Moving Backward to Go Forward

There is similar irony in the two poles of social interaction: altruism will forever be latently accompanied with self-fulfillment, as hedonism with ennui. And it is in the later where Ivan Ilyich finds himself in so much agony; on his deathbed, he realizes “his professional duties and the whole arrangement of his life and of his family, and all his social and official interests”, his entire raison d’être was “false”, meaningless in the way he defined and pursued them. But, following in this paradoxical pattern, it is his brokenness in this understanding that enables him to find true contentment. Through divine revelation and Christ symbolism, Tolstoy is able to portray Ivan Ilyich’s deathbed conversion as directly attributable to his admission of powerlessness and acceptance of God’s divine will.

On the surface level, Tolstoy’s palpable use of Ivan Ilyich as a Christ figure highlights what Ivan is converting to, and also what Tolstoy advocates for as the story’s practical application. However, when heeding that these references are all pertaining to death and the Jesus’ physical and emotional struggle with it, it is apparent that Tolstoy is adding a wrinkle to the standard symbolism. With these specific references, the focus is not merely on the suffering, but how the subject views the suffering, namely whether they try to fight it or submit to it.  The first instance occurs with Ivan yelling out "why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou brought me here? Why, why dost Thou torment me so terribly”, a clear paraphrase of Matthew 27:46- “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” Similarly, there is a parallel between Ivan’s post-communion exclamation "To live! I want to live!" and Jesus’ post-last supper fervent prayer that “everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me” (Mark 14:35-36). It is in this anguish we see the humanity in Christ and Ivan, and thus we are able to empathize with him, and the aversion to blind servitude that is faith.

But without this suffering for Christ, are sins would not be absolved, and similarly, Ivan is not able to change his depraved ways until he is faced with the ghastly results of his selfishness. For Christ, it was merely his willing participation in God’s plan for the absolving of our sins, but that was because Christ was without sin. For Ivan, as for all of mankind, his repentance was a prerequisite for him to escape death. In direct contrast to all the pain and anguish he has gone through in realizing this, his unglamorous admission that “Yes, it was not the right thing” is all that is needed for him to find fulfillment. He is reborn with “no fear because there was no death. In place of death there was light.”

Tolstoy hammers home the sincerity of this conversion with his most blatant, and most poignant instance of symbolism. At the announcement of Ivan’s passing from an ambiguous character- the omission of identity apropos of this final selfless moment- it is a reiteration of John 19:30, and it is indeed “finished."

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            “That kid,” my coach keeps his finger pointed at a pixilated, curly haired youth on the monitor but turns his gaze to meet mine, “He reminded me, today, of why I live track”

            The speakers crackle out the roar of thousands of fans, track die-hards whipped into a frenzy by the 3200m relay’s anchor leg of the Penn relays. Celebrating it’s 116^th year, it is the longest-running track event in the United States. On this day, everything inside Franklin Field is a celebration of accomplishment and innovation, of history and it’s upheaval.

            The stadium is an amalgam- its ancient, scholastic spires and stadium on the north end bordered by it’s state-of-the-art stadium seating- in the same way each athlete is: age-old blood and sinews straining symbiotically with gaudy apparel and footwear. Blood and sweat wicked away by nike-swooshed Dri–FIT jerseys and speedsuits (62 percent cotton, 34 percent polyester and 4 percent spandex), lower extremities pumping like pistons, propelled by spike-plated, fly-wire, glove-type-fit footwear with spectacular arches.

            At this level, all distance athletes’ quads (a term which is misleading, as they are optically construed as more of a muscular triumvirate) look similarly ropy: so finely-toned that the vastus lateralis plateaus out over the meaty vastus intermedius, butting up to the slightly-cantilevered vastus medialis, forming an arroyo of sweat, double-helixing with the Sartorius and spilling out over the knee cap in steady rivulets. These hypertrophic quads look comical on the otherwise-ectomorphic greyhounds, and are not dissimilar to the dominant arms of their raquet-weilding counterparts. 

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           There are certain forgotten knick-knacks strewn about Shane’s deli that go largely unnoticed by customer and employee alike. There is a miniature Spiderman action figure dangling daringly above the chip rack, a similarly spandexed action figure propped on the catering-order clip, and a frayed, wicker dream-catcher-esque ornament hanging directly above the register. A palpable layer of dust and grime gives each of these objects an archaic air, seeming like holdovers from the old Cock Robin regime, decades earlier. It wasn’t until months into my employment that I first saw these little doodads, and it is fascinating to me that the only people who ever do see them are the children that come in with their parents. Countless times, a kid tugs incessantly at the hem of his mother’s sweater, gesticulating upward and yelling incoherently of Spiderman this, Spiderman that, to which the parental reply is invariable disregard- no sweetie, you left Spiderman in the car, remember? I realize it is likely the disparity in height that enables these young ones to have a clearer perspective of Spiderman and friends, but I prefer to think of it as a metaphor for the ironic wisdom of children, the inheritors-of-the-kingdom type of primacy. 

           A recent Spiderman-sighting that caught my attention. A pudgy, blonde-haired kid- his cheeks so chubby, I was amazed his toothy grin could even lift them- accompanied his mother on her daily errands, and as she rooted through a cornucopia of change and coupons in her over-sized purse at the register, his eyes ignited at the discovery of the arachnid hero. The excitable little guy began the standard freak-out, but then, to the surprise of both his mother and myself, he collected himself and imparted this impossibly sage insight: “Spiderman would be nothing without a villain, though.” His mother and I shared a befuddled chuckle, and she acknowledged this statement the same as if he had just successfully recited his recently-mastered addition and subtraction tables.

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            I toss up my bare feet on the adjacent couch, its grainy surface making the skin on my calves and hamstrings itch. I’ve always hated this couch, a beige, maroon, and forest green plaid aberration in a living room that is already kitsch-ily decorated, to put it lightly. It is so hot in the room that whenever I shift my glance, it’s in that slow, exaggerated swivel where your eyes close for a good couple seconds between the embarking and ending angles, trying to conserve even the infinitesimal energy it takes to keep your eyelids open. A sense of mild, yet effective perturbation is implicit in this movement, and this look seems particularly a propos as Dustin just made some especially snarky comment I’m choosing to ignore.

            “ I said,” he insists a bit louder, sitting across from me in a questionable ensemble of long argyle socks, pin-stripe shorts, and brown felt oxfords, “it looks like you have fucking trench foot”

            I try to hide my amusement, affecting an air of placidity as I walk over to my open MacBook, pronating terribly, and discreetly google trench foot. A shiver xylophones the length of my spine and I feel my breakfast lurch in revolt. The image results look like giant, microwaved candy corn. Scrolling further down, there is a significantly less severe case that actually bears a minor resemblance to my left foot, beleaguered by a blister that starts at the crown of the big toe and stretches through the entire forefoot into the incipient curvature of the arch, roughly the length of my index finger.

            Its geographical likeness to the state of Michigan is uncanny; geologically it is more reminiscent of Chernobyl. The ribbed, blistered skin has ripped off in strips and reveals an infant-purple lower layer underneath, a flushed hue and perfectly smooth- save for the spider-webs cracks of dry skin at the creases of the toe. I neglect to show Dustin the picture, and also withhold from him that the blister in question has been, on several occasions, much worse.

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We make moves in stage coaches 
Rah Digga likes the roaches 
If anyone approaches 
We be like noches, buenos 
And I compose a poem for the many gun-slingers 
R & B singers, perpetrating guns with two fingers. 

My style is perhaps one of the foulest 
I inhale large clouds of smoke through my chalice. 
(Buckin' at stars) and write rhymes for hours 
The ghetto missy, drinkin' whiskey sours. 

Bust this scenario, can't no other niggas in the barrio 
(From Newark to Ontario), bust us when we in stereo. 
Cause me and Rashida rock the battles 
It's apparent, you're no talent, cause your blazin' in your saddle. 

Watch these rap bitches get all up in your pockets 
Then bounce with accountants that give me good stock tips 
Cause props is up, Digga's through the roof 
Burnin' niggas like I'm 90 proof. 

And for all you head beaters 
The lead eaters, the cheaters soon to be retreaters 
While mamasitas carry real heaters. 

I rock the Dooby and 
L rocks the Nubian twists 
96 
Muthafuckas gettin' dissed 

        There is no air conditioning at 804 N Washington Street. There are, however, several rows of single-hung, sash-and-case windows stretching along the perimeter of the north, south, and east walls, whose lead counter-weights in the glazed frames are exceptionally finicky, with a couple being so iron-willed that they snapped the ropy pulley system during overly exuberant attempts to dislodge them. Even after carefully manipulating- con amor, amigo, con amor!- these windows up the warped, sooty grooves, only a select few have screens, leaving one to pick their poison of hot-box heat or an insectile swarming of biblical proportions.

            So now, with the just the screened windows open, I bake, wearing only sweat-starched running shorts that are little more than tattered wisps of cotton and elastic. The late morning sun pours in through the windows, and since the muntins on the top panes are split and splayed off at incongruous angles, running neither parallel nor perpendicular to the paint-chip mullions, they cast colliding, helter-skelter shadows over the main room. The smell that wafts from various epidermal crevices is pungent.

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Relatively Unappreciative

It’s been a minute since my last post, so I think I’m going to mix it up a little bit. Keep things not so long-winded, and hopefully adding the slightest element of spontaneity to my otherwise overly-calculated day-to-day.

           

Ushering in the first days of June, the Chicago humidity diffuses (from where I can only assume is Hades itself) and sits oppressively, us suburbanites personae non gratae of the Great Lakes breezy respites. The heat settles in interminably like an unwanted relative, of whose unforgiving suitcase brims with stuffy car-air, crimson plumages of sunburn, and sweaty nether-regions. And this is all kicked of with perverse pomp and circumstance by high school graduations, and their dreaded commencements. Packed like cattle into troublingly-malleable folding chairs- I spent a good chunk of the ceremony staring, spellbound, at their creaking support of the most corpulent grandparents- I’m forced to celebrate something that 8 out of every 10 Americans accomplish, the kind of ubiquity rivaled only by relative obesity and porn consumption. Anyone who truly feels that they’ve merited something more than a handshake or pat on the back by making it through high school is about to get a rude awakening by the long, uncircumcised dick of the real world.

I started Super Sad True Love Story today, the first book of the Odd Future Book Club Kill Them All (title pending finalization), and got a good third through during the A-Z’s. Not crazy about it yet, but I’m starting to get drawn into it. Immortality is a torture I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy, especially after sitting next to the senility and varicosity that essentially comprises my mother’s mother. At one point, said grandmother, a staunch fundamentalist/prohibitionist/racist/awful person, leans over to me and ask if the crosses next to some of the graduates names in the program* (denoting Nation Honor Status) signify their religious affiliation as a Christian. I wish I could simply ignore the heaping scoop of crazy** sitting next to me, but she helps foot the bill for my college education, so I have to answer her unbelievably condescending and ignorant statements with I dunno Nanny, maybe so. Is it selling out? Because I feel dirtier than a crack whore

* Which she of course cannot read because she refuses any sort of optical assistance, risking the lives of any vehicle passengers or fellow drivers- or pedestrians and houses without significant parkways for that matter- for the sound rationale that glasses are for ”old people”, says she of eighty-two years.

** Also important to mention is her conversation with me the day prior, in which she felt it necessary to describe to me (with not one, but two examples) the concept of Time Zones, as in Collin, you see, if it is 12 here, that means that it is 10 on the west coast. 

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Friends and Failure

Rey Rey's Broke Ass

My good friend Reshma celebrated her 21^st birthday (so she gets a shout-out and a pic!) last Monday, so I called up Rey, Anna, Mike, and Chin and we kicked of the week the best way I know how: dirty girl scouts and green line at Muldoon’s. Rey had class the next day, so we kept things pretty low-key, but it was a blast hanging out with everyone. I, for one, am certainly glad that Reshma was born twenty-one years ago, even with all the grief and grey hairs that our delightfully unconventional friendship has brought me. But jokes aside, she has a kind heart, and I’ve cherished every shed-climbing, car-crashing, ginger-bread-constructing (above) moment.

The mix of celebrators was eclectic to say the least. Anna and Rey and I had hung out throughout the majority of freshman and sophomore year in high school, but we had never been all together again for at least a couple of years. And with Mike and Chin (who are stellar Muldoon’s companions, by the way, just great all-around guys), I had just met them working at Shane’s, and it wasn’t until recently that we started spending time together that did not consist entirely of cold-cut assemblage. I’m not exactly sure how these two distinctly different groups, relative opposites of the friend continuum, came to be sharing drinks in that mahogany nook, but it worked out.

Despite my undeniable enjoyment of the night, the reunion of old friends always manages to evoke a nostalgic melancholy for me. It’s the kind of feeling I picture accompanying the exhumation of a back-yard time capsule: a postmortuary air of concern over the contents’ intrinsic value having seeped into the soil. The effort it takes to rouse dormant emotion- it just seems sometimes more like rehashing than reminiscing. This admission might seem strange, or overly pessimistic, but I can easily trace the origins of this sentiment to this last year, a period marred by the indecision and ambiguity from being in between schools. It shaped an underlying fear that my life has become a terminal for the people in it: a constant shuffling of relationships old and new, wearied and indifferent. Amidst the hustle and bustle around me, I’ve come to a standstill. It’s a sentiment effectively summarized in Jonathan Safran Foer’s Everything Is Illuminated: “She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things…- without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?”

As most of my friends seem to be moving forward, towards aspirations and careers, I’ve regressed in muddled passivity. This has no doubt put a strain on my current interactions with long-standing friends, as I feel hesitant to initiate a phone conversation or small talk in which my response to their accounts of festivity and prodigious accomplishments is invariably limited to the latest episode of high school drama that I’ve snatched from my athletes or the most recent mechanical malfunction at the deli. I find myself showing further disdain for optimism in my perception of new relationships; as most people still residing in Wheaton are in a similarly transitory state, even the most meaningful of these interactions seem hopelessly fleeting.

While the gradual events (or non-events) of this last year that have molded this fear, it was the Wednesday before last (April 27^th) that brought this concern into the forefront of my thoughts. Two years from that day, my close friend Ryan passed away, and as I have wrote about before, it was a crippling loss. But as tragic as it was, it was also the most instrumental moment in my life in shaping who I am, and in drawing our group of friends together. The bond that connects us was forged in a turmoil so strong, that I could think of nothing that could ever break it completely.

That being said, I am quickly learning the inevitable nature of friends growing apart. As our respective paths are starting to become more pronounced, the heterogeneous nature of our group that once made us so inseparable is now causing significant divergences in the near future. My friend Kimmy’s recent post reminded me of a Dave Eggers quote from A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, and indeed, I can’t help but fell like I am losing friends in the same way we lose weeks: “like buttons, like pencils.” For a completist like myself, this process feels about as subtle as a riot, the tearing-apart utterly seismic.

        

         The deterioration of friendship is every bit as pervasive and inescapable as our physical atrophying, but my fear of this natural process is paralytic. I find myself, as a result, jaded towards others; at times there is nothing in me that wants to invest in new relationships, to go through the vulnerability of becoming acquainted with that new person. It’s the same juvenile mentality that we all have experienced: Why should I make my bed if it’ll just be messy again, or for the more feral of children, why should I brush my teeth if they will just be sugar-coated again? Looking at it rationally, I can understand the seperation as progress, but I guess I’m just too immature young at heart to embrace it.

         To call this feeling an undying loyalty would be giving myself far to much credit, as a significant aspect of this perspective can be chalked up to egocentricity. As I admitted, I’m a completist, and with this pettiness comes the more egregious tendency to “collect” my friends. Instead of accurately perceiving the strengths and flaws of my peers, and accepting the whole in its beautiful complexity, I frame the traits that I find to be most congruous with and beneficial to myself, and carelessly toss the rest. 

         This self-centered compartmentalization is in large part due to finding the vast majority of my worth in the perception of others. As my priorities have gradually shifted over the last several years from loving/fearing God or religion to loving/fearing people, I’ve grown increasingly in tune to the scrutiny of others. This theological shift has also produced a life perspective centered more on the present, and that adds exponential importance to daily, interpersonal interactions. In other words, the erosion of a friendship during high school might have seemed inconsequential from my macro-spiritual viewpoint, but identical occurrences from this micro level now seem glaring. As irrational as my fear may initially sound, I don’t have much trouble seeing why I would take the petering out of a friendship so personally after heeding my current existential convictions.

         It was the shift in friendships that first made this fear plain to me, but this concern transcends mere camaraderie. I’ve always placed a lot of stock in my friendships, but I am also threatened by shifts in things of more practical importance. I have already elaborated on my personal feelings about running and its weighty effects on one’s self-esteem, and as a consequence I have seen my personal aspirations in the sport dwindle. Countless changes in my major and career path over the last few years have also resulted in significant stress, and even now, there is much uncertainty with the direction I plan to take. It is the doubt that crosses my mind every time I toe the starting line, every time my cursor hovers over the “Publish Post” button- it is, simply put, the fear of failure.  

        

            In the words of Dessa Darling of Doomtree in her song “Mineshaft”, I feel ashamed that “the list of things I used to be is longer than the list of things I am: ex-lover, ex-friend, ex-communicated atheist, ex-patriot living in the heartland.” Just as I’m hesitant to start a new friendship that’s bound to end sometime, I worry about starting something new (like writing), when some level of failure is inevitable. And odds are when that failure comes, it will detract from whatever modest attributes I possess, and tip the scales that much further towards the things I am not. 

Micachu- Fine feat. Brotha May and Baker Trouble

Stumbled upon this song after reading about Micachu's latest mixtape, Filthy Friends. Micachu is an English singer-songwriter and producer, and is best known for her band Micachu and the Shapes, and their critically-acclaimed album from 2009, Jewellery. She does a whole lot of crazy, artsy shit like inventing instruments that I don't really care about. Lackluster description, but the song more than makes up for it. 

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In Defense of the Offensive, Part I

B-B-B-Bertie

Before Tom Hooper, Colin Firth or David Seidler’s Academy Awards had time to accumulate even a modicum of dust, I was firing up the ol’ Egg of Hip Hop (my 1999 off-white Ford Expedition) to go watch The King’s Speech. Going in, I certainly had my doubts about the film, mostly centered around a suspected inability to empathize with the plight of the King of England. I just can’t see myself throwing a slack arm around George VI and saying I hear what you’re cluckin’, big chicken, I hear ya. But I’ve got some Scottish blood in me, which was influential in not only the figurative setting of the film, but also the literal setting of the cheap theater on Ogden.

On some level I could relate to Firth’s character of George VI, because of my own trepidation with the slightest public speaking requirement. It wasn’t until I was well into high school that I felt comfortable ordering food at restaurants, and even now, it is not a given, depending on the fluttery-ness of the waitress's eyelashes. And I still usually go with a I’ll have the same thing, to avoid any additional baring questions like what kind of sides I would like, or how I’d like my meat cooked. I mean, call me old-fashioned, but how I like my meat is a subject I don’t commonly broach with strangers.

So while it might have unearthed some deeply suppressed memories of Mr. Klemm’s Argumentation class in high school, the movie- in my opinion- lived up to it’s best-picture billing, mostly due to the magnetic charm of George VI's (or Bertie) speech therapist, Lionel Logue, played by Geoffrey Rush. However, it is a scene totally void of Rush that contains far and away my favorite moment of the movie. Returning from some kind of social engagement, Bertie and his wife Elizabeth (Helena Bonham Carter) are attempting to ready their two adorable daughters for bed. In a uncharacteristic showing of comic unruliness, the daughters demand of their father a story before they go to bed, and the ruler of all the United Kingdom is powerless to refuse. While phonetically garbled- it takes place prior to any of Firth’s drastic linguistic improvement- the tale and it’s telling absolutely melted my heart. Unfortunately, I couldn’t find the specific clip, but below is the script of the particular instance.

Bertie: There were once two princesses whose Papa had been turned into a penguin by the local witch. This was inconvenient because he loved to hold his princesses in his arms and you can’t do that if you’re a penguin, you have wings like herrings.

Margaret Rose: Herrings don’t have wings.

Bertie: His wings were the shape of herrings. To make matters worse she send him to the South Pole which is an awfully long walk if you can’t fly.

Lilibet: You can’t walk from the South Pole!

Elizabeth: Shh!

Bertie: Exactly. When he reached the water and dived in he found he could fly. Fly through the depths. So fast, in fact, that he was in Southampton Waters by lunchtime. From there he caught the 2.30 to Weybridge, changed at Clapham Junction and asked a passing Mallard the way to Buckingham Palace. He swam up the Thames and came out of a plughole, giving Mama, the cook and Mrs. Whittaker quite a shock. The Princess heard the commotion and hurried to the kitchen where they gave the penguin a good scrub, a mackerel and a kiss. And as they kissed him, guess what he turned into?

Lilibet and Margaret Rose: A handsome prince!

Bertie: A short-tailed Albatross. With wings big enough to wrap around both his precious girls. (He hugs them both together)

         A few days later, I was talking with my mother about the movie, and she informed me of the studio’s plans to edit the film, the extent of which was merely removing one particular scene. The removal of this scene (below) would enable The King’s Speech to shed its “R” rating and merit a “PG-13” rating, opening it’s availability to a much larger audience. The scene in question takes place during one of the therapy sessions, where Lionel is prodding Bertie to speak more emphatically, eventually inciting him into a sailor-esque string of curses and swears directed at an imaginary audience. In the passion of profanity, Bertie is truly unencumbered by his stutter, and it is one of his first true moments of triumph over his linguistic shortcomings.

         The scene is funny and moving, sure, but as I mentioned before, not nearly my favorite moment in the movie. Yet, when I heard of its potential elimination, an anger welled up in me to the point of spewing a similar assemblage of lyrical aberration. It certainly didn’t help that my mom was portraying this as a moral milestone in Hollywood history. TWC's President of Theatrical Distribution and Home Entertainment Eric Lomis, who is mostly responsible for this travesty, rationalizes this decision by saying it “enables those to whom it speaks most directly - young people who are troubled by stuttering, bullying and similar trials -- to see it." Bullshit. Bullshit shit shit. I understand how vulgar language would give parents pause about bringing their young one’s to the theater, but I feel it entirely unnecessary to pander to this insignificant demographic.

The King Speech is the culmination of countless hours of labor from producers, actors, and directors at the most elite level, and out of every single other movie made this year, was considered by the experts, to be the single best film. There are very, very few people under eighteen who are truly going to be able to understand or appreciate this without wistfully daydreaming of being a theater over, engrossed in the heroic antics of Buzz Lightyear, or, for the adolescent crowd, the incredible buoyancy of Meghan Fox’s breasts (more of Woody fans, I suppose). You wouldn’t go to Charlie Trotter’s, order filet mignon for your little kid, and ask the waiter to cut off all the fat and gristle, would you? If your answer was yes, I want you to look around, pick up the densest object within in reach, and immediately bludgeon yourself to death. I mean, come on.

         Producer Harvey Weinstein reaction is a little more honest. He told the LA Times, “the British numbers are huge because the rating lets families see the movie together. Tom and I are trying to find a unique way to do this that keeps his vision of the movie”. At least he admits that the numbers are the primary factor, and that tinkering with Hooper and Seidler’s masterpiece potentially compromises the movies integrity. I’m not sure I buy the sentimental motivation of keeping families together at the box office, but at least he doesn’t shy away from connecting it with ticket sales.

        

         But I certainly find myself agreeing most with Firth, when he responded agitatedly about the change to the Hollywood Reporter, “the film has its integrity as it stands. I don’t support it. [The scene] serves a purpose. ” I love the honesty from Firth, and I totally understand his frustration. I’m irate over the editing, and my investment in the film was a modest three dollars and a couple hours in a dingy theater. I could not imagine making such a powerful and emotionally raw story, only to have someone pare it down to a mainstream-friendly version out of greed. This perversion of the original film was released on April 1^st, and it has replaced the original in the vast majority (if not all) of theaters, and I implore you to not see it. A similarly-edited version of The Passion of the Christ totally bombed several years back, and hopefully another box-office flop will discourage future producers and companies from fucking (ha!) with the hard work of others for a quick dollar.

43 feat B-Legit-  E-40

I've been a forty water fan and hyphy movement affiliate before I could even drive; my boy Sody and I were going dumb and shaking our imaginary dreads in the back of the Navigator, all the time bickering with Justin's mom over the car radio volume. Once I did get my license,  the Egg couldn't quite get it's gas, brake, dip on, but I feel like the rust spots and dents give it a from-the-block feel. You may not have heard of E-40, born Earl Stevens from Vallejo, California, but you have experienced his impact on society if you have ever watched T.V., listened to the radio, or been in an urban setting.

An immense percentage of modern-day slang has documented origins in his prolific musical output, consisting of 14 studio albums since 1990. His influence is described perhaps most elegantly by Earl himself in an interview with Vice Magazine: "You know, it don’t stop. 75% of the words [slang] I made up. Even before this rap game my ear’s always been to the street. I’ve been making up slang words since the first grade, you smell me? I stay coming with something to keep the game interesting. I tell ’em the rap game without 40 is like old folks without bingo." Here are just a few phrases that E-40 claims he created or made famous: "fo' shizzle", "you feel me?" "playboy" "pimpin'" "pop ya colla" and most incredibly "it's all good".

Obviously, this guy is probably a narcissist/ compulsive liar, but if I cared about that, I'd have never experienced MBDTF, and where would I be then? "43" is off E-40 Revenue Retrievin': Graveyard Shift, part of a dual release that included Revenue Retrievin': Overtime Shift, released off Heavy on the Grind Entertainment on March 29, 2011. The song is a bit atypical of forty's style- a slow bass pluck tip-toeing along the background with a slow bass kick, horns and synths weaving slyly in to give the song "a noir-ish atmosphere", as David Drake of Pitchfork puts it. I don't have the slightest clue what half of the references in the song mean, and I find the chorus "I zip-lock, and flip-flop, 43" utterly indecipherable. But this is indeed classic "E-40-Fonzarigggerdale the ballatician up outta Vallejo Califoolya", and I can only laugh when the he elaborates in a later verse, "What are you, a C.I.? A Confidential Informant?". Yeah, because "zip-lock and flip-flop, 43" is clearly self-evident, but, C.I.? Clearly too tough a nut to crack on my own, thanks forty.

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Coinkydink

Minutes after my last blog post came one of those moments that makes the world seem so small you could drop it in your pocket. I have a special place in my heart for these semi-remarkable happenstances and coincidences, and I think it's because it reminds me of literature and television. These rare moments makes the world seem so uncharacteristically comprehensible and palatable that they must be scripted, artificially produced somehow. In the grand scheme of things, these events transpire unnoticed, but they feel to me like a delightfully kitschy souvenir. It's the powers of the universe coming together incongruously like those Brookfield zoo plastic molds, steaming and shaking for a few moments before spewing out a matte turquoise figurine of that person sitting next to me on the plane who happens to be the brother of the professor of my introductory philosophy class (No way!). And I, mesmerized from behind the bubble-top, nearly opaque from finger smears, waste little time in reaching in the grimy slot to claim my prize. And how fucking dope were those things? Kids in my kindergarten class wanted to grow up to be firefighters and actresses, but I wanted (past tense?) to be a Mold-A-Rama machine. 

Anyways, I had just caught my buddy Kyle's latest blog post (great stuff, check that ish out here) ten minutes after he posted it, and he was writing about how he met this really cute girl at Muldoon's, and went over and started talking to her. Now, you're probably thinking, how in the could this possibly relate to me, and, granted, the whole talking-to-a-cute-girl thing is not necessarily my forte- or even the being-in-close-proximity-to-a-cute-girl thing for that matter. But, in talking to Chin more about this girl- he referred to her comically as "Mousey", because of her delicate physiognomy- I started thinking that this girl sounds familiar. Cautiously, I started asking more about where Mousey is from and what she looks like, each question escalating with giddiness as I realized, I totally know Mousey! This girl was, in fact, my friend's ex-girlfriend. It was a bit of a moral quandary at first, because I'm close with my friend, and he's one of my all-time favorite people. But being that the breakup was- from what I hear- mutual and in the past, and, just as importantly, that Kyle's a stand-up guy, I felt like it was a safe move to try to do somethin!. 

So Chin and I met up on Friday to talk strategy. This threw me off a little bit because I was already at the library, tucked away reclusively in the record player section, plodding through Infinite Jest and listening to obscure Louisiana folk records (I usually search through the vinyl covers for the most senescent Cajun man, preferably sitting on a porch or rocking chair, with a similarly decrepit companion with a harmonica. Then I know I've got a winner.) But, with the cancelation of Wheaton North's meet the next morning, I decided to roll with it.  I walked over to Muldoon's from the 'brary and caught up with Mike and Chin, right as Fabian was heading out. As I was saying what up to Fabian, I noticed an advertisement for the 3$ Green Line special for that night, and I quickly realized the direction this night would be inevitably heading. 

After a few brews and thanks to some sage-like advice from Drabik, we decided that I would initiate a casual text to Mousey and get the ball rolling, digging deep in the arsenal of nonchalance with a statement like maybe we could all meet up next time you guys happen to be at Muldoon's. Notice the ambiguity: words like maybe, and next time make it a totally non-binding agreement, and who exactly is we and you guys? The uncertainty gives the whole thing a slight air of aloofness and apathy, which is the definition of cool. I feel it necessary here to add, once again, that I do not think I am cool; merely, my sober (I repeat, sober) texting skills I wield with tact and pride on my camera-less, tank of a cell phone. But, as apparent with my hesitance of leaving the library, in an actual social setting, I am rendered helplessly inept. 

An increase in the Green Line-intake, motivated in part by said ineptitude, soon made the night a little more interesting. The conversation was getting more and more abstract with each beer, and soon after Drabik left, Chin and I regressed to a Rudd/Segelian back-and-forth, full of bromantical bromides ("No, you're a great guy, Kyle"). Because of the significant consumption of brew, I was also making frequent trips to the bathroom, and on one of my more unsteady returns to the table, I was approached by a middle-aged woman, her arms flared outward, excitedly and expectantly. And, naturally, I responded in the worst possible manner: I froze, mid-stride, and looked over both shoulders, thinking I had oafishly wandered into the path of this woman and her friend. This notion was soon dispelled as the woman gave me an enthusiastic hug.

Fortunately, this woman's exuberance was matched in her level of intoxication. Not to say that she was by any means sloppy, but rather she had that delightful twinkle in her eye that comes with skillfully managing the fine line of drunk/not drunk. That same line which I myself had utterly annihilated earlier that night, and which also makes the Cross-Country mother-son dinner such an uproarious success each year, as there are some mothers, much to Andrew and Justin's chagrin, who have a charming disregard for that line altogether. But this mystery woman, in her state of contentment, cared little about my apparent ignorance. 

In the infancy of our small talk, I managed to pare down the possible identities of this woman to a handful of my friends' moms.  And then, the gods threw me a bone, as the woman mentioned how she was at the track meet I was working a couple days prior. It then finally dawned on me that she was my friend Jackie's mom, a great lady who I've met on several occasions (it was not so much that I didn't remember her, but more the potent combination of the occurrence being so out of place, and after so many drinks). The conversation really flowed from there, and the only hiccup being when I mentioned former Iowa standout Rachel Marchand getting busted for EPO by the NCAA, and how that must've been weird for Jackie being on her team. I just meant how odd that would be, but Jackie's mom seemed to think I was insinuating that Jackie was doping, which is just a laughable allegation. The situation was cleared up, though.

After that, Chin took care of the tab (what a guy!) and we started walking back home. Sure, our paths were by no means linear, but all-in-all we were fine, certainly not disruptive (keep this in mind). Yet, after I chucked up a deuce to Chin and headed down Madison, my night became full-on Shamalanian with another unexpected turn. I'm close enough to my house that I'm visualizing crashing face-first on my bed, but then, not one, but two police cars, with sirens, pulled me over (Is it still being pulled over if you're walking?). Having only recently turned twenty-one, I still find myself irrationally nervous after a night at the bar, so I had a moment of panic before I realized I wasn't doing anything wrong. I immediately walked over to the cop and handed him my i.d., and told him that I had been drinking, and that I was on my way home, pointing to my house, which was literally thirty feet away. He was pretty cool about it, he said that somebody had called the cops saying someone was being loud and disruptive (again I emphasize, nothing about my walk back could've been possibly construed as disruptive), and that he didn't have any problems as long as I was heading home. The worst of it was definitely seeing my roommate watching the whole thing transpiring from the window of our living room, a look of judgement and incredulity so intense on his face I thought he'd never be able to pick his jaw off of the ground. And then when I went to the front door, he wouldn't unlock it! What an asshole.

More later....

Gangsta by tUnE-yArDs

One day after giving NPR an exclusive stream of her full album, Merrill released W h o k i l l of 4 AD records on tuesday in the U.S., and it is almost as cool as Garbus herself. Haven't had time for it to all really sink in yet, but most importantly she didn't lose any of her, to say the least, unique style from BiRd-BrAiNs, adding a refined and fuller sound to her wild-things-when-they're-bound howls and delicate coos. It's a nice balance of growing as an artist, but also sticking to one's roots. The song that has been absolutely irresistible to me (even more, dare i say, than when her first single Bizness caught my eye) has been "Gangsta". Seriously, when she says "What's a boy to do if he'll never be a gangsta? Fire in his heart, but he'll never be a gangsta", she has managed to sum up in two sentence the distress that has robbed me of countless hours of sleep. But then again, I did just get pulled over by two cops just strolling down the street....

I was tempted to put the whole album up for download, but I just can't do that to Merrill. I sure as hell didn't buy it, but if you want it, I'll at least make you work for it like I did. She deserves at least that.

Edit: download link is broken, I'll try and fix it and repost

Double Edit: download here

 

Century marks for pigeons

Just wanted to take a moment to say thanks again to any readers in light of Lymph Node's eclipsing the century mark in page views! Wow, just saying that makes me feel like a huge Bill O'Reilly asshole. See what I did, there? A little politics to spice things up? Shit just got real here on the inter-web. Anyways, I really appreciate whoever it is that takes the time of of their day to read my 2300-word, esoteric nonsense. I mean, really? 2300 words? Who the hell has the time or interest to read (much less type) 2300 words? But, hey, if you get through all of it alive, I'll mail you a sticker or something. Not scratch-and-sniff, though, I'm a simple man.

This week has been really crazy, so I apologize for the time in between posts. Monday, my friend Katie gave me the heads up that she'd be playing an hour-long acoustic set at Moody, and she was all like, It's really short notice, yada yada yada, but all I had on my schedule was moving a refrigerator with the overbearing bossman (my pops), so her little brother Stevie (sub 53-sec quarter miler as of saturday, mad props) and I booked it on over, and saw our little oriental wonder slay the set. It was really nice to be able to support Katie after she was such a great support* to my team in high school. And great coaching on my part, keeping our stud 400m runner out until 11 o'clock the night before a meet. In my defense, the kid goes to bed at 1 everyday, according to Katie, so it's gonna happen. I started talking with a hilarious friend of Katie's at Moody who had grown up in central Illinois, and his first question on hearing that I lived in Wheaton was, "Oh, so what church do you attend?" Valid question, but when I answered that I don't attend church, his look of incredulity had me planning my exit strategy.

With Tuesdays physical therapy appointment came some horrendous news. My therapist/ masseuse/ coach/ friend, of whose opinion I have deep respect, has strongly advised that I implement power walking as I start back up with my running. So there you have it: three years ago I was running 100mpw, and now you can find me getting up at the ass-crack of dawn (to avoid anybody seeing me), throwing on some Jane Eyre audiobook on my shuffle, and getting down and dirty with my best attempt to look like these champs. Did I mention it's in spandex, too? I've officially become that guy. I used to jokingly call running an addiction, but when I get my hips a-shimmyin' down the block in the morning now, I'm starting to feel like I'm on Bob Saget's level.

Also on Tuesday, Wheaton North had a track meet at West Aurora. Pretty standard stuff; West Aurora's varsity crew ran really well, and we had our freshman and sophomores run really well. Zach Johnson had a 4 sec personal best in the 800m, so he is proving he's not a one-hit-wonder. Other notables were Aaron Hewitt's p.r. in the 400m, a nice 2:15 800m from Jonny Soderlund, and drops for Sam Beasley and Chris Stopka in the 3200m. Joseph Emmanuel is still struggling a little bit, but you wouldn't know it by his ever-present grin. That kid is a pleasure to coach. I'm sure he'll turn it around here soon.

Wednesday, I worked all damn day. Clocked in at Shanes at 8:30, and that day was pretty standard. Business is picking up big time at the shop, and it's pretty much a hustle from open to close. At 2, I chucked a deuce to Shane, Pancho, Chavo, and Esse and split to go help with the Wheaton Twilight meet at Wheaton College. The meet was supposed to take place on Saturday night, but with snow flurries (not a typo) scheduled for then, Coach Bradley tried to pull off the switch to Wednesday.

And did he ever, thanks to a lot of helping hands (Kristian Rosenberger among them). I personally booked it over to the javelin spot, and shagged javelins for the better part of 3 hours. It was a lot harder than it sounds, having to sprint out, grab the jav, and sprint the 30-50m back, then sprint back for the next throw. The girl that was supposed to be alternating with me had some shin splints, so she didn't want to run. I was happy to assume full duty, since I was trying to spit game at that chick, anyway. Oh, and Dickum's girlfriend Paige was throwing, so I'm going to text him saying I was shagging his girlfriend's shaft, or something raunchy like that. You know, good, clean fun.

After the jav, I busted my ass over to the oval, and worked the hurdles and blocks cart. It was a total blast, a lot of people ran well, and most importantly, I didn't have to rake for the jump pits. I don't do well with that shit. I then closed off a successful meet by kicking it with former falcon and current NCC stud Randall, hitting on Laurel at the hospitality tent, and copping a meet T-shirt on the sly. You know, hood-rat things.

Special thanks to Anna for some compliments on the blog! Anna's always been a great friend, and I owe her big time for letting me sit in on one of her Torrey Classes during my Biola visit. I'm so pumped to start up the Torrey classes in August. For those of you that know me, when I say that I am pumped about something school-related, that really means something. I am, after all, the sole creator of Fuck-a-Bag Fridays, a great second-semester senior tradition. Anyways, I'm sure that Anna's main motivation for the compliment was to get a shout-out spot on the prestigious Lymph Node, so Anna, despite it being a shameless ploy to get a leg up in the blog world, here you are. Her blog's got a little something for everyone: literary analysis for all you book worms, spiritual insight for all you church-goers, and for all you masochists, her writing proficiency tends to make a person feel painfully inferior. Just a good read, overall, so check it out.

Last but not least, the Utah Pigeon Club celebrated their 100th anniversary by sponsoring the Grand National Pigeon Show. I think I speak for the vast majority of the population when I say that I thought there was only one kind of pigeon.  But ho-ly shit. Just look at these motherfuckers! But seriously, look at these motherfuckers! It's like, when God was taking a break from making the world, he left the first ever aviary unlocked, and some asshole angel, fresh off killing a spliff, wandered over and thought he'd give the whole creating thing the ol' college try. I guess he heard God coming back and peaced out medias reas, because this guy (above) seems to be missing something pretty imperative, like, I dunno, a face? It's not just this one though, 90% of these supposedly-award-winning pigeons would make godawful carriers. And how about this guy? Call me a conspirator, but I'm not so sure the owner of this "pigeon" didn't just crazy glue a feather duster to a potato.

Starfucker - Gucci Mane & Wampire - I'm da Shit(Bitch) vs. Orchards [STRFKR Mashup]

So gotta throw my favorite mentally-compromised rapper/ ice cream aficianado a bone, and also to Starfucker who just played at Lincoln Hall on Tuesday. Promoting their new album Reptilians, released in early March, Starfucker is comprised of Joshua Hodges (vocals, keyboards, guitar, drums), Ryan Biornstad (guitar, keyboard, vocals, turntables), Shawn Glassford (bass, keyboards, drums), and Keil Corcoran (drums, keyboards, vocals). I don't enjoy all their stuff, but this song's been on heavy rotation ever since I scooped it off Hype Machine, so enjoy!

Download here

*Probably to a fault, as she attended a time trial in which it was assumed no one would attend. Long story short, my teammates and I were donning nothing more than the netting to discarded running shorts as a joke, and Katie got an undesired eyeful.

All I wanna do is... *bang* *bang* *bang* *bang*... and *$* and coach 'em up

Long-time friend and wildman Jeff Potter

Zach Johnson’s 1600m run on Saturday at Wheaton North High School during the Falcon Best Four Invite is, simply put, the reason why I love the sport of running. I started writing this expecting to  complaining about my disappointments in athletics, motivated in part by Win Win and also my anticipation of starting up my running this week after a two week hiatus (my longest intentional break in 5 and a half years). Running has been far and away my most defining interest since starting as a freshman in high school (to stay in shape for football, believe it or not) but despite all the ways running has changed my life for the better it has always been more common for me to focus on the many negatives and the failures of my career.

Yet it was this painstakingly shy senior with a bowl cut reminiscent of my underclassmen years who shook me from my pity party. I’ve had the pleasure of being a teammate, spectator, and now, coach of Zach during his stint on the cross-country team. He is one of the hardest-working people I have known, and he takes every achievement with admirable humility, every disappointment with grace unmatched in his peers. The guy has overcome a severe knee injury in addition to overall physical limitations to be a varsity contributor on a talented squad. He is not the fastest or most popular, but Zach is the god-damn business if you ask this guy.

So when Zach came screaming out the gate on Saturday, I thought to myself, ok, a little uncharacteristic of Zach, but I dig it. He came cruising through the 400m mark, and was right on the heels of the leader, and he looked so good that I held back from yelling for him to stay controlled (coach-speak for slow the fuck down). I didn’t think he could keep the pace, but it would probably set him up for a modest personal best, when he would falter. But with his mop of hair flying behind him, he kept the pace, even making a move for the lead with 500m to go, on pace to absolutely crush his previous 4:49 marking.

It was getting late in the race, but any runner or spectator knows that one lap is plenty of time for something to go dreadfully wrong. I have seen plenty of hopefuls tear into the bell lap with a fury, only to stagger down the homestretch for what seems like eternity. And this was Zach MF Johnson, someone who had no business leading this race, much less looking effortless doing it. But good ol’ Z-Johns, utilizing every inch of his wiry, emaciated frame, kicked home with such ferocity that a shiver went through my entire body, and he crossed the finish line in first, with a clocking of 4:33, an unbelievable 16-second personal record.

Sprinting over to my wearied athlete and friend, I shook him, spewing incoherent exclamations, fricatives, and naturally a good amount of saliva. Once he grasped the magnitude of his accomplishment, he- returning to the Zach Johnson we know and love- managed only a sheepish grin. The moment was so pure, so perfect; for the moment every frustration I had ever had with running was forgotten, and I was able to share in the unadulterated ecstasy of the culmination of years of Zach's hard work.  

Suffice to say, I felt that posting my bellyaching over my running career was not an adequate tribute to a sport that can inspire such a satisfying moment. Yet, enjoyable as that moment was, it is understandably just as infrequent. It might be hard to imagine that some people are born to run in a circle better than others, but it is the one inescapable fact pertaining to running. Many coaches and athletes like to believe that it’s all about who works the hardest, who runs the most miles, and who is the toughest. In a vacuum, this is true; between two people of the same talent, barring injuries or illness, the one who runs more, harder, and who is tougher will win. That is hardly breaking news. But we do not live in a vacuum, and injuries and illness exist all to frequently. Instead, it is exceedingly rare that hardest-working, most-dedicated runner crosses the line first. This is especially in high school, where most races come down to God-given talent, and whether or not the coach was smart enough to get out of the kids way and keep them fresh and hungry.

Two prominent examples of talent prevailing are Micah Vandenend and Jeff Thode. Vandenend of Glenbard South High School suffered a stress fracture in his right fibula, missing all of the outdoor season until the sectional meet in 2001, yet unbelievably managed to qualify for the state meet, and went on to place 9^th, and garner All-State honors. The next year during cross-country, Vendenend re-aggravated the same injury, and missed the majority of the season. Coming back to run the necessary meets in the postseason, he proceeded to win both regionals and sectionals, and then shockingly, the 2001 Cross-Country State meet.

Even more surprising was the victor of the 2008 IHSA meet Conant High School’s Jeff Thode. Thode had suffered a collapsed lung midseason, and was assumed to be done for the year. However, he was cleared only two weeks before the state meet to compete. After running well at sectionals, Thode continued on to capture the state title and his win became one of the wildest spectacles ever to transpire on the magical soil of Peoria’s Detwieler Park.

Haters gon’ hate, though, and many would be quick to point out two recent examples that would refute my opinion. York Community High School, owners of 26 IHSA cross-country state champions, is a perennial powerhouse in distance running, and Coach Joe Newton has cemented their status as the most dominant prep program in the nation through good ol’ fashioned high mileage and break-neck intensity (however, during their track season, they are significantly more conservative). Reigning two-time IHSA cross-country champion and USA Junior Triathalon Champion Lukas Verzbikas, considered to be the one of the finest American running prodigies ever, may not run a crazy amount of miles, but he supplements his training with a significant amount of swimming and biking, the sum of which leaves little room for anything else.

I would argue that these two examples are the exceptions that prove the rule. According to Jim Halley of USA Today in a 2008 article, York “regularly carries more than 200 boys runners”, an unfathomable number for high school prep athletics. There are 3A (largest school division in Illinois) teams that struggle to bring the mandatory 5 runners to the line. When you have this many runners, a coach can implement a much more aggressive approach- running a majority of the team through a high-risk, high-reward plan knowing that it will eventually manufacture the necessary five to seven exceptional runners.

This running-the-gauntlet approach is no doubt why York has had the unparalleled prep success on the state and national level. But at what expense?  Kevin Moore, a former trainer for York during the late 90’s, told me that the number of runners that were too injured to compete was upwards of 60 high schoolers throughout the entire season. To put it in perspective, the Wheaton North team on average has between 40-50 runners total on their roster, and is considered a large team. While the varsity crew of runners is basking in their prolific gains, others who have worked just as hard or harder are left on the sidelines, licking their wounds.

Another issue that arises from this training is a lack of development after high school; just ask former York national-caliber runners, Eric and Matt Dettman twins (Oregon), Sean MacNamara (Michigan), Tom Achtien (Illinois) and Jordan Hebert (Illinois) all of who, have struggled to meet the sky-high expectations set by their accolades attained in high school. This particular argument always stirs up a whole lot of shit, so I’ll just leave it at this: some elite high schoolers, while young enough to initially respond to high-intensity training, are ultimately limited in their potential, as too much physical stress was put upon them during their impressionable years.

          And as far as young phenom, Lukas Verzbikas, his mother is a former Lithuanian record holder in the 1500m and 3000m distances, boasting jaw-dropping personal bests of 4:09 and 8:56, respectively. Need I say anymore? (A little perspective, my personal bests, embarrassingly enough, are 4:08 and 8:52) For those of you who still don’t grasp the magnitude of those times, I will just say that the genetics in that kid’s Lithuanian blood are the envy of about every other runner in the country. For this reason, I can’t help but scoff when Rasa Verzbickiene, Lukas’ mother, is quoted as saying “You know, an Olympic gold medal is 95 percent very hard work and 3 percent talent and 2 percent good luck”. I certainly don’t doubt that an unworldly amount of effort and perseverance that goes into achieving these marks, but she is kidding herself in placing talent at a measly 3 percent.

Yet it is these exceptions that become the model for success for the vast majority of programs and athletes, trying to emulate every aspect of these immense programs and talents without heeding their own lack of resources or biological constraints. And yes, this does produce a team here or there, the odd individual runner, but on the whole, it is a devastating approach for these misinformed athletes. Not only does this approach lead to injuries, fatigue, and as a result, athletic disappointment for these runners, but this group also attributes this disappointment to “choking”. Because they are following a get-fast-quick scheme, which they perceive as a training Bible, any failure that occurs is immediately chalked up to their own mental or motivational shortcomings, as they have, in their minds, done everything necessary from the physical perspective. Either that, or they think they must just have to run more and harder; you can see how this flawed strategy could snowball very quickly.

I feel a little silly typing this, because I am one of the worst offenders. I’ve fought tooth and nail with both my high school and college coaches to give me more mileage, to let me run faster workouts, and when they wouldn’t, I would proceed un-sanctioned. I ran 80- to 90-mile weeks my junior and senior years in high school, even 100-mile weeks during the summer prior to my freshman year at Wheaton. It was during these years I had the attitude that my close friend and former coach Jeff Potter (above) describes when asked about his scruffy appearance during his college years: “All I wanted to do was run.”

This may seem like nothing short of insanity for those of you outside the circle of madness that is the running culture, but this sums up the attitude that myself and many other harriers take up during the height of their training. I wanted nothing more than to run well. I didn’t care about my appearance, I didn’t care about socializing, and I certainly didn’t care about school. My desire to succeed transcended every aspect of my life. Every meal I ate was planned according to what was expended during the run before it, and what was required for the run after. I would avoid instances where I would have to be standing or outside for extended periods of time (church, social events, sporting events, the like) and refused to participate in any physical exertion that wasn’t in my explicit training plan.

After years of this attitude (admittedly there were lapses in my steadfastness), I was regressing in the basket in which I had placed all my eggs. I did have races at points during the season that were indicative of my training, but when I had to be at my best, I simply wasn’t. I fell pitifully short of goals and expectations, and even worse, let my teammates down on multiple occasions. And as I previously explained, my first reaction was to heap criticism on my mental preparation and the effort I was putting in. Being that I was so invested in the sport, I considered this “mental weakness” and “laziness” to be major personal flaws.  

And this is all because I was to prideful to take the biological hint, even after each season ended worse than the previous. While I fully realized that I was better off at lower mileage, I refused to accept it because it meant accepting that I had a limited potential, admitting to myself that my ceiling was not that of most of my peers that I ran with in high school. I caused myself a lot of unnecessary injuries and poor races in striving to be the best, instead of being the best that I can be.

But this mentality, however flawed it may be, is still what produces the best runners, the best stories. It is impossible to know the limits of a runner until these limits are sufficiently tested, and that’s where coaching comes in. A coach can come in and look at a runner’s career unemotionally and with previous experience to draw on, and therefore he can formulate an unbiased, professional opinion. I would’ve done well to listen to coaches earlier in my career, but the silver lining is that I’ve learned a lesson that will serve me extremely well in pursuing a career as a coach.

So, thanks to Zach’s race prompting a closer look at my running career, I've gleaned this practical application to my coaching future. I can get all caught up in the sport’s prevalent injustices, but when it comes down to it, I could never be without running. As corny as it sounds, I love the sport for all that it is, and I always will based on this one truth: there is nothing sweeter than partaking in the fruits of labor with my athletes whose literal blood, sweat, and tears stain the track.