Boston Marathon 2014

It's been eight days since this year's Boston Marathon, my fourth time in five years to make the adventurous trip from Hopkinton to Copley Square on the third Monday in April. Coming in the midst of a hectic semester, and just after the intense and deeply moving liturgies of the Easter Triduum, the activity of Patriots' Day seamlessly blended into the pace and emotion of the adjoining days. Yet it also stood on its own as a day of culmination, renewal, celebration, and transition.

Boston Fire Department, Boylston Street, Boston MA
Memorial banner for Boston Marathon 2013 bombing victims

After logging nearly 600 miles in fifteen weeks, I haven't run at all since I crossed the finish line eight days ago; my transition from training to recovery is almost immediate. Whether or not people were conscious of it being Easter Monday, they were well aware of the invitation to breathe new life into the marathon after recalling the anniversary of the 2013 bombings the week before. The crowds along the route were larger, more vocal, and more engaged than I can recall from any of my previous marathons here. Even the noticeable, but not overbearing, security presence suggested a sense of collective stewardship for a tradition that embraces more than the run itself, but unites volunteers, families, students, and citizens from a few medium-sized towns to the largest city in New England.

On the bus out to Hopkinton, I sat next to a pediatric medicine resident from Pittsburgh who was running his first Boston; we bumped into each other again three hours in the portajohn line just before hopping into the corrals. The athletes' village was noticeably busier and fuller with an extra 9,000 runners, but everyone was friendly and made room for one another. By the time we were lined up, there were no clouds in sight and the temperature was edging toward 50 degrees. I tried to roll a relaxed pace through the early miles, but I couldn't get myself any slower than 6:55 after I passed mile 5. My pace stayed between 6:44 and 6:49 through Wellesley (where the Scream Tunnel was longer, louder, and lovelier than ever), passing the halfway mark in 1:29. Then, just after mile 15, I felt something turn within me, and I could tell it was the heat of the sun sinking in. Later I learned that the temperature went up five degrees in about 30 minutes right around that time. By the time I hit the firehouse turn and scaled the first of the Newton Hills, my pace was a few seconds over 7:00, and I was concentrating on making it to the finish, rather than regaining negative splits. I eventually prepared myself to take 10 to 15-second brisk walking breaks each mile, which I started when I hit Beacon Street. But before that, I stopped and hugged one my old training partners (all the way from Maine, where she and others got me to run my first marathon in 2006) at the top of Heartbreak Hill, caught high fives with my parents and a bunch of friends from school on the way into Cleveland Circle, and shared two more hugs with school friends who were right where they said they would be at mile 24. My pace crept a little higher, and when I passed the mile-to-go mark in Kenmore Square at 2:57, I half-shouted "Uh Oh!" and threw all the energy I had left into the Mass Ave underpass and the final stretch down Boylston, finishing in 3:04:26, just good enough to qualify for next year.

Boston Marathon Expo, Boston MA
Can't help noticing Cristo Redentor and the Rio de Janeiro landscape

This was the year that taught me how to run a marathon for the distance and the crowds, and not for the speed. Had it been five to ten degrees cooler, or cloudier, I might have broken three hours again, or at least gotten pretty darn close. But I might not have had some surprisingly tender moments when I stopped to hug and thank people whose support got me through this marathon, as well as much of this year. And I might not have noticed how much my running meant to them, and to their grasp of what the marathon meant to this city this year. The greater size and more intense emotion of the spectators this year was palpable. And I can't imagine how wild it was when Meb turned onto Boylston Street with a twenty-yard lead... he's one fast dude, but I'm sure the crowd practically hauled him in to the finish line.

I'm grateful to everyone who took part in this year's Boston Marathon, and helped me to feel a closer connection between my running, my community of family and friends, and this fine city that I've had the privilege of calling home for the past eight months.

Reversal

In my own experience, and that of many friends, March was a long month. The swelling minutes of dusky evening glow often meant little more than some more daylight by which to work before turning on the lamp beside my desk. Freedom from classes during a week of spring break– which featured nothing but winter weather– meant long, interrupted stretches of time that I eagerly exploited to achieve serious progress on researching and writing a 20-page term paper. Once again, the stretch of my Boston Marathon training schedule with the highest mileage– including a grueling 22-miler on a chilly Saturday with some patches of black ice to dodge– fell squarely in the middle of March, and as most of the country knows all too well, a winter that just wouldn't quit. A friend in Michigan told me that March had its metaphorical lamblike departure there today; here in Boston, it managed to rain, snow, sleet, and even hail within a two-hour period. Having seen occasional glimpses of, and halting progress towards, the long-awaited spring on the horizon, it seemed we were instead sliding back down a slippery slope into late January.

On the other hand, this morning I experienced a reversal that, in contrast to the dread and anxiety with which I'd been anticipating it, turned out to be insightful and refreshing. One of my weekday running routes typically carries me westbound through the Newton Hills, then north through a residential neighborhood, and finally back east to my house along a route that features one sharp climb and two long, gently sloping downhills. On good mornings, with gravity as my aid and the fiery predawn glow beckoning on the horizon, I can roll down those hills with delusional thrill. But today, with Patriots' Day three weeks away, I finally worked up the courage to run this route the other way around, thus facing the Newton Hills in the same arrangement that I'll face on race day. I'll admit that I was also nervous about what those long drag-racing downhills would feel like in the other direction. Would it be like a slow trip up the chairlift instead of a quick run down a pristine slope?

I found some surprises in seeing this course from the other direction. For one thing, the 50-minute difference in daylight highlighted differences in streetlight coverage that I'd somehow overlooked during the long months of total darkness. Even with few cars on the roads, I felt slightly more nervous about hugging the curbs for left turns instead of right turns; even in a town with so many runners, most motorists seem genuinely surprised– or not sufficiently caffeinated– when they come across someone like me staking a claim to the shoulder and putting in some early miles before a day of work. And Heartbreak Hill proved even more mystical with a rosy hue at the top that silently heralded a glorious new day.

In this time of Lent, there's an encouragement to turn back to God. I've certainly found the past few weeks to be a welcome– and often uncomfortably prodding– motivation to discern the ways in which my prayer, habits, and relationships might have gone astray. Some of those wanderings have led rather narrowly to dead ends; the logical solution is thus to reverse course and return to the place where I abandoned the proper route for my ongoing spiritual journey. What if I reversed my prayer schedule and made sure that I did this first thing after breakfast... or even my post-run stretching? What if I rearranged my evening work schedule so that after-dinner leisure became a meaningful session of reflection and journaling at the end of the night, and I instead got to work right away instead of closing the books mere minutes before closing my eyes? In what other ways would a turnaround– however daunting and contrary to routine it may seem– be just the thing that this stretch of my lifelong training plan needs?

I can't say that I know any of these answers... only that I'm grateful to have discovered some new angles from which to seek them. And even if I wind up retracing steps I've previously taken, I'll surely see some of the surrounding terrain as if for the first time.

Centerline Freedom

On most weekdays, there's very little traffic in my neighborhood at 5:30am. Still, a few early birds making their way from Point A to Point B require us to the road. The other morning, I caught a lucky break– I encountered only parked cars for a full mile on a straight stretch of one of my regular loops through Brighton and Newton– and shamelessly indulged it by running on the yellow centerline. It was a rare treat that represented a brief reprieve from the subtle biomechanical stress of running on crowned roads (imagine walking on a sideways-tilted surface for an hour, and you get the idea), a throwback to cross-country courses marked by a single line of chalk or paint meandering over hill and dale for five kilometers, and a deeper sense of having the pre-dawn darkness all to myself.

As I rolled through that swift and quiet mile, it felt strange to be away from my usual space on the side of the road. Though perhaps only an inch or two higher than the curbs, I imagined myself tracing a sharp ridgeline with an expansive view of the valleys on either side. The two lanes, despite their breadth of asphalt, seemed narrower than the thin space between them that my feet smoothly paced. Until a car appeared, I had no obligation– or desire– to choose a side, even while following that centerline as rigidly as any trail weaving through the woods where I raced in high school.

One of the things I've enjoyed about my theology studies thus far is the breadth of positions, perspectives, and approaches that my classmates have brought to our conversations, both in and out of the classroom. Particularly in a course on pastoral care and a seminar on ministry in congregations characterized by cultural and racial diversity, there could be a wealth of well-argued positions about everything from liturgical style to approaches to grief, from the role of a minister to the influence of family dynamics on a given individual's development. I regularly experienced the blessing of dialogues with students and professors in which we debated firm positions without taking sides; we could each maintain a clear direction while also acknowledging the signs and directions that we exchanged to keep one another on course.

As a new semester begins on Monday, and my early morning training runs continue– the Boston Marathon is 100 days away– I'll continue to enjoy as much centerline freedom as I can. The goals are clear, there's still much of that youthful cross-country runner in me to sustain and motivate a few months of hard work, and there are plenty of views to enjoy and appreciate as I press on towards the next finish line.

Rabbits

In running parlance, a "rabbit" is a fellow runner who's just a little faster than you– he or she may push you to a speedier pace during a workout, or perhaps needle your sense of pride to inspire your strong finish in a race. They may bound along with you, or give you a much-needed kick in the... ego. Rabbits may be long-time friends and regular training partners; they might also be circumstantial companions on a given day, never to be seen again. As I've been making my way through the busy rhythm of the semester over the past few weeks, whether I've felt myself striding smoothly or struggling to keep up, the presence of rabbits has never failed to be helpful, instructive, and memorable.

Public art installation
Boston Ahts Festival

This morning, for the second time in three days, I found myself suddenly in the company of another runner, matching pace at a brisk clip for one to two miles. On Saturday morning along the Charles River, it was an engineering student training for his first marathon (Chicago); this morning, in the predawn glow along Commonwealth Avenue, it was a cross-country athlete taking the season off after (and rapidly recovering from) an injury in early summer. Though my unexpected buddies and I traded little more information than our names and our schools, and kept our conversations to staccato sentence fragments while running near our aerobic thresholds, I felt a firm solidarity that reminded me of the teammates and training partners who have nurtured and accompanied my love of running for over 15 years.

As I keep pace with the nearly continuous stream of readings, class meetings, short writing projects, and other responsibilities inherent in my five courses this semester, I find that a key source of motivation is the community of scholarship and ministry at the school. The rich backgrounds, enthusiastic engagement, and honesty about the competing demands of life, work, and studies that my classmates– religious and laypersons alike– bring to our discussions keep me rooted in both the material at hand, and the realities in which we interpret and use it. The friendships developing in classrooms and hallways, facilitated by the fact that many of us live in the same neighborhood, are thus far making this experience of graduate school far more fulfilling than my previous stint, and pushing me to bring my best intellectual and experiential learnings to the table.

Berklee School of Music student
Boston Common

Finally, there are my Mondays, when I have no classes, but plenty of schoolwork to complete. I'm striving to ensure that I utilize each Monday's freer schedule to get out of Brighton, explore other parts of town, and discover nooks conducive to study that also enrich me with the break from my routine that they represent. So far, those adventures have included a wonderful conversation over tea with a Jesuit housemate from Rwanda, a long lunch and discussion of ministerial vocations with a good friend, and being treated to an outdoor piano concert simply by virtue of choosing a particular plaza as a location to work on a few short papers. These moments renewed me in soul-soothing ways, breathing new life into the busy days that followed. Alongside swift morning runners, the wonderful men in my new community, and the lively students in my degree program, I'm called to relish the company of all who participate in my life's journey, no matter the timing, duration, and circumstances of the steps we share.

Backup

Jesus summoned the Twelve and began to send them out two by two and gave them authority over unclean spirits. He instructed them to take nothing for the journey but a walking stick—no food, no sack, no money in their belts. They were, however, to wear sandals but not a second tunic.

~ Mark 6:7-9

Hiss. Whir. Three miles into a ride down a shaded trail along the Blackstone River, unexpected sounds suddenly emanated from my road bike's rear tire. I didn't recall braking, and I wondered what minute piece of floral flotsam I might have scooped into my wheel. A downward glance brought a troubling sight... the tire noticeably flattening, even as I deftly eased the bike to a halt. I saw no tear, but much air had clearly escaped. Suddenly resigned to giving up on my planned ride of 25 to 30 miles, I swung the bike around, and started back on a walk to the parking lot that I estimated would take roughly an hour.

Perhaps foolishly, I was traveling light, as I often do, trusting that nothing will go wrong. I carried only two hex wrenches and a valve adapter in the small pouch under my seat. Acknowledging the morning's heat with more than just an early start (awake by 5:30am, in the car by 6:00am, riding away from the Woonsocket RI parking lot by 6:45am with the temperature already in the low 70s), I had chosen to carry not only a bottle of Gatorade but also my Camelbak, giving it its first use since my last long run before the Boston Marathon. Wallet and cell phone, yes... any other supplies, no.

Perhaps more out of efficiency than piousness, I've often followed Jesus' advice to his disciples when I travel. I've been able to fit clothes (including running shoes) and other necessary items for a three-day business trip into two carry-ons (a real money saver). I plan to carry no more than 30 pounds of material in my trusty hiking pack when I travel to Brazil next month for Magis and World Youth Day... a journey of nearly 20 days. When I took the train from San Francisco to Boston over the course of 15 days in summer 2009, I carried only what that same hiking pack could hold. Travel can be demanding enough without being encumbered by too many possessions, and with less to worry about carrying (or losing), I find myself more free to devote my attention to the thrills of the journey.

Sadly, I had no power over whatever malevolent forces gave me that flat tire. Fortunately, within a minute of starting my slow and warm stroll, two cyclists happened along, stopped, and wound up giving me an extra tube, which they than helped me to install and inflate. This utterly disarming gesture of generosity took less than five minutes, and they were gone as quickly as they came. I felt somewhat guilty for depriving them of some significant backup supplies, even though they hinted that they'd easily obtain new ones at a bike shop further along their route. With a strong sense of gratitude, and a tempered confidence that kept me from going too fast, lest I suffer another incident, I continued with my planned ride. Past dams and waterfalls, through residential neighborhoods and barren industrial zones, I rode through five Rhode Island towns, returning safely to the parking lot and beginning the drive back to Worcester by 9:00am.

I'm still planning to travel light in my future expeditions, but I'll be giving some extra attention to carrying items that I could easily give away to another traveler in need. And although I'll likely continue to pack minimally for running and riding long distances, it seems that I should tweak Jesus' advice just a little, and ensure that my bicycle always carries a second tube.

Spring Training

In the weeks since the Boston Marathon, I've been attending not only to my emotional and psychological recovery, but also to my physical recovery. Particularly amid a stretch of delightful spring weather, I've been finding joy in simply getting outside to exercise for the sake of relishing the gift of fitness and the blessing of each new morning. At the same time, in giving myself a break from running, I've embraced the freedom to indulge in other activities.

Spring cleaning the road bike

My Trek 1500... 15+ years old and still going strong!

The spell of mild, dry days has been marvelous for cycling. During my first ride of the season, on some lovely rural roads in towns north of Worcester, my friends and I noted with great admiration the efforts of various highway workers who had cleared the shoulders of leftover sand and grit from the winter, exposing the pristine blacktop that cyclists love. The gift of a smooth ride allowed us to savor the radiant beauty of tranquil marshes, forests awash with budding trees, and verdant fields– even the one at the top of a long hill, which advertised from afar freshly its freshly manured state as we sought to filter oxygen from odor while cranking up a steady grade.

Glencliff Trail, Mt. Moosilauke
Benton NH

Mt. Moosilauke summit (4,802 feet)
Benton NH

My spring training isn't entirely without purpose; it's been my practice for a few years to have a specific post-marathon goal in my calendar before I get to the starting line. This time around, it's an early June trip with friends (a repeat expedition for me) to Maine's Baxter State Park and a hike to the summit of Mount Katahdin, weather and wits permitting. As a warmup, while in New Hampshire the other weekend for a conference at Dartmouth, I was able to round up some friends for a hike up Mount Moosilauke. It was the season-opening hike for each of us, and as we discovered when we encountered 6 to 12 inches of packed snow on the trail's upper reaches, we were perhaps starting the season a bit early. Our strident efforts, collectively assessed every 20 minutes or so for their level of safety and sanity, paid off; clear skies in all directions from the peak afforded us views that stretched from the Green Mountains to southern Quebec to Mount Washington, the White Mountains, and Lake Winnipesaukee– more than 20,000 square miles of valleys, lakes, hills, and mountains.

Greenough Boulevard path
Watertown MA

Greenough Boulevard path
Watertown MA

The fitness that my friends and I have chosen to cultivate and share makes our adventures on the roads and trails possible, but we wouldn't be as drawn to the outdoors if it weren't for the real stars of the spring training season– the flora returning to life after a long winter. These daffodils along the Charles River are a short walk or drive from anywhere in the towns on Boston's western edge, and the only training needed to enjoy them is an ability and motivation to simply notice them. In my case, it took a conscious decision to park my car nearby (I was running early for a meeting), settle on a bench, and take in this charming spring scene. Mountaintops may be far less accessible, and cycling far more exhilarating in its rush of speed, but literally stopping to smell and gaze upon these flowers was just as rewarding as any peak I might gain or bend I might round.

May your spring be a blessed season, whatever training you might undertake.

Boston Recovery

Ordinarily, I'd follow my running of the Boston Marathon with some reflections on the day of the race, a week or so off from running, and a more or less routine approach to the physical recovery process. Yet last week saw no ordinary Boston Marathon, and the coming days, weeks, and months necessitate a very different recovery process.

Boston Marathon Finish Line
Copley Square, Boston MA
14 April 2013

Marathoners, by virtue of their hundreds of miles of running over several months, do some intentional and measured harm to their bodies. Training is really about strengthening bone and flesh, as well as mind and nerves, to survive (and eventually thrive) under ever-increasing exertions. Running 26.2 miles on Patriots Day is an emphatic exclamation point, but the sentence it concludes is far more personal, hidden from throngs of cheering spectators, but known to family, friends, and running partners. The motivations, details, and adventures of getting to the starting line are the stories that animate the athletes' village in Hopkinton, where friends are made with the person who sat next to you on the shuttle bus, the runner who's next to you in the portajohn line, and the person who notices a common detail on the apparel that you might soon donate to charity. ("Do you work at Boston Children's?" "No, but my friend was a resident there, and she gave me this hoodie.")

Ever since the actions of two young men started Boston's people down an arduous course they never expected nor wanted to run, my prayers have been focused on those whose lives were cruelly ended or forever altered. The rising rhetoric of "Boston strong," and the courage with which over a million of us ran through the toughest first days of this new course, points me toward my faith in Christ who restores all things, heals all wounds, and companions us throughout the long, gradual, yet unstoppable progress towards these glorious ends. Thoughtless and impersonal harm was done to us, and we've been responding to the task of recovery with truly inspiring and deeply personal generosity and solidarity. It will take a long time; after my first marathon, it took nearly three months for me to again feel the same level of physical fitness and stamina that blessed me at that marathon's starting line. Whatever time and mileage my physical recovery requires this year, it will be no less than what my psychological and emotional recovery will require. In talking to fellow runners and Boston-area friends, I've heard the same sentiments.

Prudential Center, Boston MA
14 April 2013

A week ago, no one anticipated how relevant Adidas' "all in for Boston" slogan might suddenly become. We've been blessed with the resolution of the manhunt, and a weeklong (and welcome) surge of solidarity and support that raised up a stunned city and gave great hope to the fallen and the surviving. It's my hope that we're mustering that energy not for a sprint, but for a marathon, not only in Boston, but also in all of our neighborhoods, towns, and cities. I hope that we, as a nation of communities, will go "all in" for the training that will achieve lasting peace, harmony, and justice that remains to be gained and secured for all people. That goal's exclamation point is still a long way off, but we can all start writing our sentences in that story today, and every day. Recovery, just like training, is one day at a time.

Backing Off

Nearly 400 miles into my training for the Boston Marathon, I've been blessed with the endurance to move through twelve weeks of running, the grittiness (and occasional folly) to stride through a chilly January and snowy February, and the company of a training partner who has now officially made it through a winter of outdoor running for the first time. I've managed to tweak my schedule around two trips to Washington DC, and just last Monday, I caught up (while striving fiercely to match pace) with a good friend during a seven-mile pre-sunrise loop through the city and the National Mall.

Yet a familiar danger in my annual marathon preparation is the risk of overtraining or injury, which tend to be related. The latter can occur on its own– I've had my share of near-wipeouts on slick wintry surfaces– but the former is a more complicated matter. Pushing hard in pursuit of a new threshold– clicking through my weekly 800-meter repeats in 2:45, getting under 7:15 pace for a grueling, hilly 18-mile long run– can lead to a breakthrough... or a breakdown. I'm prone to shove my way across some boundaries of time or distance, and often self-critical when I consider backing off and admitting to some sobering physical and mental limitations. Ambition is a great motivator, but rather needy in terms of attention.

So it is with mixed feelings, but also a subtle sense of prideful prudence, that I skipped a run this week, in hopes of bouncing back for a scheduled 20-miler on Saturday. One of my knees had been feeling weird for an entire day– not seriously affecting my walking stride, but clearly telling me that all was not well in this crucial and majestic joint of bones, muscles, and tendons. Another round of snow meant that the track would be unusable once again, a source of mounting frustration. And the marathon lies a mere 24 days away... no time to be courting the risk of a long-term injury.

Frosty greenhouse reflections
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

It's been a good exercise in patience, a virtue that seems appropriate for any number of contemporary situations that also seem to demand urgency. On the third day of spring, the Holy Cross campus remains blanketed with snow. Our nation's budgetary and political climate could certainly benefit from a change in season. Both Pope Francis and Justin Welby were installed this week as leaders of their respective global faith communities, each of which is characterized by great diversity and vibrancy, as well as voices clamoring for strong and positive solutions to troubling issues. I imagine that there are those people who would have wanted these and other changes to have been tackled swiftly and accomplished decisively. Yet there's a sense in which our responsibilities and motivations to labor towards worthy goals shouldn't be equated with the ability to achieve them entirely on our own.

Psalm 130 proclaims, "I wait for the Lord, my soul waits and I hope for his word. My soul looks for the Lord more than sentinels for daybreak. More than sentinels for daybreak, let Israel hope in the Lord." Though I haven't always embraced such waiting and searching eagerly, I have found that the faith it entails has played no less a role than my own determined efforts in getting to a desired point– a new season, a marathon's starting line, or the successful completion of a project. And I trust that the same applies to all situations in which Christ is laboring, inviting not only our participation, but also our patience.

Hold On Tight!

Ferry Mast
Martha's Vineyard MA

Most of the United States has been having some wild weather lately. Sadly, there were some fatalities from tornadoes in Georgia, and undoubtedly significant hardship involved in a fierce Midwest blizzard. Here in Worcester, 40-mph winds slinging heavy bands of rain bounced me around during my predawn run, and constituted a significant change from the same time the previous week, when the utter absence of wind gave me the confidence (and the excuse I was looking for) to venture out into air that was 60 degrees colder (a brisk -1 Farenheit) than what I faced this morning.

On some level, I count such crazy variation in this winter's climate as an opportunity to build up swagger and credibility to bring to the 20-mile mid-February race that I've run on Martha's Vineyard every year since 2010. I'll be eager to swap stories with other runners to see how we each dealt with "Freeze Week," when Worcester didn't crack 20 degrees for four or five days. In another way, halfway through a winter that's not been much snowier than last year's abnormally dry and mild season, and not nearly as consistently wintry as 2011's (admittedly above average) juggernaut of snow and cold, I can't help but see connections to the discourse on global climate change, both in the popular press and in the scientific literature. These aren't the kind of winters that caused me to fall in love with New England in particular, and the cycle of four distinct and sequentially integrated seasons in general.

Personally, I'm quite willing to believe in a credible connection between human activity and shifting patterns in the global climate. Yet I recognize my inability to easily liberate myself from many of the habits of resource usage, and relating to the environment more as a source of commodified resources than as a living community in which humans participate in a countless number of interlinked processes, that characterizes modern technological society. I would happily admit to dreams of an age, in the not too distant future, when humanity is able to utilize ever-advancing technical skill and a (hopefully) ever-deepening sense of responsibility to multiple future generations to mitigate, if not reverse, the deleterious effects that our activities have on the world. In the meantime, though, I feel limited to adapting to the conditions that are occurring, and their increasingly broad and unpredictable variability. Basically, I'm just hanging on and trying to enjoy the ride. Yet I have a sense that it's not a road that we're supposed to be traveling, and it seems that our collective wisdom has fallen asleep at the wheel.

Frosty Lanes

A valued component of my training program this fall has been a weekly interval session on the track behind the Holy Cross athletic center. In the company of a professor who lives in the neighborhood and is intent on training through the winter, and with a commanding view of the valley just south of campus, I've beheld the lovely and changing world found between 5:45 and 6:30am in central New England. We've begrudgingly traded shorts for long pants as autumn tightens its grip, shared the track with some hardy student athletes (this morning, it was the lacrosse team), and figured out how to trace ovals in the dark as the moment of sunrise slips farther away from the starting time of our workouts.

Pre-dawn light (after a track workout)
College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

When my track buddy and I met this morning, we found that the thick layer of frost coating lawns and leaves overnight had also spread to the track. Fortunately, the surface wasn't slick; its state-of-the-art texture still provided plenty of traction for our chilly laps, with a quaint crunching sound as our feet ground down its frosty sheen. Yet the white lane markings were significantly obscured, and I found myself following the remarkably narrow and ordered path of my own footsteps, treading the same oval many times over. Other elements of my workout routine– 800 meters fast, 400 meters of recovery, shuffling around and swigging some Gatorade in between– seemed equally fixed, a reliable groove that I've worn into my weekly training plan.

Yet I'd take almost any other workout over a session on the track. A 5-mile tempo run over a roller coaster of hills, a 15-miler along remote farm roads on a chilly winter day, an hour's worth of running on the beach at sunrise in the summer– I'd prefer any of these to my once-a-week set of circuits in lane 3 (an exact quarter-mile, I'm told) at a speed that would draw a speeding ticket in a drive-through lane at the bank. Even with the company of a runner who shares the swagger that makes a pre-dawn, outdoor run in subfreezing (just barely!) air an unquestionably wonderful idea, I can get intensely bored on the track. Yet I know that this training is a vital component of my efforts toward a particular goal– in this case, strong performances at a 20-mile race in February and the Boston Marathon in April– as well as a visceral expression of the discipline that I strive to sustain in other areas of my life.

St. Ignatius of Loyola left an incalculable legacy in establishing the Society of Jesus and infusing it with the spiritual fruits of his own rich and varied life. Among the many patterns and structures of prayer that he suggested to his companions, the Examen is one that particularly lends itself to the sort of ingrained repetition that I've been finding (and sometimes bristling against) in my track workouts. I'm not implying that I find my daily practice of the Examen to be loathsome; rather, even when it feels routine, I know that it's an undeniable good for my spiritual fitness. Repeatedly contemplating, musing upon, and discussing with God the same questions– Could I have some of your light and peace amidst the activity of my day? For what am I grateful today? How did I respond to the various calls extended to me? Could I have your forgiveness for today's faults and your guidance for tomorrow's opportunities?– keeps me in shape for the longer race of life, a series of events that can be far more entertaining than the intervals when I step aside from that flow to loop back around the moments of a given day.

As the sky brightened beautifully, and the streaks of golden and salmon hues lent a purely imaginary warmth to our chilly strides, I felt gratitude for another good track workout; not only in the sense of my speed, but also in the sense of better appreciating the gifts of repeating the same worthwhile and fulfilling practices over and over again. Yet I'll also enjoy hitting the roads again until next Tuesday, relishing views that change every minute, and running in a much larger and oddly-shaped loop.

Shifting Gears, Part I

At first, I thought the feeling was only fleeting... but it persisted. It comes every year around this time, yet always catches me by surprise. When it arrives, it heralds an imminent departure, a certain transition, and a realm of clear yet mysterious potential. What might this feeling be?

I'll explain it by means of my first memory of it. Just over six years ago, I completed my first marathon, thanks in large part to the support of a running club in Portland, Maine with whom I trained while working at the Jesuit high school there for a semester in early 2006. At the end of that summer, I professed my first vows as a Jesuit; the sixth anniversary of that event is coming up in two weeks. Through the intervening months, I noticed the immense physical toll and mental effort that I devoted to my first marathon as both body and mind slowly restored themselves after being thoroughly spent during my passage along a lovely 26.2-mile course in the mountains of western Maine. On the morning that I took my first vows, during a routine morning run that I set aside for some of my prayer, I suddenly felt, unmistakably, the return of the same level of fitness that I carried to the starting line several months earlier. The verve of anticipating vows and devoting my life to God through the Society of Jesus and its life and mission, though significant, was not the only responsible factor– I could tell that my recovery was at an end, and a new training cycle could now begin.

Tower Hill Botanic Garden
Boylston MA

All this being said, could I run my next marathon tomorrow? Absolutely not. I haven't run more than eight miles at a stretch since the Providence Marathon back on May 6. But I can feel the gears shifting into a rhythm in which I'm ready, even eager, to begin training for my next race... hopefully a 10K, 10-miler, or half marathon in October of November. Knowing how this cycle works, based on six years of experience with summer recovery from a spring marathon, as that momentum gathers, it will start some complementary shifts in other areas of my life. I'll detail those soon, now that I know for sure that change is underway once again.

Tools of the Trade

Still life with frame and chain.

Twenty-some years old, and still going strong.
The only thing she lacks is a granny gear.

As my post-marathon recovery enters its third week, the imminent conclusion of the academic year, the arrival of warmer weather, and the coming Memorial Day weekend have renewed my enthusiasm and ambition in the realms of fitness, recreation, and exploration. Two Fridays ago, after a slightly early finish at work, I claimed a section of the driveway for the joyful toil involved in disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling the road bike I was given by a family friend when I was in high school. Despite a lack of professional knowledge and a dearth of equipment pertient to bicycle maintenance, I still took great pride in getting reacquainted with the bicycle's components, as well as the elegant design and sound craftsmanship involved in this light yet powerful machine. Since then, I've put 35 miles on it, and I'm pretty sure that its gears are in better shape than my legs, at least for now. In any event, I've been enthralled by the synergy between the Trek's whirring wheels and my body's cycling heart– both creating something much more than the sum of their parts.

Ready for another season of New England summits.

Lest I spend too much time on the pavement between cycling and running this summer, I've made a list of mountains to climb and trails to explore. Wasting no time, this Memorial Day weekend is booked with plans for two separate trips. First, a two-summit day hike in New Hampshire with a group of friends that should see one of them successfully conclude an effort to climb each of that state's 4,000-foot peaks (all 48 of them). The next day, a long journey to northern Vermont with a good Jesuit friend to successfully complete a bucket list item of my own: reaching the highest point in each of the six New England states. [Stay tuned for a retrospective entry on this particular endeavor.] These boots (made for hiking) have seen many adventures, and I'm eager to stick my feet in them for many more miles of backcountry trails and rock scrambles above treeline during the months ahead.

Every good adventure deserves a break along the way.

One of the books that I read last year, Matthew Crawford's Shop Class as Soulcraft, explored the relationships between people and machines, and the effects of a technological age on the ability to understand and manipulate the workings of the tools that we use. Crawford expresses concerns about making items so "user-friendly" that the user no longer has direct control over them; he cites automatic faucets in public restrooms as a key example. While I happily leave skilled work on my community's vehicle fleet to the experts, I do find a measure of satisfaction in being adept at checking and replacing certain fluids, changing tires, and handling similar minor issues in order to keep a Prius like the one above running smoothly.

Crawford Notch, NH

My summer adventures into New England's splendid and varied natural scenery will certainly entail keeping myself in shape. Yet they'll also involve the use of some tools whose utility, craft, and intricacy impress me anew. From hybrid drivetrains to rugged bike chains, from boots to Birkenstocks (a delightfully soothing reward for my feet after a day of running, hiking, and/or cycling), fresh appreciation of the items that bear me into the wilderness is laying the groundwork for savoring the places to which I'll travel, and the people with whom I'll soon share those journeys.

Good, Tough Miles

Start/finish line
2012 Providence Marathon

Early yesterday morning, standing in the street under a layer of fog in downtown Providence, I found myself grateful for the opportunity to be just behind the starting line, ready to embark upon my seventh marathon in as many years. Mentally reviewing the long path that brought me here– an oddly mild and snowless winter that made training far less treacherous than in years past, an absurdly sudden and severe spike in warmth that led me to defer a Boston Marathon entry until next spring, a well-exercised body and mind that showed some new signs of fickle and inconsistent strength (my Jesuit brethren assure me that I'm merely "getting older," and it's nothing to be worried about)– I felt anew the gift and privilege of being able to travel such an intense and circuitous route, and the gentle reminder to enjoy the journey, rather than fret over the pace at which I make it.

I largely forgot that advice as soon as the starting gun fired, sending more than 1,500 runners hurtling into the streets of Providence, navigating quiet neighborhoods largely devoid of residents or spectators on a quiet Sunday morning. My fellow runners and I quickly found that some of the mile markers– upon which the more serious folks rely for feedback on their fine-tuned race plans– were placed rather inaccurately. Nobody was running an eight-minute mile followed by a five-minute mile; I'd likely be fielding sponsorship offers from Mizuno if that were the case. Delightfully scenic stretches of the course– several scattered miles along a wooded bicycle path, a swing around a golf course overlooking Narragansett Bay– alternated with comparatively mundane suburban enclaves and impersonal warehouse districts. I all too easily found things to critique, and despite the exchanges of humor and sarcasm among those of us with the same gripes (mostly about those mile markers), I knew that such negativity was detracting from my race.

I can admit to some disappointment that I wasn't able to achieve the final time that seemed within reasonable reach until the 17-mile mark. I can admit to some frustration over the quirky weather that forced me into a prudential decision that I'm still quite happy to have made, swapping Boston for Providence, in order to sustain my ongoing tradition of training for and completing a spring marathon. I can now, in hindsight, recognize that this wandering course and my inconsistent transit through it proved to be an uncannily apt metaphor for an academic year that has seen a fair share of those themes alongside steady progress and slowly emerging strength in certain areas of my life.

Despite all this, as my community and friends remind me, there's so much to appreciate. I met a Chilean Jesuit at mile 4 who, like me, was running Providence for the first time. One of his housemates, with whom I lived in St. Louis, was at mile 25, having completed a half-marathon while we were legging the middle miles of the full. He and I were perhaps equally surprised to encounter one another, yet the high five we shared as I lumbered by was the best one of the day. Though my mile-to-mile pace was hardly smooth and steady, I still notched my second-fastest marathon time ever, which also preserves a hallowed space for the 2010 Boston Marathon, in virtually all criteria of personal and objective judgment, as the best race of my life. A few other friends came out to cheer, and one treated me to an amazing brunch (post-marathon hunger didn't overly skew my opinion– this little storefront eatery stacks up to the best diners in Worcester), a favor I'll repay before too long. And although I won't be exercising heavily for a while, I'm able to walk and manage stairs without too much soreness, instilling gratitude for locomotion itself as well as the body's ability to recover from stress and injury in remarkable fashion.

I'm aware that just over three hours of running have given me material for reflection, prayer, and discussion that could fill three months. Why do I run? Why am I so self-critical? What is a given stretch of my life's journey, or the entire span of my existence, all about? Where is there weakness to be accepted, potential to be strengthened, talent to be applied? What sustains joy as I keep the odometer rolling? I'm increasingly counting on my community and my friends to help me tease out some answers, whether we do so around an altar or a dinner table, amidst a busy campus or a quiet forest, during a gentle stroll or a swift cycling expedition (yes, I'm preparing my mechanical steed for a new season). In any case, I'm grateful that, once again, a marathon finish line has been not only an achievement in itself to celebrate, but also a welcome start to a new cycle of exploration, training, and growth.

My finisher's medal– note the Rhode Island State House and the state motto, "Hope."

Decisions

Though the first competitors haven't yet started the race, this year's Boston Marathon is already making news. There's a record high forecast, with bright sunshine and only light winds, resulting in significant concerns and strident warnings about the dangers of exercising– let alone competing– in such conditions. I ran a workout on Tuesday morning in a hat and gloves, so my body isn't at all accustomed to, nor prepared for, such sudden and unseasonable warmth.

So when I learned that the race organizers were offering to defer anyone's entry to 2013 as long as he or she didn't start the race, I thought and prayed about the matter quite seriously. In line with the musings and mindsets that I described in my previous post, it wasn't a straightforward choice, even though prudential hindsight suggests that it should have been. I weighed the possibility of taking it super easy, resuming training after a short recovery, then running a qualifier in the fall with enough time to register for Boston 2013. I considered whether I'd want the experience (and the memory) of running a difficult, hot, and slow 26.2 miles after a fairly decent 15-week training regimen that, I dare presume, makes me capable of a performance far stronger and faster than what I'd be able to run in wicked warmth. I wondered how prudent I would be if I started and got into trouble.

Saturday evening Mass was an ideal venue for finalizing this discernment. With apologies to a Jesuit celebrant who surely offered a fine homily on the readings for Divine Mercy Sunday, the words Jesus spoke to Thomas were the ones that provided the conviction I needed: "Have you come to believe because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and have believed." (John 20:29)

I'd experience today's heat no matter what I chose, so it suddenly seemed obvious to believe the worst and choose to defer until next year. I also found myself making a new plan– just one click or entry form away– to register for the Providence Marathon (on May 6) and run it sight unseen, just for fun. In any event, though these decisions were difficult (I am somewhat disappointed over not running today), they certainly feel right... and part of an interesting twist in the story of this year's training, a narrative that just got a few weeks longer. I'm praying that everyone who did decide to run today makes good choices as well.

Jitters

Starting line encouragement in Hopkinton MA
2011 Boston Marathon

As usual, I’ve got some pre-race anxiety as Patriots Day approaches. Although it’s my third Boston Marathon, and my seventh attempt at this storied distance, I’ve learned from over a decade of running that experience does not make any race routine. The fruit of good training is revealed not only in physical preparation and endurance but also in mental adaptability and resolve amidst whatever surprises emerge along the course.

This year’s major worry– temperatures far warmer than average and quite higher than what is comfortable or ideal for a 26.2-mile run– is suddenly casting a very long shadow over the past fifteen weeks of training. The only other time I’ve run a marathon in similar conditions– Saint Louis in 2008– is the only occasion when I’ve finished slower than 3:11, as well as suffered the humbling, disheartening experience of “hitting the wall” and getting knocked backwards… hard. Moreover, when I was a younger, brasher runner, I hammered through a hot, sunny 10-miler at a pace that was far more ambitious than prudent. I literally cannot recall 4 of the last 5 miles from that day, yet I’m grateful for the fact that I do remember this one experience of heatstroke, as it still sounds a cautionary tone that I strive to heed during the warmer months of the year.

Surely my perspective on this year’s Boston– or any long-distance race, for that matter– does not entirely align with that of an equally rational non-athlete. There’s a certain degree of craziness and bravado mixed in with the courage and ambition that inspire and motivate people from many walks of life and a broad range of ages to test themselves on the marathon stage. We may share some kinship with Don Quixote in tilting at windmills, but we’re also pursuing some very clear and worthy objectives, and can be reluctant to abandon our respective quests. I’ve got a much different set of things at stake this Patriots Day, compared to the past two years– in 2010, fabulous training and ideal weather offered me the chance to pursue (and successfully achieve!) a sub-3-hour finish; in 2011, commitment to a friend and long-time training partner compelled and inspired a companionship unlike any I’d ever felt in a marathon. This time around, I could certainly chase a sub-3:05 in order to qualify anew, but the heat might be prohibitively adverse. I could experiment with a novel race plan– go prudently but uncomfortably slow for the first 10 to 12 miles, then ride the energy of the Wellesley Scream Tunnel and the big crowds along the Newton Hills, and perhaps even vanquish the demons I’ve always met on Beacon Street for 3 of the course’s final 4 miles. For the first time in a few years, an underlying goal that I’ve always taken for granted is poised to be the primary one– reach that finish line, and have as much fun as possible along the way. Who knows, if I miss my qualifying mark, I might find therein the motivation and justification to train through the summer for a classic fall marathon, like Philly or New York.

In any event, this year’s Boston will be unlike any of my previous six marathons, though hopefully no less satisfying, instructive, and memorable.  I’m eager to see what I find along my way to Copley Square, and what my next 26.2 miles will suggest for my ongoing journey through life.

Motivation on the T in Boston MA
2011 Boston Marathon Weekend

Pray-er's/Runner's/Writer's Block

National Cathedral, Washington DC

"... are you asleep? Could you not keep watch for one hour? Watch and pray that you may not undergo the test. The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak."

– Mark 14: 37-38

This line from the Passion narrative in Mark's Gospel– chanted in parts at the Palm Sunday liturgy I attended– resonated deeply in my hearing. Gently holding a palm frond, listening to a tenor's voice intone these words of Jesus, I heard them expressing many emotions on his part: surprise, disappointment, perhaps even sympathy. So often this Lent, I've felt quite close to the disciples in the garden, visiting this scene often in my contemplative prayer. Professing eagerness to follow and accompany Jesus, the rapid withering of their resolve seems attributable to more than mere physical fatigue. Undoubtedly, their faith was gravely shaken as their miracle-working, wisdom-proclaiming, love-embodying teacher and friend asserted his imminent death, surrendered to violent captivity, and perished with little if any explicitly visible trace of his divine power. If I am like them, I too would be deeply troubled by the unprecedented predictions they heard, disillusioned by the events that they witnessed. If they were like me, the energy drawn into all the attendant anxiety and worry– whether consciously or unconsciously– exacts a heavy toll on physical vigor, mental crispness, and spiritual stability.

As I move into my final two weeks of training for the 2012 Boston Marathon, I'm in the heart of my tapering period, during which I deliberately reduce my mileage and slow my pace to allow my body to recover from the stresses of an arduous running schedule that covers nearly 500 miles in 15 weeks. Tapering has been described as gently and firmly coiling a spring, in advance of releasing it in a well-crafted surge of strength and energy on race day. As I settle into this year's taper, I feel with delight the increasing accumulation of some extra energy, liberated from the demands of miles and seconds that I'm temporarily relinquishing. I've learned to count on that energy around mile 23 of the Boston course– surrounded by cheering crowds on Beacon Street yet plunged deeply into the grueling weariness of legs nearly spent from almost three hours of running– to break through the metaphorical wall often encountered in a marathon's closing miles. If that reserve is lacking, or if I fail to draw upon it, collapse and agony are almost inevitable.

If the disciples weren't so worried, if their faith were greater, perhaps they would have stayed awake with Jesus during his fitful prayer in Gethsemane. I can say the same about my own discipline of prayer, which has been plagued throughout this Lent by fatigue-inducing anxiety, and a certain lack of focus attributable to a faith that's less grounded than I would like. If their confidence were firmer, perhaps they would have spoken with greater honesty about their own weakness, rather than being humbled by the emptiness of their proud assertions of fidelity and perseverance earlier in the course of events that bring each Gospel to its climax. I can say the same about my own efforts at reflection and writing, whether for broad expression or personal examination– too many good ideas have recently gone unexplored, kept from dialogue, ink, and page by a reticence masked by misguided assumptions about their lack of appeal or ability to make a contribution to any exchange.

This isn't how I expected, or desired, to approach Holy Week... feeling blocked in areas of my life where I genuinely desire greater vitality yet shrink from the humbling, vulnerable, and graced route to achieving such fruitfulness. In my training, paradoxically, the present moment calls for the very kind of holding back that has become so disillusioning in my prayer, my writing, and my friendships. I eagerly anticipate opening a biomechanical floodgate on Patriots' Day; I longingly await the day (or the hour) when the obstacles in my inner life are cleared away.

One More Month

The 116th Boston Marathon is one month away. Oddly enough, I'm not terribly excited or anxious about the race, despite the assurance of some strong training runs and the concerns of some persistently occasional aches and pains in my knees and ankles. I've been reflecting and praying about what this year's unexpectedly dampened enthusiasm for Boston could mean, especially when compared to the past two years of training for this event.

In 2010, I relished the novelty of my first Boston Marathon, savoring the thrilling aspects and unique traits of the course along my way to a personal best time that marked the achievement of a life goal– finishing a marathon in under three hours. The company of two good friends from Saint Louis in the race itself, along with the support of my parents who journeyed to Boston to cheer us on, enriched the joy of that accomplishment. In 2011, realizing a long-held dream– and long-established promise– to finish Boston with a long-time training partner and friend provided much of the motivation that carried me through a snowy winter and a sunny, mild race.

This year, I've realized lately, I've been training alone, despite being among more than 20,000 people around the country (and the world) who are also preparing for Boston next month. I haven't felt connected to that broader community, which likely says more about my mindset than it does about the fact that I don't know anyone running it this year. I've noticed other thoughts on loneliness and solitude, and the desire for deeper experiences of community that these feelings highlight. I've caught myself considering– with more than just a passing thought– that I might not run a marathon in 2013 unless I find a group of people with whom to share the adventure of training, and by extension, something of the journey of life that inspires us to pursue endurance athleticism with mildly crazed abandon. I'd rather not hang up my running shoes, but I'll admit that I'm as daunted by this emerging challenge to my lonely training as I am by the grueling final miles of a marathon.

So, with one month to go, I'm hoping to regain some of the verve I'll need to fuel my final weeks of training, as well as the long trip from Hopkinton to Boston on April 16. I'm hoping that I'll feel more connected to the running community in the events preceding the race, and be more proactive in seeking training partners as I look beyond my period of post-race recovery. Most of all, I'm praying that this lesson sticks; that despite the benefits of running in solitude, I'll strive to affirm and strengthen a foundation in community and companionship for all the training I pursue, both in running and in life.

Boylston Street
2011 Boston Marathon

Running Lessons

Yesterday's 22-miler wiped me out for much of the afternoon; laundry, reading this month's National Geographic, and listening to NPR's Wait, Wait... Don't Tell Me! were the only activities that I could handle until my strength rebounded during and after supper. My mind felt no less sluggish than my legs, as if it too had muscled up and down rolling hills and forged through stretches of cold headwinds along a sprawling figure-eight course spanning several rural towns. The run– from both a physical and mental perspective– was a mixed bag; the strength and ease of my pacing oscillated in response to the terrain and weather, while my endurance and resolve were increasingly tested as the miles wore on.

From a spiritual standpoint, and in the context of Lent, those two and a half hours on my own– I didn't keep track, but I believe that fewer than twenty cars passed me, and I passed fewer than ten people on the roads or in their yards– reiterated some lessons on solitude, loneliness, and companionship that have been recurring for the past few weeks.

I've long experienced solitude as a blessing, though I've perhaps failed to fully appreciate its power or utilize its potential. Consequently, I run the risk of taking it for granted, or being insensitive to those for whom such a state is difficult, if not impossible, to attain. Not everyone is able to enjoy a balance of responsibilities or develop a level of fitness akin to the circumstances that allow me to relish the gentle glow of dawning sunshine reaching across meadows tangled with last season's withered grass. Nor is my pursuit of solitude through endurance athleticism, or simply closing my door, a perennially effective means, let alone the only one, leading to such a state of body, mind, and soul.  

I've increasingly experienced periods of loneliness as genuine hardships, and struggled with how to escape or counteract their deleterious effects on my frame of mind. Having grown in my ability to distinguish such loneliness from solitude, I'm learning not to take the former as lightly as I once did. Furthermore, praying through the texts encountered at Mass during Lent is reminding me that loneliness is imposed on some people by dint of age, social class, family situation, or other circumstance, whereas I (not without unease) have typically resigned myself to it as the cost of certain choices, like training alone for a marathon.

I continue to struggle with companionship; despite being a firm believer in the life-giving power and graces of genuine friendship, I've not always lived up to the very ideals that I desire for myself and encourage others to pursue. I strive diligently to be trustworthy and reliable, yet put less effort into relying upon the trustworthiness of my closest Jesuit brothers and long-time friends. I prefer– likely with some hidden or carefully overlooked pride– to imitate Jesus in my actions and ministry rather than to accompany him in the lives of those with whom I work and live. I easily make training plans to prepare my mind and body for athletic and adventurous pursuits of my own, yet experience far more difficulty in shaping my heart and soul for the far superior sustenance of keeping myself in good company in a truly deep and mutual way. Thankfully, God's abundant mercy and life's ever-changing circumstances offer countless opportunities to undertake courses of growth, both in the refreshing peace of genuine solitude, and in the vivifying exchanges of true companionship. God willing, I'll use them well, wherever (and with whomever) my training leads.

Lengthy Plans

East Brookfield MA

My training schedule calls for a 22-mile run tomorrow. It's the longest run I'll attempt until the marathon, and it's filled me with a mixture of enthusiasm and anxiety for the past few days. On one level, there's the pragmatic array of preparations: mapping a route, setting aside my hydration pack and a pair of energy gels to keep me nourished, and double-checking the laces on my running shoes. Yet beyond the practicalities of getting ready, I find myself seriously considering how best to use all that time.

Basic math– 7 minutes per mile multiplied by 22– suggests I'll be passing through rural scenes like the one above for 154 minutes, or just over two and a half hours. On a retreat, that would be enough time for two distinct prayer periods with a break for journaling and a cup of tea. In the office, I could proofread several grant proposals, develop a schedule for a three-day conference, or scrutinize a complicated budget during that interval. In the community, that's more than enough time for Mass, socializing, dinner, and conversation after we've cleared the dishes. In each of these situations, the rhythm of contemplation, the focus of a task, or the presence of my Jesuit brethren causes the time to pass unnoticed, filled as it is with the delight of progressing through a project or engaging in animated conversation.

I'm not one to constantly check my watch while training; I trust my body to find and sustain a natural and sensible rhythm. Yet, conscious of just how much time I'll have on my hands (my feet will be otherwise occupied) during tomorrow's 22-mile odyssey, I'm reluctant to waste it, and wary of passing it in the mindless monotony of my stride. I could play the ornithologist and catalog the birds I glimpse, despite my inability to identify more than a few species. I could attempt to brainstorm poetic verse or creative narratives, letting my visual and linguistic imagination run more wildly than the gently regulated pace of my training. I could delve deeply into the sort of conversational prayer that's been elusive this Lent; after all, if I'm crazy enough to be running through the middle of nowhere on a Saturday morning, speaking aloud to God shouldn't seem any less bizarre.

In any event, the long chunk of time awaiting my usage tomorrow morning is clearly on my mind amidst a quiet Friday in the office at the end of spring break week at Holy Cross. The campus will be much busier by the end of the weekend, and my training will become more intense in the coming weeks, potentially crowding out the luxury of such deliberation on my relationship with the time that I'm given each day. Hopefully, I'll be blessed with some good insights tomorrow as I pursue not only a broad yellow finish line in the heart of Boston, but also the continuing graces and growth that keep me on the best possible course in life.

Snow and Spice

My training plan called for 7 miles of hilly running this morning. The local district called off school as plows dealt with the 7 inches of snow that had accumulated overnight. Roads were slushy, but footing was firm, and traffic was lighter than usual. As I delighted in some pristine winter scenery for the first time in over a month, I also quietly savored the fact that this was not the stupid run that I still intend to avoid during the remaining days of winter.

College of the Holy Cross, Worcester MA

This morning's seven-mile slog (running in slush is vaguely akin to walking uphill in mud) was hardly my fastest spin through Worcester's hills and neighborhoods, yet it served up an unexpected and marvelous gift from a hitherto unremarkable landmark. Just after clearing one of Worcester's many bizarre intersections, I pass a pie factory, which is typically devoid of visible activity. Yet today the whole area smelled of nutmeg. The contrast couldn't have been more jarring– cold breezes whisking snowflakes through air suffused with the aroma of a tropical spice. I certainly ran a little faster, motivated by the idea of indulgently adding some nutmeg to my post-run bowl of oatmeal, strawberries, and cranberries. (It's delicious, by the way!)

In light of the musings that inspired yesterday's post, this strong encounter with the ordinary shaped my day; I engaged in more small talk than usual, sensed some sharper focus in hours of researching and indexing information on a variety of postdoctoral fellowships, and felt a little less preoccupied with unearthing radically significant insights from daily minutiae. Rather, as I did with my camera during a slushy seven-minute walk to the office this morning, I took in scenes as a whole, while also appreciating the simple (and also majestic) confluence of their myriad components. Who knew that snow and nutmeg could do so much?