Wednesday (April 6) makes ten days from The Event, the injury, enough time to reflect on something central: that I’m lucky. What happened to me when a muscle in my right leg spasmed, my upper right hamstring (Torn Hamstrings: don’t you think that makes a great name for a Boomer garage band?), my PT specialist B said it was remarkable that I didn’t, under the circumstances, fall backwards and down the stairs. I had a partial blackout, so I wouldn’t have been able to protect myself at all, I’m on blood thinners, wear a Medic Alert bracelet, I had only four basement stairs to fall down, but I’d be lucky to come out with only one broken leg, my head cracking the hard lino-cement floor and, considering I’m a bleeder –
Running for Your Life: Day One
“I would run through the forest until I was exhausted and could sleep; perhaps even as I ripped through ferns and over rotting logs, invisible now beneath the false second rain-forest floor, I would have some kind of vision. So I set off running. But before long, I only felt tired and stopped and turned around and walked slowly back. I had no faith in that kind of thing anymore, I realized. It worked in high school a few times even in college, but it seemed ineffectual now. So I put my clothes back on, descended past rubble and wire, concrete, brush, and stood over the wide fingerlings to twist each delicately under my heel.”
– “Legend of a Suicide,” David Vann
– “Legend of a Suicide,” David Vann
Running For Your Life: What’s Next
Do some dates bear little circles? Halos. Our actual birthdays, of course, not remembered, that is in your Birthday Suit, but who’s to say what the future holds, cosmologists today http://econ.st/e9mfDl examining data so that their profession is no longer sci-fi but real, the latest information backing arguments that the universe is forever expanding, that the Big Bang may not have been the first, and if so, then isn’t it possible that another Big Bang could occur, Creationists be damned, where’s the wonder in that?
Running for Your Life: More Pain Inc.
Enough with the public despair already. So unseemly. I haven’t bought my e-bus tickets yet, but I’m bound and determined to make it to Boston, come what may. Exactly three weeks today (March 28), I picture myself in the Boston Marathon April 18, 10:20 a.m. start, the White Wave by name, which brings to mind a line from “Ghostwritten,” the debut novel of ace novelist David Mitchell:
“Lunatics are writers whose works write them.”
“Lunatics are writers whose works write them.”
Running for Your Life: Lost Track
Injury. Sharp pain in the fat of my inner thigh. Pushing myself to where I thought I needed to be with less than a month to go until Boston, and now this. Now if Boston is going to happen, I’ll need some help.
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