More of the same.

There are only so many ways one can say "I'm still not running", and I've decidedly run out. I can't say things aren't getting better. But if they are, it's at an imperceptible pace. Stuck on 90% for weeks now. Maybe could do something like running. But not much. And not really.

It is what it is though, yeah? Risk acknowledged, accepted, and now being paid off.

A friend told me I was getting old, or at least older, too old perhaps to just hammer as I've always done, and trust my body to put itself back together.

But fuck. 26? That can't be it.

May take another trip to the doc. He did advise I do so, if things weren't back to normal in a couple of weeks. That couple of weeks will be past, come this Tuesday, and I'd say we're decidedly sub normal.

The rush, if it can be called that, has nothing at all to do with racing, and everything to do with general angst, anxiety, and absence. I want to run again and not doing so is grating. I'll be going to Colorado with the folks in a month, and if I'm reduced to exclusively walking, well, I shouldn't bitch, and I might not, because I don't want to ruin things for them, but in my head there will be bitching aplenty.

Hiking is a delicious supplement to running but as a main course it leaves me quite ravenous.

As ever, we'll see. This all sounds a bit negative, I realize. And it kind of is. But things take time. I get that. Even if I don't want it.

Things I have done and am not doing.

Our office carpet is being replaced, and the adhesive which was under it ground away with some industrial... thing. Like sandpaper, only it spins, and is attached to a three foot tall engine. The refuse is yellow and fine. It smells noxious and as if it could, if ingested in sufficient quantities, fuck you up good, and then very bad.

I mentioned this to coworkers and the discussion of course diverted to drug use. 26 now, haven't touched alcohol in... probably about three years? Never tried anything else.

As ever when this comes up (I tend to prefer it not to), questions arise. So, you don't drink at all? Seriously never smoked once?

Never thought of it like that. Never said never. But never said yes either, and at this point, it seems very unlikely that I will.

I don't consider this a good thing, bad thing, or anything at all beyond the sum of my decisions to this point.

I ran a mile on Monday, and while the result wasn't profound pain, it was enough soreness to know that I'm not "back". It's odd, this. I always imagined I'd push myself far beyond my doctor's wishes, and yet here I am, granted permission to run, and not running.

Because it hurts? Because it hurts. Simple enough. Listen to your body, says everyone in the fitness world. What that means, of course, is not just that we hear it, but that we listen. So I'm listening.

But still, fuck you, fibula. I'm not running. I like running. I skipped a metal show I'd been looking forward to for months because I simply can't afford to get stomped in the leg, and I likewise cannot abide standing in the back. Half the fun of such events is the suffocating violence.

The Old Dog

Chloe is 12 years old, a pale yellow lab. Yellow in name, and perhaps once was, but more properly now she is white. Her breath is loud and I hear it most nights when I go to sleep, as she fancies the floor near my bed as her resting place.

She will arrive twice a day, around 4 and 11. (The first corresponds to my coming home from work, and laying down for a moment's respite; the latter corresponds with my bedtime.) Being tall enough, she will place her head on the side of my bed and pant until I acknowledge that she has arrived with a moment's petting. Soon after she is asleep, splayed out on the floor. Her breath is quieter then but only just.

When she rises it is always with a shudder, then unsure steps carry her forward, arthritic joints yielding to age and the decay that must come. In her breath, though laboured, I hear what I assume to be pleasure. She walks about often and enthusiastically, even running and jumping at times (though not often do these things end gracefully). She appears happy with things, happy to see me, and to share my sleeping place. I too am pleased with the arrangement, and honestly pleased moments before, as I can hear her panting from the end of the hallway. Approaching, and then, always polite, asking if she can stay. (She won't sleep in my room if I'm not there.)

We can't speak, of course. I can't ask her how much her joints hurt, if at all, or how laboured her breathing truly is. I know she seems pleased. That her face seems to appear a doggish smile. (It should be noted that studies seem to indicate that humans and dogs actually recognize these things quite accurately, based on brain scan data.) But that seeming, it must be acknowledged, is filtered through my biases. Certainly we have more tangible evidence than that. The vet says she is healthy, and that, perhaps, is the best we can do.

I say we, because despite this apparent attachment, she isn't my dog, but my roommates' from childhood. These are concerns that they share, as I suppose any worthy pet owner would. She is old, and the questions that must be asked are asked. You know them.

But there again the concept of ownership, of belonging. In the same way one might own a chair, a table, a car. People can like these things, of course. I've heard tell that people can love them, and I won't say otherwise or offer judgment on that sentiment.

But I am uncomfortable with the idea that the life of a sentient being can be equated with these things in any meaningful way. Whether her daily discomfort is negligible or severe, she feels. A car cannot experience pain, or the fear of reconciling it with increasing age. Dogs, we're told, don't grasp mortality in the same ways that we do. And that seems likely enough. Still, she experiences a host of things, not in the same way that you or I do necessarily, but in a way that is no less valuable. While we, as humans, understandably sympathise best with other like creatures (though often we're deplorable at that), there must be some imperative to attempt a similar connection with, at the very least, the creatures we've legally claimed ownership of. They "belong" to us, a phrasing I don't love. But with that ownership must come a responsibility, to do the best we can for them.

So, I don't know. I'm also very uncomfortable with broad sweeping statements on morality and ethical obligations, on claiming I have answers regarding how anyone other than myself should behave. It's a hard thing to get right, life, for all of us. I can't say I've got it figured out in total. But this? This seems simple enough. Do your best for the animals you've brought into your home to share time and space with. It really is the least we can do.

I still didn't run, but maybe soon, really this time.

I did not run again today, which is not news. I know this because I originally went to the University of Kansas' esteemed journalism school, where I was taught that a thing merely happening - or not happening, as it were - is not news.

Of course, I say "originally" because I got the fuck out of there, and polished off my academic life in the English department, where I was free to write basically whatever I wanted. When I turned a 300 word stock news story into a 5,000 word short story, filled with melodramatic noir cliches, and ultimately, I think, the explosion of a bank, it appeared time to go. 

So when I say this is not news, you will know that I mean it earnestly, but also that I do not care even a little bit. 

In any case, I did not run, because although the healing process is coming along nicely, the "cessation of pain process" is less far along. A bit irritating, that, to know that I probably could run, but, y'know, ouch. I tell myself alternately that I'm being a wimp, and then that this is entirely reasonable. 

Were it not 100 degrees out, and were the air not dense with the rancid miasma we here know as the region's humidity, I would perhaps be more inclined to push things. But perhaps not. 

While I'm somewhat in a hurry to run again, I don't feel any urgent need to return to race readiness. It's the cruising of easy miles, trotting along at something between 7 and 8, that I miss. Hell, 9s are cool too, if I'm feeling sluggish. Odd to say, I miss running easy, even if that means running fucking slow. Should probably, y'know, do some strides or hill sprints or some shit too, but whatever. 

I do have a racing singlet waiting for me at the local running store, which I will theoretically wear when I get myself contorted into some kind of decent shape, such that I wouldn't feel totally fraudulent wearing it. Would a 1:22 half be good enough? Eh. 13 miles seems awfully far, at the moment. How the hell did I ever run 50?

On other gear: Shoes? Shoes are expensive, and I have a tortured infatuation with them, a love that has thus far gone unrequited. No shoe has loved me back. But, I'll need something for my hobbyjoggering. While I don't expect to go full HOKA (though the Clifton and Huaka are intriguing), something that is not basically a tattered nylon memory of a shoe would be a good idea. Skimpy shoes taught me how to run, and frankly, showed me that I could. So I'm not totally abandoning my low drop preferences. But there comes a point where pragmatism must replace idealism. Breaking bones is that point. Concrete hurts. I want some fucking foam. Not, like, too much. Not so much. I want, I guess, the just right oatmeal, after spending years proving I could eat the absurdly hot bowl.

Other things: World Cup! Coffee! Melons! Dogs!

All of these things are great. Most of my favorite people are dogs. 

Things break, things mend.

X-ray today. My last one, probably. Free to begin LIGHT JOGGING this week, then easy running, then something like actual training in a couple weeks.

Enough time to defend my trail marathon title in September? Probably. Not sure though. Not sure that I care too much at the moment, in any case. Just happy to be healing, quite quickly, quite evidently.

Looking at the pictures, and comparing. There were two cracks three weeks ago. Now there are none. Instead is a hazy callus of new bone tissue, a natural cast.

I'd say something about the body being amazing, but won't, only because you know these things already, and my words would add nothing.

Leaving the office, smiling, near giddy. Not that I expected anything different than the news I received. But even still, this had been bothering me. What's more, it had been bothering me that it had been bothering me.

Some things I've read about today:

• Over 50 people have been killed at World Cup viewing parties in Kenya in the last two days. 
• As many as 15 are believed dead in a suicide bombing in Nigeria at a viewing. Can't say, because the AP just tweeted the story.
• Syrian snipers are shooting children, just because. 
• Several high profile universities refused to investigate rape charges against star athletes. At least one victim killed herself.

Everywhere murder, rape, poaching, death, destruction, etc.

Sorry for mentioning that. You know it already. And I do, too. But we're callused, a little bit, aren't we? I read, because I think it matters. You do too. But then I wonder. Because we're told that knowledge is power, but what is there to do, really? To know of such horrors, every day, does nothing to prevent them. We're bombarded with "awareness", from every angle, at all times.

And perhaps - although there's no x-ray to show it - we develop calluses where these things wound us, to all of this, until there's nothing but callus. The response can just about only be nihilism, vindictiveness, or indulgence in endlessly inane bullshit.

But again, sorry for that. You don't need it. And I don't, either. In any case, this was never meant to be a socio political rant on the futility of human existence, the persistence of suffering, or whatever.

It was meant to be - and still is, I hope - an acknowledgment that things were never bad, for me. And that they certainly aren't now. I have no new ideas on how to fix the world. But I deal better with its shit when I can run every day.

Keeping Score

Say one thing about running, say that it's fair.

Well, that racing is. Usually. Mostly.

And in that way, running is largely unique among sports. (Though admittedly, not solely. Swimming, cycling, tri, rowing, the field events, and powerlifting come to mind. Perhaps a few others.)

Controversy already at day one, game one of the World Cup. Brazil beat Croatia, as expected. But likely would not have done so were it not for a horrendous penalty given on a flagrant dive.

Diving is a thing in soccer. Far too big a thing. This is known, and has been known for some time. But efforts to diminish its role have thus far proven ineffective.

And why shouldn't players continue? When it works, as it often does, your team gains a tremendous advantage. When it doesn't, you're virtually never penalized. No risk, very high reward. The calculus is easy.

And so twitter is aflame with indignation, citing the given penalty, and a disallowed Croatia goal as proof of referee bias. The fix was in. Brazil was always going to win. Home crowd. Host nation. Couldn't be otherwise.

Simply, this is not a thing in running. Not really. When Farah doubles in London, there can be no real argument that he wasn't a deserving winner. Check the clock. Fastest wins. The simplest scoring metric there is.

He did not win because Olympic officials felt the need to deliver a  hero to London, and no one can really say so. They can say that he enjoys certain training advantages over his African competitors, or allege doping. And some will. But the race is the race. A naked spectacle, free from outside interference.

It is, to embrace the banality, what it is. And what it is, in this case, is part of the core appeal of running. In a world growing increasingly disjointed, artificial, abstract, it's something concrete. An 18 minute 5k might be good, bad, average, whatever, depending on who you are. But if that's what you ran, that's what you ran.

There is profundity in that simplicity.

On min, on max.

Reading as always, about training, shoes, nutrition, etc. Complicating things too much, probably.

Telling myself that minimalism, properly understood, ought to represent the least optimal, not least possible, solution.

Same with maximalism. Or any other word representing anything too terribly extreme. 

Seek the effective dose. Stop breaking bones. 

This should not be a high bar, but I'm eyeing it, not quite ready to jump.