लिखा निष्क्रियता

You don’t listen, do you?

It was a good day at work today, as this is all that can be expected of them now that I’m full time.  I came in, reviewed my notes, and set to work.  The day went quickly, even though I had come in an hour early.  Deciding that today would be the day to push it, I got up earlier and caught the early bus, which spit me out onto the streets of downtown at 7:45. 

For me, the thrill of the morning in a city is only compounded when it’s earlier.  Everything looks clean, fresh, and new.  Venders begin to open, everyone walks purposefully, well dressed and ready to meet the day.  It’s so full of potential, of life.  I love this city.

Since I’ll be making the trek across the country in a few days, my groceries are running a bit low.  I could have bought food for the next 3 days, but decided that the mile-and-a-half round tip journey to the store just wasn’t worth it if I was going to do it piecemeal.  Plus, it gave me an excuse to eat out.

This doesn’t help in the mornings, because all things made to eat in the morning are horrible pastries from the bottom of a grease trap somewhere, which does not appeal to me.  The coffee addiction is enough to deal with.  I don’t need another monkey.  

It was because of the lack of food that I went into the deli on university street to buy a yogurt.  I had done this before, and was impressed with the place.  The owners are Korean, at least for the purpose of this story, and really keep shop.  There’s a difference between a well-kept shop and a shop that’s kept well.  This place is kept well.  The owner takes his job seriously, and the shelves are beautifully stocked with organic and ethnic foods, all in perfect rows.  When I enter, everyone smiles and says hello, and I don’t get the feeling that it’s an act; they seem generally pleased to have a customer.  As I select two yogurts from the refrigerator, I reach into my wallet for a few dollars, which I then pass to the smiling daughter who works there.  “Have a good day,” she smiles.  Thank you, you too, I say.

The office is full for so early in the morning, and I review the notes I had left for myself on Friday.  I can say that I am at least enjoying the work on some level, because every time I look at the clock, I hope that it isn’t later than I want it to be.  It’s good to be engrossed.

Before I know it it’s lunch time, and I head back to the same deli for a sandwich, which I order from the son working behind the counter.  “Brown cow yogurt!” the girl smiles at me as she pops her head up above the deli case.  Yes, I laugh, that’s me. 

It’s a nice thing to be remembered.  Anyone can be nice, and that’s a good thing, but to be remembered means that you did something—albeit small—that someone cared enough about to remember.  Maybe it was the fact that she likes yogurt too.  Maybe it’s the fact that I left my change in the tip jar.  Whatever the reason, she has validated my existence in a strange way.  As I walk back to the office with my sandwich, I can’t help but think about how easily one can get swallowed by this corporate machine.  Dana was gone.  I could be a number.  My skill and my worth could at any moments become obsolete, or I could lurk in an office somewhere for the next 20 years and be unnoticed.  We all want to be the boss, the special one, the one and only, and the truth is that so many never get there because reality can’t support a world where everyone wins.  Sometimes it’s nice to take a little victory like someone remembering your brand of yogurt.

*                                                                        *                                                                        *

Briskly walking the 6 blocks to my bus stop, I am on schedule to make it home in time for my big run.  Since I was such a pile of crap this weekend, and since the road trip will no doubt destroy what little ambition I have left, I have to do the run today so that I can keep up with my training in some half-joking way.

After a bowl of Lucky Charms, a nalgene of water, and 30-minute procrastination session, I jog off towards Green Lake.  My pace is fast, but this is relative.  The mission is to either complete 13 miles or run for 2 hours, and since mapping out runs it a huge pain, I’m going for the time.  As the first half mile floats by, I feel strong.  The loafing has actually done some good, and I throttle down a little bit and enjoy the fact that I’m keeping a good stride and am breathing fine.  That lasted until the lake. 

The lake is windy, which is not at all surprising, but for some reason this bit of information always seems to slip my mind.  I’m running the outside loop, but rounding the bend I get a strong blast of cold air from the lake that makes me wish I’d worn a long-sleeve tshirt.  I run hot, so I know the importance of dressing to keep cool, but with the wind blowing steady, cold air at my bare skin, I’m getting a little nervous, which fades a little when I reach the other side of the lake and veer off onto the trail through Woodland Park.  Since the sun is going down, I’ve decided to run all the darkest and most secluded sections first, since a guy with a broken ankle has a lot better chance of being found around the lake, as opposed to the trail around the perimeter fence of Woodland Park Zoo. 

I’m still feeling good when it starts to rain, which is a factor I had not really thought about.  As though fate herself was listening in on my thoughts, the rain turned into a snowy mix of water and slush, coating my hair and arms a layer of wet snow.  As I stopped at a water fountain to drink until my stomach bulged (there would be no dehydration this time), I weighed my options.  I could cut this run short, falsely convince myself I’d do it tomorrow, and ultimately lose sight of the Discovery Marathon and then the White River 50-miler, or I could suck it up, realize that this wouldn’t kill me, and plow through the weather for another 10 miles.  Choice B.

To be honest, the snow made me push harder.  As people began to fade from the park, I began to shine.  Things only become attractive when they’re intimidating.  So on I pushed, finishing up the trail session, looping the baseball fields, running around the lake again, and eventually finding myself on the home stretch, 2 miles from my house. 

It was at about mile 12 that things started to feel funky.  The muscles got a little crampy, and some developed knots threatened to lock up.  But this was the fringe. I had worked for 12 miles to get to this point, to damage the muscles above and beyond what I had done on the last run, and in doing so, get stronger.  This was the most important mile. 

I got another wind as I crossed Ravenna Boulevard.  Maybe it was the proximity to home, maybe it was the fact that it was dark and the Starbucks people where staring unabashedly at frost-haired, headlamp-wearing runner who was churning out plumes of steam like a train, but whatever the reason, I picked it up on the last half mile. I bolted past my apartment door, ran inside, and got my phone to call Becky.  I planned to talk to her while I cooled down, since it was almost midnight her time.  Fortunately, I had good news—we weren’t out of the running for Discovery yet.