and it took a lot longer than he wanted to spend. But he finished. He reached his goal. His burpee goal.

Exhausted he still had more than three miles to get home. He could have quit there and no one would have cared. He thought about calling his wife. For a second. Another few minutes walking it off and he didn’t think about quitting again. When his legs cramped up he stopped to stretch them out. He ran slower, and walked more, and he was exhausted the entire way. But he saved up enough strength to run up the hill near his home.

Probably not my best work, but I finished. He slowed to a walk after sprinting into his subdivision. His legs felt jerky as he walked the last couple of blocks home. Too tired to miss all the cracks, especially the spider-web broken sidewalk slabs. Sorry Mom. I’ll call her later to check on her back.

Starting is fun and easy. Finishing is hard and grueling. Everything worthwhile requires mental, physical, and spiritual durability. And pacing. Finishing a run is satisfying. I can’t wait for that feeling to be associated with my writing, at least the first draft. I know, I know, I hear the sage words from my teacher Ann last week, there’s always something more. And while I get that, I still look forward, eagerly, for this milestone I’ve been working towards for years.

Can I finish the Spartan race? Is it a metaphor for my writing? Consider the similarities. Completing a race is the result of taking a thousand steps one at a time, enduring through mental and physical doubts, worries, and pains, perceived and real. Writing a novel is the result of placing thousands of words, organizing hundreds of thoughts, writing through doubts, worries, and critiques. But the biggest similarity is that both require pacing, endurance, and determination to finish.

I think I can. I know I can. I hope I can.

Keep writing.