Distance athletes thrive on monotony, struck by the subtle details that differentiate one run, one mile, one season from the next: how tired or fresh the body is, how a regular tree has turned in a so slightly new light, what color the river has churned that day, or how many cars ignore the crosswalk and fail to see the runner who is shorter than their SUV’s hood.
We watch the differences that are felt and seen. Until it snows, the thud of feet on pavement and hard ground drums, and bike tires hum or crunch, unnoticed.
With snow, the less-sound suddenly is evident, and becomes the next newness to explore.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Frozen sand
Before the summer drought, DC had summer floods. For the multi-use trail in Rock Creek Park, this meant the pavement was covered in several inches of thick mud. After a very messy week, the mud was plowed to the side and eventually dried into sand.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Rhinestones
It is no surprise that three of the five members of the Ralph Stanley band sport clothing fresh from the bedazzler: rhinestones are an essential component of the country music wardrobe.
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Return
I have had a couple of requests to revive this effort, initially abandoned for several reasons. For one, moving from zero mechanical knowledge to professional bicycle mechanic absorbed most of my free brain this past year. Also, it’s been a pretty wild year, and I haven’t had much free brain at all.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
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