July 22, 2016

I've read some history lately, concerning various times when people had to walk places in order to get mauled by one another.

The nice thing about training for and eventually racing--or rather, "getting 'round"--100 miles is that, no matter what injuries might befall me, however deep into fatigue's mire I might sink, there is a basically zero-percent chance that anyone will take advantage by stabbing me with any sort of weapon.

July 6, 2016

The oft-repeated training axiom "listen to your body" is, like most oft-repeated things, both true and not in ways that reject even that notional dichotomy.

It is inoffensive precisely because it means nothing, and so it can--and does--mean whatever you want it to. Training theory is often this way, of course. With the full expanse of Internet wisdom perpetually available, we're free to find an expert to tell us to do what we wanted to do anyway.

So when one is compelled to listen to their body, should they give priority to the lungs, the heart, the raging IT band, or that whisper of bursitis? And what of the mind, which is certainly not outside of the body, for all that it projects itself thus. A word, too, for heart, by which I mean "heart". Passion, that is. Desire.

Perhaps one doesn't speak this language fluently. Thus a HR monitor is strapped on, or a GPS watch. Sometimes this voice is a compliment rather than a replacement; but other times it is that petulant whine that you needed ten today at 7:30, 8 is too easy, 9.73 is too short; are you really that lazy? What good is our training, after all, if it cannot be precisely measured, those increments our daily subsistence rations.

I don't know. I say that a lot, which is because it's one of my most persistent truths.

I'm sitting presently on a low box one might jump on to at the gym, but only if one couldn't jump very high at all.

My body says my mind is muddled my calves are tight my left ankle is too and my mind is directed at those things which are persistent problems for me it says that they will be my undoing I will run slowly for one mile and die an ambling death trying for 100 because there is no fitness which could ever be equal to that and yet this morning all of this was gone and my legs felt great after a long and hilly day and I felt vibrant and aspirational but no more not tonight because I'm listening to my body and it's just such a goddamn cacophony I'm going to go read a book.

June 10, 2016

June 8, 2016

Irrelevant Update

I still have no idea what the hell I'm doing.

Like, generally. But also specifically, regarding running.

Funny how running does that. Clears some things up, makes other things murkier. The din of process mapping and style sheet updates peels away, but suddenly there are these races you haven't done, these others that have defeated you previously, and you've never raced that guy before. Wouldn't all of that be fun?

Well, yes. But the legs can only take so much. As importantly, the bank account is prone to bonking as well.

So I don't know. I need new shoes. I need to do laundry. And there's more style sheet updating to do tomorrow. And then I'll go run again, until I've got a thousand bits of inspiration, but not one.
I think I'm going to run a 100 this fall, for the highly-technical reason that I've never done so, and feel like trying.

We'll see. There's a bit more to think about, and certainly more to say regarding the 'why'. But for now it's probably sufficient to say it's the thing that excites and scares me the most, and life is pretty banal otherwise. Of course there are compelling reasons why I should do literally anything else; there's never really a good time to run/walk/etc 100 miles in one go--it's actually pretty fucking stupid on just about any rational level--but I'm going to have to do this someday, and there will always be reasons why not.

June 3, 2016

In case you haven't heard, physicists are now speculating--sciencing, etc.--that the universe is expanding at a more rapid rate than previously thought, and so the rending of all things will be sooner too; and that's just as well, because, at 28 years old, I received my first earnest "you look good for your age!"