Why I Want To Share My Runs With You

Why are you reading this?

Sort of a silly way to start, but maybe the only way. Because the answer tells you why this piece has been kicking around in my head unwritten for so long, and why I'm still having such a hard time starting it.

You're reading this because I posted a link on Facebook. And I feel really, really silly writing about why I post things on Facebook. But, like it or not, Facebook is a substrate of my social life. Much as it frustrates me to say it, the act of sharing there is important. Even when I share something that seems fatuous or trivial... it's important.

That's not to say I fret about everything I post. People will either understand why my absurd remarks are important to me, or they won't. Either way, there's nothing I can do to change their reaction, and I accept that. This piece is about the exception to that rule: my posts about running.

Last summer, when I started using the Nike running app, I started posting my runs several times each week. I ran more regularly over the winter, and a few weeks ago I began a new training schedule that's got me running—and posting my run—every day. And I wonder what you must think.

This preoccupation might seem silly, but I have a good reason for it. I've noticed a trend during the last year or so: a waxing of social media crotchetiness that seems like the bitter, hyperthyroid offspring of "No one wants to hear about your workouts". Last year I read an entire article about how no one wants to hear about your vacation. It seems that to show pictures from a trip or a hike is tantamount to bragging, and no one who has ever viewed such pictures has felt anything but jealousy and rage. Someone actually took the time to draw out that sad bile and distill it into words, and he wasn't alone. Pick a topic, and there's someone ready to tell you that no one wants to hear you talk about it.

I find such paucity of spirit remarkable. I can understand someone saying "I don't want to hear about this." But no one wants to hear about it? That assertion seems statistically untenable. Even back in those sad days when I was hopelessly lost in social awkwardness, lacking even the most rudimentary grasp of why I didn't have a girlfriend, I didn't begrudge anyone else their relationship. Even when I was fat or injured, I never begrudged anyone their athleticism. And when I see evidence that some folk have more money than I, or are more together than I'll ever be, I don't begrudge them that. Yeah, sure, I get sad when I see people doing things I can't or just don't, but I don't wish ill on anyone. I don't presume to say "No one wants to hear about that." And I can't believe I'm alone.

So I post my runs, knowing that a few of you like to hear about them, and hoping that a few more of you care. But lately I've found myself yearning not just to post, but to share. I want you to know what those runs mean to me. Here goes.

On April 18th I joined my friend Benny on a nine-mile run. I'd never run that far before, so I was doubtful about whether I could do it. I had no idea how much a winter of consistent running had retooled my lungs and muscles. Those nine miles felt like nothing. I was so exhilarated that I decided to try ten miles the next day. The ten felt glorious, and I spent all the rest of that day in the most profound state of relaxation I'd ever experienced. I wasn't particularly tired; I didn't necessarily want to sleep. But you know when you're exhausted, and you lie down, and for one delicious moment you feel like you're melting into the bed? I felt that just standing up.

Those physical sensations mingled with pride in my accomplishment, and I reveled in that heady mix. Yet for all that, those feelings weren't just the culmination of a winter's worth of work. Were that the case, I wouldn't be posting my runs, and I wouldn't be writing this. No, this isn't about the previous six months. This is about the culmination of four years spent unraveling the fear and anger I'd been nursing since childhood.

I was fat before I knew the word fat. And the moment I hit kindergarten it was clear that I wasn't just a fat kid; I was the fattest kid. I had no physical coordination, no physical worth. I was good in school, but inept everywhere else. I grew up hating my body, and living in my head.

Long before puberty I knew no girl would ever want me. It went without saying. To even think otherwise—to think in any way highly of myself, for that matter—would have been to invite derision. So I got good at self-deprecating humor. To make the fat jokes before the bully could think of them felt like a victory. Preemptive attacks on myself showed them that I was smart enough to out-think them, and tough enough to handle anything they could dish out.

Can you hear the fear and anger? Can you feel the dualities, and the fervor with which I clutched them? I was a fat freak who would never be anything but a fat freak. And I built my sense of identity on that rock. I knew who I was, and I knew who The Other was. The jocks—those demons in my personal hell—they were who they were, and I was who I was, and never the twain shall meet. I was nothing like them, and never would be. Arrogance indistinguishable from self-loathing simmered in my skull for decades.

And then a few years ago I started to unravel it. That unraveling was the first step on a road that led me to that weekend when I ran the nine miles I didn't know I could, and ran ten miles the next day. And there I was, feeling... even now I despair of telling you true how it felt: the wonder of it, the liberation and humility.

I imagine we have all experienced the joy of accomplishing something we never thought we'd do, yes? Well, this was an order of magnitude beyond that. This wasn't just me doing something I never thought I'd do. This was me doing something I had specifically told myself I would never do. After decades of snarling at myself and at the demons that existed only in my head about who I was, who I wasn't, and the things I would never do... here I was, being a person I told myself I'd never be.

Have you ever felt a compassionate hand settle over yours and pull gently on your clenched fingers? Have you ever felt yourself release your grip on dualities you've clutched to your breast for decades? In that moment, that's what running meant to me. It was a blessing. It was a wire flensing away one more layer of my self-imposed limitations. It was grace.

When I share my runs with you, I am sharing those feelings, that overflowing of grace. Call it bragging, if you like; we live in a time when everyone jokes about bragging, and anything positive we say about ourselves falls into that bucket. But damn it, I'm not cynical enough to believe that there's no distinction between bragging, and sharing with an open heart an accomplishment that makes one feel glorious. We can aspire to at least enough generosity of spirit to see that distinction, yes?

So I'm going to keep operating under the assumption that any statement beginning with the words "No one wants to hear about your..." is incorrect. I'm going to keep posting my runs, and I'm going to keep hoping you understand what they mean to me. Because man, I know I didn't do anything to deserve this grace, and I feel too small to contain it all, so... I gotta spread it around.

I hope you do the same. I hope you share the stuff that feels too wonderful not to share, and I hope you have faith that I'll know it ain't just braggin'. I hope we can open our hearts that much. I hope we can help each other divest ourselves of dualities.

On Obfuscation and Clarity

Ever since I finished my second run-through of "Breaking Bad" (I'm finishing my third now), I've been pondering a particular aspect of the show: that all secrets are revealed. Every character who was lied to finds out the truth. Every moment when we felt the tension of knowing something one of the characters didn't has a corresponding moment of cathartic release. Hank finds out about Walt and Skyler. Jesse finds out about everything that Walt (and Huell) did. The cycle of setting up, maintaining and eventually releasing secrets informs the drama so conspicuously that it's clearly intentional and seemingly integral.

This aspect is interesting in light of twentieth century literature, which not only embraced confusion, but often refused to allow the characters one iota of clarity. Think "Waiting for Godot". A hell of a lot of twentieth century art is nothing but obfuscation.

Thinking over all this, it occurred to me that this attribute of revelation may be a characteristic of the western, and "Breaking Bad" certainly is one of those. Think about "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly". Think about the heroic tone of the western, and you'll probably come up with other obvious examples of characters who gravitate toward an inexorable revelation that is at least painful, and maybe deadly.

Wondering what this cycle of obfuscation and revelation implies about our storytelling impulses, I came to see it as a dialogue, a dance or a fight between modernism and its antithesis. "There are no absolutes," says modernism. "I will put the lie to clarity." And another aspect of our culture responds "There are absolutes. I will show people achieving clarity at any cost."

And then I thought about it some more. And I kept coming back to one particular pair of bookends: Jane's death, and its revelation to Jesse near the end of the show. When Walt stood there and let Jane choke, I wanted to scream "Noooooo! Jessie will never know... he has to know!" Yet three seasons later, when Walt threw the truth in Jesie's face, it was, if not the most horrifying scene, then easily the most gut-wrenching. As far as Walt knew, Jessie was about to die at his word. He had no reason to tell Jessie about Jane aside from cruelty. And yet... I wanted Jessie to know. I needed Jessie to know. And I think Jessie would have chosen to know, every time. Despite the pain, despite the consequences, Jessie wanted clarity.

...which leads me to the most striking example of Jessie wanting clarity. He was on his way to being disappeared, and he threw it away when he realized that Walt had poisoned Brock. He could have chosen to ignore the truth, to let it melt into the recesses of his mind as he melted away into Alaska. But he went back. Not only did he need to face the truth, he needed Walter to know that he knew: to look him in the eye and make him face the consequences of his actions and his lies.

When it comes to needing clarity, Walt is no slouch either. There's no better example in the whole show than Walt telling Hank that he didn't think Gale was Heisenberg. All Walt had to do was keep his mouth shut, let Hank believe he'd cracked the case, and live out his days happily with his family. But he couldn't let it go. He couldn't stand to see someone else get credit for his expertise. At that moment, he resembled nothing so much as Dustin Hoffman's character in "Wag the Dog"; he wanted the credit. He wanted it more than he wanted to live.

Those choices are striking in the moment. But from the point of view of having seen the entire story through to its completion, they're even more so. If Walt would have kept his mouth shut, he might have lived happily ever after, and Hank and Steve wouldn't have died. If Jessie had just done the easy thing and gone away, not only wouldn't he have been beaten and imprisoned, but Andrea wouldn't have died, leaving Brock an orphan. But in the universe of the show, it seems clear that this needed to happen. There's a sort of inexorable tone, and we're on-board with it; we needed all that death, all that pain, to happen. We needed the characters to know the truth: to achieve clarity at all costs.

That desire on the part of the audience is crucial. Without it, there would be little separating "Breaking Bad" from Shakespearean tragedy. The body count is similar. But in Shakespeare, we have a sense of impotent horror at the bloodshed. "If only they had known..." we lament. We see the tragedy as a manifestation of human flaws. But in "Breaking Bad", as in the broader western genre, tragedy lacks that regretful tone. We don't lament because we recognize the deaths as a necessary cost. Tuco died, Gustavo died, Hank died, Walt died... but it did not have a sense of grim inevitability. There was always an element of choice, and for all the darkness, for all the grimness—for all their foolishness and all their flaws—their final choices were virtuous. Because they chose clarity. They, and we, wouldn't have had it any other way. In the western, tragedy is not just heroic; it's chivalric.

I thought of all this--all these examples of characters shouldering aside easy opportunities for happiness in favor of clarity, and a word popped into my head: "enlightenment". That's a pretty good synonym for clarity, right? And it suddenly hit me: "Breaking Bad", and the western genre, have Buddhist overtones.

I know it's a stretch, and I'm the first to admit what little I know about Buddhism I know from my wife. But hear me out. In the Buddhist model, the world is pain. Pain cannot be avoided. On the contrary, attempting to avoid pain can extend one's journey through the cycle. The very best one can hope for is to achieve enlightenment, which is not a state of elevated being; it is un-being. Enlightenment means getting off the carousel onto which we are all born, and you can't get there except by riding.

In "Breaking Bad", and westerns in general, we're along for the ride not as rubberneckers wincing at pain that should have been avoided, but as solemn witnesses to pain willingly chosen. We know that avoiding pain is a fool's game. Pain isn't merely the cost of enlightenment; enlightenment is the only destination, and pain the only path to it.

Gratitude For Getting To Play

Lately I've been feeling a delight in my professional life for which I want to convey gratitude. It's a difficult feeling to describe, yet I imagine everyone experiences it at one time or another.

I've spent eighteen years as a computer programmer, slowly broadening and deepening my tool belt. During most of that time I felt pleasure at building upon my skills, and there's no question that I became more capable as time passed. But I can't recall feeling a perceptual sea change until about two years ago.

I would look at the code, and feel as though I was no longer seeing it as an assemblage of lines; I was seeing it as a shape in my mind's eye. I'd become familiar enough with its microscopic properties that I no longer had to think about them. Debugging or enhancing the code felt like playing with Tinkertoys.

During the last few weeks I've had a glorious opportunity to go back to the type of programming that I'm best at, and I'm getting that feeling more often than ever now. In my best moments, I feel as though I'm barely conscious of the details of what I'm doing; my hands are moving, and I'm pruning this and splicing that and extending the other and milling a new gear to pop in there. And the coolest thing is that I have a sense of what I don't need to look at. When I make a change, whether it's a fix or an enhancement, I see the flow of logic through that point and I know what that change will affect and what it won't. I imagine a mechanic with eighteen years of experience must feel like this. If she has enough experience with the qualities of the specific parts—how different engines behave and how the microscopic properties inform the macroscopic behavior—then she must reach a point where she doesn't really see the engine, yes? She sees what she needs to change and knows "Oh, yeah, I'll have to adjust this, that and the other thing." And she makes those adjustments not only without conscious thought, but without looking at the unaffected parts of the engine.

I'm smiling inwardly at all these metaphors, which feel a bit beside the point because the mental shift I'm trying to describe is metaphor. My brain has achieved a new level of abstraction, and it feels lovely. It feels joyous. It feels like a privilege.

I get to play. I'm a lucky guy.

A Whiff of Teleology

The plane arced up over Lake Michigan and I looked down, tingling with wonder at the enormous sheets of dull white spanning the slate waters. I'd just spent days watching ice hummocking on the shore. Maybe it was that dramatic perspective shift, combined with the exhilaration of takeoff, that cast me into a peculiar lucidity.

I saw massive sheets of ice: a jumbled mosaic with tiles the size of city blocks, of neighborhoods and small towns. I saw the shear planes: how those gigantic tiles had separated along north-south lines and slid against each other along east-west lines. I saw how they had drifted—were drifting.

As I imagined the process, I saw my mind spin it into something more: a narrative. Here's a rough translation of the images and feelings that flowed through my mind.

The ice was forming a sheet over the whole lake, but the wind kept pushing against it, and broke it off before it could finish.

To understand why that strikes me as hilariously odd, you have to understand my core conceit: that I am a rational person. I love to think of myself as empirically-minded. "I'm a reductionist," I tell myself. "I have a mechanistic view of the universe. I don't believe in boggarts and spirits. I don't believe the objects around me have animus."

This informs how I think of religious and superstitious people. My inner face sneers at the thought of their sky bully, and bursts into braying laughter at their absurd notion that the universe cares one way or the other about our arbitrary numerology. I bathe in the ideation of what they are, and what I am not. I separate myself. I tell myself that teleology is anathema to me—that I'm all about the etiology.

And then my mind runs for teleology like a child for an ice cream truck.

Cold air blew over the lake, cooling the water and pushing on it. As the water froze, the ice broke up and moved west. That is what happened. But that's not what my mind saw. My mind saw intent. My mind saw drama. My mind anticipated the freezing-over of the lake as though it were a goal; the ice was longing for that moment when it joined into a continuous sheet, and the wind worked to thwart it. There was a good guy and a bad guy. In that single burst of images and feelings in my mind, there was heroism and villainy, mustache twirling and victimhood.

I wish I could convey this better. I feel like I'm painting a picture of me tripping my way through my life without the need for acid. I'm not. I don't think my mind works particularly differently than anyone else's; that's the point. I'm talking about the gap between my explicated mind—the me that works in the light of the world and tells itself what it is—and the real conceptual landscape that exists prior to, independently of and despite any explication. I don't see that gap very often; the meat is usually too good at functioning in the world to see it. But once in a while I catch a glimpse—a particularly vivid flash of thought—and it's as though the fingertips of my intellect brush against that conceptual landscape, and I feel the true shape of it. That landscape is nothing like what I usually think it is. It's a landscape of teleology. And seeing that helps me to hold onto empathy.

I pride myself on the mental constructs that help me interpret the world. But that process of interpretation happens long and long after the objects have formed, cooled and hardened within my conceptual landscape. That landscape is the ur-layer of my self. It is there to lick up the photons entering my eyes, the bearing and shearing stresses entering my fingertips, the temperature gradients sweeping over skin. It's the forge from which I draw the atomic-level building blocks of my existence and it is bursting with teleology.

I am a primate who weaves stories of intent and animus into its reality at the basement level. And if I, with all my hubris in thinking otherwise, can do this, then I must have empathy for my fellow primates who do it.

Don't talk to me about the towers.

Here's what you'd have seen if you'd been looking over my shoulder as I ate lunch today: my bok choy, Chinese Broccoli, chicken and rice from Ho Yip, and a hopeful pigeon. If you'd looked just beyond that Christmas tree you'd have seen One Liberty Plaza, aka the NASDAQ building, where I used to work. If you'd turned your head to the left you'd have seen a new tower. I don't turn my head that way much. There's a grey emptiness there that doesn't acknowledge the new tower, and my eye shies away from it.

I actually tried to go to work that morning. Can you believe that? The towers were burning, and I was worried about getting in trouble for not checking in at work. There's no better way for me to describe the unreality of that day. The guy at the door said "No, go home." I circled the building, turning back toward the towers, wanting to see if there was any way I could help. I crossed Church Street,  approached a cop standing there a few hundred feet from the south tower, and asked him if there was anything I could do. He said "No, get back!"

I was there. And I don't like talking about how I was there, because I know it will come out sounding like "I'm a New Yorker!" with all the exceptionalism that implies. Even on a good day, New Yorkers are so steeped in unwarranted exceptionalism that it's squirting out of our pores, and that's not who I want to be. I've lived in farming fields, and I've lived in the city, and I know neither place has a monopoly on saints or sinners. I have no interest in cheering or jeering for either tribe.

It's not important that I'm a New Yorker. You shouldn't care that I'm a New Yorker any more than that pigeon does. But I was there. Do you see the difference?

I stood at the western caisson of the Brooklyn Bridge and I saw that first tower fall. I heard the sound that, were it depicted in a comic book, would have almost certainly been written as "KRUMP!!!". I saw Manhattan disappear in a cloud of dust. I saw thousands of people die. I saw it with my own eyes.

One part of my mind knew it was seeing a special effect like so many other special effects I'd seen in television and movies. Another part of my mind knew I was watching people die. That disconnect did something to me, and to a lot of New Yorkers. It's why we don't use cutesy phrases like "Ground Zero" or "Nine-Eleven", and why we don't tend to visit. We saw enough that day. More than enough.

So when you and I are talking, and you show me a picture of a burning tower with a pat phrase slapped over it to "prove" your point, I think you are a monster. You are a leering, bloated horror, squatting to defecate in the wreckage, and wiping yourself with the charred, dismembered corpses.

Don't talk to me about the towers. I was there! Don't talk to me about those people. I inhaled those people!

But I don't say those things. I don't go around talking about how I stood at the western caisson and blah blah blah. I don't go around bragging about how I was there. I say it in my head, but I don't give voice to those thoughts because I possess a modicum of respect, and I'm not sure that I have a right to say it. That cop who told me to get back? I know that cop has that right, though I have no idea whether he's still alive to exercise it. You and I? That's debatable.

Maybe that day broke you in a way that's not entirely dissimilar to the way it did me. Maybe you, sitting there hundreds or thousands of miles away watching it on television, felt even more helpless than I. Maybe you have a loved one in the military. Maybe you're scared in ways that I can never understand.

But you don't own those people who lost everything they were ever going to be that day. You don't own the words they will never get to speak. You don't get to co-opt that wealth of truncated meaning. You don't get to take them and toss them in a meat grinder and then mash what's left into self-serving nuggets of your own meaning. Neither of us do. But I'm the only one who seems to realize it.

There were people in those towers who would have died before letting anyone torture people in their name. You don't get to desecrate their memories. Not on my time.

Don't talk to me about the towers.

Here's what you'd have seen if you'd been looking over my shoulder as I ate lunch today: my bok choy, Chinese Broccoli, chicken and rice from Ho Yip, and a hopeful pigeon. If you'd looked just beyond that Christmas tree you'd have seen One Liberty Plaza, aka the NASDAQ building, where I used to work. If you'd turned your head to the left you'd have seen a new tower. I don't turn my head that way much. There's a grey emptiness there that doesn't acknowledge the new tower, and my eye shies away from it.

I actually tried to go to work that morning. Can you believe that? The towers were burning, and I was worried about getting in trouble for not checking in at work. There's no better way for me to describe the unreality of that day. The guy at the door said "No, go home." I circled the building, turning back toward the towers, wanting to see if there was any way I could help. I crossed Church Street,  approached a cop standing there a few hundred feet from the south tower, and asked him if there was anything I could do. He said "No, get back!"

I was there. And I don't like talking about how I was there, because I know it will come out sounding like "I'm a New Yorker!" with all the exceptionalism that implies. Even on a good day, New Yorkers are so fucking steeped in unwarranted exceptionalism that it's squirting out of our pores, and that's not who I want to be. I've lived in farming fields, and I've lived in the city, and I know neither place has a monopoly on saints or assholes. I have no interest in cheering or jeering for either tribe.

It's not important that I'm a New Yorker. You shouldn't give a shit that I'm a New Yorker any more than that pigeon does. But I was there. Do you see the difference?

I stood at the western caisson of the Brooklyn Bridge and I saw that first tower fall. I heard the sound that, were it depicted in a comic book, would have almost certainly been written as "KRUMP!!!". I saw Manhattan disappear in a cloud of dust. I saw thousands of people die. I saw it with my own eyes.

One part of my mind knew it was seeing a special effect like so many other special effects I'd seen in television and movies. Another part of my mind knew I was watching people die. That disconnect did something to me, and to a lot of New Yorkers. It's why we don't use cutesy phrases like "Ground Zero" or "Nine-Eleven", and why we don't tend to visit. We saw enough that day. More than enough.

So when you and I are talking, and you show me a picture of a burning tower with a pat phrase slapped over it to "prove" your point, I think you are a fucking monster. You are a leering, bloated horror, squatting to shit in the wreckage, and wiping your ass with the charred, dismembered corpses.

Don't talk to me about the towers. I was there! Don't talk to me about those people. I fucking inhaled those people!

But I don't say that shit. I don't go around talking about how I stood at the western caisson and blah blah blah. I don't go around bragging about how I was there. I say it in my head, but I don't give voice to those thoughts because I possess a modicum of respect, and I'm not sure that I have a right to say it. That cop who told me to get back? That cop sure as shit has that right, though I have no idea whether he's still alive to exercise it. You and I? That's debatable.

Maybe that day broke you in a way that's not entirely dissimilar to the way it did me. Maybe you, sitting there hundreds or thousands of miles away watching it on television, felt even more helpless than I. Maybe you have a loved one in the military. Maybe you're scared in ways that I can never understand.

But you don't own those people who lost everything they were ever going to be that day. You don't own the words they will never get to speak. You don't get to co-opt that wealth of truncated meaning. You don't get to take them and toss them in a meat grinder and then mash what's left into self-serving nuggets of your own meaning. Neither of us do. But I'm the only goddamn one who seems to realize it.

There were people in those towers who would have died before letting anyone torture people in their name. You don't get to desecrate their memories. Not on my time.

This much I ask of you.

To you who thinks that the torture was justified:

I won't try to change your mind. I won't even tell you that you should be ashamed of yourself, as though I could make it happen by saying it. I've accepted that I can't do that.

I've spent a lot of the last day telling myself that you can't possibly believe what you're saying. My mind insists that your words must be a cover for your shame. It's become clear to me that I find this belief comforting. So I'm letting it go. It is time for us both to put away childish things.

I believe you think that the torture was justified.

This much I ask of you.

If I am ever hurt, and you find the person who hurt me, do not torture them in my name.

If I am killed in a terrorist attack, and you find the terrorists, do not torture them in my name.

If someone tortures me and cuts my head off, and you find that person, do not torture them in my name.

Do not torture anyone in my name. And if you're going to torture someone, or support someone who does, do not pretend you're a hero. Do not invoke your membership in a military brotherhood, or your support for the military, as though this gives you moral authority. Do not claim you are making anyone safer, or that you are getting information.

Be an adult. Be honest.

Admit that you take pleasure from the thought of inflicting pain on another human being.