I started the season feeling a need to beat the summer, as if it had taken war with me (it had). This meant a necessary reach into my bag of weaponry.
I am not a particularly violent person. I'd much rather concede knowing I am right on the inside than put up a fight with a fighter. I don't compete with others well. I usually step aside and let them pass. I fail at Monopoly. This shifts as the temperature gauge goes higher. Summer brings out my inner warrior, and the only weapon I've had to use with consistency against the inconsistency of the world is running. It's been my antidote for a long time, and this summer, I've planned for it to be my grenade.
And then, after many runs in near one-hundred degree heat, no injury or exhaustion, I pulled something in my calf while sleeping. I suffered after effects of a charlie horse gone bad the night before a thirteen mile run; The summer had called in back-up. I toyed with concession.
Though I am not giving up, I am altering my course. Isn't that what they do in the war movies? Reassess their strategy, take inventory of their enemy, adjust accordingly? And part of my adjustment is to remind myself of my other summer time goal: enjoy, as a child enjoys.
I accomplished this with zeal yesterday, as my body zoomed down the pink Silver Bullet at Big Splash, right after exiting the Lazy River that had followed a run in with the Master Blaster.
A message to Summer: I've got back up, too.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
run on a rainy river day.
The feeling of a bag packed on my way to a new kind of adventure is akin to no other. It's an anticipation of the unknown, and the excitement of exploring new terrain, but the joy is also linked to the familiar. I know that what awaits me will open my eyes a little wider, and provide an even broader perspective to view the familiar from. When I return to the life I am escaping, it will not be the exact same, and that part of the process is invigorating.
Another lovely aspect of travel is taking the familiar and immersing it in the foreign. For me, this is most accessibly done through running. Queries happen all the time about why I actually love to run, and the answers could fill a book. But one that takes the cake is its simplicity, which is my life's preference. All you need is a pair of shoes, and now-a-days there are camps, swarms even, of people that argue you don't actually need those. Not only is it simple either way, but it's also such a perfect way to expose oneself to extended miles of a city in a short amount of time. I can cover six miles of culture while my feet and my thoughts and the landscape do a sort of discovery dance in less than an hour.
I spent four days of last week in a place they call NOLA. I say "they" because I don't call it that. I also didn't know anyone did. I saw those four letters capitalized and typed next to each other and wondered whereinthehell that was. And then I learned that's where I was going, where I booked a flight to, and home from, and I still don't call it that because abbreviations make me uncomfortable. Upon my return, I was asked all those questions, you know, like, "Did you have craw fish?" "gumbo?" "go to Bourban Street?" And then I got grief because my answer to all of those questions was a no, and my most memorable experience (aside from all of the lovely time I get to spend in the presence of the friend I was visiting) was a six mile run I did on Sunday along "The Fly". I love that they call it the fly because when I first hear that word I think of the bug, and then I think about the action, and then I think about fishing, and there's good in some of those connotations and a dirtiness, and weirdness and a fantastical element and I think those descriptions are applicable to the city I was in.
There was also the issue of temperature ahead of me. I should have done this run the previous day, but our hours were filled with things like the beach, coffee, antique shops, and rural Mississippi, so I delayed until Sunday. I should have done it early in the morning, but we spent our time packing things up to return in time for church, and instead of doing it just after, ice cream had to be consumed. It would have been great to fit in in then, post ice cream, but of course a nap was necessary, so there I was at five, about to interact with the hottest part of the day. Lindsay expressed her sympathy, and I was grateful but also, I was very much looking forward to what was ahead of me. My strategy against the heat is based in revenge. Last summer was caustic, painful, and I barely ran at all. I was having a hard time transitioning which served to zap my motivation as well, and the pair - heart pain and heat - pretty much flushed the potential of an enjoyable summer strait into DC's sewage system. And so now, I am taking revenge. My existence will someday be lived out in the tree house of my dreams in a dry climate, but I must conquer the humidity before I let that happen. I must. And this is what I told Lindsay. Do not be sorry my friend. I asked for it. The Sunday New Orleans outing would usher me into a summer of hot humid sticky drenched in sweat barely breathing runs.
Fifteen steps in and I felt rain drops on my skin. This was a most welcome feeling in the midst of the mug, and added an extra sense of confidence to my steps. I left on the familiar route I had formed a few days earlier, but eased into the unknown, unsure if my diverted course was correct, and if I was directionally headed for "The Fly", or somewhere else all together. About a mile in the landscape became familiar again, and a memorable "do not enter sign" confirmed that river I was seeking was just ahead. Across the railroad tracks, up an incline and then to my right, the river. Water draws people out of their every day, their caves, themselves, and it reminds them to enjoy, and this universal truth is what beckoned my run to the river that day.
I was immediately greeted with blanket loungers and bathing suits, and repetitively dodged pop up grills taking up space on the sidewalks. There was music of every tradition, and at one point I broke my stride to dance to a little hip hop blaring from the speakers of an open doored car; The player of the tune cheered me on, as random rain drops continued to fall from the sunny sky. Up ahead, where the water was at its highest and splashing up the embankment at my ankles, the little boys to my left were making their way through a craw fish feast. One of the craw fish had made its way to the sidewalk and I jumped to avoid smashing the hard shell beneath my feet. There was a soccer game going on to my right, a basketball being bounced in the middle of the street, and then, once I had returned to the railroad tracks, the slowest paced train crossing the very spot that I needed to cross myself. I took a picture for a group of handsome men waiting alongside me, and then gave up on the wait and followed a bicyclist past the gate to my right which led to a trail that didn't promise anything but the chance for me to keep moving. I ran along until I saw the caboose, and then chose Broadway, the most familiar street I could find. I stopped a lovely couple making a u-turn in their fancy red convertible and asked if I was headed the correct way to reach St. Charles. They assured me I was, and so I made my way home while taking in all of the glorious old trees and glorious old epic homes that lined the rest of my run.
I didn't eat craw fish while I was in the place they call NOLA, but I did dodge it, as well as about twenty bar-b-qs from the city's locals. Of all my experiences, my run along "The Fly" felt the most natural, and all-New-Orleans-encompassing. Those six miles were nearly as epic and grandiose to me as the homes lining the streets. That distance, as well as the colorful nature of New Orleans itself, etched the beauty and personality of that place into my mind in the most memorable way.
Another lovely aspect of travel is taking the familiar and immersing it in the foreign. For me, this is most accessibly done through running. Queries happen all the time about why I actually love to run, and the answers could fill a book. But one that takes the cake is its simplicity, which is my life's preference. All you need is a pair of shoes, and now-a-days there are camps, swarms even, of people that argue you don't actually need those. Not only is it simple either way, but it's also such a perfect way to expose oneself to extended miles of a city in a short amount of time. I can cover six miles of culture while my feet and my thoughts and the landscape do a sort of discovery dance in less than an hour.
I spent four days of last week in a place they call NOLA. I say "they" because I don't call it that. I also didn't know anyone did. I saw those four letters capitalized and typed next to each other and wondered whereinthehell that was. And then I learned that's where I was going, where I booked a flight to, and home from, and I still don't call it that because abbreviations make me uncomfortable. Upon my return, I was asked all those questions, you know, like, "Did you have craw fish?" "gumbo?" "go to Bourban Street?" And then I got grief because my answer to all of those questions was a no, and my most memorable experience (aside from all of the lovely time I get to spend in the presence of the friend I was visiting) was a six mile run I did on Sunday along "The Fly". I love that they call it the fly because when I first hear that word I think of the bug, and then I think about the action, and then I think about fishing, and there's good in some of those connotations and a dirtiness, and weirdness and a fantastical element and I think those descriptions are applicable to the city I was in.
There was also the issue of temperature ahead of me. I should have done this run the previous day, but our hours were filled with things like the beach, coffee, antique shops, and rural Mississippi, so I delayed until Sunday. I should have done it early in the morning, but we spent our time packing things up to return in time for church, and instead of doing it just after, ice cream had to be consumed. It would have been great to fit in in then, post ice cream, but of course a nap was necessary, so there I was at five, about to interact with the hottest part of the day. Lindsay expressed her sympathy, and I was grateful but also, I was very much looking forward to what was ahead of me. My strategy against the heat is based in revenge. Last summer was caustic, painful, and I barely ran at all. I was having a hard time transitioning which served to zap my motivation as well, and the pair - heart pain and heat - pretty much flushed the potential of an enjoyable summer strait into DC's sewage system. And so now, I am taking revenge. My existence will someday be lived out in the tree house of my dreams in a dry climate, but I must conquer the humidity before I let that happen. I must. And this is what I told Lindsay. Do not be sorry my friend. I asked for it. The Sunday New Orleans outing would usher me into a summer of hot humid sticky drenched in sweat barely breathing runs.
Fifteen steps in and I felt rain drops on my skin. This was a most welcome feeling in the midst of the mug, and added an extra sense of confidence to my steps. I left on the familiar route I had formed a few days earlier, but eased into the unknown, unsure if my diverted course was correct, and if I was directionally headed for "The Fly", or somewhere else all together. About a mile in the landscape became familiar again, and a memorable "do not enter sign" confirmed that river I was seeking was just ahead. Across the railroad tracks, up an incline and then to my right, the river. Water draws people out of their every day, their caves, themselves, and it reminds them to enjoy, and this universal truth is what beckoned my run to the river that day.
I was immediately greeted with blanket loungers and bathing suits, and repetitively dodged pop up grills taking up space on the sidewalks. There was music of every tradition, and at one point I broke my stride to dance to a little hip hop blaring from the speakers of an open doored car; The player of the tune cheered me on, as random rain drops continued to fall from the sunny sky. Up ahead, where the water was at its highest and splashing up the embankment at my ankles, the little boys to my left were making their way through a craw fish feast. One of the craw fish had made its way to the sidewalk and I jumped to avoid smashing the hard shell beneath my feet. There was a soccer game going on to my right, a basketball being bounced in the middle of the street, and then, once I had returned to the railroad tracks, the slowest paced train crossing the very spot that I needed to cross myself. I took a picture for a group of handsome men waiting alongside me, and then gave up on the wait and followed a bicyclist past the gate to my right which led to a trail that didn't promise anything but the chance for me to keep moving. I ran along until I saw the caboose, and then chose Broadway, the most familiar street I could find. I stopped a lovely couple making a u-turn in their fancy red convertible and asked if I was headed the correct way to reach St. Charles. They assured me I was, and so I made my way home while taking in all of the glorious old trees and glorious old epic homes that lined the rest of my run.
I didn't eat craw fish while I was in the place they call NOLA, but I did dodge it, as well as about twenty bar-b-qs from the city's locals. Of all my experiences, my run along "The Fly" felt the most natural, and all-New-Orleans-encompassing. Those six miles were nearly as epic and grandiose to me as the homes lining the streets. That distance, as well as the colorful nature of New Orleans itself, etched the beauty and personality of that place into my mind in the most memorable way.
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