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.

Sundown

Into the sunset ...

New Scabs

My wounds will scab over eventually, I think on the return trip from Spring Mount, Pa. The backs of my legs have been rubbed raw, courtesy of a taut, coarse rope I used to crawl upside down across a thirty-foot stretch of open space nearly forty feet above the ground. I'm taking a canopy tour with the good folks from Spring Mountain Adventures: zip lines, rope bridges and other obstacles among the towering trees.

My hands are already red and aching after spanning a series of dangling, knotted ropes. It feels good in the sense that I am accomplishing something. Sometimes pain can be a good thing: "Pain is weakness leaving the body," and "Pain is the body letting the mind know it's doing something worthwhile," as others have said before me.

One of the zip lines spans nearly three-hundred feet if I remember correctly, guaranteeing the "zipper" speeds of at least forty-five miles per hour. Beneath me, chipmunks dance around charcoal-colored boulders, no doubt trying to evade the black rat snakes and rattlers who would love nothing more than to make a meal of them. We finish the course by rappelling down a man-made rock wall.

Speaking of snakes, I begin the day as I do most: walking to the coffee shop for fresh coffee. During the walk I came across a mature garter snake --- the same garter snake I've seen almost every day this summer. (That's him below.) I like to think there's an unspoken bond between us --- man and serpent. Or perhaps I unknowingly speak parseltongue, the language of snakes as described by J.K. Rowling, author of the "Harry Potter" books, one of which I am now reading. Or perhaps he's simply staying still so I don't eat him.

Struggle for Air

I am a fish taken from the stream, imposed upon a world of oxygen, sunshine and arid rock. I flop on a bed of stone and lose scales on the harsh edges of driftwood and broken slabs of shale. I leave my signature in odor and droplets of blood. I gasp for breath as I struggle, pondering when death will come, as I consider the pain of not breathing, as I worry over the probability of hungry predators roaming the shoreline in search of an easy meal. I eye the rushing water, mouth gaping, and yearn to be one with the current, but my body has failed: no strength left to rejoin me with the place I called home for so long. Perhaps I will make a stand, here, dying on this rock, and evolve in time to sprout legs and lungs, finding a new life altogether.

One Year Ago ...

From left: me, Pat Society, Kory Clarke from Warrior Soul, Danarchy. This photo is from a show I went to a year ago to see the now-defunct Warrior Soul in New York City. I can't believe 12 months have passed since then. My life is much, much different than that of the guy in this photo, on the far left. I remember getting back to the Philadelphia area the next morning around 6 a.m. I didn't have a place to call my own at the time so I fell asleep, in my car, in a quiet park in Warrington, Pa. It was a very good show, I recall, and the post-show falafel was spectacular.

Choosing Sides

I am a member of what some people might consider a notorious acronym: PETA, or People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. My affiliation with this group has, until recently, been based solely on like-mindedness and the occasional monetary contribution. On a recent Saturday afternoon I got involved.

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I didn't know quite what to expect. I was nervous on the drive to downtown Philadelphia and the short walk to the steps of the soon-to-be-imploded Philadelphia Spectrum. There, along with maybe 10 other PETA members and/or animal lovers, I protested the Ringling Bros. Circus for instances of elephant abuse. I stood on the bare pavement and carried a black-and-white sign that read, in big block letters, "Ringling Beats Animals." I also passed out leaflets detailing a court case alleging such abuse under the Endangered Species Act --- a case that Ringling is, for its part, fighting.

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There were no riots. There were no lobbed canisters of teargas or spent rubber bullets. There was, however, a PETA representative with a bullhorn talking about the bullhooks (one of which is pictured) that handlers use to coax elephants into performing silly little tricks, about how one baby elephant drowned while trying to escape a bullhook-armed handler and about other horrid details that have been captured on film and can be viewed online by anyone who wishes to see them. The circus-goers were mostly tolerant, if not respectful, and many of them asked questions, wondered why we were there, wondered what all the fuss was about.

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I felt like an arrogant jerk at times, thinking these people paid good money to spend an afternoon with their families and be entertained by professional performers. Then I realized there are plenty of other ways to busy one's family that do not involve the ritual abuse/unneeded suffering of innocent animals that belong elsewhere. I got more aggressive in handing out the leaflets once I accepted this reality.

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People can be such cruel creatures. And this cruelty extends far beyond the abuses man inflicts upon the animals he is supposed to care for or, at the very least, leave the hell alone. After the demonstration I drove two hours to the Jersey Shore for a few slices of boardwalk pizza.

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I walked back to the car with a full belly and saw what appeared to be an argument between a man and a woman. I soon realized I had to walk past them to get to the car, making me uncomfortable but they left me no choice. Upon closer inspection I saw it was an older woman --- a mother or a grandmother --- and a young boy, no older than 10 or 11. She was screaming at him, humiliating him. He sobbed. Tear lines creased the bare skin of his cheeks.

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And that's when I saw the belt.

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No, I thought, she wouldn't dare. She proved me wrong and proceeded to whip him with the folded-over belt. She did it at least twice. I mumbled something under my breath and considered intervening. Yet I didn't feel it was my place and kept walking. I wondered, on the drive back to Philly, does this make me a hypocrite --- even a coward --- that I am willing to protest an organization that abuses helpless animals while I am silent as a fellow human abuses a helpless child for which she is supposed to care?

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Perhaps if I had had a sign and some leaflets ...