100 Words Per Mile: Wakeful Stillness

Atrophy, routines, and laughing myself awake.

November 7, 2020
9.01 miles
1:37:54

My friends. The race was called. Joe Biden and Kamala Harris are headed to the White House. Someday, my child or grandchild may ask me, “Where were you when Donald Trump was voted out of office?” And I will say, “I was pooping, because I’d just run nine miles.”

The path ahead will be nothing short of contentious. The dumpster fire today in which Rudy Guiliani appeared in front of Four Seasons Total Landscaping in Philadelphia was not only a remarkable metaphor, it was also a reminder of the failure of this entire administration. Donald Trump never surrounded himself with the “best” people, he repeatedly made dealings with the worst. Ben Carson is an incredible brain surgeon—but he had no business running HUD. This election was not only a repudiation of Trumpism, it was the expulsion of Betsy DeVos, Mike Pompeo, and other reminders that for every Mitt Romney or John Kasich, there is also a Lindsey Graham so hooked on that Presidential teat he can’t be trusted to a single right thing.

I’m not especially fired up for Joe Biden as much as I am for a president who won’t tweet anymore, one who will not disparage an entire group of people without any sense of remorse. Although, watching him jog on stage following Kamala Harris’ speech was a fun sight. It reminded me of my stride when I hit mile ten or so.

I don’t have much of an update on the baby-making front, other than we’re set for the 12^th. Supposedly it’s not too different than a pap smear, and my presence isn’t required, though I’ll be there. I imagine it will be anticlimactic, but that’s okay. My wife is all a buzz, bouncing from room to room like a bee, and I want to hold her still, but I also am full of nervous energy. That’s why I run and work on this thing.

At this point, I’ve run about 129 miles, which is about a quarter of my overall goal. I’m starting to feel muscle fatigue and different aches and pains a little more frequently than before, which means I should probably slow down a bit, but the moment I rest, I begin to worry about atrophy. A nagging fear of mine is losing something I’ve worked to build. Whether that’s my computer crashing before I’ve saved this manuscript in the cloud or my endurance plummeting because I took too long a break, the loss of progress is a pedaling anxiety of mine. I’m battling tendinitis in my ankle, occasional shin splints, and some hip soreness. I’m sleeping really well, but my dreams are these odysseys in which I sink deeper and deeper into a dreamscape.

In these dreams I feel a lot. I’ve mentioned before that I’m not the most effective communicator of my emotions. When I’m angry, I grow quiet. When I’m sad, I grow detached. When I dream, it all comes out. There have been several occasions in my life in which I’ve either laughed or cried myself awake. I think a part of this is because tend to keep everything still while I’m conscious. My propensity for violence is so low, yet, when I dream, I’m unafraid to kill.