A Meditation on Filling Bottles (20-second Video)

We all have our special spots in the backcountry.  Those places that speak to us at some elemental level, and though we may not fully understand why the place is so special to us, we simply know - simply feel - that it is.  

This little pool on the North Fork of Hyndman Creek is one such place to me.  There are thousands just like it throughout the Valley, but to me it is singular.

RJ Review: Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running"

"Nothing in the real world is as beautiful as the illusions of a person about to lose consciousness."

"Most of what I know about writing I’ve learned through running every day."

"To exaggerate a bit, it was as if by completing the over-sixty-mile race I’d stepped into a different place."

Last week my wife couldn't contain her excitement about the English language release of Haruki Murakami's new 1,000 page novel, IQ84.  It's swept Japan and, given the buzz in the lit world, is set to do the same in the US and England.  Though I try to keep up on things literary, I admit the IQ84 phenomenon passed me by, but Murakami's name did ring a bell, and a quick Google search reminded me why. He wrote a non-fiction book on running released a couple years ago, called What I Talk About When I Talk About Running.

Intrigued, I downloaded it to my Kindle and started clicking away.

At just under 200 pages, it was a quick - and I have to say enjoyable - read.  Murakami writes from the viewpoint of a dedicated mid-packer who simply loves to run and whose running suffuses his life, influencing his writing and driving his thoughts.  It is a portrait I dare say most people reading these words can fully connect with.

The majority of the book revolves around blog-like essays on his training for and running of a number of road marathons (including New York and Boston), with some triathlons thrown in, and one 100k ultra, which gets set up as the book's antagonist - one possible reason the author's previously un-assaulted love affair with running begins to fray.  (Anyone who's suffered through a bad 100k plus can hardly blame him for doing so.)

What was very strange to me as I made my way through this book was how often it seemed to echo my views of running and my running life.  From his time in Boston and Cambridge spent running by the Charles River, to his drive to excel even when well behind the lead pack, to his views of the relationship between running and writing - this seemed like a book I could have written - if of course, I were a smart, dedicated, and accomplished novelist.

Yet, this familiarity was in some ways a disappointment of the book.  As much as I loved to see myself in the pages, the book didn't transport me to a higher place.  Great essays - those by EB White or Adam Gopnik, just to name two - will take you from a place you know and lift you up to reveal something grander than you'd previously considered.  And given Murakami's reputation, I admit to expecting that sort of experience.  But it wasn't there.

This may not really be fair, of course. He says in the afterward that the book should be viewed more as a running memoir than a true collection of essays, and it does have that feel to it: A tap-tap-tap of thoughts on paper that mimics the sound of a marathon stride.

Still, it's an engaging rhythm, and I could hardly put the book down until I was finished with it.  Murakami certainly isn't an everyman writer, but he is close to being an everyman runner, and it's great to have a book that is essentially a paean to the passionate mid-packer - to those who rarely win races but whose passion and love for the sport is no less rich and no less grand.

More RJ Reviews

(Re)Joyce: Ultrarunning and James Joyce, Bloomsday Edition

Today is June 16 -  Bloomsday - a red letter date for fans of James Joyce and his expansive novel, Ulysses, because it is the day all the events in the book take place: where the lives of two souls - Stephen Dedalus and Leopold Bloom (hence, Bloomsday) - are laid bare as they make their distracted, angst-ridden, and entertaining way around 1904 Dublin, Ireland.

It is an amazing work that is both inspiring and infuriating.  It is also one that I came to see bore a number of parallels with ultrarunning after my own full day at the Wasatch Front 100 in 2009.  I wrote a post about that that September called One Hundred Miles with James Joyce: My Foos Won't Moos.

So, in honor of Bloomsday, I'm reprinting that post below, which calls out Ulysses, Finnegans Wake, and Joyce's overall philosophy of life.

#   #   #

September 30, 2009
One Hundred Miles with James Joyce: My Foos Won't Moos

A transcendent romp through the night that meshes the real and imaginary, capturing life's tragedy and triumphs in the sample of hours between dusk and dawn. 


A circuitous, all day journey from watering hole to watering hole, where the same clutch of people cross paths throughout the day until they all come together in a liquid and calorie-fueled finale.


Descriptions of the last 100 miler you did?

Most likely. But they're also the plot lines (as they are) of James Joyces' Finnegans Wake and Ulysses, respectively.

Though I've been a runner and a devotee of Joyce for most of my adult life, it was only in the last month that I saw any parallels between his writings and my running. During my usual mind games a couple weeks ahead of Wasatch, a phrase from the washerwomen chapter of Finnegans Wake kept coming into my mind, a phrase that would presage my first mile heading out of Brighton on race day.

In the close of Book 1, two washerwomen are doing laundry in the river, sharing rumors of the novel's two main characters. As night falls, they begin to transform - one into a tree; another into a stone (you just have to go with it). As the one woman changes into a tree, she tells the other: "Myfoos won't moos." Written in Joyce's at-times-maddening "night language," the line translates to, among other things: "My feet won't move."

So I had a great time playing this line with my wife in the lead up to the race, thinking of the 26,000 feet of climbing to conquer and the ever-increasing temps called for on race day. And the night ofWasatch, I actually did my best-ever washerwoman impression heading out of Brighton at mile 75. If I wasn't the personification of someone slowly turning into a tree, I don't know what I was (see previous post). Just ask my pacer - and the four people who passed us.

But, even beyond such a direct connection, Joyce's general philosophy meshes wonderfully with that of ultra-running. He reveled in the extraordinary within the ordinary. Whether it was a lowly advertising canvasser (Leopold Bloom in Ulysses) or a hod carrying father of three (Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker in Finnegans Wake), he saw within each person's life a complex web of history, philosophy, mythology, observation and desire forged in the trials and triumphs of every day. Who of us who has been lucky enough to race, run, or walk through a 100 miles hasn't felt such a broad transcendent experience in that enriched time between the gun and finish line?

Moreover, Joyce's characters are nothing if not peripatetic. In Ulysses, the main characters journey in and around Dublin in an exhausting and event-filled day that begins at dawn and finishes with a final collapse into bed in the wee hours. In Finnegans Wake - perhaps the most ultra-esque novel - the characters traverse time, space, and reality as dreams and hallucinations play out over the course of a single, wild night.

Yes, I know. Such simple parallels between Joyce and ultra-running are not the thing that dissertations are made of, but I've always treasured the connections in my life - the small things that cross-over from one passion to the other, magnifying both. So, it was a real gift to finally see a connection between my favorite sport and my favorite author, so much so it was almost OK that heading out of Brighton my foos wouldn't moos.

Verte Libre: Of Roots and Ridges

My first thought was to wish for my camera, but that was wrong.  It could not have captured what I was seeing - the lone ten foot fir whipped by the wind until it rippled and waved and looked as if it'd unearthed its roots and was spinning in place.  It made me think of Orpheus, his music so magical that the trees wrenched themselves from the ground and danced and followed him until he calmed them back into the earth.  Struggling up past the tree, the wind stealing my breath, it felt like it might reach out and touch me, but like the thirty or more times I'd passed along this ridge, that didn't happen.  Still, I was happy to continue on, unearthed and running.  Only now can I hear the music.  


Vert Libre: free-form poetry and observations from the trail

Vert Libre: The Swarm

They swarmed my passive black lab, and the mass turned like a hurricane tracked on radar - her small body the eye of the storm surrounded by churning golden fur. I could hear her yelps and all the growls, and picked up a rock - no fallen branches in reach - running to her defense. Seeing she wasn't alone, the pack fell away - seven, then five, then two. Then just she and I running down the gulch without looking back, rock still in my hand. We dared a quick drink at the junction, still breathing hard, then climbed the singletrack for home as if it had all happened long ago.

Vert Libre: free-form poetry and observations from the trail

Vert Libre: Changes - Fall Running

The running is so different this time of year. Races done and the big miles logged. Once overgrown trails cut back by the dry tail-end of summer and new chill of fall. I know I should be resting but legs and singletrack yell "speed" and push me along with reminders that this run - today, right now - could be the last one before the snows put things to rest until March? April? Heaven forbid, May? And though the edge is a little rough and my waist a little more full, the PR's still come. So free is the running, so relaxed, my legs find the contours of the trails like they never did in the heat of the season. Up the valley, I see the full grey clouds dropping snow, and the forecast says they're coming this way. Time to see how fast I really am.

Vert Libre: free-form poetry and observations from the trail

100 Miles with James Joyce: My Foos Won't Moos

A transcendent romp through the night that meshes the real and imaginary, capturing life's tragedy and triumphs in the sample of hours between dusk and dawn.

A circuitous, all day journey from watering hole to watering hole, where the same clutch of people cross paths throughout the day until they all come together in a liquid and calorie-fueled finale.

Description of the last 100 miler you did?

Most likely. But they're also the plot lines (as they are) of James Joyces' Finnegans Wake and Ulysses, respectively.

Though I've been a runner and a devotee of Joyce for most of my adult life, it was only in the last month that I saw any parallels between his writings and my running. During my usual mind games a couple weeks ahead of Wasatch, a phrase from the washerwomen chapter of Finnegans Wake kept coming into my mind, a phrase that would presage my first mile heading out of Brighton on race day.

In the close of Book 1, two washerwomen are doing laundry in the river, sharing rumors of the novel's two main characters. As night falls, they begin to transform - one into a tree; another into a stone (you just have to go with it). As the one woman changes into a tree, she tells the other: "My foos won't moos." Written in Joyce's at-times-maddening "night language," the line translates to, among other things: "My feet won't move."

So I had a great time playing this line with my wife in the lead up to the race, thinking of the 26,000 feet of climbing to conquer and the ever-increasing temps called for on race day. And the night of Wasatch, I actually did my best-ever washerwoman impression heading out of Brighton at mile 75. If I wasn't the personification of someone slowly turning into a tree, I don't know what I was (see previous post). Just ask my pacer - and the four people who passed us.

But, even beyond such a direct connection, Joyce's general philosophy meshes wonderfully with that of ultra-running. He reveled in the extraordinary within the ordinary. Whether it was a lowly advertising canvasser (Leopold Bloom in Ulysses) or a hod carrying father of three (Humphrey Chimpden Earwicker in Finnegans Wake), he saw within each person's life a complex web of history, philosophy, mythology, observation and desire forged in the trials and triumphs of every day. Who of us who has been lucky enough to race, run, or walk through a 100 miles hasn't felt such a broad transcendent experience in that enriched time between the gun and finish line?

Moreover, Joyce's characters are nothing if not peripatetic. In Ulysses, the main characters journey in and around Dublin in an exhausting and event-filled day that begins at dawn and finishes with a final collapse into bed in the wee hours. In Finnegans Wake - perhaps the most ultra-esque novel - the characters traverse time, space, and reality as dreams and hallucinations play out over the course of a single, wild night.

Yes, I know. Such simple parallels between Joyce and ultra-running are not the thing that dissertations are made of, but I've always treasured the connections in my life - the small things that cross-over from one passion to the other, magnifying both. So, it was a real gift to finally see a connection between my favorite sport and my favorite author, so much so it was almost OK that heading out of Brighton my foos wouldn't moos.

Poetry from Motion: Logging My Runs in Attackpoint

Running isn't quite as scintillating these days as it is during the wide open days of summer. All the trails we'd really like to hit are under at least a meter of snow, and after a number of weeks running on the same plowed routes again and again things are beginning to feel a bit stale, which leaves my mind looking for something, anything to focus on.

Lately a lot of my thoughts, especially during those runs in the wee hours, have focused on crafting the details for my attackpoint.org training log entries for that day. This is patently silly, of course. It doesn't take too much thought to enter distance, pace, and route. But it's certainly a fun distraction as you make way over dark, icy roads to think about what's worth noting and what's not.

My first thoughts are purely about the details. Was that 6.5 miles or 6.25? Did it have 1900 ft of elevation gain or 1750 ft.

Next, especially these days, are the conditions. I note temperature if it's less than ten degrees, just because it shows a bit of grit to get out there in the single digits or lower. Road conditions come next, where I'm finding I have an Inuit's winter vocabulary -- ice, glaze ice, crusty ice, compact snow, loose snow, deep snow, 3 inches new, and rarely, bare and dry.

Then come the more subjective notes: how I felt, what I saw, how the general arc of training is going. Things like this.

Finally, is bringing it all together succinctly and with a voyeur's eye. What will I be interested in re-reading when I look back, and what might people who read my log be interested in reading -- Attackpoint.org has a social networking component so training partners and complete strangers can see exactly what you're doing (or at least what you report).

Looking at my logs, you'd be surprised that so much of my running time is spent crafting, editing, and amending the often perfunctory notes. But as we all know, we can sometimes have a day's worth of experiences in a single run, and picking what to log and what to leave on the road is an art in and of itself.

Poetry from Motion: Magnetic Marathon Poetry

Holidays sapped your energy? Icy roads sapped your motivation? Well, sit back, relax, and get your endurance fix with a set of marathon-inspired magnetic poetry (link). Filled with 220 great words like “chafe,” “pee,” “beer,” and “Boston,” you’ll be workin’ it like ee cummings before you know it. Who knows, you may even find some inspiration to hit the road yourself. What better way to spend that $15 holiday check from Aunt Pearl? Best of all, proceeds go to a good cause - the American Liver Foundation.