Running for Your Life: Doppelgangers

“Swan Lake” meets “The Shining,” M tells the miraculously kind woman in the heart-shaped glasses who agrees to move two minutes before the !Coming Attractions! at the Regal Cinema, Union Square, Daniel Aronofsky’s “Black Swan,” the feature presentation, in order to make it possible for M and I to have front row center stadium seats in the balcony for the Friday night show that I’ve modest expectations for and that exceeds those and beyond so much so that I find it even more remarkable than “The King’s Speech,” because like “The Shining,” “Black Swan” is a Henry James “madness of art” movie. (James: “We work in the dark — we do what we can — we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”) M offers her assessment in the ladies room after thanking the woman again for moving so that all three of us could enjoy the show, M’s critique of which sparks the response, “Yes! That’s exactly right. Do you have a blog? You should definitely share that. ”

I often wonder if people pay attention. And if they do, to what? Why, I wonder, did not a single one of my writer and creative-oriented friends rave about “Black Swan,” that it wasn’t just another Oscar Best Picture nominee but actually a work of art, an albeit grotesque one, in harsh yet psychologically believable way, mining the James quote, what Aronofsky http://nymag.com/movies/features/70817/  and his alter ego, Thomas (Vincent Cassel), the ballet’s artistic director, prefer, that we go beyond control to loss of control, over the next barrier, to the next to the next to the next, so that, in my case and also the man sitting at center-right balcony nearly jump out of our seats, perhaps an unnatural extreme and maybe it’s not as Aronofsky says that, he never thought there would be “out-loud laughter,” but how else do you react to this movie – and I give nothing away here – except to say that many times BS is crossing the line from the sublime to the ridiculous, and while there was no laughter in the Regal Cinema that Friday night, a belly laugh strikes me as Jamesian.

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Rest is the hardest part. The other day, a really cold one in Brooklyn (Feb. 3), I went ahead with plans for an eight-miler, including twice around Prospect Park, just leaving enough time to commute to work, always cutting it too close, but I’m starting to make a decent-enough push to bank some significant mileage; in a five-day span, a ten-miler in Washington (See RFYL: Washington Memorial), two fast-pace fours and now this eight-miler, shake my head to think that in a week I will have only run the equivalent of a single marathon, 26.2 miles, which I will have to do in one morning, the Boston Marathon, less than seventy days away, madness at the pace I’m hoofing, sub-eight, thinking the 7:52 of the Central Park Half, that’s doable, and five miles in to the last bit of the five-day marathon, I feel it, A Cramp. Not The Stitch, what comes from over-exertion, manic-play; I’m twelve years old on the playground of Dufferin Public, playing Chase, down to just John Hopps and myself, he’s got me, tag and it’s over, another recess, but no, I dodge him, see daylight, endless recess, keep running OC, Hopps can’t catch you before the bell and your team will win, but The Stitch hits your side, mad-running too soon after eating, and I pull up, Hopps has me and recess is over .¤.¤. It’s in my good leg, not clot-like pain but killing and sharp and I have to stop, then slow down, then hobble home and hope to get to work on time. I’ve only myself to blame, that morning running out the door, no stretching, and sure it was the cold, in the 20s, or maybe the carbs, not loading up enough, putting too much strain on these muscles, and here it is days later, and the strain is still there, gone from the inner thigh to the back of the knee, killing to go down stairs, and if I were the one to do it I would pop Advil or Motrin, and surely will the next day because I took off the 4th – a day of rest and extra stretching, but with very little payoff, if anything the right leg feels worse – but I’ll be out, my double, my doppelganger, the next day rain or snow taking three Motrin prophylactically, just got the all clear from my doctor, only health suggestion: take Vitamin D supplement. You’re short of sunshine this winter, she says. And good sense. Because I’d like to think I can start putting in serious miles, but not in this current state, so that finally, with the snow and ice melting, hoping that I can finally get out of my rut, these past six weeks feeling like a hamster in wheel, always on the same route, around and around Prospect Park, and while I love the birds in the open water of The Lake, swans, and Canada geese, and in recent days of frigid cold, by the look of them, Arctic terns, I miss visiting the Green-Wood Quaker Parrots, and the Holy Name ballfield, can’t imagine anyone on that field since the Boxing Day Blizzard, not a footprint, and sure I shouldn’t go, not only am I injured but the sidewalks are sure to be treacherous, I should rest, not take painkillers because goodness knows how these muscles that are slow to heal will feel after such a run, but you can’t begin to think of running a marathon without suffering through pain. So I won’t rest. Not now. Plenty of time for that on April 19.

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So much for the ’thon interlude. It’s cold outside; hell freezes over. Vanya groans to a start amid growlers, tip-turned and unstable, known for scuttling ships in the dark (Jenny Diski: Skating to Antarctica), to alternate-side park, not so the street can be cleared but to collect double street fines. Cash for more bike lanes .¤.¤. Tuesday marks Week One of Nine before Boston. Got to get it done. I’ve been running my whole life for this.

Next: Running For Your Life: Week One