Wet and Dirty

The first three miles are a piece of cake. It's the last three that might kill me.

I'm in Media, Pa., running the Delco 10K through the hardscrabble grounds of the Tyler Arboretum. I don't think I've ever run more than five miles in one outing, because I don't really enjoy the process of running, but once you already have five miles behind you, what's one more to whittle away?

I awake at 6:15 a.m. and open the door to determine what to wear. It's cold, maybe thirty degrees, and the temperature won't likely rise into the forties till after the 9 a.m. race has concluded. The trail crosses a knee-deep creek at least four times, according to the race description, so I know I'll be getting wet. As cold as it seems in the wake of a recent warm spell, I suspect Gore-Tex and flannel are out of the question. I opt for track pants, a long-sleeve moisture-wicking shirt and an old fleece vest with a Danzig logo sewn into the shoulder. I may look homeless, but at least I won't freeze.

The race starts with nearly four-hundred participants standing elbow to elbow and ready to get wet and dirty. I've run only once in the past month, but my other cardiovascular training has me feeling fine as I ascend the first hill and scramble down its backside. It's good training for an upcoming "hell race" in Bear Creek, Pa., called The Tough Mudder, which is a seven-mile endurance race based on tactics used to train British Special Forces. But first I have to live through this one.

I push hard for the first three miles, passing other runners who choose to walk up the hills. At three and a half miles, I hit the wall and my pace slackens. Miles four and five hurt me, my right knee beginning to throb, but as I spot the red and white marker for mile six I regain my energy and finish strong, passing three runners in the final bend. My time: one hour, five minutes, two seconds -- good enough for a medal if medals were given for finishing in two-hundred-thirty-second place.

Clearly, I have a lot of work ahead of me before I get to Bear Creek in May.

Back from the Dead

Scenes from 2010, year to date: A high-school senior with a broken shoulder, her eyes puffy from crying. Sleepless nights. The Chicago River, dyed green. Tofu tacos. Procrastination. Contracts. Digital signatures. Reasonable health insurance. California. Rich woods. Smooooooth jazz. Too much wine, too many late nights, too many early mornings. The Tough Mudder. "Olive Kitteridge" by Elizabeth Strout. John Updike -- The Man, Part I. Philip Roth -- The Man, Part II. "Up in the Air." Winter slowly disappearing.

Stagnant pools. Flies with only one wing. Vegan glucosamine. Torn labrums. Oversized bird cages. New Hampshire. Early mornings at the synagogue. Rugby. Long nights at the gym. Ovechkin's hit on Campbell. An atrophied brain. Spring. Warm weather, soft breezes carrying the scent of flowers. Walks along Ashland. Recurring dreams.

Green grass. Horizons, home of Philly's best vegetarian grub. Homemade chianti. Indian food. Bar fights. W-a-i-t-i-n-g. Jury duty. Dogs with venom glands. A blonde named Colleen. A brunette named Amy. Yelling. Sulking. Dry tearducts. Turning into my father. Trying to laugh. Jarring nightmares about moving on. Red cars. Black roses. Hot sauce. Football-sized bean burritos. A cold night on the perimeter of a blanket. Ginger ale for an unsettled stomach. Dying young.

Fear of failure. Time passing. Time wasted watching TV. Time wasted wasting time. Time wasted waiting for things to change. Not wanting vs. not trying. Maps. Stuck, mudbound. Limbo. Generosity. Turning into a bug, Kafka-style. Becoming a new person, becoming someone else, becoming a question mark. "The Other" by Dave Guterson. Freezing. Black fingers. Walking through fire. Walking the earth alone.