zero to seventy and back
The past seven months have been spent buuilding base. Base not just for my next marathon, but perhaps more importantly, base for myself. Base that would confirm that the injuries of 2008 were a fluke, an aborrhation due to chance and poor decision making as opposed to factors less mutable.
I got a heart rate monitor. I gave up track. Races were few, far between and less exhaulted. And I ran: slowly, steadily, consistently.
Seasons came, seasons went, and I found myself holding 60+ miles a weeks for the first time since 2006. The demand on body and time were tightening, but it was welcomed.
The demand grew to be too much, and a bout of patellar tendonitis has reduced mileage of the past seven months back to square one in less than three weeks. I swear I was doing everything right; perhaps the pill of mortality just needs to be swallowed. If anything, my swimming has never been better.
This isn't the first time I've used that phrase.
I've been reading the joy of living by rinpoche, a nyt bestseller that is basically an introduction to buddhism.
Rinpoche speaks of 'attachment' and how many unhealthily depend upon external possessions, people or institutions as a source of well-being, and these dependencies build barriers to our true understanding of our own existence and sense of peace. It called into question my own relationship with running.
In contrast, many of the meditation techniques discussed in the book speak directly to my own personal experiences while running, providing argument for the pursuit of the run.
So what comes of the monk who is incapable of meditation, needing to bestill the murky waters of their mind? Perhaps they would seek out their nearest aquifer-fed springs too.
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