The Running... Part 3

After the half marathon the miles started to increase. Beau came over to our house around midnight. Sitting in the kitchen we exchanged smiles delaying the inevitable. I laced up my new Asics, threw on my winter hat, running gloves, a North Face fleece with a light-weight jacket over the top. I took in a deep breath. “Ready?”

“Aghh.” Brent smiled, as he clapped his hands. “Let’s do it.”

Beau started laughing. “We’re nuts.”

Walking outside I felt the cut of the cold against my skin. I inhaled and could taste the pure cold air in my lungs. It tasted good. We walked down the driveway and past the house, waiting for each other to start it up. Brent started off. The beep of my watch sounded and the run had begun. I always felt his pace was too quick. I thought of our course and how far we would have to go before returning to the spot we were leaving—16 miles. But my legs felt good—light.

The night was dark. Street lamps formed shadows of our figures against the pavement. Running north on third street we passed the homes and dogs’ barks that we had become accustomed to over the past few months. The first couple miles were the most challenging—finding that groove. The streets were mostly bare, other than the occasional car or two. We ran on the side of the street. “How far to the Capital?” I always needed to set up small checkpoints.

"Just under three." Beau replied.

“Three miles then water." Said Brent. “Ahhh! This is good. Water every few miles—something to look forward to."

" Just think about how good that Snickers is gonna sound around mile ten.”

When we arrived at the capitol building it felt as though our bodies had been transported. The water was still in the corner of the building awaiting our arrival, I grabbed the bottles and we shared the glory.

“What full do you guys wanna do?” I tossed a bottle in the garbage can, and we started back up.

“I don’t know, but how bout running 10 more miles after this.” Said Beau.

Brent smirked at the thought of it. “Wow. Can you imagine. Nuts dude--nuts."

"I can’t wait till we get to that Snickers.” A snickers commercial started playing in my head.
“The Grandma’s would be sweet. But we’d have to sign up soon.”

“Well lets narrow em’ down. We got the Grandma’s in June—that might be a little tough to get in to though—you gotta sign up early.” Beau created a list of the options we’d been contemplating. “Minneapolis—but that’s not till September.”

“I still like Bismarck, cus everyone could come cheer us on.” Said Brent.

I laughed. “They’ll just be asking us why we’re going so slow.”

“Good point. Fargo?”

“The Bayou, the bushwackin’ bayou. I’m tellin’ you. What would be better than running a marathon, and then telling your buddies about how you were attacked by an alligator at mile twenty-three.”

“Settled.”

We dipped on the dark black path rounding Pebble Creek golf course—it was pitch black other than a handful of stars. Beau tripped up on the side of the path, and I saw his ankle roll. “Holy shit man—you alright?” We stopped for second. “I’m fine.” Beau started back up.

"Sure you’re ok, that looked like it hurt man.”

“It’s cool.” Beau reassured us.

“Well that’s good, cus… I’m pretty sure we woulda just left you out here.” Said Brent.

“No, but really what would we have done?” I asked.

We all agreed that breaking an ankle in the middle of nowhere would suck, and figuring out what to do afterwards wouldn’t be any better. We decided not break any ankles and continued on. Rounding the corner to the bank where we stashed the goods we all began to appreciate the guy who invented the snickers. “The carmel, the nuts, the nougat.” I was stoked. “You can’t go wrong with nuts and carmel.” Brent was equally stoked, and Beau laughed at us, but agreed.

Delicious.

Waking our legs up after the brief euphoric sensation, we headed up a small incline up Century Avenue. We passed Smith Barney, and around Lowes and Pet Smart. “You know you can take your pet into Pet Smart with you.” Brent said.

“That’s awesome.” Beau sounded thrilled at the idea.

“Yeah it is.” I added.

We winded around Tyler Parkway and over the Interstate. We coasted around Tom O’leary, and down Washington. The branches overhead created monsters on the street below. Once we got to Shaunberg, we knew hit the homestretch. We could feel the magnet effect as we picked up our pace. Striding out the last steps we found ourselves outside my house—where we started. High fives.

Run faster... Part 2.

We started running at the perfect time—fall. One of my favorite runs started by the Elks Lodge off Expressway. We took the path back towards the zoo, and the trees formed a colorful umbrella over our heads. Winding on the path we'd look at the Missouri River.

After running for a couple months we decided we needed something else to keep us motivated for the full marathon we planned on doing in May. We started looking online at all the different half marathons, and decided to make a trip out of it. Surfing the web for different marathons was exciting. Did we want to do the Bayou marathon, "where one must beware of crocs and snakes?" Not so much, but we loved knowing if we did want to do a marathon where snakes came in to play, we had that option. There was the San Francisco marathon, up the Pacific coastline with bands motivating you at nearly every mile marker. But we decided to go with the Orange County marathon in Irvine, California. Good choice. We boarded the plane stoked on life and ready to get out of the landlocked Midwest. Flying into LAX, I looked over at Brent, "We're a number now." It felt good to be a number, to get lost in it all. We rented a car and went to Beau's friend, Janelle's pad. She lived in Santa Monica, a place I could see myself living someday. Santa Monica offers the ocean, and the chill attitude I've come to appreciate after living in North Dakota.

Our first night in Santa Monica was out of the movies. We decided the only thing to do the first night in California was to have a bonfire on the beach. Janelle was skeptical. “I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.” “We’ll just say we’re from North Dakota.” Brent was convinced we’d be fine. We ran to the grocery store for some wood and they had some. I was becoming a believer that it would all work out. I mean why else would they sell wood at the grocery store not far from the beach if they didn’t expect us to have a bonfire? We dug out some sand to prepare the ideal fire pit. Neither Beau, Brent, or myself were a boy scout, but it didn’t take long to get our “Fire logs” blazing. “When I move to California someday, this is what I’m gonna do the first night.” The idea of moving there seemed like something I should have done a long time ago.

The four of us sat around the bonfire listening to crashing waves and crackling firewood. “How you think this is gonna go?” Beau asked. “I don’t know, 13.1 miles is a long way. I’m kinda nervous.” I replied. Beau laughed, “No, I mean the bonfire? Think we’ll get busted?” “North Dakota man. Solves everything. Ohh, whata’we got here? Brent mimicked a police officer. Err… sorry officer we’re from North Dakota and didn’t know you couldn’t have a bonfire on the beach.” I picked up where Brent left off. “I don’t care where you’re from. Put it out, and here’s your ticket, hope the fire was worth a thousand bucks.” Janelle laughed, “Exactly. He’s not gonna care where you’re from.” Just then a couple guys approached the bonfire.

“Think they’re cops?” Beau asked.

As they came closer it was obvious these guys weren’t on that side. Both supporting beards and looking like they needed a shower, one of them asked, “You guys need anything.” We exchanged glances, and I sat there trying not to laugh. “Nope. We’re good, just enjoying the fire.” Brent was our spokesperson. They stood there in silence, and we sat wondering when these guys were going to leave. After a few minutes they told us how awesome it was that we were having a fire right on the beach. They walked off disappearing into the dark, unhappy they couldn’t make a sale. Not long after they left another bum appeared. He told us how he hadn’t seen anyone with big enough “balls” to have a fire on the beach in over a decade. He told us about the good times in the seventies when he first came to Cali. “Yeah man, you could see fires all up and down beach man. That was the life—everyone smokin’ it up, partyin’ it up. Ahh man. You guys are crazy.” I started thinking maybe the bonfire wasn’t the best idea after all. “So I guess we’re pretty gutsy.” Brent joked
“That or stupid.” Beau replied.

The next morning we ran up Venice beach and checked out what it really meant to get lost in life. A grown man was dancing to reggae wearing a diaper. “Don’t see that every day.” Between the diaper dancing guy and the cuties strolling the paths we were easily distracted. Brent thought he ought to get his palm read—I agreed sarcastically, “That’s a great idea.” A lady dressed in dark purple velvet with disgusting long nails read Brent’s palm. I was happy she wasn’t touching me. Robbed of ten dollars, we walked off.

I was nervous. We had run over thirteen miles while training, but race day stirred up some extra emotion. As the gun shot fired we started off. The first couple miles was like running through a mob. We started too far back in the pack, and were paying for it. Weaving around the gobs of people we were forced into a methodic slow pace. I listened as Beau and Brent talked, and said nothing for the first five and half miles. Finally at mile six I was able to ease into the run. With three miles left Beau pointed out that we needed to finish the last three miles at a seven minute mile pace to break two hours. “Let’s do it.” Brent was up for the challenge. Nobody told me about the killer hill within the last half-mile of the race. Not fair. We crossed the finish line greeted with cookies, bananas, and juices. Life was good again.

Run faster... Part 1.

The NFL football season had just started. Brent, Beau, and I sat at Friday's watching the game on one of dozen televisions hung from the ceiling. "An ironman consists of swimming for one mile in the ocean, a 114 mile bike ride, then a full 26.2 marathon." We all laughed as the words came out of Brent's mouth. I couldn't imagine swimming in the ocean for a mile. "I wonder if anyone's been attacked by a shark? Beau leaned back and put his hands over his head in disbelief. "Sharks are scary." I couldn't get the image of a human flesh eating monster out of my mind. I remembered the time I was in Hawaii and swam past the break of the waves. It was mating season for the whales, and I could hear their high pitched calls, tempting each other and terrifying me with every freestyle stroke I made.

Brent and I admitted to Beau that doing an ironman that year was ridiculous, so instead of starting with that, we'd put it on the list of things to do before we die, and start with a marathon. Beau didn't need any more convincing. He was in. We were all coming off another great summer of softball, and needed something to fill the void.

I remember our first run. The next morning we met at the YMCA, and planned to do the Tom O'Leary loop. Brent joked that he could run the marathon that morning if he had to. Beau and I laughed at Brent's nonchalant way of saying that it wouldn't really be that hard. We started out too fast--but apparently I was the only one who knew that. I had ran Tom O'Leary at times when inspiration struck me. When we came down the hill on Ward Road I knew we'd have to go up and I wasn't looking forward to it. Our conversation about how much we missed softball and couldn't wait until the next year slowed as we began ascent. We all slowed down without even noticing, maybe I noticed.

Brent stopped with the final quarter mile to go, and Beau and I drudged the final leg of it together. Back at the Y we joked about how much work we had to do before adding twenty four more miles to the death run of two and a half miles we had just finished.

"Yeah right. Twenty four more. Don't think so." I panted in between words.
"We can do it." Beau offered words of hope, that seemed more ridiculous then anything I had ever heard in my life. I looked over to see Brent, still bent over, hands on his knees, trying to regain his legs.
"Wanna go run around it 11 more times?" They both laughed.

The leaves started changing colors and the miles began to pile up. Looking back at it, I can't believe I was able to do what we did. I was working full time at Cell One, and going to college at night. We did our runs at one of two times. Either at five in the morning followed by a huge breakfast at the Little Cottage, the Cracker Barrel, or some other divine establishment. Then I'd go to work for eight hours, followed by night class, then pass out on my bed--and repeat the next morning. Or we'd do the runs late at night. Brent and Beau were both bartenders at the Green Mill, and being a person that loves to be awake once I'm awake, and a person who can't stand getting out of bed when I'm not awake, I was fine with the idea of going for midnight runs. Either way working at eight in the morning just didn't seem right.

There we'd be running around Bismarck at all hours in the night. I'd think back to when I was driving home the year prior and would see some "idiot" out running around, making me feel bad for having just left the bars. Who'd go for a run at one in the morning?

We did. We became those guys.

It was cool too. We'd be running north on third street on a Friday night and hear music boom out of Bucks, and laugh about how bad it would suck to be in Bucks dancing around to some crappy rap. Then what? Drive home and do the same thing on Saturday night? No. We had it figured out. (I’ve been to Bucks maybe twice in my life, and its not something I’m proud of.)

The long runs came and were intimidating. We would basically run around the entire city. The fun part was coming up with the course. We'd think of all our different options, and normally try to incorporate a bridge. Sixteen miles offered many options. Sometimes we just liked the idea of getting dropped off sixteen miles away from home. I can still see the tail lights fading away as Beau, Brent, and myself look at each other laughing. No turning back. We were outside the city limits and the sky was peppered with stars. An occasional car would drive by, where a driver must've been thinking we were all insane. We could see a grey fuzz that hung above the city lights in the distance. So we’d start running. Foot after foot, our bodies followed one step closer to home. When we'd get home we'd have a gatorade, maybe some chocolate, and if it was a weekend we'd throw in a Sopranos disc with our feet up, and sink back into reality.

All those miles, and all those conversations. Work, softball, I'd normally bring up a different girl I had fell in love with at Starbucks that week. We all subscribed to Runner's World, and could tell you the proper stride, along with the best shoes on the market--which we all owned. I bought a $300 dollar watch that could tell us our distance, along with our pace, and anything else that any serious runner would need to know. I knew we needed it, so I didn't hesitate to make the purchase. Yeah right, a $300 dollar watch-- we had been running for three months but nonetheless, I needed it…

Times when I’m at my best…

It’s Friday night. All of my roommates are gone. I turn on every light on the top floor of our house and crank up the music. With the sounds of Andrew Bird booming throughout the house I get myself a Peroni to drink. I clean my room get everything in order, and think about how I’m going to do homework and get ahead before Monday comes. I lay on my bed facing the ceiling enjoying the tunes. I think about how I should go change my laundry and pick up my guitar, but the music won’t let me. I have to finish the song, and after the song finishes I have to listen to the next one. I let my mind wander, and follow it wherever it takes me. I see my older brother Brent and I in Honduras cooking French toast and looking out our window at the Caribbean. I see myself walking through barrios in Buenos Aires with Moby rocking each step. I feel the rain—it doesn’t matter, I keep walking.

If life is a series of events, I think about the ones that have meant the most to me. My mom calls because it’s Friday night and she’s worried about me. Laughing I answer the phone and we talk for over an hour. She tells me how the phone conversation made her week, and I tell her how she helped make my night. I tell her about the music I was listening to, the things I had been thinking about—Spain, school, and how last year at this time I was holding a surf board, and I miss that. But I’m happy. I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing.

Writing like Pottery...

As I sit down at my computer desk and gather my words I begin to press them on paper. I decide which word sounds better, which one helps the writing float off the page. Slowly I work out all the kinks in the work, like wedging a pot free of air bubbles. I know the clarity of my words like the consistency of the clay, is what will form a polished piece of art.

It's always the same with pottery. After wedging the clay, I sit down at the wheel and slap the lump of clay on the cold metallic surface. I wet the clay, and the wheel begins to turn. Slowly I adjust the speed with my foot pedal, as my hands lay gracefully on the sides of the clay yielding its shape. I gradually allow the speed to pick up as I gain a sense of harmony with the clay. I feel the same sense of harmony as I find a groove while writing, a groove where I don't have to search for words, but instead, they flow off my fingertips like droplets of water as the clay finds its center.

With pottery the main goal is to get the clay centered on the wheel. Without a centered lump of clay, the pot will turn out misshapen, and will inevitably collapse. I like this sense of being centered. I like how it carries into all aspects of my life. If I don't feel centered I won't be able to sit down at my computer desk and bust out a paper. Although sometimes turning on some Sufjan Stevens frees my mind from distractions, and my words flow like music.

When I think my clay is centered I take a point and allow it to draw a small groove into the clay, then I do another groove just above it to make sure the lines are parallel, telling me the clay is ready. Once the clay is ready, I press down with my thumbs into the center of the clay as it begins to take shape. I stop to look at the progress, like I stop to reread my work as I'm writing—constantly finding commas or nicks to smooth over. Once the pot is complete on the wheel, I know my work has just begun. I will have to sand it or add a handle or a spout, or a foot to the base. I'll have to bisque it, than glaze it, and fire it again. My favorite way of firing is the raccu style because I never know exactly how my pot will look. I just allow what will happen to happen and embrace the pot once it has finished the process. That's when I write the best—when I don't have to worry about what will happen, or who will read it, but say what I have to say. My words then are like a polished vase on paper. I know what my words went through, just like what the clay endured to become the vase. It isn't then so much the finished product that is the art, but instead the beauty in the process along the way.

Entry Numero One.

I'm a bit nervous as I lay on my bed, beginning to write my first entry in my blog. Exasperated. That would be a good emotion to describe how I'm feeling just now. No I shouldn't be so negative, I like to think I'm a pretty postive guy, and thats kinda what its about right? Positivity breeds positivity. I feel like I'm on a soapbox right now. Am I? And if so, is that a bad thing? I mean this is my blog. I get to say what I want that means. So if you have something to say, say it to me now.

Good things to come.

Shawn