Return.

 

Back to it.

It's been a while. And all this time, with words wending and paths pitching, there have been major developments. The world has changed. Cops continue to murder black men and go unpunished for it. There is a virus, everywhere, that kills thousands of people per day on this continent. There is a new president not so hellbent on fucking everything up, ever time. And we just got back from running errands in the rain, the big kid driving our car around, me saying, 'slow, slow...' It's been some time.

I'm on Medium now, and the publishing thrust is a difficulty in my writing. More times than not, my pieces put forth to publications get rejected. More times than not, headlines and articles with glaring usage and grammatical errors go viral. Does anyone even understand the differences between its and it's? Is it really sequential, or is the comparison more pertinent than..never mind. There are a lot of really good writers out there. And just like track practice back in university, I get to run right alongside some of the world's best. The price of entry is an account and a keyboard. Let's go.

So there will be much writing from here on out. 

I feel less pressure writing here because no one comes here and no one reads this, let alone my mom (who knows about my writing on Medium), so the style will vary and wane and swell back again. There will be esoteric stuff. We will not subject ourselves to 'listicles'. Really, who would write something that sounds like body parts I need to get scanned every few years now that I'm this old and trying to keep things in my pants? Ew. Either way: prepare thyselves. Nothing to see here except everything, and it will not be pretty.

Coach.

The kitchen was a mess.

We had brought the lady of the house home, several bike bags and duffle bags and travel bags were exploded over the semi-clean tile floor, and no one cared because Mama was home. I had not cleaned the bathroom. I had not vacuumed upstairs. I had not even gotten a fraction of the dishes done. Mama was home.

Between my trips up and down the (vacuumed!) stairs to put things away and clear my own accoutrements from the kitchen clutter, she called out to me. She told me she had gotten me an early birthday present, that it was seasonal, that I should have it now.

She reached into one of her bags.

And, like so many times before, her long fingers and immaculate nails produced a casually rolled up bundle of luxurious fabric. There was a rabbit sewn onto the chest of it. The garment was navy blue with gold buttons and a pronounced fold-over collar. It looked like the windbreaker my grandfather wore every day of his life that I knew him. It was a coach's jacket.

She gave it to me, and smiled, and said that it was important because it shows that she believes in what I am trying to do with my Cross Country kids. It always chokes me up when she says she believes in me.

I spend much of my time talking about believing in people and things and actions and movements and hope. I spend much of my time working to make things happen for people who do things and make action through movement to pursue hope. I spend much of my time wondering if anyone else believes.

When my cousin died, I packed my girls and my sister into our tiny car, and we drove south to attend the funeral. I stood there, in the church, crying a waterfall, soaking the lapels of my pin-striped suit somewhere in Pennsylvania. I was useless. Someone told me, though, later on, that sometimes the most useful thing we can do is to be present, and to feel. Maybe even remember. But as long as we are there to do these uniquely human things, to feel, to remember, we are being useful. Presence is important.

So I wore my coach's jacket all day yesterday. I put it on over top of my coach's shirt and underneath one winter jacket. I wore it with my rain pants and my boots and my toque and my gloves and my camera and my course maps and my envelope of chips and safety pins and bibs. And then I stood there, next to the team tent, at the start line, along the course, at the top of the hill, at the start of the finish chute. I stood there, present, hoping, feeling, cheering. I believed in every step my runners took next, remembered every one they took before. I believed.

It was a long day, out in the blustery fall weather. I came home with a headache from so much cheering, so much shouting into the wind, so much bad coffee in non-recyclable paper cups. After the evening was done, with my head pulsing and nothing feeling right after a day on the sidelines, I decided to get myself some medicine. I laced up my shoes, and went for a run, and everything was better after that.

unless.

Unless

unless
your response comes
with two lips pressed
against mine
and a side of fingers
intertwined i
don't wanna hear it

unless
you can guess
the pain that wracks me
when your gaze
just
passes me
and your thoughts
are spent
on your media update
i
will fill in
blanks
so that every shot
in the dark
leaves
yet another mark
on that one place
your x
has been missing.

and unless
you can hold
this heart
as it beats
and bleeds
and runs rivers
of love and heat
to your dark cove
i
will give it
a damn,
and sell all my power
to die in sparks
in the name
of love.

limbs.

it has been such a long and lonely spring

and dark 

and harrowing

and our limbs have stayed dormant

waiting for sunshine 

to send sweetness

up to reaching leaves

and promising 

buds.

but your limbs are slender and graceful

and all the way over there

and cold.

i reach out to you

go out on my limbs

though they are icy and rough

and full of wounds and cracks and memories

not yet scarred over

and i cannot touch you.

i reach out to you

you in your slender grace

all the way over there

all by yourself

and all this wind

between us.

and between us there is so much space

and so many days

and so much blank

and i am not sure that i can reach you

over it all.

but i go.

every day, i crawl along my hurt and 

sorrow

scraping over my broken promises

and cracked memories of sunshine days

i catch my fingers

in knots and dreams

of seasons when i made you happy

and you laughed in the wind

and the world was richer for your joy.

and i go

every night, stealing along my resolve

knowing that my branches will hold

and certain that yours will not

though i may perch

in my longing

and breathe you in

and settle for your sigh.

nevertheless

i go.

the boat.

on thursday in north york in april of a long and sporadic spring, i sit reading short stories by alistair macleod and wish that i had said so many things so well. there is a blister on the top of my left foot where my new expensive running shoe rubbed me the wrong way, perhaps as a reminder that there is always more to take care of than the simple planting of one foot in front of the other. and nevertheless, i ran. i ran on a tuesday night, round and round a wealthy neighbourhood across from the hospital and tucked in behind an outlying university campus. i ran in front of my reluctant daughter, one so curly and stubborn it is hard to categorize her as some kind of person; she is more wolverine or shark. i goaded her into more steps and more laps, looking down every now and again to check our progress, and i did so guiltily. we had already run more kilometres than i had when i was twice her age, and she had already had a full day of the life of a 10-year-old schoolgirl, and here i was, marching her around a neighbourhood of haves while i tried to suss out my ankle and my stride and my mind. she never complained. so round we went as my thoughts and my motives, and i dropped her off for a rest by the split rail fence in front of an incongruously small house, more fitted to an embankment next to the madawaska, or the petawawa, or somewhere among pine trees and balsam. i caught up to my older daughter, and she grinned and giggled and raced me up the hill, refusing to give in, still genuinely curious as to whether i could keep up, or if it would be the day that i could not. we crested the hill and i urged her on, hurtling smoothly over cracked pavement and all my broken choices, and then i turned into sports announcer, calling her out, sending her to the line. she accelerated then, hair aloft behind her, freckles blurred with the effort, long legs turning her into a horse at full gallop. and then we jogged it off, reminisced the workout, picked up the little sister, and my heart glowed. we returned to the parking lot together. i saved the reveal of their total distance until we were just about done, and their giggling pride could not be suppressed. they raced to the car, collapsed against it to gasp in between laughter, and i knew then that all my broken choices would never undo the shine of what we’ve done right.

repetition.

the latest morning shakeout has me reeling.

as usual, fraioli brings us through interesting tidbits and commentary and things to think about while running long, or things to get us out the door to run long, or things to drink before we run. it's good stuff, and i save the reading of it until i'm alone, at work, unrushed, and waiting for a good day. i hope that today is a good day.

but there was a piece that was linked to in this issue, and i read it, and i was struck. this is not a normal tuesday thing. i read bauer's words, totally vulnerable and honest and raw and beautiful, and tears filled my eyes. it's tuesday. nothing to cry about. and everything to cry about.

before, i thought about repetition. you know, that really non-sexy stuff like putting one foot in front of the other, taking tens of thousands of steps in a day or in a race or, usually, in the dark. repetition like laundry cycles semi-cleaning pounds and pounds of sweat-soaked, stinking, synthetic garb, round and round the clicking and banging basin, wearing grooves into the ceramic kitchen floor, wearing grooves into my tolerance, scratching at my patience. repetition like one lace over the other over the other and the other. repetition like breathing in two out one in two out one. repetition like three sets of ten for all the days in a row. repetition like getting up in the dark and going to run in the dark and showering in the dark and going to sleep in the dark and waking up in the dark. repetition like saying goodbye in the morning without a kiss and saying goodnight in the dark without a kiss and going through months at a time without a kiss. repetition like meeting every tuesday night in the rain and snow and rain and rain. repetition like the cracks in the sidewalk or the potholes in the road or the fibonacci fibers of roots wrapt round and round the rutted way, holding up the mountain and my heart.

repetition is a beautiful thing.

and i read bauer's piece about hope, and found myself on both sides of the darkness: the partner wishing for light, the partner in the dark. maybe i am both. and i remembered the importance of fraioli's point: show up, and do the work, every time. it doesn't have to be glorious, every time. it doesn't have to win or take home the prize or look amazing or wonderful; it just has to be done. as AW would say: stay the fuck on it.

amen.

What I learned in running for 59 days straight.

Yesterday was a shambles day. Nothing is broken. Just a streak.

And so I thought about the streak, and what it meant to me, and how it breaks my heart to end a thing that seemed to be going so well for so long, and then I realized that it had to end. I never realized this when I loved beautiful women with big brown eyes and warm, salty tears whetting my favourite shirt.  I always held on too long; I always got dumped. I've never been good at the end. Yesterday was the end.

I ran 59 days into this year, some days only a mile or even a few steps less, some days more than 20k.  A couple of weeks ago, I ran on a trail in hopes of getting some fun running into the routine, and to start getting an idea of the different pace and movement required to run on trails. I loved it. Even after I turned my ankle four times in less than ten minutes, I loved it. Trails are amazing. And they're at the heart of running, running for the sake of it, and running like humans always have: on dirt, wild, free. Weeks later, my ankle still bothers me. I've been to physio. I've changed and re-changed my shoes. I've gone through rolls of tape. The only thing I did not exhaust this whole time was my denial. I ran 59 days, and almost half of them were on a bum ankle. That is stupid.

So I broke my streak yesterday, and it's been weird ever since. I joked that my body would break out in hives and go into some kind of gross physical withdrawal once it realized it had passed a 24-hour period with no run. My body breaks out in grossness of all kinds anyway, particularly when running all the time, so I haven't found anything new to report since breaking the streak. Except my lower body hurts a lot less. And I'm dying to go for a run.. But in order to deal with the mental withdrawal of not running, I figured I could start writing down a few things I learned during the streak, and then, by breaking it.

Lessons from a 59-Day Running Streak:

1. People will root for you. 
2. People will question you for doing it.
3. People will question you for ending it.
4. Intelligent people will tell you to stop doing it, and you may or may not listen to them, likely to your own demise.
5. Durability will increase until it does not.
6. Consistency works both ways - health will persist in a streak; so will an injury.
7. Changing shoes can be a great idea.
8. Blisters do not heal effectively or quickly.
9. Tape is better than blisters - use liberally.
10. Sugar is an inflammatory food and should be avoided as much as possible.
11. Fuelling is important, even if it's just for a mental lift or a goal to finish the last few kilometres to work.
12. Commuting by run is an excellent way to continue a streak.
13. Doing intervals throughout a streak is really, really hard. And it's impossible on a crap ankle.
14. Pre-scheduling physio that is easily-accessible (nearby and after work) supports the working body and prevents injury.
15. No streak is worth continuing if it's also maintaining a chronic injury.
16. Run slow.
17. Don't always run slow; it's not fun to always run slow, and a streak has to be fun sometimes because it can be not fun a lot of the time.
18. Run with friends. Use the streak as an excuse to get together with people for a run - anyone can run with you during a streak run.
19. You will get passed by other bald guys wearing Boston jackets; do not pursue them.
20. Your streak is yours, and it exists in comparison with no one else's, just like your entire damn running career and life. 
21. When you want to the least is when you have to the most.
22. A run will fix most any attitude problem you get, unless your ankle is part of the problem.
23. You will not know when to stop. Your body will know. You must listen to your body.
24. Not everything can be healed with tape and some physio; some things take time, and it's the most expensive thing you have to pay.
25. People are watching you and what you do and this will inform what they do; be smart about this.

So now the city is covered in wet, clean snow, and I have a birthday girl in the house, and the cake is made and the laundry is going. It is Friday. And today, I will not run.

slipshod.

it was snowing.

large, light-filled flakes swirled through the streetlight beams. they came to rest on the road, covered cracks and tracks and seams, and fell silent.

we stood there, waiting for the others, hoping there would be more than the five of us tonight, running endless circles around a neighbourhood i would never call home. it had a good hill, though, and not too much traffic despite rush-hour and mansions stretching along the street. the repeats would be straightforward. i left the girls to stand and stay warm while i jogged back to look for a dropped light.

and then the whole group came. there were over 25 runners at some point, all in various moods and thoughts, all about the snow or the winter or the miles run and not run. we were so glad to see each other, we had to work to stifle our enthusiastic gabble, and listen to the workout. then we took off, in warm-up drills and a motley group skipping down a downy white hill, laughing with the silliness of all this running in all this snow in all of our eyes and mouths.

it was a flood, of sorts.

and then we started in earnest, slipping up the short steep to crest the hill and careen down the long descent, slipping here and there, jockeying speed against safety, dancing with disaster. they were double loops, so we had a second chance, every time, to push a little harder, to find a better line. the kid took off and we didn't see him again. the beautiful man and i edged against each other and then back away, searching, searching for traction. i was giddy with the pursuit. i had no legs. i had no speed or puff of breath against the torrent of beautiful white snow. and there was nowhere to plant a foot without slipping.

so we went. and i looked back at some point to find my friend, and i yelled, 'PURCHASE!' i could not find any, for the life of me, and i think he replied the same, his words lost in exhalation and swirling snow. we ran on, telling stories, revelling in the night, running slipshod over old ideas and ridiculous worries. we ran on, steaming into snowflakes, slippery and clean.

uniform.

Today my daughter came home and told me about her basketball game. They lost by only nine points to a team full of rep players. It started late which was why she came home in the dark, by herself. Oh, and this is the jersey, which is huge, and doesn't fit. And the ref made everyone take off their undershirts.

What?

The ref said they have to be the same colour for every girl on the team, or players can't wear them.

My daughter is 12.

And in no public place or sporting even or school environment or unbalanced power relationship is anyone allowed to tell her to take off her clothes. Ever.

But my daughter is 12, so she does not yet know that a misguided ref, and all of the incorrect notions of the unbalanced society that the ref represents, is wrong. My daughter just wants to follow the rules and be a good kid and play hard. But today she came home from a girls basketball game with an experience I have tried to guard her from for 12 years. No one has any rights to my daughter or her body. No one has any right to set technical uniform rules against the athletic dignity of a public school basketball team. No one has the right to ruin girls' athletics in the name of an unaccommodating rule that has no bearing on safety or the nature of the game. And, as the referee, the basic job is to ensure fair play and athletic integrity. There is no athletic integrity in using a (minor) technical uniform rule to force a team of 12-year-old young women to take off their clothes.

Two things happened that were good. The referee's profound mistake has forced us to reinforce our daughter's understanding of her personal rights and freedoms (attacks have this effect). She knows that she can and must refuse anyone's request for her to undress, particularly in a public place of education. Another good thing was that the referee at least had the good sense to not ostracize a Muslim player for her religious beliefs about covering her own body. I told my daughter that if that is ever even started, my daughter shall not play. We do not exclude. And if that means an entire team forfeits so that they can retain their dignity and clothe their own bodies as they see fit, so be it. The rules, new to many of these girls and obviously to their coach, are there to ensure teams can proceed safely and on some level of equality. The rules are not there to disadvantage an entire team, or to strip players of their undershirts or senses of self. How dare a referee hold a position of power and use it to dissolve the very principles upon which she claims to operate. How dare she do it to my daughter and her teammates. And how dare she brazenly risk the discontinuation of so many girls' healthy love for athletic participation. And all this, based on the observation of a rule not known or understood prior to the start of the game.

In an era where young women are told from all sides what to do and not do about all aspects of their bodies; and an era in which whole generations of women abandon athletic movement in shame and ignorance; and in an eara where women are routinely taken advantage of in broad power imbalances often upheld by their own peers, we owe them so much more than a degrading reprimand that leaves them scrambling for court time in bras that their mothers would have burned.

buns.

She was one of the prettiest girls in a high school full of pretty girls. Somehow, per capita, my tiny high school, comprised of 6oo kids from all the small towns around a valley of maple and pine trees, had the most and the prettiest pretty girls around. Thank goodness for the beautiful people of the Ottawa Valley, and all their roughneck romance that made the women that made my high school a torturous dream.

Anyway, she was pretty.

Thankfully, though, this is not about how pretty she was. That would be a boring start to a worse story, and no one really cares anyway. All the women in my life are pretty. You should see my lady, first thing in the morning, at 5am, sleepy and pulling on her kit for another sunrise interval session. Gorgeous. You should see the daughters we made. All big-eyed and freckled and game to try anything. Stunning. But right. This is not about pretty. This is about shorts.

See, my girlfriend in high school was very very pretty. This was not the only thing about her, at all, really. She was extremely athletic, very academically successful, and generally a nice person. And she could suffer. She raced cross country, see, and that's all about suffering. She also was extremely determined, in a subtle (but not resigned) kind of way. I used to watch her stretching in the grass before she began her daily run home from school. It was 7k. I didn't run that much until last year, two decades after she was already immersed in her own trial of miles. But this is not about determination, or guts, or a subtle, never-ending drive to put in work to become better. This is not about miles. This is about shorts.

So when my first girlfriend ever and I were going out, I never saw her body.

We used to lie on a tacky mesa-themed duvet cover on my collapsing double bed in my room in my parents' house, with the light on, with the door slightly ajar, and spend hours kissing. It was amazing. She was 'my first kiss', and I had never been in such delight in my life.

Anyway, it was winter in Ontario, back when that meant snow by October, and snowbanks by December. I had my first kiss in a snowbank. Nevertheless, sub-zero temperatures do very little for the effectiveness of school kid groping. And then we were at my parents' house, and I was a scared little fifteen-year-old, and I lusted for so much more, but could only ever muster a meager hand on a fully-clothed hip. Sometimes my entire sensory system was focused on that hand. And then my leg would fall asleep, and we'd move, and that was that. But this is not about a hip covered in flannel. This is about shorts.

She was a great athlete. While I was learning how to play a sport with some kind of precision, she was already a clutch player on all parts of the court. She came to a game or two and I tried miserably not to screw up in front of her. I went to her games and watched her move with grace and power. We even wore the same shorts. They were navy blue, made out of indestructible Supplex® nylon, and hit magically mid-thigh on everyone's femur. I felt that they were short, but I jumped high and ran fast in them every time. I ran cross-country, and eventually track,  and always wore those shorts for events that would count. I was never a great athlete, no threat to any competitor, but I dressed like the rest of them, and it made me feel fast.

We broke up that year, at school, in a snowstorm. I went home and cried. She went to put in some miles on her skate skis. I wrote bad poetry for years. I never got any better at volleyball.

One day, I walked into the gym, to cheer on a home game of the girls' volleyball team, and my jaw dropped. There were all those pretty, pretty girls, wearing their usual custom jerseys, but now with spandex booty shorts. I don't actually know what they were called, or what they are called now, but they needed no formal introduction as all formal thought process had already ceased. Gulp. I was not actually sure how I felt about the kit, mostly because I had never seen so much of these beautiful women's bodies and now anyone in the bleachers could see everything ever, and I was jealous. But fascinated. But reluctant. And drawn. Now this is about shorts.

The next thing is a difficult thing to admit and to explain, but it's the best I can do, and it's why there is so much backstory.

My first girlfriend did all of the sports. She aced all of her classes. She was kind to all folks, even lowly freaks like myself with bad hair and big pants who still had kind of a crush on her. She owed no one anything, except she retained humility. And as I watched her in the volleyball game, that beautiful, gorgeous human who had held my heart for so many months, as I watched her move to the ball and plant her feet and execute, I forgot that I could see her body. I forgot that she was wearing practically nothing. I forgot that she was a person I desired, moving around in an object I desired. She was an athlete. She moved. She was strong. She did action with purpose.

I remember being at a track meet later that same year. Everyone was wearing whatever would make them go fastest and farthest, which usually meant wearing very little at all, and spikes. Spikes usually get worn without socks, for maximum lightness, and maximum connection to the machine: the body. Spikes are fast, and spikes stink. In a system, the fewest interruptions between force and object result in the maximum received output. Foot to track with only a thin, spiked platform in between means maximum output, which means speed, which is what racing is. So no one wore socks with their spikes, or shirts under their singlets, or underpants under their shorts. Everyone removed as many interruptions as possible, so as to maximize the body's interaction with the environment, and maximize its force output.

See there? 'The body's'. Not 'their'; not 'their body'; definitely not 'them'. The body. Because one of the most beautiful things about sport is that it contextualizes the body in a function without socialized misrepresentation. And in a sport as simple as track, a body is reduced to its essential nature: machine to do work. It is not sexy or beautiful or desirable or ugly because of how it looks; it is amazing or frustrating because of how it works. It is a thing. It is a wonderful thing, and its function is in its form and they are one, so beauty results. But this beauty can only exist as a pearl, a thing from goop on one side and sand grit on the other, neither particularly amazing in and of themselves. Together, though, there is a pearl. That long leg is fine and that high hurdle is fine but watch that long leg ease swiftly over that high hurdle in an eternal second and tell me you've not witnessed something cosmic.

So my former girlfriend was dressed for success. And she was not dressed in very much. And I remember thinking not about her body that I might desire, but about her body that could so gracefully and smoothly round laps of the track, faster than so many others, faster than I. I thought about her machine. I wondered what fuel she gave it. I wondered how she took care of its ligaments and tightening muscles. I thought of the miles she had to put it through to put it through this one so fast. I did not want to hold it. I did want to understand it and bear it witness.

She took off her shoes after the race, and carried them around while she walked barefoot through the grass. She had one pair of webbed toes. Her race flats probably smelled, as race flats do. Her singlet probably was no longer super fresh and delightfully aromatic. She may have had a runny nose and sweat dripping down her temples. Her hair looked like hair in a nondescript ponytail. She offered to go for a warm down run (more running?) with a snaggle-toothed boy still coughing up his effort.

And all this time, she was an athlete, with her own mind, her own race plan, her own outfit, her own choices, her own preferences, her own power, her own questions, her own dreams, her own skin, her own heart. At no time would anyone around presume to tell her what to wear.

The whole point here is that athletic endeavour transcended prejudiced body condemnation. She didn't worry about the appearance of her body. Others didn't worry about the appearance of her body. The body was there to perform movements with strength and grace and grit. And as a witness, as a lusty, hormone-riddled, visually-stimulated adolescent, her endeavour took precedence. Regardless of her outfit, her athleticism outshone and outweighed most other consideration of her or her body or the machine she had made of it and how it looked.

So when the girls toe the line to thrash their legs and fire their lungs and hearts and minds with the heat of striving and competition and teamwork and other-centeredness and all things beautiful about cross-country running, cheer. Do not consider the length or tightness of their garments. Do not judge them for their appearances. Admire their courage. Witness their audacious endeavour. Cheer.

Gord is dead. Long live Gord.

we were crowded around the coffee table on a windy night in august. the wind was pushing in off of georgian bay, and with no rocks and few pine trees to hold it back, it got in our eyes and pulled at our tears. gord was singing. gord was dying.

we had every device we could muster, moving back and forth between inadequate technological platforms in reckless attempts to witness one last tragically hip concert. we were just remote enough to get just enough snippets to form our last impression of gord and the band. the songs were mostly complete, like his remembrances of the lyrics, and we choked up as we watched him, now dancing, now struggling, now screaming, now soothing us through every second we could stand or not.

it is a rare thing to witness a legend.

before youtube, there was a requisite trip to someone's parents' storage something, whereupon someone had the foresight to document and then archive something that would become legendary, and then, there would be the journey to find a technology platform capable of re-rendering the display so that it may be taken in, decades later, by a human that has, by and large, not evolved. i used to get lost in old film negatives of my aunts and uncles as babies and toddlers, my dad as a gangly teenager. now it's an ordeal just to find a wet darkroom to print negatives like that, and everyone looks at screens instead of anything they can hold, just one thing at a time, in their hands. i think gord was holding one thing at a time, in his hands. i think he was always good at that.

my brother saw the tragically hip live at bluesfest one year in ottawa. he said that gord was crazy on stage, and that he wanted whatever gord had before he went in front of thousands of people to perform. i don't know whatever gord had before a performance, but i know that during his performance, he probably gained so much more. people often talk about all of the things a performer is keeping track of while s/he does something beautiful. how many harmonies are being played at once. how many keys are being struck or notes being reached or different rhythms being kept. it is as if maximum multitasking is the ultimate goal, the sign of genius. i would say that the compartmentalization may be a disservice to what is really going on, one or two real, good things, from the artist, to us, the audience, in time.

it's the difference between a magic trick and a hug.

and just like when a hug ends, my chest feels a little colder now that gord has left. there was warmth and humanity and artistry and importance in the bold truth of everyday about that guy. and just like when a good hug ends, my cheeks are a little flush, and i'm all aflutter, because i'm different now than i was before, better, even, and lucky for it.

thank you, gord.

these mornings.

these mornings begin with darkness and reluctance, reluctance to get out of bed, reluctance to leave a state of dreams, reluctance to begin confronting..everything. these mornings evolve, though, because, the night before, preparations were made. and, just before bed, somebody put out his own damn running shoes and running jacket and running hat and heart rate monitor strap and all that other synthetic stuff, and somebody took away, sock by running sock, every excuse to not start confronting things. these mornings change into glimpses of running clothes pulled on over physio tape residue clinging gainly to white white skin stretched over once-young bones now holding up the wiry remains of an athlete’s form. these mornings hear creaking steps rather than creaking joints and then, with a pull, the door closes. these mornings evolve into steps first peaceful and then steps not hurried, but steady now, through the darkness, through the quiet, through the rumbling, waking city. these mornings dogs amble and lights drone and just before dawn and just after the turnaround point, wane into steady rain. these mornings begin to drip and droop under the clean, quiet blackness making the whole world shiny before seeping through seams onto steaming shoulders where her fingers used to linger. these mornings the gutters course with the detritus of a winter of longing, and steps splash insolent on the return dash home. these mornings the quiet yawns into bleak grey that looks like his eyes but is too cold for his heart. these mornings, his heart burns.

happen.

if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, it occurred.

if a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, it did not happen.

it did not happen because in order for something to happen, someone or something must be the object of the verb happen; something must be happened to or upon, and if no one was there, no one was happened to, and thus, nothing happened.

this is, of course, the meaning of life.

no, i do not mean to say that the meaning of life is a simplistic sum of semantics. i say that the meaning of life has everything to do with context, with community, with consequence, with understanding that we, in all our bodies and hopes and hurts, are suspended in a pool of community and time. we do not know that we are moving unless we turn. we do not know that we exist unless we touch. we do not know that we hurt unless we heal.

broken.

i broke my streak yesterday.

it was the first day of a new month that, in other countries, marks the beginning of spring and promise and planting for harvest and, in a word, hope. instead, i let the red marker lie in its magenta leather change box next to a box of strike anywhere matches and a pocket knife. and i did not put an 'x' on my calendar. it felt like a sin.

unlike other sins, however, it was not even slightly enjoyable in any guilty way. it was just straight up bad. and wrong. and all of the things that denote those things we are not supposed to do and then for no reason at all i did not do a thing and that was the undoing of it all. try running that around in your head all day while you debate whether or not to run around anything anyway.

truth of the matter was, and is, it was time. and i will soon figure out how to put some lessons that i learned into a good log about positive truths i came to know, but in the meantime, i just felt kinda rotten and then faded away into a deep sleep. then i woke up this morning and felt even just a little bit hungrier for a few steps on cold pavement. toying with quitting was like a drug itself. just the concept of breaking some unwritten promise secreted a little bit of possibility pleasure in my brain.

when the routine is broken, of course, all hell breaks loose and it's never like it is in the movies. we stayed in from the group run the other night because the big kid was too tired to run. we didn't know what to do with ourselves. we ate too early, too much. we had hours of daylight and itchy bodies twitching with too much energy. it was a pileup and the evening, our casualty, staggered about aimlessly. we will not skip that plan again.

so tonight, my big kid is another year older. a decade and a bit ago she changed the world forever. tonight i will reflect on her and that change and when i grew up overnight. and i will do this in one of the only two places things make sense to me: on a run.

all for you.

the private school parking lot drooped with cars ticking in the midday heat.

each automobile boasted steel rims and faded paint, some highlighted by rust spots and scratches from forgotten fun days. inside the painted concrete hallways and scrubbed baseboard classrooms, children were growing. their maseratis were at home in the garage. their porsches were getting fitted for new, asymmetrical tire configurations, their parents were getting their nails done and hedge funds topped up. their teachers were believing in them, and worrying about the oil dripping underneath that red honda civic not quite in the shade by the episcopalian church.

________________

private school parents used to pay good money to send their children to poor teachers so that both could give the best of themselves and the children would grow to be great. this really happened. for thirty-four thousand dollars a year, the children got to play and learn and mature and, at the end of june, leave with a certificate of completion for senior kindergarten. resident doctors pay less and leave with more. but for all of their money and hours, resident doctors do not get to spend more than eight hours a week with adults who are paid to teach them but end up loving and believing and supporting them. that was my job. and it was worth a million dollars a year.

i told the youth this very thing the other day. i told them that they were getting a million dollar a year session with me for free, and that the least they could do was show up on time for it. with coffee. black. and it occurred to me, in the saying of it all, that it was entirely true, came across as entirely arrogant, and that, as a fact, it was utterly useless. these are not the the facts that change lives. these are not the facts that shock and appall. these are the facts that inform my ability to get out of bed every day, my focus on the point of it all, my work, and, ultimately, me. so no one else has to give a damn, and no one does. but it was helpful to realize: i am worth a million dollars a year.

_________________

allan ran towards me with his trademark small steps and non-shoes. we were the only ones running on bathurst street, so i would have recognized him if for nothing other than movement more purposeful than a deliberate slog on sidewalk concrete. nevertheless, the sight of him threw my heart into sunshine, and i sped up and hugged him in spite of myself. allan and i don't hug.

we ran off of the sidewalk and onto the ice, a stalled glacier coating well-run backyard paths of the one percent. allan was alright. i was alright. we ran. i had asked him how he was, and received a non-committal, 'okay'. allan and i share things like i used to share things in high school: all me talk and no info in return. (i imagine i spent most of my formative youth like brian from the gaslight anthem, "bleeding" from an overemotional heart onto any innocent bystander, passerby, good friend, or beautiful girl. ugh, what an idiot!) we made our slippery way down the ice, peppering our (my) talk with the occasional near-fall or acknowledgement of better traction. i talked a lot. allan listened a lot. and the run began to work its magic.

somewhere out of the woods and back onto concrete, i told allan about what my running had become. it was the same thing i sought in the lips of women and the approval of parents and the eyes of people who know me. i searched and yearned for this throughout so many long bike rides and torturous interval sessions and gallons and gallons of needless sweat. running is the space wherein i contextualize myself with the world. that is all. and it is perfectly rendered in the final race of The Other Kingdom, where our protagonist comes to realize the point of life: I made myself the best I could possibly be so that I may offer you, my fellows, something of worth.

i think that's it. at least, i told allan that that was it. as soon as i read that, something clicked in my head, and i have been running about it ever since. some days are worse and harder than others, and some days it rings true in every breath. whatever the case, this is the point of it all. i am trying to make myself the best that i can be, so that i can offer you something worthy. this takes a lot of time. the best way to true a wheel is an eighth of a turn at a time. the best way to build endurance is over years, not weeks. the best way to become a master is to show up, every time. and so, as my marking stares me down and my people are off at their jobs and the rain entices me to a few miles in its grace, i must go. there is much to build so that there is more to offer. you, all of you, have always been worth it.

listless.

that hollow feeling after a night of communion took over my insides.

the sky was greyed-out, monotonous and threatening in all its cloud. sometimes there was snow. mostly, just on the inside, i felt cold, like the wind would howl through my guts while whipping my ribs with paper and plastic bags and old brittle weeds left next to the salty curb. and last night had been so warm!

but today was different. it was a morning-after of sorts, a day to come to terms with too many glasses of wine and too much revelling in the friendship of others, and the idea of theirs that i was a somebody worth loving. today was different. i woke up not entirely satisfied, and the bed next to me was empty, and my daughter was all grown up, and i was very, very behind on my list of things to do. in fact, i had lost the list and needed to find a new pen to re-write it. some days just feel like that, and today was a lost list.

i hate being listless.

besos.

the wind pushed my back. water-based birds sailed overhead. i passed more birdwatchers with very long lenses and full heads of hair. they laughed as they talked. something called to us, on our stretch of toronto thrust out into the lake, and we all seemed to look up at the same time, at the same thing. the moon hovered just above the water. i looked over my shoulder and saw the sun as it soaked the lake and sky with the same dying orange. i picked up my pace like i could outrun the night. i ran toward the moon. she rose, like she always does, calmly and with serene indifference. do not swear by the inconstant moon. run.

that was sunday. monday night, i ran like a coursing thing, chasing unknown friends down milky grey gravel paths out, out into the lake. nothing flew overhead except those small planes coming in from ottawa to land on the island. fallen stars that took a long time to drop. i ran underneath them. i ran next to weeds that reached out to touch my elbow. i ran next to the lake pounding the rubble-strewn shore. all i could hear was gravel under my feet. all i was listening for was friends.

i found them, eventually, coming down from a break at the lighthouse, and we embraced and laughed at my frantic pursuit. then we kept running. we talked about great canadian novels and infant oncology and getting lost. we ran on. the moon kept watch. in that light, we were all young.

then it was tea and cookies and the last crumbs of conversations. we ran back to the gate. it was miles of darkness that felt like minutes. like hours in life are seconds in dreams. like kisses never last long enough.

hallelujah.

the road bends before the top, hiding its summit around rock cuts and green tractor mailboxes. the hill is barely a hill. it is not long, nor steep, nor anything of any particular note, except that it must always be gotten up, always at the end of the run or ride, always into the wind. i trudged on in the gravel, thinking about this. this hill has been with me for most of my life, it has never let me down, and it has always let me know exactly who i am.

i have listened to six different versions of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" in the past hour. i wanted one to bring me tears. i wanted so badly to sit in front of my laptop, plugged into my earbuds, and to let warm saltwater drip down my face. there is so much to be sad about. and even though the country where i was born chose a buffoon to lead them to failure. and even though Leonard Cohen left us all behind last week. and even though daylight savings can't fix the encroaching darkness, the line that filled my eyes to overflowing was the one about love, and lost love, and love from long ago that is no more. it's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah. hallelujah.

i saw my grandparents this weekend. they looked spry. they looked like the people who were around for 80 years doing the right thing. they looked tired from it, but mostly satisfied if even still a bit hungry for more. always fighters, those ones. and i picked up my daughter today. she looked tired. she looked like the kind of kid who gives it all, every time, all the time, and might need a bit of a break. i made her chicken and rice and peas and sent her to bed. she will fight again tomorrow. and all of the days after that.

the words don't come to me like they used to. i was undone by Leonard Cohen's, as he never lost his touch, he never blocked it all up with a bunch of crap, or sent it down the same old worn-in groove. his were the words we used every day, just said better, or even sung. maybe if i could course them through my heart i could make love without the cold and broken hallelujah.

hallelujah.

fail.

i failed.

as we approach a new back-to-school season and the constant evaluation and feedback and lists and notes, it is imperative to note the current state: failure. i have spent the last seventeen years in this city, and i have failed to succeed in it. in all its concrete and dirty alleys and beautiful parks and winding singletrack, the city has spit me out like a used pallet in the don at springtime. and now i'm good for nothing but a seagull perch. i hate seagulls.

the realization of failure is important. i understand it because my recent fascination with knives and forest adventure and 'bushcraft' skill is merely a pursuit of agency in a city that took all of mine from me. i want to play in the trees and make stuff with really nice knives and a minimum of cord. reading that statement, you will see the most important part: i want..to make stuff. in seventeen years of living in this town, i failed to make stuff. i had a really big photograph that i shot on commission, had custom-framed, and showed in a swank restaurant on king west. it was stolen from me by deadmau5, a dj who makes more in a night than i will in two years. speaking of making money: i can't even hold down a job. two degrees and thousands of hours of experience seem to mean nothing here. secret handshakes from old boys' clubs, old money, and the relentless pursuit of status upgrade are the way. those are not skills i know. i did not learn them. i failed.

i made my family here. i got my education here. i worked and worked and worked here. i grew up here. i became the best me i could here. i learned how to run here. i built bikes and rode them here. if you ask me where i'm from, i'll usually say here. my whole life is here. and i still live paycheque to paycheque, i still barely make the rent, i still don't have a million dollars or a secure job or a place to do the things i love. there is nowhere my art may be done, or may hang. there are no woods to play in or places to build forts where a bylaw won't kick us out. and everywhere, from the door to door scammers to the parking cops to the raccoons and seagulls, there is something trying to take my happiness away. and my happiness is eating breakfast right now with her mouth closed, mostly, and my other happiness is folding the laundry, and they love it here. this place is their place, born and raised, and they make it beautiful. they don't know that i can't make the rent every time, or that i'm a failure at the age of 35, or that knives can be anything other than tools. they know the best of me.

so while my knives sit in boxes on my dresser, and my cameras gather dust because i don't have the guts to use them, i will plan a new day in a town that neither loves nor hates me; it just doesn't care. happy september.

tough.

i ran like an arrogant ass.

when people would talk about their race goals, i would feign interest. i cared that they were trying to run a marathon in under four hours. it was important that they had gotten off the couch and were going to finish their first 10k. inspiring others by run-walking in all pink for a good cause was nothing to take lightly. and yet, smug in my undertrained mileage and worn-out race flats turned into casual shoes, i would think only of how all of this related to my goal, my running, my speed, my legs. i was out of touch.

when she asked me about how i would return to running before this past marathon, i laughed and, noting my recent hit and run shoulder separation, or my recent blown attempt at the usual sub-3 goal, i told her i would wing it. i told her i would run as fast as i could until i had an out of body experience, and then i'd watch myself cross the line with whatever was left in me. stupid ass. i was out of touch, but not out of this broken body, not by a long shot. you see, there are many things that happen to a body during a marathon, and if the mind doesn't suppress all of them hard enough for long enough, they reach up and choke the mind, flood it with pain and doubts and regret-based wishes, and then the mind tumbles into every cell raging with pain or dumb slowness, and it is dragged forward by the plodding body it could not leave. it is a wagon ride in chains.

at kilometre thirty, the arrogance evaporated from my body. no longer fuelled by the vain notion that i had a chance at proving anything, i settled into this old man's body, and began a dreadful shuffle toward a finish twelve kilometres away. i would learn much in this journey, but the most important lesson was, of course, about my fellows.

my fellows are tougher than i.

it takes a lot of strength and tenacity and toughness of the mind and of the body to run a marathon in three hours. somehow, it takes a little bit more to run it in under three, but i'll only be able to write about that when i do it some day. sunday, though, i learned about the toughness it takes to run for so very much longer than three hours, for agonizing tens of minutes longer than three hours, that the pain outweighs every other feeling, including progress or reason to proceed.

the half-marathoners joined the course somewhere in my final haze, and like so many sweating, plodding, coursing fish, they carried me along in their stream, refusing to stop, refusing to give up, determined to finish this damn thing. most of them were heavier than i. all of them were harder. they were still running. they had been running for two hours. they had been plodding through heat and water tables and hoses and supersoakers wielded by well-meaning five year olds with excellent aim. they refused to walk. they refused to stop. they refused to succumb to heat or steam or sunshine or all of those demons in their minds that told them they could not do this. they sweated into their headphones and dripped all over the pavement and stepped forward again and again while their shoulders darkened in the sun. and they smiled. and they grimaced. and they drew strength from cheers and i drew strength from them. their determination pulled me along. their tenacity put my feet forward. their heaving spirits pushed me to the line.

i wanted to walk. i wanted to stop. i wanted to be done already. i had learned the lesson. couldn't we just skip these next few thousand metres and have me on my way? could i just forgo the medal that everyone gets and a stale bagel oozing in the sun and go home and curl up in an ice bath of shame? no. i could not. the lesson is not learned until the process is complete. and the process is not complete until the line is crossed. and the line, however theoretical it may be, is only the beginning. so i got there, after a long stop in the 41k porta-potty.

so i learned. i learned that people who run four hour marathons and two hour half marathons are at least twice as tough as i am. i learned that i really do love running and that there is something in it for those who dedicate to it. i learned that the beauty of the crowd is in the exchange: they cheer, i act; we do it for each other, as best we can, authentically. i learned that time does not matter as long as honesty prevails. i learned that i will always finish. i learned that the heat isn't as bad as they say it is. i learned that my body cannot run two all-out marathons in a month with four runs between them. i learned that all i want to do is run.

so tonight i'll go and see people who are also better runners than i. we will talk about that elusive three hours and how everyone has gone under it except i. we will talk about the marathon on the weekend and boston a few weekends ago and what we're doing for cross country season this year. and i will try to focus on the process, on being free from time, on becoming a runner. cheers. and a toast, to everyone who runs tougher than i: thank you.

evening.

she counted down the five seconds out loud, over the snuffling noses and dripping elbows, over the hum of another oncoming bus so incongruous in this inflated neighborhood with its pompous driveway furniture, over the screeches of nighttime birds, and off we went.

tim took the front immediately, as we all knew he would. then the kid showed up to give him a run for his money, and i wondered briefly how long i could hold on. by the end of the first turn, they were up the hill, and i was just settling into a pace i knew i would not be able to maintain. tim, bless his heart, is always convinced that i am faster than i am. this is pretty sweet, but also pretty disheartening as i've never given him good reason to believe so. i'm younger, balder, and have beaten him in end-of-practice-interval sprints, but that's it. he went under three hours in the marathon back when i completely blew up in november, and he hasn't looked back. now a runner after college days of smoking and other debauchery,  tim is a good-looking marathoner 100 lbs. lighter than his younger self who consistently runs 100k weeks. he's a role model, in more ways than one, and i'm learning from him.

as tim and the kid cruised over the hill and i tailed them just to see what pace they were running, it occurred to me that tim was leading, and he didn't even look like he was sweating. of course, he had already run to the workout, and would run home to round out a 21k second run of the day, but he was leading. when the kid came by because i was running too slowly and still too fast for his approval before my all-important marathon attempt number 2 for the month, i asked him casually if he was running ottawa this weekend too. you know, i gulped air just so that i could expel it in a full-sentence question complete with verbs and prepositions. he deciphered my mangled exhale, translated it, figured his response, translated it, and told me, 'no.' he ran on. i faded into third.

the first interval done, the rest period flew by, and we were back at it, the kid chasing tim, me chasing the kid, everyone else on my heels. i had no water. i had already lost pounds through sweat. we weren't yet halfway done. i loved it. we had shed our shirts after the first one, and were now dripping fire on searing laps through this closed-in, closed-off neighbourhood of stone. some couples walked. one property had a roofing crew, another, a reno. and everywhere was the faint pat-pat of dogged strides in the humid-quiet evening. the long downhill run-in to the finish inspired kick after kick, ending abruptly at the stop sign amid horks and gasps and frantic lip-licking in place of bottle-sucking. i walked it off as best i could, cursed my lack of a bottle, and watched the watch. the rest hurt more than the interval. i was thirstier at rest.

we ran the next two consistent. we kept the pace. we even picked it up a bit on the last hill. i played tricks on my mind, letting it get to the quitting point, citing dehydration and the heat and the humidity and headaches and the maladjusted derailleur on my brand-new mountain bike and the helmet replacement i would not get, and then i reeled it all in. i tucked in the elbows. i leaned the head forward. i took the hill faster than in any of the previous intervals. i finished with a sigh. tim was waiting for me. and the kid didn't tell me to man up. it was a beautiful run.

consistency.

she came over that friday night as usual, relatively unannounced and wholly wished-for. she always comes by when i need her the most, and i rarely ever invite her. i am an idiot. but she did come over and we did have burgers and then my girls all left to watch the game and play with friends so she and i sat at the table i made and talked about everything under the sun. there were many epiphanies had, though the overriding one is the one i've been failing to physically latch onto of late: consistency.

if you are consistent, you win.

i come at this notion from several different directions and venues, but the consistency thing rings true everywhere. it's at the root of that blingy 10 000 hour rule to becoming a master. it's what makes every champion, ever. it's the route for every genius that we come to know and admire for his/her talent. it's what i'm afraid of.

i get a running blog sent to me weekly, and it's by this guy who's quirky and wonderful and generally gets all kinds of things right. except for obstacle course racing. i mean, really... either way, he just sent a post about running not actually being difficult. and it's not. put one foot in front of the other several hundred thousand times, and you've run somewhere. there is no real skill in it. the only way to get better at it, is to take more steps, often. this is consistency. and through consistency, there comes mastery.

one of my resolutions at the beginning of the year was to journal more consistently. i was going to write every day in a black book with a black pen on manila pages about bland or potent thoughts. either way, this has not been true. i failed, and it's only may. another resolution was to become a consistent runner. again, in the short view, i failed. i trained real hard. i ran a 3:02 marathon. i ran once. i got hit by a car. i ran three more times. and this weekend i'll run another marathon. consistency is not exactly the theme of this month. however, in working up to the first marathon and right through its cold, windy, rainy bitter end, i became a runner. i was consistent. i consistently put one foot in front of the other. i consistently worked. i was a consistent user of socks and shoes and body glide and gels. so that goal is happening. and, after i recover from this next marathon, i'm going to start running again, consistently, just to see what happens. what happens to the poet who shows up, every time, and writes? what about the bike rider who gets up, every time, and rides? what if i looked at the kitchen, every night, and washed the dishes? mastery, folks, we're talkin mastery here. and i don't know what mastery at dishwashing looks like, but i'm damn sure gonna find out.

anonymous.

i put my laundry away single-handedly and without any particular pride in the action. looking down, there was more space on top of the taupe and stained wall-to-wall carpet, and more space on top of my stained green messenger-turned-photo bag. this is where the laundry usually goes. then it goes onto my body. then back onto the floor, but in a 'laundry bag'. somewhere in there, the laundry is switched by an overtired, overbeautiful lady, and folded by our curly-haired daughter on the couch we bought after our entire bike fleet was totaled in a collision.

collision is the word these days.

accident was the word when we were growing up. it was accepted and widely used, like 'indian', 'retarded', 'victim', and 'flesh'-colored crayons that were pinkish-white. it's no longer an accident. it is a collision. it is what it is.

and yesterday, it was a collision. and today, and yesterday, no one cares.

i travel through much of my time and space as an invisible person. few people notice me. i cause little trouble in the grand flow of things. my wife doesn't remember meeting me the first time. i used to be offended by my own anonymity, and then i learned its power. now i enjoy it, and allow it to guide my movements. i pride myself on navigating high school hallways and rush hour traffic with the same invisible flow. no one sees me unless they're aiming for me. proceed accordingly.

i didn't think the driver saw me.

i saw him. i saw his car. i saw the distance between us and between his car and the curb and then his car moved and all of the equations shifted values and the physics changed my state from rolling to airborne and then to stopped. a 72kg mass traveling at 20km/h is stopped by a black, potholed, stationary object known as a street. how much force is exerted on the mass? bonus question: what is the acromio-clavicular joint?

anonymity is one thing. being left in the fetal position in the gutter with a bike tangled on top of me while rush hour traffic bears down on me is quite another. jane stopped her car in the turn lane. barry parked in the driveway was exiting. they pulled me out of the street. they treated my bike nicely. they lifted my heavy backpack. they asked me if i was okay. jane tried to follow the car down the street to which it fled. they both made statements to the cop who showed up an hour later. both were appalled it took this long for a cop to come to the scene of a hit and run involving a cyclist. i told them, 'this is toronto; no one cares about cyclists.'

it was the usual hassle. the only thing worse than it all was the fact that i forgot my phone at home that morning. of course. so i couldn't take pictures of my bent-in shifters/brake levers. i couldn't call 911 straight away. i couldn't get people's numbers efficiently. i couldn't call my lady.

the main point is this: i am anonymous, and that is good, but i am angry that someone would leave me for anonymous dead, because i am no good if dead. i spend my days trying to be good to and for other people. i'm not riding my bike to work because it's fun and i look cool in my high-vis yellow jacket. i'm not working my steady uncertain job because it makes me mad bank and gets me into the VIP lounge. i'm not picking my girls up from school or making their lunches because it helps to pass all the time in my anonymous day. i'm just trying to be good, to others. and then this shit happens. and no one fuckin cares. and then all those other things don't get done, like the job or the lunches for the most important people in the world, my little girls, and that is not okay. my shoulder doesn't work. i can't ride or run. no one has time for any of this. and all because that driver didn't have time to stop.

i'll keep putting away the laundry single-handedly.