#solitude.com

15 12 2011

During a road race in the past year, I was startled by another runner pulling up beside me, rasping between breaths about what mile he had just passed, how he felt, when he expected to finish. Chatting me up, or maybe some sort of verbal self-motivation technique? Then I realized: he was phoning someone during his race.

That memory no longer seems startling, or even odd. On Facebook and other online venues I find myself increasingly discovering people tweeting, texting, and posting their race experiences while they’re on the run. And it’s not just running: The New York Times recently ran a story about Tommy Caldwell, one of the world’s best rock climbers, who updated fans around the world about his progress while climbing El Capitan in Yosemite Valley.

What were once solitary experiences, valuable confrontations with ourselves, are being self-published into a sort of global theater-in-the-round. One person quoted in the Times article, Katie Ives of Alpinist magazine, said that “instead of actually having the experience be the important part, it’s the representation of the experience that becomes the important part … something is lost.”

How long will it be before: “Tuff sesshin so far; enlightenment ahead #superbuddha.com”?





Through stillness and motion …

8 12 2011

… sitting, running, and life coursing through it all. Goodbye Gran, my last surviving grandparent; hello Clare Ana, our first grandchild. Sad and unexpected goodbyes to several co-workers and friends whose lives ended much too soon; hello to new friends made along the way and visits to friends from decades past. Goodbye corporate world of 30 years; hello specialty running retail store, where I now work as a running shoe specialist.

Through all of these changes, the constants are stillness (through zazen) and motion (through running). I am feeling the call to perhaps race less and simply run more, to spend more time on the cushion and explore the changes hurling their way out of the darkness.

Based on the traditional Chinese calendar, this had been described as a year of rest and relaxed activity. It has been anything but. I can give deep thanks for zazen and for running, those twin sons of different mothers. May they be with me, and I with them, as I continue sifting through the questions of 2011 and whatever lies ahead. “One inch ahead, all is darkness,” goes the Zen saying. Sitting, running, through stillness and motion, I vow not to expect answers, but to breathe with the questions. May the questions of 2012 challenge you in exciting and unexpected ways!





Huh, Huh, Huey Huey (Huey Huey Huh Huh)

23 07 2011

Training in the heat has resumed. I’m still doing some treadmill running mostly for shorter/more intense workouts. Wednesday evening, Saturday and Sunday are reserved for longer outdoor runs and, as sad as this is, I’ve actually already gotten acclimated to running in 85+ temperatures for up to nearly 3 hours. I suppose we’re all going to have to learn to get more acclimated, as the global climate continues its slow, disturbing changes.

Still early training days, and not much to say about them for now. I’ve also recently become a first-time grandfather to a beautiful baby girl, who I’ll get to hold in less than three weeks. Seeing her pictures and knowing I’m her “Pop” is, to paraphrase newlywed Abraham Lincoln writing about his marriage, a matter of profound wonder. It’s also a reminder that time is oozing on, and that every step I take in ultra training is a step closer to the day I won’t be able to do it any more. Not yet. But, of course, it will come.

I actually made two weekend sesshins in a row, which was invaluable time spent sitting and staring at a wall. It’s so wonderful how every sesshin encompasses the same basic schedule and activity, yet every one has its own personality. These were intimate sits where every breath in the room could often be heard. I was very glad to get some of my attention back, and realize how many different kinds of “hot” there really are … and how the ball of noisiness I perceive I’m hearing, when I allow it to unravel like a big ball of tangled yarn, is actually a continual symphony, resonating with infinite variety.

Thanks in part to those sesshins, this morning during my long run I was able to slip into the rhythm of my steps and breathing, which together played for me: “Huh Huh” (in breath) and “Huey Huey” (out breath). I found my groove and ran along to the sounds of Huh, huh, Huey Huey, Huey, Huey, huh, huh, around the lake spillway, up the east shore and all the way home. My own runner’s mantra!





Getting in more than a few miles

11 07 2011

My first official long run training weekend for the 2011-2012 race season went well. Yes, it was hot, but I took my time, followed my breath, ran cautiously and logged nearly three hours on Saturday morning and nearly two more on Sunday.

Recovery was challenging but not unexpectedly so; I obviously still have some heat acclimation work to do and, given the times and temps during both runs, my energy levels were low for most of the weekend. As a result my attitude was a bit on the cranky side too, but at least I was aware of it. All in all, not a bad start to training. I am participating in a sesshin this coming weekend which will make long runs impossible, but my race training will resume in full next week.

Recently I sat immediately after a run and noticed it felt like the third or fourth sit of a zazenkai or sesshin, rather than a first sit. Usually it takes a few sits into a Zen retreat for your mind to stop churning, but I’m guessing that thanks largely to the run I was able to “go deep” pretty much right away. A lot of the mind-emptying you normally have to do in the early part of a zazenkai or sesshin is probably handled quite efficiently during a typical training run … you almost literally run your thoughts into the ground. For some reason, that realization struck me during this particular sit.

I’m more convinced than ever that there are millions of runners all over the world who are meditating and don’t even know it.





Changing the rules: my fall race schedule

6 07 2011

I posted recently about my body telling me it wanted to run more, and how I responded by running more, and how my body responded positively to running more. Things were taken several furlongs further this past weekend when I sat down, did some searching, and came up with a tentative fall race schedule … along with the realization I wanted/needed to start ramping up mileage now, rather than the first of August.

What can I say? My body is telling me it’s ready, and there’s no sense in holding it to a predetermined timeline. I’m starting to run longer again this week, although I’m still many weeks from peak mileage. But it’s time, and it appears racing is still something I truly want to do, rather than just another habit.

This is how a longer off-season can be very helpful: rest, recovery, and reevaluation. Not so much a conscious, thinking reevaluation, but just letting the body do most of the driving. I’ve become a pretty firm believer that your body and gut know a lot of important stuff; your mind just makes 3D movies for your ego to star in. In recent years, I have tried to never enter an off-season with the expectation that I would participate in even a 5K again. I try very hard not to think about racing again at all.

And when I give my body and gut time and space to reconsider things and go with what emerges, the right action usually will be made clear. Then it becomes a matter of aligning my mind to my body’s thinking. Which isn’t always easy, as we typically go about most things the opposite way.

So here’s my tentative race schedule until the end of 2011:

9/17 Tour des Fleurs 20K, Dallas, TX
10/9 Tyler Rose Half Marathon, Tyler, TX
10/22 24 The Hard Way (12-hour version; trail), Oklahoma City, OK
11/19 Wild Hare 50 Mile Trail Run, Warda, TX
12/3 Run Like The Wind 12-Hour (trail), Austin, TX
12/31 Across The Years 24-Hour (lottery dependent), Nardini Manor, AZ

We’ll see about Across The Years (ATY). If not ATY, I’ll find another 24-hour or 100 mile race in the same general time slot to fill the gap. So far as early 2012 goes, I’ll cross that bridge once I’ve crossed a few others.

Goals? I’d like to enjoy and be present with every step. I’d like to log 60+ miles for a 12 hour race (my best is a little over 58). I’d like to crack 100 miles for 24 hours. I’d like to end the season healthy. I’d like to really take pleasure in my training, and realize that training is of course running too. and that running is still something I enjoy and still a vital part of my Zen practice.

A lot of desires for sure. So, here we go. To quote one of guitarist and composer Robert Fripp’s many wonderfully appropriate aphorisms, “With commitment, all the rules change.”





Relationships, running, and racing

27 06 2011

Why do we race? Why do we keep lining up at starting lines, crossing “finish” lines, and starting all over again at another start line? I haven’t participated in a race since March 25, a half marathon, and I haven’t really thought about racing in the future. But there is something in me that is craving more than exercise: over the past two weeks, for no particular reason, I began running two more days per week, and have started running with significantly more intensity than in recent weeks. There was no timetable for this; my body, impatient with the current clock I had set for it, was simply telling me it wanted to run more, and faster. I responded with some caution, but given how well my body has taken to my response, I know now it was the right thing to do.

I have some vague notion of really starting to ramp up mileage again in August, for a race schedule I haven’t even begun to really think about. For me, part of taking time away from racing is to look from a distance and understand my relationship to racing. Part of it is certainly that I still enjoy pushing my body-mind to its limit, and seeing if that limit can be pushed out further somehow. There is also a lot of personal fascination in balancing nutrition, hydration, and pacing issues during a 12- or 24-hour race; it’s like playing the old classic PC game Oregon Trail, but for real.

But, if I’m really honest with myself, my ego enjoys telling people that I’m about to take part in a 50-mile trail race. And, even deeper, there is in me a desire to somehow stand outside of the herd, to find a club (paraphrasing Woody Allen) where, if I’m not the only member, I can at least be counted among the fewer … even though, paradoxically, I tend to not like the spotlight shining on me.

In short, my relationship to running and racing is complicated, because I’m a neurotic mess. But I’m really no different from anyone else; like the late Zen teacher Charlotte Joko Beck (another memorial in this year of memorials) said, we’re all a neurotic mess, really. It’s not until you take time away from something and study it carefully from a distance, the way we do our minds in zazen, that you become aware of just how messy things (and we) are.

Why take time to find out you’re a mess? It helps clarify your relationships to things and makes it easier to laugh at and live with your neuroses — and help avoid the traps, big and small, your egoistic tendencies might push you into. Should I really run two marathons a month for the next 12 months and start a website about it? Why? Am I really capable of a Boston Marathon qualifier, or do I just want to use the phrase “Boston Marathon qualifier” at parties? If you pay close attention, taking time away brings perspective and helps qualify and prioritize the hungers and desires you’re feeling.

But in the past two weeks, my body told me, “run more” and I have responded. It feels right, is the only thing I can think of. Where it will lead in the weeks and months ahead, I can’t really say. For now, I’m just trying to listen.





Training Break #199

24 06 2011

Remember also that a little humor about all this isn’t a bad idea. Essentially we never get rid of anything. We don’t have to get rid of all our neurotic tendencies; what we do is begin to see how funny they are, and then they’re just part of the fun of life, the fun of living with other people. They’re all crazy. And so are we, of course. But we never really see that we’re crazy; that’s our pride. Of course I’m not crazy — after all, I’m the teacher!

– from Everyday Zen: Love and Work
Charlotte Joko Beck, 1917-2011
Peace and healing to her friends and family





Every step is important

14 06 2011

“Anything within a performance is significant, whether intentional or not,” says composer, guitarist and composer Robert Fripp. This is certainly true of racing. Just a few seconds’ slip of awareness can lead to bypassing a crucial refueling stop, missing a trail marker and getting lost, or absently tipping any one of another thousand dominoes, toppling over the best laid race plans. Part of a runner’s training is to constantly practice staying with the breath and maintain awareness with every step, always being present in the here and now despite pain and fatigue, despite the ego urging us to go faster, faster. Stay with your breath and body, and continually adjust your race based on their constant feedback. Your mind and emotions make stuff up; your breath and body are what they are, and they never lie. Stay with them, relax in their unerring guidance, and understand every step is important, another few inches closer to your goal. Don’t let one go by unnoticed.





Arrivals, departures

13 06 2011

I wrote about memorials in my last post, and the memorials continue. My 93 year-old grandmother (and last surviving grandparent) died last week, and we attended her service this past weekend. A young mother of two surrendered to cancer after a long struggle, and her funeral is today. All in all, seven deaths since January that have personally touched our family’s lives in one way or another.

This week, I’m running to remember. This coming weekend, I’ll be participating in a sesshin, and with all of the memorials visited so far this year, it will be interesting to see where my thoughts go. Last night I dreamed my wife was starting to tell our two daughters what she had just heard about the death of a 12 year-old they seemingly both knew, but she dissolved into grief without me ever hearing the name. I woke up soon after, the sound of her vividly imagined weeping still in my ear. Deaths both real and fantastic, reality and dream.

At the same time we attend memorials to those gone, we anticipate an arrival: our older daughter will soon give birth to our first grandchild, a girl. How will this emerging life influence our advancing lives, our waking and dreaming? Impossible to predict. But in this year of departure, I know we’ll be grateful for her bright new presence.





Memorials

1 06 2011

I like to run through cemeteries. Apart from enjoying the relative quiet and solitude, I find a certain comfort in running past the rows of tombstones – some mirror-shiny, some mossed-over and faded. The starkly chiseled names seem to take on more resonance in the stillness, conjuring up worlds of unseen family, neighbors and friends, buried and alive … those still very much with us, those newly mourned, and those forgotten in time.

It has been a sad summer at my office. Three younger people, two of whom I knew well, have died — two from illnesses that can fell our fragile sacks of bones in an instant or slowly erode them over many years, the other from drowning. There were memorials, all three remembered and mourned in different ways. We want them to stay with us, we can’t believe they’re gone. We cling, we mourn, our own lives continue, but for how long? “One inch ahead, all is darkness,” goes the Zen saying.

I’ve always had an uneasy relationship with Memorial Day. Certainly we should remember those who have died in war, but they are perhaps our greatest tragedy. Humans reduced to killing each other is collapse on a cosmic level – failures of communication, of wisdom, of patience, of generosity, of understanding, of will, of imagination and creativity, of love and compassion, of courage. The young men and women who bravely paid the highest price for the colossal failures of others are rightly mourned and remembered. But I deeply wish it were not necessary to do so.

We’re building other, lesser memorials all the time: memorials to the job we didn’t get, the relationship that didn’t work out, the house or car we want but can’t afford, the race that didn’t go as planned. But the power of these lesser shrines is undeniable and inexplicable. We can worship and grieve at them almost as fervently as we can those in cemeteries. Letting go, on any level, is very hard.

I like to run through cemeteries, but I always, at least while I still can, try to make it a point to leave them. Remembering is helpful, clinging less so. Certainly remember those who have left us, learn from the examples of their lives and deaths, and carry those lessons forward. Visit the memorials, remember, and learn. But don’t pitch your tent in their shadows.








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