Meet the Runner: The Runner is Moody

I am The Runner and I am moody.

After running for a few years, I have noticed a direct correlation between lapses in running days and the amount of deep, frustrated breaths I take.  My lingering anxiety tends to linger longer the longer I take off from running, and my mood can be poisonous at worst, and childish at best.

My wife Rachel and I both teach in public schools in our area.  We wake up at 5:30 AM to educate, congratulate and discipline scores of rowdy, apathetic, needy, confused teenagers. Being moody around a bunch of teenagers can make everybody’s day longer, as a teenager usually fights fire with fire and can out-moody even the best huffer and puffer.

This moodiness can be especially unbearable at home for Rachel.  The other day, for instance, I was at the tail end of taking three days off from running, something I rarely do.  It’s 10PM and Rachel and I are on our way to bed, and I am finishing the dishes. Under the running water, Rachel drops into the sink, Tupperware from her lunch with the lid on it, and a plastic fork on the inside.  Considering that the plastic lid was on, the water splashed up, splattering my shirt with tiny cold dots that soaked onto my naked skin underneath. I close my eyes and let out a heavy breath in the way that every stressed out, irritated man has done since the beginning of time.

Had I not had a coffee urn in my hand, I would have done that thing where I pinch the bridge of my nose, as if pinching the bridge of my nose is the only protection keeping the world safe from me going on a spitfire rampage.

I open the Tupperware and am instantly hit with the rancid, acidic stench of old, sweaty, cooped-up tomatoes and onions and quinoa stink. I see red.

This Tupperware infraction is a small thing, but at this moment, feels like a betrayal of every vow we made on our sacred wedding day.

Here’s a script of what was said:

Me: “Baby,” (pause to let her know how irritated I am) “can you PLEASE (over emphasis on the “please” because I want her know that the please is sarcastic and I was not asking, but TELLING her to…) take the lid off the Tupperware before you put it in the sink.”

Rachel:  (with a laugh meant to bring the appropriate amount of levity) “Oh, come on, you do that all the time, and I never say anything.”

Silence. Like the silence between the wails of a baby’s cry. My wife does not understand what I have just been through and I am entirely ruined.

I will spare the boring details, because, let’s be honest, irritable arguments are never worth repeating. But the point of the story is that these tiny infractions lead to a large argument spanning the rest of the evening, a stand off (I won’t talk first) the next morning, and all through the next day at work. This fight involved a hyperbolic amount of crossed arms, and shaking heads. Terse texts were passed between us, and niceties and pet names such as, “I love you,” or “boo-boo,” were replaced with choppy, non-capitalized texts such as, “what’s for dinner?” or “what time will you be home?”

After work that day, with a grudge in my heart, and my stupid male defenses up, I went running alone. With each mile, my tightened resolve to be right in this situation loosened up, and was replaced with a flooding of regret for overreacting with the Tupperware-in-the-sink-with-the-fork inside incident.  What I had previously seen as betrayal blew away and was replaced with the reality that Rachel’s putting of the Tupperware in the sink, with the lid on it and a plastic fork inside was not a betrayal, but simply an act of purging today’s lunch dishes in the sink so they can become tomorrow’s lunch dishes. With each mile, I gained empathy and understood the irrationality of my feelings, and saw my reaction for what it was: a crabby response to my three days off from running.

I instantly came home and begged for forgiveness.

I can’t explain it, and I’m sure it’s entirely irritating to a non-runner, but when The Runner does not run for a while, something in his body changes. It tightens up. After a good run, The Runner feels effervescent, relieved, relaxed and accomplished. 30% of the time the runner experiences some kind of minor epiphany or revelation. 60% of the time, he forgets it. After the first or second mile, the runner’s problems feel less concrete, and more fluid. The world, which can often make The Runner feel like he’s walking up the down escalator, suddenly seems to work in conjunction with his feet and his breath. The music in his headphones makes more sense, and the people he passes seem to smile more, and nod their heads in affirmation of his efforts.

If you rob the runner of this experience for even two days, his body becomes restless. His leg muscles, conspire against his body and gain a firm grip on his emotional triggers. His nerves become irritable and provide poisonous ideas for his brain, convincing him to react poorly, in cliché outbursts, and generally to act as a very bad version of himself to whomever crosses his gravely path.

Meet the Runner: The Runner is Gross

I am The Runner and I am Gross

Not being interested enough to research the topic, I would conjecture (and I’m being generous here) that approximately every 10 seconds in your city, a runner is doing something gross. In terms of the world, a second doesn’t go by when a runner is not expelling something gross, or releasing something gross, or grabbing something sweaty. Which is gross.

When not running, a runner might look and act pretty normal. There is that woman who you work with, for instance. The only hint that she is a runner is her uncommonly chiseled calves and thick, taut thighs. She is dressed well, holds herself with poise, confidence and class. She dons a crisp power suit, sans sweat stains, and leads a meeting, looking dapper and commanding. She composes herself at lunch with etiquette and always smells like a mixture of your favorite flower and freshly cut wheat.

Run into this same person in the park, however, and she’ll spit like your grandfather, or blow a snot rocket in the bushes with the accuracy and confidence of a sharp shooter.

That handsome, neatly dressed, dapper man you see charming clients in the office by day will, by late day, be pulling sweaty wedgies, scratching itches in deep dark places on his body, or stopping and placing his hands on the filthy city asphalt to stretch, only to wipe his faces with those same hands at mile six.

And that’s just the external aspect of a runner’s grossness. Runners are generally so hopped up on caffeinated gels, and fiber, and carbs, and water, and dried fruits, and processed, dense energy bars, and adrenalin and anxiety that they piss all over the place or create certain stenches and body odors unique only to runners. Or maybe the compost bin at the end of the week.

Given that the disgusting things runners do are so visually, audibly and olfactoraly (to create a word) obvious, I can understand why the non-runner might think that runners are gross. If this were all I knew of runners, I would also think that runners are mildly evolved, thrashing, sweaty beasts.

I’ll never forget last year’s SF Marathon where, at mile 21, I was stricken with a sharp, handicapping cramp in my nether region. Suddenly all of the muscles in the small area between my two most private of private areas clenched up like a fist, making me yell “ooooh” in a sort of yelp.  I wanted to quit. Untrue: I wanted to die. But, I had to finish the race.

So I stopped, put one foot on the curb and viciously starting rubbing the area with my middle and index fingers and making tortured noises and facial expressions. An unsuspecting, hung-over, hipster couple turned the corner holding coffee and eating their morning bagels. Our eyes met, and the first thing they saw through their dark sunglasses was The Runner, deep at work, poking and pushing on his taint, like he was trying to resuscitate a small forest animal in his shorts.  

After seeing this display, the hung over couple looked horrified, confused and maybe even a little sad. I’m sure after they got home, they sat in silence, reflecting on the sight they just witnessed, and after they understood that what they just saw was not their fault, and not an indication that the end of days were near, they simply looked at themselves and said, “runners are gross.”

But The Runner knows how necessary it is to be gross.

It’s not easy to get up after a long day. I come home from work, and I sit down and eat a bowl of cereal. Then I watch The Daily Show. About half-way into the show, the cereal starts to settle, my couch starts to swallow me. My eye lids say, “suck it Ryan, we’re gonna close.”

When this starts to happen, the hardest thing in the world to do is to stand up off of my comfortable, sunk-in-the-couch ass, and run 5-8 miles through the park. But still, I get up, go out in the cold, or the dark and I run.

Anything that gets in my way is dealt with in the tersest manner. If the wedgie is wedging too much, I un-wedge it. If the junk is jammed, I yank it into place. If the nose is blocked, I expel. If the bladder is full and there is no restroom, I find a tree. And this is isn’t because I have some blatant disregard for human decency or etiquette.

Running hurts. But, I also know that it’s something I have to do for my sanity, as I mentioned in an earlier blog. Running, for me is a spiritual endeavor, and it clears my mind. Running provides me with the solitude to reflect on my day or to “preflect” on the next day.

Most importantly, I run for longevity.  I somehow met a very beautiful, smart and successful woman who decided to marry me. Therefor, it is my responsibility to stay fit and healthy so I can continue to be enjoyed by and to enjoy my wife for as long as I can.

So, the grossness is necessary, you see. If being gross helps me to achieve the above goals, there is no harm. If a little bit of grossness makes it so I can get back home and shake off the day by enjoying the spoils of my labor, eating home cooked food and giggling like a child as my wife and I retreat into our bubble at home, then bring it on.

I have learned to embrace the grossness, and I have understood that to be a gross runner is beautiful. We spend the majority of our days trying to hide the fact that we are humans, with human things that happen to us. We powder our noses, cover our mouths, put napkins on our laps, and sit up straight. To get out and run, gives us an opportunity shed that thin veneer of daily etiquette. For short stints throughout the day we embrace our raw human side and do things like sprint in public, jump over logs, kick up dust and breathe loudly through our mouths as if we are running like the hunted. Our hearts pound and our muscles scream.  What comes along with this, is both a literal shedding of stuff (sweat, fluids, etc.) and a spiritual shedding of the stresses of the day, the anxiety of the week, the weird concrete hardness that fills your muscles after a day of sitting, or the boredom of an afternoon.

The grossness of a runner is a testament to be proud of. It’s one of the many beautiful proofs that our bodies are working the way that they are supposed to be working, and that all of the effort that we go through to help our bodies work in the most optimal way is paying off. If you’re reading this, and thinking, “I’m not gross like that, I don’t know what he’s talking about,” you are either not a runner or you are in denial.  Celebrate the grossness, it’s a great way for us all to step outside of our egos a little and remind ourselves that humans are animals and when we allow ourselves to freely act like animals, our bodies respond.

An Open Letter to Children. And Myself

Nothing is expected of you because you have proven to be worthless. With your detached ambivalence and glossy eyed acceptance of all things that go bling or thump you have turned into a vessel. You are governed by things. You are seduced by images. You are hypnotized. You are under a cloud. You are given a papier-mâché heart and, as advertised, its battery operated thumping tells you to feel happiness, warmth, sincerity and love and you believe it without question.

You are sold a plastic outstretched hand and you use it to touch people. You are told that this is human contact and you begin to believe that this is as intimate as skin on skin. You trick yourself into believing that you are connecting with people. Your language has been abbreviated and shortened into code and gibberish and nothing is really said or expressed.

You are handed a bag of shit and you are told it smells great and you learn to love the scent. You spray the scent on your body and you are told that this is what sexy smells like.

You are handed an edible American flag and are told that you are patriotic if you digest it. A terrorist, a communist, a non-American and a problem if you don't. You are hypnotized. You will never see beyond what is being sold to you. What is being told to you in big lights with handsome men who you want to be like. Long slender sexy women with pretty handbags full of nothing.

You will be put on a plane and sent to war. You will be shot by a bullet and killed or, even worse, paralyzed and the same people who handed you the bag of shit, will hand you a pin made of brass. The color of gold. The color of bronze. Third place.

You are easy to seduce. You have no brains. You have no guts. You are sold a DVD with images of revolution and told that, by watching it, you are rebelling. But you don't know what you are rebelling against. You are proud simply to be holding a product that you call rebellion. They hand this to you in particular because they know that you will not rebel. You will accept whatever they call rebellion. Whatever it is defined as. But rebellion is when you are not controlled. And you are being controlled. Like your parents control you. Like your teachers control you. The same control that you so actively try to fight against. But worse. You are the ones who are going to accept anything that is easy. You are not going to ask for change. Not going to fight for change. Why would you? There are no consequences for you. And if you are poor? Who listens to you? You're not able to buy anything. You mean nothing in this country.

You will be drafted. You will be killed in a war. You will be controlled for the rest of your lives. Your miserable wasted lives. And people will continue to make money off of your ambivalence. Off of their control over you. And you will change nothing. You who preach from a bag of shit that has been handed to you will change nothing. And you will live in a world that has been laid out for you and it will be too late.

But here's the real thing: Even if you really tried to do something to change the state of the world; you'd befuddle it. Your revolution would be sponsored by a soft drink, and eventually the same people who you are fighting against will find a way to sell you a bag of shit that has the slogans of your revolution painted on it. And you will buy it. They know that you are a generation of fickle idiots who follow trends and all they have to do is wait out your storm. Not even a storm. Not even a fog bank. Not even a drizzle. Your "storm" will be a nicely dressed white teenager pouring that name brand soft drink on a crowd, and maybe one up-and-coming blogger or reporter will mistake it for rain and report on it as a forgettable human interest piece, or a short, choppy tweet. But nothing will change. All they have to do is wait for the rain to dry. Once the waiting period is over, they will begin producing products again and you will buy it and be put back in line.

I am typing this on a Mac that I bought in a shiny Apple store. I am wearing name brand jeans that I bought in a store with loud music and pretty girls. I am going to save this on a social network’s server. We are told that social networks are a revolution in the way that we all communicate. Some independent forum made for people to express themselves away from their parents. Away from their teachers. Away from their government. Away. Social networks are used for market research. The captains of the grand ship “Shit Bag” are reading this and reading everything that you idiots have on these sites, and they are painting new bags of shit every single day to sell to you.

Congratulations. You are feeding the beast. You will all die in a war. You will all add to the wheel. You will not change anything. So stand in line and wait for the next bag of shit. You deserve it.

I will be told by my friends who read this that I sound angry. Something funny will be posted by somebody I know hilariously suggesting therapy. That's because anger is not allowed in this world. We all must be happy and distract ourselves with comedy while the world eats itself and you and me and all of our friends are either left in the dark or we choose to ignore it because it's too depressing to learn. Too dark and too big to try and do something. Laughing is easier than crying. So we cuddle and stroke our bags of shit and suck our thumbs so we can go to sleep and dream about bags of shit.

I will die in a war. I will add to the wheel. I will not change anything. I will stand in line and wait for the next bag of shit. I deserve it

My Brief Love Affair With Barry Bonds.

I like to think that I do not get "caught up." By "caught up," I mean that sensation that one gets when they are not interested in a certain thing. Then, because of the static electricity of a crowd around them, they find themselves uncharacteristically, and fully interested in something. Squealing, kicking, tingles-in-your-body interests. 

This comes in many forms: television shows (usually reality based, or contest based), relationships (usually sexual), products (usually trend based (beanie babies, electric pets, etc.)), dancing (usually drunkenly), and dance crazes (all of them).

We all get caught up. 

The reason I like to think that I do not get caught up is because I like to think that my critical thinking skills are sophisticated enough that impulsive interests do not effect me. I like to think that I am discerning enough that, no amount of fanfare, fantasm or feigned fantasy, can manipulate me enough to lose my cool. On a daily basis, I try to keep a skeptical eye on the machine, yet with a hand on the pleasure button. Never leaning too far toward one side. 

I can think of many times where I have been caught up. 

• Middle school: making fun of Richard Olson even though I had no reason to make fun of him. 
• Furby. 
  
• Live Strong Bracelets
• Jesus (In the form of a Junior High youth group)

There is one incident, however, that really sticks out. It involves a baseball game.  Not just any baseball game, but the San Francisco Giants game where Barry Bonds was supposed to break Hank Aaron's record for the most home-runs hit. I don't know what year it was, I don't know how many homeruns it was or how many he needed to break the record. I'm not even sure if it was Hank Aaron's record that Bonds was trying to break. I don't care. Because baseball does not interest me on a day to day level. I appreciate baseball from an Americana iconic nature. I think historically baseball has done a lot to bring our country back together. But, not for many years. 

I don't care about baseball. I didn't back when my friend Huw (prounouced "Hugh") invited me to go to the game. The conversation sounded like this: 

Huw: Ryan, I have an extra ticket to the game tonight (everybody in San Francisco knew what "the game" was because we had all been paying attention to the front-page articles claiming that Barry Bonds was the patron saint of balls and bats, the many posters, and the countless amounts of beer marinated men and beer soaked girls in baseball hats talking about it around it the city.) 

Ryan: Yeah, I hear that tonight is the night he's supposed to break Babe Ruth's record.

Huw: Hank Aaron. 

Ryan: Yes.

Huw: You're in?

Ryan: Yes.

We arrived at the ballpark and were instantly thrust into the world of Barry Bonds. When we picked up our tickets, we were handed a stuffed gorilla wearing a Barry Bonds jersey. Everything had Barry Bonds' name, photo or jersey printed on it. All of the ticket takers were wearing his jersey. I clutched my gorilla and walked into the stadium.

I knew, walking in there, that I was being marketed too. The record that Barry Bonds was about to break was, indeed, a feat worthy of noticing. I, for instance, had and still haven't EVER hit even one homerun. Barry Bonds was about to hit his 600 something-th homerun. So, yeah, that's a talent worth noticing. But, from the perspective of people selling things, I guessed at the fact that they mostly cared about selling the T-shirts, hats, banners, posters, photos, cards, trophy's, pens, pins, erasers, snow globes and socks emblazoned with Barry Bonds' name. 

I felt maniupulated. I wanted a beer and some garlic fries, but I wanted to resist the marketing machine. Every man, woman and child who was caring anything with Barry Bonds' name on it was a mindless drone, from my perspective. But, I was thirsty, and I love garlic fries, so I bought one of each anyway.

We found our seats and sat down. With each snippet of conversation drifting past us, we heard the words "Bonds," "homer," "wow," and "I hope." Anybody who caught anybody's eye would strike up a conversation about the home run record. 

"You think tonight's the night?" 

"I sure do!"

"Let's hope so." 

I gazed into my beer. The game started. Every time Bonds got up to bat, the entire crowd jumped from their seats, clapped their hands together and focused on every move of Bonds. The pitcher wound up the ball, and with every firing of every muscle that occurred from the time the ball left the pitcher's hand until the ball flew over homeplate, a thousand flashbulbs flickered from every corner of the stadium. The crowd's breath sucked in. Their fists clenched. 

The first time he went up to bat,he did not hit a home run.  With each pitch, however,  I found myself clutching the soft stuffed gorilla in my hand. I felt like it could become a piece of history. If only Barry would hit that homerun. Suddenly, that homerun became mandatory. I wanted to be a part of this historical event. I wanted that gorilla to be something I could show to my grandkids and say "I was there." I can't remember if he popped out or if he got a basehit. But something other than a homerun happened. I looked to the guy next to me and said "next time, next time he's up, he'll hit that homer, you watch." 

Waiting for Bonds to come up to the plate the second time was excruciating. These fans became my friends. We were all an anxious and hopeful community. Waiting, hoping and pushing for Bonds, our buddy. Our guy. Finally, the moment came, and the stadium fell silent. Bonds walked out, stood at homeplate. One pitch. Nothing. Two pitches. Nothing. The third pitch seemed to happen in slow motion. The pitcher wound up. Bonds swung. We all knew this was it. Crack. Silence. Flashbulbs. The ball went sailing across the sky, toward the fence. And then, it happened. Everybody in the crown erupted at the same time. Barry Bonds had done it. I threw my hands in the air and ACTUALLY high fived Huw. We may have even hugged. I high fived the guy next to me and I continuted to applaud and hoot and holler.

As Barry rounded the bases, fireworks exploded above us. My body vibrated with chills. I  looked and Huw, and said "Wow, thank you for bringing me to this event." I called it an event. And I meant it. When Bonds stepped on homeplate, he raised his helmet over his head and circled to show his appreciation for every one of us in the crowd. I continued to clap and said "Good for him, good for him." 

It was at that moment that I looked at myself and realized that I was caught up. Sure, it was exciting to see. It is exciting when thousands of people are cheering. Fireworks are always great. But, I actually did not care about the event. Barry Bonds was known around the city as a bit of a prick. I stopped clapping, took my hand out of hoody pocket.  And I knew it. I had been dooped. 

There have been many other times when I have been caught up. Proms, seeing celebrities. I saw Johnny Depp one time at a movie premiere. Everybody around me rushed into shake his hand and be close to him. A thousand hands were outstretched. The person I was with got her photo with him. She was right next to me. And, just the excitement of being near her, who was near him, made me say (outloud, mind you), "oh alright, I wan to.." and then my hand was outstretched and I was leaning in.

Again, I caught myself. And, every time I catch myself, I get this sinking feeling that I am not unique. I am easily and constantly manipulated. And it works. 

I have since lost the Barry Bonds gorilla. I am no longer dating the person who got a photo of Johnny Depp. All physical memories of those situations are gone. Even before all of this, moments after the events, even, I had lost that boiling feeling that made me stand up, or shoot my hand out. It was an instant in my life where nothing else mattered but the present. The insecurities of maintaining my thinly veiled hat-glasses-and-tattooed hipster image was wiped away, and I simply stood up and cheered. I extended my hand and actually hoped that Johnny Depp would touch it back. In short, I lost my cool. But, before I caught myself, I felt good. I felt light. I felt excited.

The amount of attention I pay to my image seems to change relative to my situation. Two years ago, I would not be caught holding a girl's hand. Now that I am deeply in love and involved in a meaningful, caring relationship, I not only hold hands, but I kiss and talk in baby talk in almost any situation. I paw at her face and rub noses. 

I am sure the guy in the park with the two year old on his shoulder did not plan, when he was in college, to wear the white t-shirt dawning a screen-printed photo of himself, his wife and his baby wearing a mickey mouse hat.  It is something that comes with a situation. There is a reason why I will dance now. I care a little bit less when it comes to what people think of my actions. I no longer think as much about maintaining my "cool."

I realize that much of this "cool" is in my head. My friends can attest to the fact that I get caught up in nearly everything:  music, television shows, t-shirts...and that's just three examples; in alphabetical order. I try ad explain to them that, much of my "interest" in these things lies mostly in an anthropological form. I am simply dipping my toe in the pop culture pool to get a sense of WHY people fall for certain trends. But that's a pretentious lie, and I know it. I love the crowd. I love the hype. I love the crowd, the anticipation, the feeling nail biting and the chills. I just hate to admit it.