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…]
- SMWI*: Saturday Morning Workout Inspiration
- Image source: wsj photo of the day: (Stefan Wermuth /Reuters)
Let’s frame up the mood this morning.
I step on and off the scale. It could be worse. What’s of greater concern is the lack of disgust. Why not just paint a large white flag on the belly and add in large font: “Yes, I quit.” Middle aged man on the down side.
It’s 8:00 am. Zeke and I are laying in bed and I’m scanning the morning papers. It wasn’t so long ago that I would have run 10 miles by 8:30 am and be done with breakfast. Now, I’m just thinking about breakfast.
The ladies of the house are off to Yoga. Men don’t do Yoga. This man anyway. Too many sweaty bodies in close proximity. Lululemon pants exposing things I don’t need to see. Rubber mats. Rubber room. Claustrophobia. Get me out of here.
Earlier in the week, Rachel pointed out that I’m wearing a track suit (expandable waist) with increasing frequency. I brush her off but the hit is direct, the wound lingers.
I let Zeke out.
I step onto the porch. Shiver. 23° F. Dark and Cold.
There’s less than a inch, but it’s there, Snow smothering Spring.
Zeke comes trotting back in, he’s wiggling, with a full body twist and turn. How come I’m not that happy after solving my internal blockages?
My running watch, fully charged, rests on the counter, waiting to connect to the satellites circling overhead. My running shoes and running gear, set out last night, are poised and ready for the firing of the starter’s pistol. My water bottle, filled and ice cold, waits silently in the refrigerator. The team is ready.
Last night’s intention — was to run early and long this morning.
I look at the gear again. Go. Now. Go. Take that first step. Do it.
Mind shifts to breakfast. Hash browns, bacon and scrambled eggs. Potatoes from Idaho, brown and crispy on top, with a stream of Heinz. The intoxicating smell of Bacon. Eggs from free range chickens, yellow and cheesy on top. Toast (home made thick crusted white bread), glistening from butter produced on a farm in Wisconsin — one piece laced with golden honey from a bee hive in Maine, and the second with dark, sweet grape jelly from some vineyard in California. All washed down with sweet Orange Juice from Brazil. [Read more…]
Monday AM: It’s Zeke’s annual check-up. He remembers the six-inch needle from his last appointment. He’s not welcoming John, the GVW (“the Greatest Vet in the World”). Zeke weighs in. He’s up another 5 pounds, peaking at his all-time high. GVW’s scorecard on Zeke sets off vicious attacks: Family v. Dad. It’s you! He only sits next to you at Dinner! You are feeding him table scraps! Do you realize you are shortening his life!” Dad Growls in response.
Wednesday AM: GVW sends an email. He’s never sent an email to me before, but he needs to send this one. Zeke’s stool sample shows no evidence of worms. Vet Code Translation: He’s fat, but at least he’s clean. All is not lost.
Thursday PM: It’s bedtime. Zeke’s laying next to me. He looks up and stares. What’s up Zeke? He tells me he’s depressed. GVWs lack of bedside manner cut deep. GVW and the Family fail to grasp nature’s natural cycle like Mary Oliver and I do: summer falling to fall, to be following by what will follow: winter again: count on it. Same with weight. Down in summer. Up in the Winter. Down in summer. Count on it. It’s a bloody cycle. No need to overreact.
A remarkable true story of a blind hiker, Bill Irwin, and his 2100 mile journey of faith along the Appalachian Trail with his Seeing Eye dog Orient.
How do you know which way to go?
I don’t. I just follow him.
How does he know?
God leads the Dog. Dog leads me.
SMWI* = Saturday Morning Work-Out Inspiration