Monday, February 1, 2016
the clouds warped sunrise light into faint elephants of pink and mauve, while the big kid talked on and on beside me, and my cleats punched sidewalk salt to dust in the dark. it was the first time i had walked her to school in nearly a year. it was the third time i rode a bike to school this new year. it was a perfect start to a day.
i spent so many days cruising up and down the roadways of this city that i forgot the rhythms of a two-wheeled commute. i forgot about breathing and timing starts with lights and lights with buses and buses with efforts and efforts with breathing. today was ridden on a geared bike with two brakes and one fender and clipless pedals and a saddle that has a hard spot on the left side. there was more flow in the never-ending effort of riding a fixed gear. no gears and one brake and two fenders and a pedal stroke for every movement in every direction. i was faster than the fixie today. slower than the car. happier than a commuter.
although i may not come to it for some time, i fantasize about being a force to reckon with. those rocks that get buried by the spring run-off, and then poke their heads through the current just enough to make an eddy, they don't know that there's a river coursing by. or maybe they do, but they're so damn heavy, they just sit there and only move for really big deals, like earthquakes and glaciers, or really soft touches, like a thousand-year-old streams. it would be nice to be so unbothered, so sure of mass, so full of gravity, as to sit, content, in the flow, looked for, looked to for support and relief, becoming only more beautiful with the wearing-down of time. i rode today all baffled by wind and air walls pushed along by the blunt-nosed buses full of staring commuters. i held my line. i wondered aloud at the lack of anywhere safe to cross the 401. i gave one person the finger and was yelled at by another. it was not a day of flow. there need not be any explanations to any of these things. i have not explained the line i chose through the most cracked-up intersection in the city. there is no reasoning behind a car full of kids just trying to get to dance practice. there is no rationale for that buttery-smooth pavement interrupted by a single steel grate. i don't know why i noticed a thousand things and remembered the ones that ruin them all. tomorrow will be another ride. tomorrow we try again.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
a while ago, I was toying with the idea of doing a post on why I'm so awesome. i was on a bit of a rampage, going hard through my workouts, making good relationships with people at work, getting shit done. i even knew how to make a figure-four deadfall trap.
and then it all fell apart.
the trap turned out to be very sensitive and would have been effective if it weren't for the lack of pull in the decade-old bungee cord that was supposed to provide tension. the running workouts were awesome and hard and propelling me toward absolute victory in my sub-three-hour-marathon goal, and then my mind got so tired and preoccupied it was all i could do to make it through the wind one foot in front of another in the golden sunshine of no man's land. and i got complaints and consultations at work, something about questioning evaluations and consistency and something else. bullshit.
there is no need to talk about all the broken feet and ankles in the house this autumn. there is no need to address the things that got lost in yardwork long past due, or the things that got lost between 'me' and 'you'. there is no need to write about the fact that i can't write so much anymore, that everything that used to be is no more, that easy wasn't even yesterday, that tomorrow no longer shines with possibility. we may not give up on hope or progress or the nitty gritty in between, but, i tell you, there is much more to be desired. i still wake up exhausted but it's not always because i ran so far the day before. my legs hurt but not in a good way. my lungs are slowly filling with the thick dredge of winter. and you'll notice there's no poetry here.
so on we go, hapless and hazardous, teetering on edges more than brinks, just stumbling toward somewhere that's got to be better than here and now, because here and now kinda sucks. on and on and on.
Thursday, July 9, 2015
i knew that the distance was too long and the leg was too sore and it was too cold and there was too little daylight left, but knowing and believing are very different things.
winter hit toronto hard, so the running was hard, so the will had to be harder. more commutes to work were done on foot than on two wheels. more workouts were done in the snow than on salty pavement. we drove a lot of sundays, making sure the kids enjoyed winter rather than groaning about it like their old man too in love with the wrong sport.
every sunday, after skiing, i got dressed in all of my layers, and went out for the long run. my weeks included at least four runs, one of them long, and one of them thrashing myself at the club circuit of intervals. a bunch of men and women flying around snow-covered neighborhoods every tuesday night. steaming in the frozen car on the drive home. dark tuesdays at the burger joint if it was a pay week. soggy shivers home if it wasn't. sundays were just long and the soggy shivers happened at the end, coming into the hill, nowhere near any triumphs.
i got used to chasing the sun. i got blisters from my yaktrax the tuesday before, so that sunday i resolved to duct tape the toe boxes of my road trainers, and i set out for laps of a local snowy road. i made four sets of tracks in the middle of the road, an out and back not being long enough for the full distance. footsteps slurred through the corners, found solid ground the further they got from the highway. the best times were when it was just snowing and silent.
my knee hurt that afternoon.
the next week was a longer run, a longer way from sunset to home, so i ran west to make the most of it. i jumped snowbanks and dodged construction fences. i ran around pillars and people and potholes. i ran to the west end, then the watch beeped a muffled bleat beneath layers, and i turned around. by the time i was almost home, there was fresh snow and no one had shoveled and i was out of gels and still three kilometers short of the distance, so i ran up a street, over a street, up a street, over a street, and so on, snaking my way to the full 21 kilometers. five steps from the porch, i was done.
i sat on the kitchen floor, thawing and steaming, and generally resolving myself into a dew, when i realized: my knee hurt.
i started some physio and saw some experts and did all kinds of exercises that week. nothing helped. the knee seemed like it would be okay, and then it flared up to stabbing pain, and i knew something was going terribly wrong. but knowing and believing are very different things.
i knew i had a terrible case of IT band syndrome. i knew i had already paid for boston. i knew i had already booked my room and was ready for an airline seat sale. i just had to get there. and that was going to be the hardest part.
trust the training. we do this because it takes the pressure off of ourselves, and allows us to rely on something we've already done, something we've already achieved, something stockpiled in the cool room, right next to confidence and a small stash of dynamite, just in case.
i got to boston common by pure chance after a short ride on the boston bus system. i got on the humid school bus excited and a little stonefaced. i ran from the bus to pee as soon as we got into hopkinton. i huddled under a tent with other pre-race survivors while the wind and mist blew through the waiting area. i vaselined everything i could. i donated my warm clothes too soon. i took off my hat for the anthem. i cheered for meb. i smiled for twelve miles straight.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
what i said to the youth the other day. and i meant every word.
i yelled at my kids last night. two little girls, the most wonderful treasures in my world, were driving me nuts and not getting to bed fast enough at the end of such a day that would only end when their eyes closed to dream. i was too tired to get into hurtful words. i was too tired to be patient. so i sat, and i yelled.
when my knee was hurting for so many weeks and none of the therapists in the city could fix it, i finally got in touch with the best healer i know, and she told me one true thing: find where it hurts, and turn into the pain. you see, the tension arises because something is pulling on something else, maybe twenty other somethings, and somewhere along the way the pulling is too much so it hurts. turn toward the hurt. relieve the tension. the hurt will go away.
standing in front of you every day and trying to be worth your while is a nearly impossible task. i struggle, usually in silence, while trying to help you along to a better version of yourself. i hope all of you moving together will somehow rub off on me a bit and that maybe i'll be a bit better by the end of it too. the most important part of this whole deal is that i hope. my brother once told me that he did not hope, not at all, because he thought 'hope' was the same as 'wish' and wish was the opposite of work and he'd be damned if he wasn't going to get the things he wanted without earning them through work. it hurt me to hear him eradicate hope. so i worked to clarify the difference between the two words. hope is what makes us live and alive. wish is a frivolous want that falls far short of having a reason to breathe.
you and all that you will be, are part of my reason to breathe.
a girl asked me yesterday if i had heard about madeline. i had not. i still know next to nothing about her save the heart-wrenching vagueness of her obituary, or my own opinion that no one should have to have an obituary when they're only fifteen.
each day the routine remains much the same. we meet deadlines and adhere to schedules and make appointments just in time. we yell at our friends and our parents and our families and anyone else we love. we read and write and do math that makes no sense. we practice and then practice more. and all of this is a wondrous miracle. that we can have minds inside bodies with beating hearts that can love others'; that we can be aware of time and waste it or make it; that our time can be cut short, whether on our clocks or those of the ones we love; this is all a miracle, and none of it makes any goddam sense. because balance never has.
i may not propose a solution here, friends. i know no answers, hold no clues. i'm lucky to be here, i'm lucky to look at you and know just a scratch of you, and i have no idea how this miracle works. but if there's something out of balance, if you're wondering what's next and if there is anything next and whether anyone gives a shit about you, know that i do, and a ton of other better-informed, better-resourced, and better-looking people give a shit about you too. we're not trying to reach perfection here, friends. we're just trying to stay up. turn into the hurt. release it.
Friday, April 3, 2015
'we're going to the bridge in town to jump off it. can you meet us there?'
'i don't know.'
'let me ask my mom. hang on.'
i can picture that bridge, in that light, with zack and me sitting cross-legged smack dab in the middle of the warm and crumbling concrete, stretched slack over the lazy river twelve feet below. it was nine-thirty.
these days mean that every day starts before the sun and ends well after bedtime, no longer tangled in sheets, but in debts and expectations and dreams of everything going right. despite it all, i'm convinced it will work out. my leg will return as will my pace and the ability to hurt without injury. the credit card bill will return to zero after warm months' promises are paid for and enjoyed. i've mortgaged my present for excellence later and cupcakes in the meanwhile. it must be worth it.
on the wall between the dining room and the mudroom, next to photographs by my father and paintings by myself and drawings by the girls done in crayon and markers that used to smell, there is a framed poem. it talks all about the stuff that could have been done to make a house presentable. it talks about cleaning and polishing and keeping things tidy. it talks about foregoing all of that crap so that children could be raised well. that's about where we're at. take care of what's important; forego the trips to mexico and the down payments on overpriced real estate. give people what you've got. promise what you mean.
Monday, February 23, 2015
nicky said she had beautiful feet.
i had no idea what beautiful feet were, so he went on describing things to me so well that now i cannot go round without appreciating the aesthetic quality of anyone's feet. i liked my own hands well enough, with their longer fingers from my white grandfather coming out of their wider palms from my brown grandfather. that are not beautiful hands, but they get the job done and do not resemble sausages before or after cooking. asians have beautiful hands. this is a generalization of course, but true more often than not.
grant had rough hands. i suppose he was a real man from a time when real men worked with their hands, knew what do do with every tool in their garages, and would be lost in the moisturizer section of the nearest grocery store. turns out grant never used moisturizer. and she remembers her baths as a small child and the rough scrub from his hands on her perfect skin. he was a great father.
i came home one day from school to the house my dad had built with few tools and less money, and he was moisturizing his hands. they had cracked at every single crease. it was a wet and cold autumn that year when he secured a position as a labourer on the same crew he had employed to close in the house of his dreams before winter came. he bought a yellow raincoat with navy blue corduroy around the collar. he bought steel toe work boots with a green CSA triangle patch on the side. he worked in the rain, sloughing liquid concrete and bags of sand or mortar, until the boss called him in. his hands cracked. he went to bed early. and we were always warm.
my mother never paints her fingernails. deep reds and garish greens and the odd pink or powder blue have started decorating her toes, but only now, in her grandmother years, in her big house, mostly finished and nearly empty of all of us. painted nails would never do as she cares for the sick and medically needy. painted nails would chip on firewood at the furnace or the copper-bottom pots in the steel sink under the window. there is little time for painting nails when you've an entire world to put before your own whims.
time to get to work.
Friday, January 16, 2015
i am never ready to write.
i lay in bed last night, with stiff, heavy legs, thinking about all kinds of things and, eventually, resting on just a few eloquent lines for a spoken word poem about… it's left me. i came up with everything, rhymed and metered for a few perfect beats, then fell deeply asleep. i figured i could wake up in the morning and type them out and be a better person for getting something right before six a.m. this was not so.
the kids at work have been barreling through three-to-five-minute bursts of speeches through a range of topics. every time one of those shining faces opens a mouth to speak, a new idea rattles around inside my head, and i have to wrench my focus back to the evaluation at hand. nothing kills creativity like a goddam rubric. and so i want to speak. i would like to get up there, all important-like behind that lectern, and go off on some eloquent tangent like i know, and believe, what i'm saying. but i've spent days being quiet. and it's been great.
tracksmith sent me a free calendar. large and obtrusive, it dominates the wall of degrees in the office, holding its ground just above the light switch and an older work of so many crayons by the fat fingers of the big kid when she was little. the thick paper bears the grey, sans serif numbers of each day of every month for this year. underneath, in gilt bold block letters are three simple words: NO DAYS OFF. tracksmith also sent me a red sharpie. though i was hoping for a big fat marker that maybe smelled like synthetic cherries from the 80s, i use the sharpie to mark an 'X' over every day i run.
there are many Xs.
consistency being the key to mastery of so many things, i resolved to run more long before this calendar thing ever got tweeted or mailed in a real envelope to a real address. there are days off, but that only makes sense as rest days are as important as stress days. and it's fucking winter. but the main point is this: more often, i must do the right things. consistently, i must right and run and ride and grin and read more. there must be more Xs.
there will be no days off.
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
When I was a kid, all sixes and sevens and just barely adding up to thirteen, my dad gave me a valuable lesson. He said, 'Look at the people in your life who are good, the people you look up to, and figure out what makes them good. Then, work on being that way yourself.' I must have looked somewhat stunned at the moment, so he offered an example.
"Who do you look up to in your life? Who is a good person that you want to be like?"
My dad went on to espouse me of all the virtues of my grandfather, as if I did not already know them by heart. Bob is a people person. At any time, on any day, he could talk to anyone, and both parties would leave the conversation richer than at the start.
"What about hyacinths?"
"Yeah. The flowers."
"I don't know. He grows them in his basement. On the ping-pong table."
"That's right. All winter, they're there, doing nothing. Then, when it's springtime, they blossom. And they're beautiful to look at, and they smell wonderful, and you know what he does with them?"
"He gives them away."
My dad explained how Bob, without pretense or sinister intent or anything other than other-centeredness, would drive around in his massive grandpa car, and deliver the hyacinths to local friends. He would walk into a house full of boys and leftover plates of food and half pairs of socks mostly dirty from the fray, and he would stay for a chat, and he would always have a story, and then he would leave, the sparkling hyacinth still on the kitchen table.
And that's when the miracle would take shape.
You see, Bob was well up the road, likely negotiating some potholed turn or oncoming log truck, maybe enjoying the way snowbanks steam in spring sunlight while pine needles sink into their glistening crusty surfaces, when the hyacinth started to work. Of a sudden, the neighbor would be struck by its beauty. The fresh scent and the innocent pale petals would remind her of babies so many years ago. The soil would be perfectly damp and yet firm, and clean. Clean. She would start to clean.
It might be hours or days later, but the entire house, from cinder-blocked addition foundation to rough-hewn cathedral ceiling beam, would be clean. Every dish was polished and stacked neatly behind now-laundered cupboard curtains (the doors would be made next spring). Every sock had a mate and every tile, clean grout. The cracks between floorboards bore no witness to dusty new tenants, and served only to accentuate the character of carefully-laid planks. There was now a cloth on the table.
On top of the cloth, there were hyacinths.
"Find the good people; figure out what makes them good; be good like that."
Sunday, November 16, 2014
i wanted to wrap my tongue around words that didn't rhyme with my guilt.
i wanted to wrap my arms around a woman who didn't shy away, covered in other thoughts of other times that maybe were better but certainly won't happen again.
i wanted to wrap words around my tongue like her kisses used to fit, all tender and longing and satisfied, eventually.
i wanted to wrap my shoulders with something not quite as heavy as the weight of the world, but just as warm and burning.
these months are the cold.
'i should burn these'
'why not just recycle them?'
'or do you want the ceremony of actually burning them?'
i reached forward and took the very large pieces of wrinkled and creased newsprint, and slowly stuffed them together. the bodies, the torsos, rendered meticulously in hand-smeared charcoal to a recognizable likeness of our younger selves, pressed together in the haphazard way i still long for, and then filled the garish blue recycling bag. my hands got covered in charcoal. again, this was comforting. i smiled a grim smile then, holding my breath like i do when i empty the compost or scrub the toilet or wait for a reprimand, and held the bag full of drawings close to my chest.
'i shoulda burned them.'
Friday, October 17, 2014
we are supposed to grow up good.
and in this world of all being fair or all being well, there's not enough love and there's too much war and not much really ends well. i miss grant. and as much as i didn't know jeni very well, and as much as i cried real hard at jake's funeral, and as much as i wanted to go to jim's but couldn't get my passport in time, i've not been as angry about death as i am now.
i'm fucking pissed.
when we grow up, we are supposed to look up to people, supposed to be fed myths and legends and things that will make us be good people when we're too old for band-aids and too tired to fall in love. when we grow up, we are supposed to be good, supposed to be exemplary, supposed to still believe in concrete and important things that are enormous and amazing and too profound to fit in an italicized hallmark card in the stuffy aisle at the drug store. when we grow up, we should know better than to think things are fair, than to believe in santa claus or tooth fairies, than to go on inspiration alone. and at the same time, we should turn right around and nurture this behavior in the youth; propagate myths and outrageous hope; believe that good will prevail.
well, it fucking won't.
because there will be cancer. and there will be bodies that can't overcome cancer. and there will be patients who'll 'lose' their 'battle with cancer'. and there will be doctors who can't fix people and nurses who can't walk up the fucking stairs to administer drugs that won't cure the people we love anyway.
conrad marched slowly toward me in the line and looked like a mountain undergoing immediate and devastating erosion. he was a landslide. as he towered over me and crumbled visibly, he dwarfed my hands firmly in his and strengthened his voice and uttered a few words about 'a good man'. then he said it was too bad 'we couldn't save him'. conrad is a fucking financial adviser and i'm a useless son-in-law and neither of us knows shit about oncology other than knowing that word means you know sadness and loss and how fucking stupidly unfair all this sham is. then he blinked into the distance and took small steps away before fading into the hallway all covered in taupe and tears. funeral homes are not fair.
and tonight my daughter is sad because she no longer has a grandpapa. she only ever had one, and she was the one who made him a grandpapa, and now that amazing wonderful man is gone. and he wasn't even done yet. some people get taken when they're done and ready. some people get taken before they've even gotten going. and her grandpapa got taken in the middle of it all, in the prime of his rich, rich life, practically right out of her chubby little arms.
my lady is too stubborn to let go in front of any of us. she insists on being strong and tough and independent. she insists on taking care of all of us. she insists that that's what her dad would have wanted. and she's probably right. but i'm pretty fucking sure he would have wanted me to take care of her too. and frankly, i don't know how.
i have spent many of my ottawa hours in the good man's garage, fetching tools for him when he was well, then looking for hidden items when he wasn't, and now trying to make sense of things i've never understood. like the MG-B. or the collections of tools and lubes and paints but nothing to clean them up when they spill, or cover our ears from the noise. i guess that's kinda how things are going right now; we were so caught up in getting it all done, we weren't ready to clean up yet.
my lady mentioned today in her eulogy that she needed her dad's cancer diagnosis to slow her down, help her focus on the time that we actually had left, focus on making memories while we could. i drove thousands of kilometers every month, up to ottawa and back, making sure we had memories. and the old man, bless his heart, always had a ready smile, no matter the pain, and a firm handshake, no matter the lost weight, and a fire in his hopeful eyes, no matter the sunken cheeks. we slowed down. he sped up. in the friction between both lifestyles we made sparks of memories to keep. tonight i'm grasping at them before they fade into the sky. it is not fair.
so i held little z tonight.
at just seven months, he has been a perfect little gentleman the whole of his little life, and he seems to embody all of the calm and patience the old man put forth into this world. i held him just now, for a few hours, watching him sleep and breathe and dream and flail in his slumber, then settle and breathe again. he is calm and strong. his smile is ready.
my lady just got back from cleaning out the old man's office. stuck to a sticky corkboard on faded yellow paper was a simple objective typed, on a typewriter, in courier font size 12: to provide for my family and somehow do something to make this world a better place. in all that is completely unfair and undone and left unfinished and unwell, at least he accomplished his objective. a million fucking times over.
salut, monsieur. dormez bien.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
the first five notes of the koln concert are the least important of the first twenty-six minutes and they are followed by a ringing silence that can open a soul.
i have listened to the koln concert throughout most of my overemotional existence, ever since i was almost a teenager, ever since i had a favorite uncle, ever since i could stay up too late and wish that i was having a deep conversation with my dad while the rest of the kids were supposedly asleep. my daughter was born to its notes six and a half years ago. and now, while the kids are supposedly asleep, i listen for the silence.
i had learned that music was organized sound and silence in time, and i had learned this from the greatest music teacher in the nation, way out in the country, spending his gift on the rough and tumble youth at the tail end of a golden era. the silence is as important as the sound. without it, we've just got noise.
these are noisy days.
the weeks between this and the last post are plenty and strong. dates and times and faces and rhymes have taken to the current and blurred right on by. jada had a baby. so did the nanny. the postman ran a slow half. i made the hole shot in a masters race. my father in law breathes his last days. my mother in law tries to remember. i haven't kissed in years.
if you want to remember what it was like the first time, try forgetting the last time. if it's something that gnaws at your consciousness, if you just want to figure it out so you can let it go, if you can't help but keep it on the tip of your raw, stinging tongue, spit or swallow and then move. it's in the silence. that has to be found first.
Tuesday, June 24, 2014
my dad used to write us letters.
most of them were penned by hand, his distinctive all-caps block type interrupted here and there with 'm's that looked like the chinook coming down the foothills into the plains. most of them were stories.
although we could all read plenty fine, i distinctly remember being read these letters aloud. mostly my sister did it, sometimes my mother, and the entire experience lingers in the delicious category of my memory. somehow we weren't running around or doing chores or chasing bedtimes and baths. somehow the babysitter was done for the day. somehow we were all sitting still and quiet enough to hear the words. and they filled our imaginations, those words, they swelled our hearts and made us miss the man even more, though we were satisfied with being taken along on even a handful of his adventures. he wrote about water and canoes and rivers and heroes and giants and land and trees. before we left our home, he had built a dream for us to go to. those months–of leaving and packing and moving and driving and goodbye and let's go–could have been the most tumultuous of our lives; all i remember are the letters.
i heard once that george lucas, back when his storytelling was better, consulted joseph campbell prior to the writing of the original star wars trilogy. apparently, lucas knew that it was important to construct myth, and he wanted to get it right.
the letters from my father were constructed myth. though much of the stories was based in 'fact', the most important stuff, the stuff that sticks in my head and can be recited by all of my siblings word for word, that stuff was myth. it started off true and then went somewhere better, became bigger, made more sense and elevated our imaginations to greater possibilities. for kids growing up in the 80s with nikes on their feet and mcdonald's in their bellies, it was important, it was imperative, to construct myth, if for no other reason than to elevate.
throughout much of my life, i have had the luxury of long talks with my dad. early on, it was about anything and everything and most of it was just learning, and it wasn't hard, and it was my favorite time in the car or on the bike or before dinner was done. we would daydream together about going to italy some day, picking up a pair of brand new colnagos or pinarellos at the factory, and then riding and eating our way through the entire country. we would dream about having horses with hooves as big as my head, and a barn to keep them in, and the cool farm chores i could do. making any of those beautiful dreams come true was beside the point. the point was that we could and should dream, and we could do it together, each with his own honest smile, giddy in his heart.
it is important to construct myth.
it is important to have ideals, and embed those in good stories, and tell the stories to children and young people and old people you love. we must remember risk and adventure and challenge and triumph. we must recall comradery and the power of two hands holding together over rushing water. we must remember giants.
Sunday, June 15, 2014
'i like when you wash my hair.'
'you have a mane like a horse.'
'i like horses.'
'they're fast and strong and beautiful. like you.'
it's been years since i've bathed this child. she is in the last glowing months of absolute innocence, unformed by adolescence, game for anything except being a grown up. but now she has height that reaches her mamas, long quick legs, a sense of humor that grasps Irony, and a shattered right elbow. i haven't bathed this girl since she could do it herself, singing and playing in so much water, supervised and unhurried, a cherub with a cloth and bubbles. now she cradles a cast that weighs more than her head, now she steps gingerly, everywhere, now her neck gets pulled by the sling for her cast, now her freckles are fleeting reminders of her carefree days.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
before i became much of a man, my grandfather was gone.
i used to write poetry. it was pretty terrible. and i would send it to my grandmother because she was a master of literature and teaching and she would read it to my grandfather, sitting by his side, at a very long table that used to feed so many hungry mouths, and he would get exasperated and exclaim, "there's just too much sex in it!"
i hadn't had any sex when i wrote any of that stuff.
later on, before i even graduated from high school, my grandfather was gone. he left before i became something more elegant and possessed of agency than a hormone-ridden accident of circumstance and micromanaging. he left before i could run. he left before i met the lady of my life. he left before that lady and i made and raised some sweet sweet children that he would have utterly enjoyed. cancer doesn't care about sweet cheeks.
this grandfather is one i think of often. he had many children. he had much bitterness. he had a hard time figuring out where he fit in a family he loved more than himself. he collected knives and grandchildren and sharpened both with care. he loved hunting. he loved the stories about it more. from this grandfather, i have my champagne taste, a quick temper, and an old seiko watch from the 80s. it may well be as old as i am, and it ticks by the kitchen sink, and blinks rapidly to let me know that its battery is nearly exhausted, and i left it there to do the dishes.
i have a grandfather that knows me now, and i wonder if there is much to be proud of. he knows my children, and welcomes them into his home and laughs at their hilariousness, and hugs them though he can no longer lift them. it seems now that he is the delicate one, that they are careful with him.
the lack of hair on my head, the blue in my eyes, the moles i get removed every few years from my freckled white skin, and my long fingers are from this grandfather. despite my champagne taste, i have joad family resolve, and my jalopy of dignity, however rickety, will make the trip. i got this from him.
there is no resolution here, no respite. onward and upward is the only way to go. struggle makes the most sense. there is no time to falter. the cheeks are still sweet.
Thursday, May 22, 2014
Rain slapped the pavement. Wind blew inland from the lake, whipping flags through soggy seizures, the spray into my eyes. There was no relief in going down. Puddles found fissures in the road to pool and arrest rivulets in no difference between my skin and shiny tarmac. We churned.
Reaching the parking lot at the first gate, stuttering to a slow stop over the chopped pavement and grieving patches of slick tar, turning left to go up again, hunched forward, leaning into the gear.
The machine leapt forward. Shiny black metal polished with embrocation and thigh stubble, it was a cat closing on prey. No need to get out of the saddle. No need to push harder than smoothly, to shift to a larger cog, to hunch or gasp. No need to do anything beyond a subtle wrapping of light grip around the tops of the bar, and a coaxing (more in myself than of the machine) toward the grade.
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
my favorite color is red.
the semi-sour smell of black leather seats preempted our stifled exit from the volvo that afternoon. i must have gotten out of the back seat on the righthand side, edging my faded nikes between the crackling silver panels of the car, and the chafed latticework of the fence.
a silent sunlight roared through the slats.
and everything was sticky, and gold.
i was the last one through the gate, carrying something plastic and annoying against my skin. i started toward the back door, always eager to rush past the concrete pad i had watched my father pour to serve as a storage area for now-greying trash cans wilting in the sun. and maybe someone said, 'shhhh!', or maybe i stopped hearing, but in a moment, everything went quiet, and i looked up.
between my dad peering over the chipped sill of the back porch window and the shadow in which i stood, there, shiny and proud in all its bmx, kickstand, butterfly tread glory, was my first bike.
and it was red.
Sunday, February 16, 2014
some time around this time, 16 years ago, my grandfather died in his sleep.
he had had a long bout with diabetes, and cancer, and cancer again, and then a heart attack. my dad was there. they had moved my grandfather's bed to the living room on the ground floor, had waited on him and laughed with him and tried to resuscitate him when he stopped breathing, but he had stopped breathing, and they remembered that he wanted it that way, when it was time.
i remember coming back to school after time down south for the funeral. it was cold and it was march and i was generally in a daze. i hugged my buddy zack in the hall, no words spoken, because his grandfather had died a few months earlier. and probably none of us got it. but then i got it. and then i pulled away, he looked at me funny, and i realized not everyone has the grandfather that i just lost.
on a very cold night a couple months earlier, i was on an accidental date with a beautiful girl with brown eyes and a quick smile. we had gone to look at stars. i had brought a sleeping bag. there were no plans to do any kissing. it was in my dumber days when i thought i could get away without euphemism, get out and look at stars on a freezing cold night on a lookout near a highway in a blue ford sedan. apparently not. i got home that night and was in enormous trouble for having completely forgotten to pick up my brother and my dad's sound equipment from my brother's elementary school dance. i went to bed in massive trouble with my dad, a disappointment to my brother, and completely confused by this beautiful girl who had just spent the last couple of hours kissing her way into my heart.
in the middle of the night, my dad got a call from his dad. it was time for my grandfather to die. my dad had to leave now.
my dad had to leave in the car i had just borrowed to go on a date with a girl who didn't know or love me while i forgot to take care of my little brother and, instead, drove the girl home to leave the gas tank at less than a quarter. in the middle of the night, when your father calls to tell you that he has decided to die and he wants you to be with him while he confronts this, there are no gas stations open between your oldest son's stupidity and the part of the country where things are open past 6pm.
somehow, my dad made it to a gas station.
this is all very important because somewhere in there there is a story about the way things seem to go, and how i will always manage to fuck it all up because i am smitten with some girl who doesn't even know me and won't love me back. there will always be a story about how everything means so much more to me than to anyone else and on this interface with the world, there is no telling how many other stories i've missed or gotten wrong. there are details, devils and otherwise, and i'm missing them because i think no one 'gets' what it's like to be me, with my heart, in the face of all of them. how gross.
i was walking toward a ridable street the other day after having spent some time in line at the flower shop with every other man hoping to flower up his own bitter truth on one cold day in february. i go to this flower shop regularly. i never spend this much money in one shot, on one bouquet. i didn't think twice. i found the red roses, strategically priced at a premium above all other roses, and any flower in the shop the day before, and i got in line, and i complimented other men on their choice of arrangement. i paid for my bouquet, left, unlocked my bike, and started home.
on the sidewalk, a lady with golden hair glanced at my bouquet and, with an under-the-breath scoff and condescending smile, marched on while starting a new statement of complaint, 'this cracks me up…' i could just imagine the rest of her sermon. something about men and convention and one day a year that they should, commercially- and societally- and maybe even sexually-driven, 'be nice' to their (normalized, hetero-) lady, buy her flowers, and measure up to some kind of proper. (i had just left the store where a rough-looking local had tried to glean the 'meaning' of blue roses from the mandarin-speaking proprietor of the shop. she had politely asked him to ask someone else. he was demanding. they're flowers, fucknut, assign the meaning yourself and pay the cash and get on with it.) or maybe all these guys carrying bouquets cracked her up because no one even likes roses. or maybe because it brought us all together, this brother/partnerhood of folks, from all walks/locomotions of life, in our quest to be a good person to our significant person. my grandmother starts calling out people's birthdays as 'significant birthday' when they get to be too old to be happy ___th. maybe i'm too old to buy flowers on vday.
and then i got home and put the bouquet in water and got the girls and some groceries and set to work making an awesome tasty dinner. i wasn't expecting romance. i wasn't expecting sex or love or whatever else is supposed to happen on vday with a dozen long stem roses on the table. i was just expecting to not be in trouble for not meeting some unwritten and unspoken expectations. i was expecting to feed happy children and send them to bed with dreams of being winter olympians. i was expecting to be able to relax. and i guess i did.
when zack pulled out of my hug and when that blonde lady scoffed at my bouquet i figured it was all just the same old story of me: no one gets it. and that's fine and that's good and there's a lot of safety in that, but somewhere, some time, this solo effort will end. will there ever be enough gas or flowers to get us through?
Friday, February 7, 2014
the very sunlight that washes over everything in that impossibly-golden hue, the glow that spills in and sets alight anything that might possibly even be thinking about reflecting, the stuff that pours through window panes and hair against the wind, even this just feels like guilt when someone has cancer.
i stood in someone's shower, memorizing the droplets before they left my skin, each hitting the mat to trickle into the deep unknown, and i thought about what i had just done. it wasn't anything major; an easy pace, a long run, some time spent with the woman who fell in love with me a few lifetimes ago, and every step was away from, and then back to, someone with cancer.
the other night at running practice, the mailman and i churned around rykert crescent, trying to keep our double loops under four minutes, egging each other on and driving the pace to spit and cough through our ninety-second recovery. on the fourth double loop set of six, i started up the straight and thought about someone with cancer. i thought about how he might not ever be able to run. i thought about his granddaughters who love to run. i ran faster. i used to think i could run myself away from any kind of heredity. i thought i could run myself away from the diabetes that killed my grandfather. i thought i could run myself away from the heart disease that has taken all but one bitter sibling of my stoic grandmother. i thought i could run myself out of a hangover that is nothing compared to the alcoholic stain in both blood lines. if only i could run the cancer out of everyone.
an important notion in endurance sports is the arrogance of capability. this is important because we're capable of doing what most others are not. we identify ourselves by determining what we are not. and yet, confronted with the most basic human truth, that we are mortal, there is no capability to overcome or run beyond or just push through. cancer wins, and far too often.
an important notion in endurance sports is the arrogance of capability. this is important because we're capable of doing what most others are not. we identify ourselves by determining what we are not. and yet, confronted with the most basic human truth, that we are mortal, there is no capability to overcome or run beyond or just push through. cancer wins, and far too often.
i reached toward my face to brush off a maddening drip. in the fury of movement dexterity became paw. i could only be described as animal.
the major evolution for people and prey was the separation between breathing and eating. all of a sudden, we could run. i ponder this to avoid choking on oversized bites of energy bar, chunks between chattering teeth, wrapper clamped between handlebar and wet, numb fingers. my hands look like those of a corpse, bloodlet and clean. my jaw grinds food. i go.
in order to tell truths about things, especially ourselves, it is often easiest and least disturbing if we dress them up in blatant, shocking horrors, something better buried than whispered or wept over.
but if you've never pulled a child from rubble or watched bullets push life out of your best friend's chest, you might get hung up on those truths, whoever's they are, and skip over the most important part being told.
we lie fantastically so you don't hear what we whisper in our sleep.
Sunday, January 5, 2014
it's going to be a tough new year.
a long time ago, i came to some ill-informed decision that spending, money or other perceived-to-be-valuable-to-someone-(likely)-else things, was bad. things of value are for saving. (in writing this, i am coming to the drastic conclusion that i was misperceiving what things were valuable, and to whom, but that's a whole other story…) so i carefully and haphazardly and completely unintentionally built up an odd list of things that should be saved. a random sample might have included:
- powerbars and clif bars - for times when the ride or backpacking trip was so epic that such an expensive bit of 'nutrition' should actually be employed
- carabiners - just in case
- first kisses - for the right time and place and lighting and face and..trembling
- dollars - for new gear or bike parts or things that kept me fascinated and motivated through the earning of the dollars
- virginity - hm…
- drawings, every single damn one - to show at my retrospective when i eventually became a famous artist
- love letters - they meant a lot, and it's not often things that mean a lot are given to people who need them
- frames on rolls of 36 exp. slide film - that stuff wasn't cheap
- sheets of pearl finish ilford photo paper - also not cheap, let alone readily available for purchase in the ottawa valley
- batteries in mini mag lites and portable cassette players - hm.
- inner tubes - somehow i rode patched tubes for the entirety of my riding days until i made it through my third year of university
- my dad's clothes - he's still around, and we still talk, but those threads meant a lot to me, frayed and faded and perfectly ill-fitting on me.
eventually, things got a little more figured out. i stayed sentimental and tried to adhere to a misinformed and misformed notion of my 'moral self'. i tried very hard to be a stand-up guy. i tried to see things through. i ended up doing a lot of things i didn't want to do at all. and i didn't do even more things that i was really, really dying to do.
she was not taller than average, but she held a poise and grace about her that belied some kind of regality. i thought her egyptian, a ruler, she was dark of hair and looked like someone whom should be obeyed, somewhere, somehow. i had asked her of her ethnic background, as my co-actor and i had been discussing her and how pretty she was. in the honest quest for the information, i completely missed the part where she assumed it was another pick-up line and rolled her eyes accordingly. dumb and unaware and just happy to be talking to two pretty girls at all, let alone at once, i smiled and waited for her answer: 'brazilian and lebanese'. i must have choked. there was goodness happening there. later on, her doctor would ask her why she didn't need a prescription. she didn't want to get into a long explanation regarding my misguided and grossly inflated sense of 'morals', so she responded that she just didn't. he persisted. he asked if she had a boyfriend. yes. didn't they have sex. no. why not. i don't know. does the boyfriend have something wrong with him. no…
lots of things wrong with him then and now, but one thing that has not changed is the sentimental self. one christmas i was dedicated to listing the things that made christmas christmas, and then i carried them out, with fervour, making sure that my family had christmas whether it was in a traditional way or not, whether my lady could leave the couch or not, whether i worried about the unborn baby we may never have or not, whether i was man enough to make it all happen or not. i needed christmas that year. i needed to get out my nostalgic and sentimental self and make some occasion, on my terms, with agency, on purpose. so many occasions in my life have just happened, more accidentally than epically, and more occasions must be made, and i have to see them coming first, so that i can get them right when they finally arrive, so that i can stop screwing it all up.
so this year, this new year, the first thing i did was get up before 8, put on a ton of clothes, and meet my buddy for a trail run in the frigid snow of the east don. we ran hard up and fast down. we cut new lines and i did my best not to bail while following his flying cleats over ice and snow and fallen brush everywhere. we got back to the parking lot, chests heaving and the sun peaking out for the first time in a long time, and i knew we had done something right. maybe that's where the occasion starts, without a ceremony, just doing the right thing at the right time, with everything we've got.
we are just five days into this brand new year, and there's someone else's baby that cries me awake every night, and my legs are just starting to come around to running and riding again, and there's a gleaming new torture machine in the living room, all set up and waiting, and i've already been through a whole other roller coaster of ceremony and saving. turns out, i'm no good at saving. so i was about two steps away from buying that full carbon TT bike in the west end yesterday after some craigslist flake failed to sell me a commuter mountain bike. i had shaken the sales guy's hand and given him my name, sized up the frameset, inquired about the specifics of warranty and service options, fondled the carbon a bit. i had made up my mind. only a phone call and a fitting away, that TT bike was mine. then i thought about it. i always overthink things, but i especially overthink the spending of money, especially when it's a big ticket purchase, especially when it's a purchase just for me. this time last year, i bought a wicked new camera body that i've only just now paid off. it was half as much as this bike, and it documented the adventures of my family all year, and will continue to allow me to make that special christmas calendar for others, and could make some other money if i ever got around to selling my portfolio better. that TT bike? that won't make me crap. it will really just be a series of holes in my savings, upgrading wheels, paying race fees, the list goes on. and it would only be for me. and the truth of it all: i don't really deserve it. i haven't put thousands of kilometers on the bike i already have. i haven't put thousands of hours on the trainer. i haven't gotten my big girl a bike that actually fits her. i haven't paid the goddam hydro bill. i've got dreams to pay for, and miles to go before i sleep.
there will always be another killer deal. (although, if anyone knows of an $80 mission workshop rambler bag in toronto that i sold two summers ago for quick cash, please send it my way…) but right now is the time to buckle down, to have something to show for myself, to put the time in, to earn things. it's going to be a long, hard year, but i'm pretty sure that's all i'm built for anyway. bring it.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
christmas is like a long, hard ride: the more you put into it, the better it is.
my favorite christmas in childhood memory was one of the first in the house that my parents had built, up on a snowy white hill surrounded by leafless maples and swaying spruce. we had all gone to the local small town. we had all searched and searched for gifts that would be 'perfect' for that particular person in the family. i had never spent so much time considering what pair of wool socks would best suit my little brother. i had never considered the soap my sister might like. i was sure those patterned socks would be perfect for my mom.
i had worked for the past few weeks in the wood shop of the local school, making novelty items out of scrap lumber, routering people's names into knotty pine, painting wooden christmas tree ornaments cut crookedly with a scroll saw then painted green, putting the mirror in another 'key rack' that no one had a use for. it was glorious.
everyone got socks that christmas.
then my parents went back to bed, my brothers and i went out to play hockey in the snow with my new net and puck, my sister started reading her book, and we were to reconvene for brunch. i remember quite vividly how fluffy the snow was, like stick handling the puck over snow after a goose down pillow fight. the sun was beaming. light glinted off of everything shiny or snow-covered, which was everything out there. my new sweatpants were bright red, like the paint on the hockey net. my brothers were flashes of blue and wool grey. we were giddy with the pleasure of the moment. mom was home. dad was home. we were proud of the gifts we had given. we were covered in light.
christmas has since devolved and then evolved into a time of midnight drives and sleepy presents, pressure cooker accommodations and the constant failure of myself to meet anyone's expectations. sometimes there was bedrest. sometimes there was christmas on the road. sometimes it was on the 25th and everyone was angry. sometimes it was before and didn't feel like christmas. sometimes we showed up a day later and every conversation ached like a hangover. yesterday, yesterday was evolution. we woke up in our own beds. the girls opened their stockings and presents. there was not enough, but this is a budget year, and they get twisted expectations from their friends at school. then we ate and all was well. there was coffee and gluten free cinnamon buns. there was bacon. it was christmas, evolved back into what it should be. and then it started snowing, big, fluffy flakes, covering everything in cold, white down. i was not angry.
now it's the time for resolutions, for promising to make next year just a little bit better, to plan a little tighter, to give a little more. now it's the time to ramp everything up as we hit the road and try not to screw up christmas under other people's expectations (not that i know what any of them are, let alone how to reconcile them with the realities of weather, driving, or my own little family). not really a problem; we all know that i'll fail to meet most people's expectations so there's no need to stress about the inevitable. next year though, next year i will cover all of us in light.
Friday, December 20, 2013
he was tall, lean, and hungry-looking, blonde with perfect teeth, and lips that stretched over his mouth when he smiled, and he usually smiled, especially when he was telling a story. this was lying through your teeth, only better, and beautiful.
he wore sweatpants with no logo, burgundy probably, at some point, and white socks, white at some point, that vanished into dirty red converse. his t-shirt was perfectly worn: yuppies a decade later would have paid premium dollar for such 'stonewash'. his hair curled a bit, and matted a bit more. he was local.
being shorter and newer and not from around there, i rushed home and transformed myself instantly. i dug out my most faded sweatpants to replace my new creased jeans. i put on the broken converse i had already grown out of. i left my t-shirt on. i was local.
where i grew up, when i grew up, we were all just as poor as each other. we all made our own fun in the trees behind our houses. we swam in the river and dove between the little oil slicks on the surface of the waves at the public dock. we rode stripped down mountain bikes without helmets or even shorts. we perfected the staycation, traveling everywhere by bike, our stories and egos getting bigger on every mile of the three between our parents' houses. no one went to vermont to ski. no one went to mexico on march break. i wore hand-me-down skates from the doctor's son. we all had patches on our knees and hemmed-out pants that were a little too short. when i grew up, we were all too poor to know any other way of it.
later on, we found out that there were differences.
i would never be local. i wasn't born there. my parents weren't from around there. and even though my dad built local houses and drove local trucks and my mom patched up local drunks and idiot snowmobilers at the local hospital, we would never be local. maybe that's why it was so easy to leave. we got good grades and worked far away. sometimes we stayed and fell in love with local girls. we just weren't from around there. and now, when i ride local roads with people who aren't from around there, i'm proud to say that i grew up on those roads, that riding those hills was the only way to see the girl i loved.
later on, that perfect blond boy with the smile and the uncle who played in prairie oyster would grow up. we wouldn't be friends anymore, wouldn't really even say hi. maybe we would nod in the hallway at high school. he would smoke and snowboard at the hill. i would snowboard in my backyard and avoid asthma attacks. his brother got into hard drugs and was later diagnosed as schizophrenic. we were different.
my kid asks me sometimes why we don't go to mexico for march break, or why she doesn't go skiing on winter weekends, or why we don't own our house or send her to different camp in the summer, or have a cottage… she knows that there are differences. i tell her that it's because of the choices of her mama and me, that we picked certain things to do for jobs, and certain things to spend money on, and that with these jobs and those money things, there's only so much money to go around. and then i remind her that i get to see her every day and every weekend, while i'm not out making a million dollars a year. we don't own our house, but we get to send her to school that's only a short walk away, and is another short walk from the grocery store, and the park, and 'amenities'. we made choices. we spent money on school and bikes and being healthy instead of rich. and then, to sum up, to make sure that she need not worry about her rank in the neighborhood family status thing for everything, i remind her that her mama rides faster than every lady in the neighborhood, that the little girl has the nicest bike of any kid in her school, that we may drive a small car but our bikes are nicer than most people's cars, and that she's more important than a million dollars a year, and i'd rather chase her in the park than dollars on bay street.
Wednesday, November 6, 2013
the wind had been so cold and literal on the downward stretch of highway, loneliness seemed to creep along the base of endless rock cuts, until i looked to the side and saw i was leading an anonymous legion of suffering fools.
we were not in the valley yet.
the wind had been so cold that i became acutely aware of every porous stretch between the woven fibers of my shirts, of the holes pushed open by the sharp ends of safety pins lashing a bib to my club shirt, of the droplets of moisture making their ways skyward after a chilling encampment on my skin.
the sun had shone but not brightly enough to warm a damn thing, so one foot turned over the other, again and again and again, barely tapping out the rhythm of a dying percussionist bent on completing a song in time. waving to the crowd did nothing to save the strength. smiles were returned with grimaces. teeth were bared not out of menace or happiness, but of struggle. this is where the skin of one's teeth renders one naked and grasping.
the highway levelled off and gave way to footpaths and cold bridges and walkers and walkers and waddlers in the way. one side then the other, dodging and dying, choking on fuel to maintain the pace, stick with the group, find the pace, breathe, breathe. then we were borne onto the lakeside, dodging more people, rollerbladers and sunday strollers and fellow strugglers, and children. i thought myself too bare and grotesque to be witnessed by onlookers, let alone children. no one should have to see a man turn himself inside out, only to fail.
we were in the valley. the sun came out, blaring, pushing long shadows like suspicious glances of whether or nots and possibles toward that one elusive goal. the goal skipped along like the droplets atop the waves in the lake. we were still running out from the finish. i needed the turnaround.
at 35k, i discovered every pore atop my head and shoulders, stripped off my hat and gloves, steamed my way to the finish. i was a comet, shredding myself through atmosphere to arrive with whatever remained at the end. i was vapor.
about 700m from the line, someone yelled at me that i was almost done, that the finish was just around the bend. four bends later, someone came out from the side and ran with me, yelling at me to stay on her shoulder, right to the line, to go, to finish, to bring it in. i had already lost the goal. i couldn't actually see very much or very well. the sides of the world swelled and the line loomed. i took it.
Boston Qualifying time.
98 seconds past the mark.
Friday, October 11, 2013
of course, we were barely talking about bikes.
actually, we had been talking about bikes up until that point and then about how my amazingly nice custom road bike in the corner wasn't getting ridden nearly as much as it should. this is because i've been running. this is because i had the girls with me all summer. this is because it's the work year again. this is really just because i've been running. a lot.
we had been talking about bikes and then about how i haven't been riding bikes and then about how i was going to run a marathon in a few weeks. i don't look like a runner, let alone a marathoner, let alone a marathoner with audacious goals like mine, so he had to ask, 'are you ready?'
and i replied, 'yes...'
i had to think about the reply, but, once it came to me, it was certain. i was ready to run a marathon. i was ready to run 26.2 miles in under three hours. i was ready to hurt a lot. and all that, with a wheel in my hand and a bag on my back and a few hundred miles in my legs since june, that was before tomorrow. and it was before tuesday's tempo workout two days ago.
you see, strange things are done under streetlights on lakeshore by a man who moils for goals. warm up for three kilometers. jog slowlyish past sleeping houses and ambling hipsters absorbed in their twitter self-updates and trucks that smell like diapers and the bread factory and down to the lake. as soon as the watch beeps the third kilometer done, take off. the first k in this section, under four minutes. the music is blaring. the air is perfect. the traffic zips by, unaffected by the lone figure careening through the dark, two steps per second, one hundred fifty heartbeats per minute, in and out of shadows and highlights. the path streams along underneath. the second k disappeared somewhere. a right at the light not showing the white man walk sign. somewhere into the third k, taking turns harder than usual, testing, breathing. once around the parking lot, looping back, still into the darker of the dark. running alongside a raccoon pinned between the dying man and a plywood barrier, the awkward pause caught in polaroid stillness as cars render it all a scene. the fourth k begins, agony searing all parts. the pavement bucks, coughing up gravel and cracks. a hard left. onto the service road. more barriers. traffic behind while the swollen center pushes toward the dampness of a darkened ditch. just 1200 meters to go. just a thousand more steps. just a million more beats per minute. just five more minutes. grandma always said she could do anything as long as she knew for how long. how long. how long. beep.
so yeah, i'm ready. i'm ready for tomorrow that's going to be pretty damn similar but for 33k. i'm ready for the next day when we host thanksgiving. i'm ready for the day after when i do pretty much nothing but recover. i'm ready.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
red carpets are terrible.
in having to come up with reasons to talk and then subjects about which to talk but with which there would be no drive to enter conflict, i had exhausted my present imagination and resigned myself to following some orders and filling some glasses. ice water is benign. except, of course, when it is not, there will always be condensation happening onto the table cloth and moistening and cooling one's hands before they are grasped flaccidly in failed handshakes and lips pressed together in grim attempts at warmth.
ice water is tragic.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
some leftover hamburger buns were crowding the counter next to the unplugged and stained stainless steel electric kettle whose cord was snaking through the cornmeal crumbs discarded by earlier quests for the buns. cornmeal mixed with the condensation from the mayonnaise jar as it relented to the humidity of another, final, august morning, weeping next to the open cap crowned by a smudged butter knife, the handle of which precariously perched on a damp bamboo cutting board. cheddar was hard to come by in its hardest form but four slices later the orange dye decorated the buns and then there was the salami.
salami. salami is never purchased around here because it is meat in a vegetarian household, and it is expensive, and why would i make a salami sandwich when i have so many other things to pay for?
it was the sandwich i made when i thought i was rich.
the day before yesterday, i thought i was rich, enjoying a pay period extraneous to the usual two per month. then a bunch of expenses reared their ugly heads, and, in the interest of getting everything squared away before all hell breaks loose on tuesday, i paid for absolutely everything, all at once, and then sat in my kitchen, broke, eating salami.
at least there will be something to think about for 26k tomorrow, one foot in front of the other. easy now. this is really going to hurt...
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
And we could all see it.
He forced an easy distance from the shopkeeper if that's what he could be called, satchel sling over one shoulder and nervous eyes of indeterminate half exotic descent flitting from one shiny component to the next, customer and carbon treated in the same dull glance.
He was a buyer.
Monday, July 22, 2013
i got distracted.
when we were on the streetcar, she admitted to me that she almost kind of hoped that we got 'caught' and charged for our mission just so that she could frame the ticket. i'm sure that no one would have noticed the damn thing next to the images we created on that rainy afternoon in a pre-condo wasteland off of king west.
when i finally got the prints done and perfect and brought them to her in an unruly stack of resin-coated shock-beauty, we looked them over on some sagging furniture in a dirty student house and we both realized something we hadn't seen before: she, her own beauty, strong and powerfully unabashed and flawed and perfect and outside of something she thought she owned; i, that i had gotten distracted by it, and the surroundings had hardly anything to do with what i saw and framed that day. we had hiked through cold drizzle and concrete rubble and rebar and behind doors with growling junkyard dogs and past stacks of jersey walls to some semblance of shelter. and then i took out my camera and she took off her shirt and we got to work on the first of many of the more amazing hours of my life.
we were not in love with each other.
we were working together in curiosity to find out what we could make of ourselves, in stolen 1/125ths of seconds, through sharp 5.6 f-stops, underneath decaying canopies and a light misting. we had taken the streetcar all the way out there. we would end up buying a very expensive lunch at the first warm pub we found. and she stood in front of steel doors, laughing, and looking, and always curious. i liked myself when i saw what she saw, most of me hidden behind a big black box, straining to gain focus, flexing and nervous as the shutter first opened, and then closed.
sitting on her couch, it all seemed so unreasonable.
we were students, and kinda artsy, and there were plenty of much warmer places to get naked and make photographs than an industrial heap backing onto the gardiner expressway. and there was nary a trace of this heap in any of the images. you could see, sharp focus, detail, the goosebumps on her skin, frozen forever in silver in resin on paper in light, but there was nothing of the surroundings. why had we gone through such trouble when none of the trouble even showed up in the end?
i got distracted.
there was a whole lot of beauty happening in front of me and damned if i was going to lose a second of it to something else like a background or landscape context or a cheesey press-flesh-against-industrial-material has-been motif. my jaw was permanently dropped for that afternoon, and somehow i needed the concrete around us to hold me up. you can't see it in the prints. it's not obvious that we were cold or standing in the rain or mud or in and around a bunch of rubble and clay (mortar undone). but it's there.
i got distracted by a few other things too.
later on, i grew up and had a kid and got a job and had another kid and even managed to get married and start a career and all that grown-up stuff. i even manage to shoot a few frames every now and again, though nowhere near what happened underneath the shiny new condos that back onto the gardiner expressway with a down payment greater than my salary.
there is a lot of beauty to be had and seen and fostered and experienced in those other things, those moments that only happen when a baby wakes you up, or a five-year-old reads, or a small hand reaches for yours to dwarf it, tenderly. and it was in this profound beauty that i got distracted, again. i forgot to take in the surroundings and get some mortar and rebar and harvest some kind of structure to hold me up. there are other people to hold up. there are other hopes, much bigger and more important, to build.
so i've been distracted.
and now it's down to business. because i got called on it, and i reacted, and then i thought about it, and now i see: if i build my structure now, my little wonders will have a much better place to hope from. it looks utterly impossible, and that's just the kind of goal i'm built for. here we go.
Monday, June 17, 2013
in 1989, greg lemond was pedaling for his life in the penultimate stage of the tour de france, and he was doing it alone.
lemond entered the last stage of the race, an individual time trial between himself, his will, and the clock, with a 50-second deficit to french leader laurent fignon. wearing a funny helmet, resting his elbows on funny padded handlebar extensions, and tucked into a downhill skiing position, lemond insisted on no time checks, and no data on his bike. he just needed to pedal. fignon, for his challenge, went bare-skulled, with only his spectacles and scraggly blond ponytail to challenge the wind. riding a classic bike with frequent updates on lemond's pacing progress, fignon pitched himself through downtown paris in pursuit of the diminutive american challenger.
lemond put 58 seconds on fignon to win the tour by the narrowest margin in history, by riding the second-fastest time trial in tour history. lemond rode 54.55 km/h to win by 8 seconds.
at the 39k mark, the original 3:05 pace bunny and group caught up to me. i knew i was flagging and faltering, but i didn't realize by how much until i tried to latch on. it felt like the group was flying. nevertheless, i saw the possibility of losing every goal of the day as those feet churned past, so i did what any self-respecting cyclist about to get dropped would do: i tucked in. there wasn't much wind to tuck out of, but i tucked in nevertheless, adding myself to the (very reduced) count of white bald guys chasing a 3:05 marathon time. we must all be about the same age. we must all be chasing boston. please god let this man with the sign and the bunny ears get us there. please. please...
at the last water station, a measly kilometer from the finish, the group somehow slipped past, and i lost touch, gatorade cup in hand, dream splashing to the pavement. and i looked up. and i squinted to find a big red finish arch. and there was nothing. there was only a heat-bedazzled stretch of pavement, runners going forward, and runners coming onward, and it was endless.
there was no finish line!
that morning, i knew i was ready. i didn't know what i was ready for, if it was just to complete this crazy distance, or to go under 3 hours, something achievable by only 1% of runners in the world, or to at least make boston qualifying: 3:05:00. my girls wished me well. i had friends at the start. it wasn't raining. the portapotties were endless. it was going to be a good day.
i lost justin and the pace bunny by 4k.
i was on a good day, and i was going to make the most of it. i was flying. i had to tone it down, get it back up to 4 minute kilometers. i didn't want to burn out. but it was fine. it was almost easy. at the halfway timing mat, i was slightly behind schedule but certainly in good form to bring it in for any of my goals. the body was starting to pipe up, letting me know what was working, and how much longer it could do it. we were on the cusp now. there was oxygen and carbon and sweat and fascia and tendon and system. there was pump. and flow. and the clock was ticking.
i got closer to the horizon, searching wildly for some saving grace, some completion, some end. i saw the girls. we waved. i must be close. but i still could not see that damn line! and then there were runners coming at me, and we were turning, and we were back in another corral and THERE WAS THE LINE! except, it was so far away, and there were so many other people semi-rushing toward it, and i needed to step on that last timing mat, get my seconds, be done with so many months and miles.
and then it was done.
and as soon as it was, i wondered if i should have, could have, gone harder. maybe i could have pushed just a little bit more in those last few kilometers. maybe i could have hurt more, driven something past its comfort zone. and then my legs locked up and alternated between collapsing and locking, and i lost the ability to steer my body. stumbling into and through the throng of finishers toward the medals and gatorade table (the one salvation of the finish), i knew that i had done it, and there was nothing left. i was done. there was no room to go harder.
i couldn't find the girls. we hadn't made a plan. there were no huge alpha signs designating a 'find your family with last name _______ HERE' area. there were just hundreds and thousands of faces, some weighed down with oversized medals or plain bagels or the 25th half cup of too-strong gatorade. there wasn't even any chocolate milk. all of a sudden, i got really sad. i had run so far, for so long, and all i wanted to do was be with my family, and i couldn't find them. i had semi-collapsed into a sitting position on a grassy knoll near the 1k to go mark, so i butt-scooted to the nearest tree and hauled myself to standing. walking backwards down the ridiculously small decline, i started shuffling back to the finish area. after many trips into and out of the fencing marked 'athletes only', i finally found some small plastic signs listing a few alpha ranges. and there were the girls. and then i was done.
8 seconds is a staggering margin. in my debut marathon, after months of preparation and intervals and long runs and even following a training plan for the most part, i missed the boston qualifying time by 8 seconds. it is small, so small that most people ask, 'are you SURE?' when i tell them, and others offer to help with an appeal letter. yes, i am sure. no, there is no need to appeal. i will just have to run another marathon. and i'll have to run it faster.