Notes: SMWI* = Saturday morning workout inspiration.
It’s 4:26 am. Hump Day.
The scale works, with its condescending blink-blink-blink.
Down B*tch. Down.
It flashes Up.
Up 8 lbs since the last running post over a month ago.
I turn to the morning papers. Headline: Burger King has reached out to McDonald’s with a 1-day cease-fire offer to combine the Whopper with the Big Mac to create the McWhopper. Wow.
I shift uncomfortably on the couch.
Don’t care? Don’t want to? Too hot?
Where’s the disgust? The fury?
Riding Apathy Road here.
Wow. [Read more…]
And she held the knife.
“I HATE AMERICA.”
Yes, in CAPS.
5:30 am. July 4th, 2015.
The Wolf Pack was settled in the car and heading down I-95 S.
Six lanes, devoid of traffic.
Eerie. A post-apocalyptic moment on I-95. Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road.” Gray skies, light rain spitting on windshield. No Ash.
I HATE AMERICA.
“She” is Anonymous on the inter-tunnel. She repeats IT over and over, in Caps, a vitriolic cadence wrapped around each of America’s stated ills.
We’re two miles in at Mianus River Park.The terrain is hilly. I’m a roller coaster, with slow climbs up, and gravity pushing faster and faster downward. No. You are a Burro. A Burro carrying an oversized load with its belly dragging. You strain with each step. Your breathlessness, is a suffering inhale-exhale far less refined than the hee-haw of the Burro. Sad eyes drooping, staring down at hooves tiptoeing around rocks, roots and ruts.
I HATE AMERICA.
I read the post on Friday. The words still fresh, blood spilled. Words coming from an American, mid-20s. A Woman. [Read more…]
SMWI* = Saturday Morning Workout Inspiration. Source: chikita banana
“According to the Mexican historian Francisco Almada, a Tarahumara champion once ran 435 miles, the equivalent of setting out for a jog from New York City and not stopping till you were closing in on Detroit. Other Tarahumara runners reportedly went three hundred miles at a pop. That’s nearly twelve full marathons, back to back to back, while the sun rose and set and rose again. And the Tarahumara weren’t running along smooth, paved roads, either, but scrambling up and down steep canyon trails formed only by their own feet.”
~ Christopher McDougall, Born to Run
Mile Marker 0:
It’s 4:25 am, and Quiet but for the whippoorwills which break the silence. How do I know they are whippoorwills? Because I like to say w-h-i-p-p-o-o-r-w-i-l-l-s. And because that’s the only way I can work in this beautiful poem by Howard Moss.
And then the whippoorwill
Begins its tireless, cool,
Calm, and precise lament—
Again and again and again—
Its love replying in kind,
Or blindly sung to itself,
Waiting for something to happen.
~ Howard Moss, from “Going to Sleep in the Country,” New Selected Poems
Tireless, cool, calm, and precise lament. Again and again and again.
Not the tireless. Not the cool. Not the calm. But I’ve got the lament part down. And the again and again and again part. And I excel at waiting for something to happen.
GET UP. GET MOVING. TIME TO RUN.
My lips form wwwwhip, wwwwhippoor, and there it is: whippoorwill. Soothing. I repeat it Again and again and again.
There’s magic in the formation of these letters.
Or I’m a circus monkey. [Read more…]