A few years ago I felt my metabolism crash. Well, not literally—in a single moment—but you know what I mean. Over the course of 2016 my physical activity dropped off to unpresidential (you read that right) levels. While I didn’t put on a massive amount of weight last year I did go through a period of feeling completely and totally broken down, lethargic, and old of age.
I feel pretty good today. My back is a lot better. I still have some persistent tightness that I attribute to poor digital ergonomics. I have energy the likes of which I had missed. It’s not likely I feel as good as I did at twenty five, but I’m almost twenty years gone from those days so it really matters not. I’d like to get back to feeling as good as I did at forty. Pining for my younger days…
I ran too many days this week. At least conventional wisdom would say you shouldn’t run four days in a row three or four miles a day without working up to it or at all. But I felt pretty good on all four runs, my knees are holding up incredibly well, and I’m not pushing the pace at all. Running is about all I want to do while the weather is so wet. Wet. Just wet. Season of mud. The air is damp, the ground is…saturated, and everything else is glistening with droplets of…wet.
I could ride, but I’m just sick of abusing my bikes. I don’t ride them enough to justify the kind of abuse I put them through. I need to start giving them some good quality miles. So I abuse my running shoes instead.
If I were a bit farther along in my new running regime I’d probably go trail running. That don’t hurt nothing but your muscles. And your cartilage. And your noggin if you trip and fall.
Anyway, I’m just killin’ time tryin’ to get to the end of this post. I like to hit 1,000 words for a normal post and somewhere in the neighborhood of 500 for a Ramming Speed Friday. I’m currently at…360 and numbers don’t count.
So I sit here in a well-lit cubicle while the early morning drear wafts past the window here in the huge metropolis of LexingTON, Kentucky on a Friday morning in January. I got the Tyler Childers and the Foodstamps performance on Mountain Stage playing in the headphones. My eventual obituary should mention something about me being a hopeless Tyler Childers fan. Paragraph or two tops.
But then despite the misty morning I’d rather be enjoying a misty mountain hop. I like Tyler a lot—his voice is incredible—but I better love the music of the woods. Nothing compares to the wind in the trees and the sound of falling water. These harsh LED lights violate my brain worse than any beating the sun has given me. I’d rather feel the cool of damp air on my skin, hinting at the edge of a chill, than the gentle unnatural breeze of the HVAC. This is not my world. These are not my people. And again I say: twenty-two (almost three) year old me would punch forty-two (almost three) year old me right in the teeth.
I don’t live with regrets, but I do live with the heavy burden of being unsatisfied in life. I don’t blame that on the conditions or wonderful people around me. Good lord, my wife is a saint. There’s a special place in heaven for her for putting up with my tangled neuroses. Nothing seems to bring me contentment. I get by. I cope. And for the most part I’m a happy person. I’m not complaining about life in general I guess. There are things about the arrangements of my own life I would change if I could. But then do we ever know the effects of small changes upon the greater landscape? Not really, no.