Tag: running

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Sutures, C-sections, and Bowties

HELLO. Thank you for reading – it’s been a minute (Months? A year?). Since the start of the pandemic it’s started to really sink in just how allusive the human conception of time is. Scrolling back through the log, it looks like there is mention of a race and there is a clear absence of cloth over my face in a public venue, and it looks like summer…so we’re talking at least a year. Well – what a year it’s been! And what better to do on a Sunday morning (it could honestly be any day of the week the salience of time has been abolished) as a 4th year med student, with residency interviews completed and my application submitted, than to digest, reflect, and verbal (is it verbal if it’s written?) diarrhea the product of this exercise for us to enjoy. How’s that for a damn sentence. I’ll spare expounding details of current events other than to say maybe the rapacious nature of late-stage capitalism did not, in-fact, prepare America’s public health infrastructure for a global pandemic. And maybe, just maybe, America could have a little less police-state and a little less prison-industrial complex, and a little more reparations for its most exploited minorities. Maybe. Who knows. I digress. Let’s start a few weeks after my last race.

One of my best friends got married last fall. I was a groomsman. It was awesome. And there’s something to be said about a Lutheran wedding service, even from the perspective of an atheist (I’m digging this term ‘optimistic nihilist’ however – it at least alludes to spirituality and using the term makes me sound like a smug jackass, so it’s right up my alley). They are quick. And there’s nothing more enticing to an infinitely distractible mind than a short ceremony, punctuated with actually funny commentary from the priest.

It’s difficult to write, sometimes, when there is an audience. Even if it amounts to the dozen people subscribed to something I update apparently once a year. It can sort of unconsciously change the flavor or the content of what I put down. Or very consciously change it. Though I will say, there are as many parentheticals in my written private journal as there are in this. So, I clearly do just make myself smile at stupid ways of writing all the time. But I will write, even if it requires some deconstructing heterosexual norms, that I love my old friend Eric and was elated to be in his wedding. And of course I love his wife too. Hell, if the only thing I knew about her was that her first reaction to watching him break his wrist on a basketball court was to laugh, I would be sold. There’s a solemn happiness to see one of my oldest friends be happy. An appreciation of other people’s joy not sown unless you develop just a modicum of maturity, which hopefully now being much closer to thirty than twenty (!) affords me.

As would be expected of (I was going to make a snarky comment about how my generation doesn’t know how to tie bowties, but who the hell actually does?) a group of twenty something, midwestern, largely middle-class men, none of us had any idea how to tie these freaking bowties. YouTube to the rescue. Mine was in fact tied for the ceremony by yours truly, along with everyone else’s seen in the photo – about 10 minutes before we headed out to take pictures we were already late for. This wasn’t the first time I had seen the internet employed to learn techniques requiring some level of dexterity and precision in a time sensitive situation – it’s not uncommon to see this being done by med students and residents before entering surgery. How else would I have had the skills to suture c-sections in the OR during my OB rotation the month before the wedding? Tying bowties became a cakewalk.

 

Fast forward a few months from this wedding. I had a sort of epiphanic realization that changed my career intentions in medicine, earlier this year. Rather than try to (re)elucidate all of the points I’ll just copy and paste them here:

TL:DR Changing career pursuits, and I like sleeping in. Eat your damn fruits and veggies. But impossible burgers are also good on occasion. 

Slushy start to the morning which I had off of clinic. Wanted to do some strides, but, where tf am I supposed to do those when the consistency of every hard surface is that of the frozen pop you get at movie theaters. Wait, do you adult age people still buy those? Am I the only one?

I took the morning off of clinic to meet with one my attending surgeons I had during my surgery rotation to go over career planning. How to get into surgery programs, doing research, all that stuff. And as I’m writing this – I’m coming to terms with the fact that it truly isn’t for me. Or at least, not enough of me to justify it. I think because I came into medical school thinking, hell KNOWING, this is what I wanted to do, I was able to find endless reasons for why surgery was better than medicine. And found countless reasons why, even though I absolutely loved medicine, and peds, and now loving primary care, that surgery was still the career I wanted. I blinded myself from the fact the residents I worked with during surgery were constantly tired, had some interest in teaching but were too busy with operations and consults to actually do it, consistently staying late, taking crazy call, and overall living a lifestyle that was just not compatible with longevity. Don’t get me wrong, all residencies are difficult. All of them require long hours. But operations are long, the length of cases range from unpredictable to down-right ridiculous, and the early mornings, are well, ungodly early. The nights are long. The sleep is nil. I saw it all first-hand and still, I was (unconsciously) desperately holding onto my preconceived notion of how sexy the career was.

It really isn’t.

Yes, absolutely, removing tumors, saving lives after trauma, it’s. awesome. Totally badass. And wonderfully exciting. And so far from the routine of any given day, that thinking I could justify a 7 year residency averaging 80 hours of work every week to do it is unconscionable to me now. After two weeks working in primary care, I can no longer really deny what really motivates me in medicine. It’s not taking lumps, bumps, and organs out of people. It’s utilizing learned medical knowledge, both from school and my own about nutrition, as well engaging in people and having active role in either saving and/or changing their life. It’s teaching. It’s finding meaning in my work and knowing I can advocate for things that are for the betterment of the health of my patients and the planet. I see every opportunity to do all of that in medicine, with less training, better work-life balance (I know it’s a cliche phrase but fuck it it’s true), better relationships with colleagues and students, and a deeper connection with patients and their families.

And every minute of my personal life, every curious fiber in my body, even all the interactions I’ve had with friend and classmates, lends itself to this realization that should have been obvious to me well before I started even medical school. I have talked more highly of the ICU than I ever have of the OR. I run and exercise, (a lot, duh) and know that lifestyle and nutrition are the components to actually getting people and their families healthy. I have listened to thousands of hours of podcasts on how diet can treat, prevent, and even reverse essentially every chronic disease across the world, while simultaneously making the planet healthier and saving sentient animals from rape and murder. I have had patients in both medicine and pediatrics that I’ll never forget due to the relationships I formed with them, yet I can’t remember even the name of a single one of my surgery patients.

And most of all, my personal story is wrought with reasons to pursue medicine. Overcoming binge-eating disorder, managing my stress and anxiety, changing my diet, these are all things that I did to (firstly, not kill myself, bye-bye binge eating) in order to achieve and pursue longevity in my life and career. The opportunity to help share in that experience of positive, scientifically based growth in people’s’ health and happiness is afforded by a career in medicine, not surgery.

Few things get me fired as much as talking about medicine. I’ve had quite a few conversations (including this morning thank you Mike Koski) where I’ve tirelessly monologued (this is not a real word but fuck it) about nutrition, medicine, and the horrid state of the american healthcare system. Why I hadn’t taken these countless conversations as signs of where my true passion lies is beget in my stubbornness and the all-too-human experience of believing whatever the fuck we already believe, even at the (almost!) expense of letting it dictate our entire career path. In the WRONG direction.

Perhaps I’m just fickle (this is absolutely true, I just hope not in this instance), or perhaps I just enjoy the work hours more (this is also absolutely true and is in no small part playing in this decision), and maybe I’ll regret this later on. But my highest potential as a provider will not come from being a surgeon (if I ever had the intellect or capacity to get into a program anyway, which is very doubtful). If I ever have power as a physician, it will come from my love of medicine, science, nutrition,  and being a force for positive change in my patients’ lives.

This was very much a ‘stream of consciousness’ thread I wrote on Strava in January, writing on the fumes of endorphins following an undoubtedly wonderful (read: fucking freezing) Flapjack Friday run with my teammates whom I miss dearly. I spent much of my younger adult life planning on being a surgeon…so it’s unsettling (read: existentially terrifying) when those best-laid plans change seemingly overnight. The short of it is: I’m applying to internal medicine, and I really love the ICU. For the non-med folks, those are all your docs in the hospital treating the sickest COVID patients, among others. It’s a privileged place to be in medicine, at the intersection of life and death. Perhaps only second to the ED (I thought about that too) is that intersection so chaotic as it is in the ICU. Pulmonary/Critical Care is a 3-year fellowship after a 3-year residency. But if there’s anything I’ve learned in my 3 years of med school (hopefully more than just this), it’s that I LOVE the damn hospital and I love taking care of really really sick people. 

 

I would be absolutely remiss to talk about friendship and not my mention my most serendipitous one. You could run through all iterations of every timeline in the universe and I guarantee you only get this result once. Acquaintances (enemies?) in high school from polar opposite social circles, re-introduced as a result of her reading this blog, and an impossible instinct to realize compatibility in friendship. Her offer for a friend-date two years ago turned into a 6 ½ hour conversation and immediately we became the most boisterously loud, obnoxious, painfully hilarious, and disturbingly dark people in any and every environment we’ve found ourselves since. Another best friend in my back-pocket. You couldn’t make it up if you tried.

I travelled more this year than I have any other year of my life. By plane no less. Not ideal during this time but when Uncle Sam pays for your school (and hotel and food and car) you do what you’re told. First made my way to San Antonio in June for 6 weeks of…training? Sitting on my ass and watching lectures in a hotel room? It’s a blur – and justifiably so. My brain was more or less non-functioning having taken my boards the day before I left for Texas. At least I was paid very well. Anyway, I came back in July, and began interviews for residency spots across the Army via zoom. I hate interviews. There’s nothing like trying to ‘sell yourself’ on a computer screen when you already hate the very essence of ‘selling yourself’ to begin with. I would be more comfortable selling my damn body. But they went fine (I think? Hope?). Intermixed with those interviews were school rotations, and two, one-month rotations at my top choices for residency. First in El Paso (I got choked up reading another horrific article about the situation there just yesterday) and then in Tacoma. I love the mountains, and I love the idea of a small program. 4 years of undergrad and 4 years of med school at the U, and I think I’m ready to not completely blend into another sea of bodies as a doctor. El Paso and Tacoma have both mountains and small programs. But the Pacific Northwest, and the west coast in general, is incredible. As I anticipated it would be. But somehow my time there beat even those expectations. I was hooked. In about 5 weeks, I’ll find out if I get to enjoy my residency in Washington. While having basically no time to see or explore any of what I enjoyed out there spending 80 hours a week in the hospital…I shoulda stayed in the restaurant biz…

I’m spoiled to have made friends that planted themselves all over desirable places to visit in this country. Lucky me, Tacoma provided weekends off and I was blessed to have my own personal tour guide to Portland and the PNW. There’s a preternatural ability my friend Courtney possesses to express views on, well, anything that resonate so profoundly that, whatever the idea may be, just clicks. And I can say unequivocally no one I know has more warmth and genuine compassion for the human condition than her, and it’s not even close. A source of infinite inspiration as I try (and fail) to match that level of empathy. Usually working in (American) healthcare forces you to trade your initial desire to heal for callous cynicism. But much like the “adults” that told me I would trade my liberal ideology for conservative “realism” as I grew up, it seems time has only strengthened our resolves.

 

I got back from Washington, and immediately I travelled for me. I was on vacation all last week – I went to California to see two of my closest friends in the world. Probably the least advisable thing one can do in the middle of a pandemic is to get on a plane for leisure…after spending most of the summer flying already. It’s hard to justify. And I think in different circumstances it would have been a no-brainer to stay home. But as competent as I am in my ability be alone, it’s exhausting as a non-voluntary exercise. And honestly a little precarious when you live alone with a history like mine.  All that’s exponentiated when, between classes, board exams, prepping for interviews, rotations, and applications, I haven’t had an opportunity to give myself more than a weekend off in two years. Practicing isolation is not a lifestyle, and I wanted to change the weather on my terms for the first time in too. Damn. Long.

I almost feel bad that I’m including Mollie in a frame that also contains this monstrosity (marvel? marvel.) of a moustache, but I couldn’t pass the opportunity to self-deprecate and there’s no way even appearing at her sister’s wedding would have forced me to shave. On principle.  No matter how many times life puts me in a position to be with one of my oldest friends in their time of need (while still able to provide ME sound reassurance and advice during such times) I will never repay my gratitude for our friendship. And for tolerating our near-death tandem bike rides…suffice to say, I  couldn’t imagine a better confidant or friend.

 

It was worth it. Of course it was. It would have been worth if it meant never seeing the beach or the mountains or the sunshine (I did all of those things), or just being present through my friends’ heartbreak or anxiety (I did those too). The company of friends far exceeds any visual aesthetic or adventurous journey I could conceive. I don’t know how or why I’m so lucky to have so many friends to lean on for insight, learning, and just plain fun. I’m spoiled rotten to have the friends I keep, and I can only hope that whatever constellation of factors that makes my friendship tolerable to them is maintained for as long as I can keep it. And wish I had more space (and brain energy – I’m such a slow writer and thinker) to include all the other wonderful people that I owe everything in my life to. 2020 can suck a fat one for a whole host of reasons, but I’m interminably grateful for my friends to help me enjoy so many bright spots in an otherwise god-awful shitty mess of a year.

I spent my last four days in California with my oldest friend Rebekah. At this point over half my life (!) I’ve had an indispensable best friend – always able to pick up right wherever we left off. We literally did whatever the hell we pleased. Mountains, beaches, fancy Italian food, burgers and malts, car jam sessions, conversations ranging from bullshit to poignant and real, you name it.  I feel…weird, even guilty (almost), to have had so many highlights in a year that really, truly, sucks. But I also know that I’m responsible for an infinitesimal amount of what happens to, for, or against me. I do not deny the insanely privileged life I live nor take it for granted, but I also do not renounce it. I’m (mostly) just along for the ride.
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The Peace Within the Struggle

The North Face Endurance Challenge: Wisconsin 50M – 7:45:11

Hello. Hi. Buongiorno. Good morning. Good afternoon. CIAO. How are you my friends?! What’s new with you? It’s been a minute (and then some). I hope you’re well. I hope you’re more successful at keeping up with your writing goals than I am. So much has happened between now and my last post. Rather than try to play catch up, I can sprinkle in some updates throughout the next few posts. Which I promise will be more regular and not just entirely dependent on my racing! Having said that – yesterday was a big day. A (Type II) fun day. One of those rare days where I smash a lofty goal and surprise myself at the same. A day where the universe conspires perfect weather, a previous night of ACTUALLY getting some sleep on an overnight shift, and a previous weekend of inspiring runs at the Superior 100 to help me get my dehydrated and undertrained ass from zero to 50 miles in a time I was damn proud of. Now, this is not a distance that’s new to me. But two years ago I was much more prepared, ran on as flat of a route as you can going for 50 miles, and was pushed only by completion. There is nothing that pushes the mind and the body like racing. Two years ago it hurt, but yesterday was suffering. In the good way 😀

I fell asleep about 10pm, got up at 3am, dipped a Cliff bar in an almond/cashew/chia/flax seed spread (thank you Holly Reiland and your Costco membership), guzzled some coffee, zombie drove 40 minutes to the start and found myself in front of the brightest flash camera known to humankind 5 minutes before the start of a 5am race. And my ridiculously stupid ass is still finding a way to smile.

 

But let’s back it up a little more. This last year of running has been met with some heavy training, breathroughs in fitness, but overall, a lot of frustration. I was knocked out of this race last year after coming off a fantastically fun mountain trail marathon in Colorado Springs at Pike’s Peak. I thought I was all set and ready to go for TCM Marathon weekend to bounce back into racing a month later, but those injuries cropped back up in a big way. A month or so of recovery and I was back-in-business with Boston training. And, as if predestined by some malevolent force in the cosmos, a similar ankle injury perked up to knock me out of that race too. Needless to say I was disappointed. Especially considering that I’d made it the last three years of consistent running without more than a sprained ankle. And that from just being careless! So, rinse and repeat, I scaled back the mileage, again chalked it up to overtraining and too many hills, and got ready to start my first medical school rotation in May (gasp!). I had made the adjustments of actually warming up before ALL runs, putting some strength training in the weight room, and drawing the alphabet with my toes for quite literally hours a day in an effort to strengthen these seemingly weakened tendons. And, once again, things got better. And the malicious sin wave of destiny threw my IPOS (injured piece of shit for those less familiar with the running lexicon) back onto the bike and out of the running shoes for a THIRD TIME IN LESS THAN A YEAR, this time with plantars fasciitis. And even then I was finding a way to get hurt! A spill on my bike in late July trying emulate a long run meant that not only did running hurt, but the vice-clamp headache and nausea of a concussion made just living a challenging. Being me is weird.

Time trials on 5 year old, $200 bike are unsafe as it is. But put that bike underneath a foolhardy and treacherously untalented injured-runner-turned-cyclist and you have a recipe for disaster. The moral of the story is to always, always wear your helmet. Someone like me has only precious few brain cells to spare, and they aren’t worth being transected by the road or by the bumper of a moving van (or in my case, both). Though that flimsy helmet will do nothing to save you from a month of horribly painful showers. Such is life.

This time, however, the variables had been narrowed to all but one. The one variable I thought absolutely I was immune to having to deal with. Shoes. As much as I loved Altras, they did not love me back. I tossed them for some Hokas and like magic, the ankle pain, plantars fasc, and everything else disappeared. And I was back to running as far and as fast as board studying would allow. Some late mornings meant I didn’t get to the trails as often as I wanted, and a small overuse pain (legitimately overuse pain, I know the difference now) meant a slightly earlier taper and shorter long runs than I needed to feel confident going into yesterday’s 50 miler. That, and working 6p-8a shifts the entire week preceding on my OBGYN rotation meant absolutely chaotic sleep. I might have slept 20 hours between Monday-Friday before the race. For some of you 4 hours a night might be plenty – for me that is barely more than a week’s worth of naps. 

I seem always to miss at least one thing in preparation…for every single thing that I do. Leaving to the grocery store? Forget my wallet. Going to a friend’s house to exchange some baked goods? Forget the actual baked goods. Heading out for a shift at the hospital on my bike and in my running shorts? Forget to pack UNDERWEAR in my backpack. Fully admitting to you all that I have inadvertently gone commando in scrubs. Yesterday was no exception. Jersey, shorts, shoes, socks, nutrition, all packed and ready to go. Even brought my headlamp…but forgot to check the batteries. For almost two hours I had never been so scared to fall on my face in my life. Just something to stow away mentally for next year. Hopefully remembering that doesn’t displace another key item. Here’s looking at you ‘Murica shorts.

 

But having not raced since March (a 10 mile tune-up before Boston that made me VERY confident of my abilities to do well out there…before the aforementioned injuries), I’d be damned if something like a little grad school was getting in the way of me heading out to Milwaukee. So I ran the 8.5 miles home on Friday morning from the hospital, showered, breakfast, hit the road for the 5 hour trek to Milwaukee, hit the sac, and woke up a few hours later to make it happen. I really didn’t know what to expect. I had run 50 miles before, but that was almost two years ago, and bum flat on the urban roads. I hadn’t run more than 20 miles in over 6 months. I hadn’t been on ANY trail in at least a month. But for everything I felt uncertain about, there were things I KNEW without a doubt. I knew I had friends who had just run 100 miles on the Superior Hiking Trail in the face of completely stupid elevation change and terrain. I knew that I myself was no stranger to suffering, and overcoming said suffering. And I also had a goal. To finish in less than 8 hours. For no other reason than it sounded more difficult than anything I’d ever done, but just in reach enough to try. As it turned out, as it always turns out in a race, someone’s trying to do the same thing you are. I’m lucky I found a few of those folks along the way.

Everything actually started pretty well – despite the fact that I was half blind for a few hours due to bad preparation. Even past 20 miles I felt well energized. Like I could keep up that pace all day. However, it wouldn’t take too long after hitting the turnaround just how weak my climbing legs are. A 70+ mile/week marathon roadrunner making a swan dive into even a moderately hilly ultra meant searing quad pain at every incline. The pre-race and early race smile had mostly been replaced by an exasperated and destitute grimace that was too dumb, hungry, and thirsty for the next aid-station coke to give-up.

 

The first of my newfound friends I found along the first half of the course. A wise ultrarunner a few years my senior, and with much more trail and ultra experience than me, provided wonderful conversation fodder along the sunny horse trails and cool, canopied paths within the state park. Our conversations rambled from admiring the beautiful weather, divulging our own paths into the sport, and our shared cynicism of the overzealous 22 year old who’d left us in the dust early in the race (he did NOT slow down like we predicted, and went onto to take 3rd). We paced each other all the way through the halfway point, where it would be my turn to let my unjustified ego take the reins and pull ahead.

This did not help me.

Running up those steep hills was relatively easy the first time around. But realizing the pain of doing them twice 30 miles into the race is something you just don’t anticipate when you’re as undertrained and foolish as me. I was going just fast enough to maintain an uncomfortable pace when I caught the next man in front of me. With over 20 miles to go I was not about to drop this pacer, lest I end up in a crumpled heap on the side of a trail begging for another handful of pretzels and some ice cold mountain dew.

This experienced ultrarunner and 50 miler beast was my damn guardian angel through the last half of the race. There’s no way I would have been smart enough to walk up the hills, and not a chance I’d have had the motivation to keep going by myself for 4 more hours. Another man trying to break 8 hours and with his help we crushed it. There’s always power in numbers folks.

 

Once again I found myself trading introductions (albeit with a much more subdued attitude and far less words), exchanging some minor life details (and perhaps a few major ones, I honestly don’t remember), and cheering on and congratulating not only the marathoners and 50k folks, but a few of the 50 miler racers we would trade spots over the next 15-20 miles. Even with the inspiration of my friends, the camaraderie on the course, and my quiet, burning desire to achieve my goals, the last 1/3 of this race, right up until the last aid station en route to the finish, was touch-and-go. Although the morning started perfectly, at 55 degrees and not a cloud in sight, things were warming up. And so was I. I was drinking 32 oz water every 3ish miles, as well as some coke at every aid station, and I was still completely dehydrated. In medical school we talk about innumerable ways in which the kidneys can receive damage, but ultrarunning is not on that list. Peeing painfully hot, brown liquid immediately after the race meant that I had to assimilate my medical knowledge into some guesses as to what in the terrifying hell was going on in my body. Accumulation of uncleared lactate from low glucose stores that was now acidifying my body (and therefore my pee)? Renal hypoperfusion due to blood shunting to my trashed quads in an attempt to eliminate waste products? Who knows. Simply put, I needed more fluid than I could have ever imagined. Put that on the list of things to not forget for next year…

After almost two marathons worth of running, seeing the finish line from a mile away still gives you some kind of 2nd (or probably at this point, 11th) wind. I’m normally pretty emotional at finish lines but the extreme dehydration and no less than a pound of salty pretzels ruminating in my intestines made anything other than moving almost impossible. Just the way I wanted to finish.

 

But through all that pain and exhaustion, thinking I might just pass out if I had to hit another uphill, the words of a fellow racer (and now course record holder and ultimate badass) Justin Grunewald came to my mind. If you don’t know the man, him and his wife’s story is heartbreaking and inspiring. I remember reading one ofhis post a few months back that described his wife’s battle with cancer. Buried in that post was a quote I wrote down immediately – ‘It’s okay to suffer, it’s not okay to give up.’ I’m not sure a day goes by when those words don’t resonate with me. From menial tasks like not wanting to take out the trash when its full, or folding clothes, to the physical and mental demands of studying medicine or racing an ultra, the mantra is a manifestation of everything it means to not only run, and race, but to experience life. Life is an endless serious of obstacles that are wrought with uncomfortable, dark, tiring moments that cloud our judgement and strangle our will and motivation. That’s okay. Suffering is the overall foundation to peace and contentedness. Happiness doesn’t exist in spite of suffering, it’s because of it. But only when you persevere. Only when you don’t give up. To be able to send my well wishes to the owner of this quote a few seconds before the gun went off emblazoned those words deeply into my mind for the next 8 hours. They would reemerge, tacitly, in my head, at the foot of each hill as I trudged, bent over, gasping for air, knowing that not giving up was the secret to finding that peace. 

I had a conversation with my best friend just a week ago that best summarizes this winding recapitulation of yesterday’s events. In essence, it was a rejection of the notion that anything we do in this life is truly ‘on our own.’ Or, that anything we do on our own is made vastly more efficient and more rewarding with the spirit of others with us. I’m no more responsible for achieving my goal yesterday than my friends generously hosting me the night before and after (and for the pedialite post-race that was next-level recovery). Nor would I have even imagined myself being able to do this without inspiration from the likes of the world renowned and local ultrarunners that give sustenance to the idea of, ‘Why not me?’ There is no doubt I would have found a way to suffer AND give up had it not been for my compatriots on the course with wisdom and pacing, and I wouldn’t have made it even a fifth of the race without each and every volunteer to help along the way. Yes, it was ‘my’ two feet that finished, but the ability to do so is credited entirely to every friend, colleague, and faraway inspiration who exude such devotion and serve as such powerful examples as to act as a proverbial springboard into a level of self-confidence I cannot achieve on my own. Each footstrike along the trail is given to those whom I’ve learned from, and continue to learn from. Especially when it hurts. Because at the other end of the hurt, at the crest of the hill, at the end of the treeline, is peace. Is the downhill. Is a finish line. So long as you don’t give up.

‘Til next time everyone!

 

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Kindness is our Mandate

I like science – as anyone earning a degree in my future field probably should. It affords us the opportunity to achieve an understanding of our universe that is unparalleled in comparison to other organisms. The advancements bestowed upon us as a species due to our scientific capabilities seems unquantifiable. Though, I’m not talking specifically about fancy homes, appliances, smartphones, jets, cars, TVs, etc. It obviously has given us all of our modern conveniences and material possessions that most of us so desperately hold onto. Some of them are great. I love sitting down to NFL Live at dinner time and allowing myself to look at a different fluorescent screen (read: not my fucking laptop lecture slides) for an hour, or being able to take my car 3 miles to my favorite restaurant in St. Paul to satisfy a chocolate-peanut butter-soy-ice cream craving at just about any given time of the day.

Yes, I love modern convenience as much as the next person. But one of the beautiful things about science is our ability to enhance our understanding of ourselves. We now have so many tools to shed light on not only what our innate behaviors are, but why. Through a multitude of disciplines, we can understand what the best known ways to eat, learn, sleep, communicate, love (love love love – I love the word love), etc, are. And we can say them with confidence. And we don’t need to use anecdotes to provide a foundation for our reasons and arguments. The facts are a keystroke away. We have so much data, for just about any given subject, that our individual understanding of our universe is essentially limited only by time and our personal motivation for truth. In an effort to rein in my self-diagnosed ADD, let me touch on one of those subjects in particular.

Kindness.

I read an article recently in Runner’s World that touched on the benefits of positivity. For the sake of me wanting to finish this post before I fall asleep in my bed, let’s consider that as an extension of kindness. The opening line of the article asks the reader if they can recall a time when someone gave them motivation during a run or race. I remembered instantly a long training run in December. It was the longest run I’d ever completed at the time in preparation for the Frozen 50. I was in the last 5 miles of that 35 mile run when I ran by a man who, tacitly, smiled huge and lifted his arm and hand for an unforgettable high five you could have heard from across the river. It had come not a moment too soon. I was dogging it– my pace slowing, breathing and heart rate increasing. I’m sure I looked almost beleaguered and, frankly, down for the count. But after that? I managed some smooth, easy, and relaxed 5 miles back to my apartment. I had all the external motivation I needed from my lonely fan. One stranger. A moment’s kindness and my mental and physical performance changed dramatically. It would turn out to not be the last time complete strangers’ kindness would prove invaluable to me during an ultramarathon (you definitely should read more about it here and here), and I’m sure it won’t be the last.

The above example is what I consider completely selfless kindness. I’m going to say with some confidence that old man was not expecting money or material reward for extending a helping hand (literally). So what mediates such kindness? Is he just some one-off, 3 standard deviations above the normal gentle man who is vastly different from the likes of us conniving, thieving, cold, callous, cutthroat neanderthals? Or is there some scientific basis for the adaptivity of kindness. A sort of intrinsic virtue – one that represents the norm rather than the exception?

As it turns out, I’m not the only one who pondered the question – and the science seems pretty clear in its answer! I read an article from the Scientific American that included the transcript of an interview with a man who has worked extensively on this very subject. His book is already on its way to me (thank you Jeff Bezos). Basically, he uses his own research and personal stories to tell the narrative of how our evolution has designed us to be compassionate, altruistic beings. He credits none other than Charles Darwin (yeah, the survival of the fittest dude) for being a pioneer in describing our human nature to be intrinsically compassionate. This was well before PCR techniques, human genome project, NCBI, all of the tools we use today to quantify our observations. Which means its all the more striking that, in light of today’s science, such observations by Darwin on the evolutionary advantageous act of kindness have been corroborated by studies on kindness and telomere shortening, directed prosocial behavior, compassion training and positive affect, and lots of others. Rather than inundate you all with a literature review you could easily accomplish on your own, let me end this rambling with some of my own parting thoughts.

It seems as a human species, we are apt to forget the things that tie us intricately to the universe at large. I’m no less guilty of it than any of you. Even with kindness. As anyone who has ridden as a passenger in my car, I have some of the most intense bouts of road-rage you could envision short of physical violence. Let’s just say I’m easily excitable…but I promise it’s more often than not in a good way! Even still, the simple things – getting enough sleep, being kind to others, eating right, exercising, being compassionate, saving money, all the things we know we should do can elude us daily. I’d argue the trait we’d do our best to hold onto, if all others were to fail, is kindness. Not only for others, but for ourselves. Kindness (and love, which is even better, but love isn’t in the title of this post so we’re going with kindness) is the foundation of any positive action. Kindness is the underpinning of acceptance, and acceptance grants us the ability to let go of doubt, of fear, of hostility. All of the barriers to unfettered selflessness are dismantled the more we can practice this wonderful virtue. And the best part? It’s not a zero-sum game. The more we give the more we receive, and the more we give the better we’ll feel, regardless of the opportunity for the kindness to be reciprocated. So be kind – you won’t regret it! And if you see me heading down your way on the sidewalk, throw your hand up for a high-five. You’ll have no idea how good it will make you feel.

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A Link to the Past

The post you’re about to read are the ones I’m most looking forward to sharing. Just writing (typing) that is monumental for me. There was a time I would never have thought about going public with any of this. These posts are old journal entries from a notebook I have been writing my thoughts and musings in for the last five and a half years. These posts will be unedited and reprinted in their entirety (I removed last names of peeps for privacy). My hope is to give you a glimpse into how this completely haphazard yet still ostensibly functional organ inside my skull once was, and what I’ve learned (albeit with that same fucked up brain) from that tumultuous past.  It’s not a big notebook, however, which is unfortunate it’s taken me this long to complete it. For the sake of avoiding making this post an impressive wall of text, I’ve included pictures. Yes. Pictures of a plain black notebook. Just read on.

I love the cover of this notebook. Two things that evoke truth more than anything are writing and running. I’m trying to get better at both.

I was given my notebook, along with some other goodies, after completing the Twin Cities Marathon in 2012. Something about the ‘middle of the pack’ award where they gave me a duffel bag that had that notebook, a (signed!) copy of Ultramarathon Man by the legendary Dean Karnazes, a $25 gift card, and a bunch of snacks and Clif bars. Needless to say I was elated. Ask anyone who knows me how much I love free stuff (or stuff that I make free…it’s really all about perspective. I’m not a thief). Anyway – that gift card and those snacks were gone quickly. The book was less easy to devour – and honestly I didn’t believe this guy. People don’t run 100’s of miles at a time. That’s impossible! Well, just a few years later and I’m one of those so-called ultramarathoners. You can read about that cold adventure here. Someday I’ll make it out to a race like Leadville or Western States. So many inspiring athletes out there suffering though unimaginable conditions. Anyway! That’s another post altogether.

It’s amazing to me that this notebook has remained in my possession for as long as it has. It’s somehow free of coffee spills and ketchup stains. The same cannot be said of quite literally anything else I own.

Let’s get to it. This entry comes a few days after Christmas four years ago. Two of the most spectacular women alive that I’m fortunate enough to call my friends came to visit me during the coldest winter I can remember. We went to Phantom of the Opera, and as you’ll see, I had some pretty intense feelings that surfaced as a result of having had the opportunity to spend time with, and shortly after say goodbye to, my best friends. Read on. If you’re feeling good, stick around while I go full-throttle Freud on myself.

It is unblevelable how sad I get having to say goodbye to friends when they leave. I believe it is something I have felt my entire life but I haven’t actually realized it to this extent. Last night, Hallie, Mollie, Hallie’s younger sister and I went to Phantom of the Opera. Poor Hallie’s dog got sick yesterday though and she got a call saying that the dog would probably not survive. Poor kid. Anyway, it was fun, and I shouldn’t have anything to be upset over. But right after they left I was literally almost in tears. It’s like I am always holding out for some moment of catharsis, where we just sit and reminisce and talk for hours like I used to do with those who I have been close with. I miss having a best friend. I feel as though I haven’t had a meaningful conversation with someone for 3 fucking years. I haven’t made a new friend since I was in high school and have only lost them since. That used to not bother me. In fact I was almost “proud” of it, in a way. Now I feel so bored and isolated I barely want to hang out with Abe or Eric, or even Rebekah. And why would they enjoy being around me? My interests have largely faded – there are not a lot of things I really enjoy doing. What areas of interests do I share with other people? Nobody really wants to get up and run with me. Nobody wants to talk about Italian shit with me, or video games, or Chipotle. How many other people my age envision a good time as sitting around and shooting the shit, or going to a show? Everybody wants to party. I DON’T. It’s not fucking fun for me. I take no pleasure in meeting new people. I know who I like already, and I love those people to death. Talking to other people isn’t the same and I just want my old friends back. It’s funny – I remember before leaving for college all I wanted was to get out and make new friends. Then I realized how uninterested I was in other people. Given the choice between meeting new people or being by myself, I pick the latter every time. And nothing excites me more than just being around people I love – and just talking. It’s why I was always would be on the phone with Hallie until she would literally hang up on me. And why I have sat at Rebekah’s house until 6 or 7am, until I could hardly stand I was so tired. And why I would spent almost every free hour of my life senior year with Zoe B. It’s even why I would spend so much time hanging out with people like Kevin in Junior High or Brandon or Abe in high school (albeit to a much lesser extent). I loved (and still do) just hanging around. But I’m smart enough to know it’s not normal and its certainly not what other people want from me. Nobody wants to be my friend that much, or in that way. Most people (everybody but me) enjoys the company of many. I am the only person I know who is by far the happiest when I can be with on other person. For some reason it generally works better with women. I would give just about anything to be as good of friends with Hallie, or Zoe, or Hailey as I used to be. I can’t lie when I say they were the most memorable times of my life. And I feel as though I will never have these kinds of friendships again in my life. And it has nothing to do with physical intimacy. In fact I would do just about anything to throw all of those where things got physical – from the sex right down to every kiss. It only ruined all of these friendships. It turned all of those relationships to shit. I feel like so much has happened in two years and I have absolutely no one to trust with it anymore. My mom has a heart attack – and the only person I tell is Zoe well after we stopped dating. My mom threatens suicide and sends me a “good-bye” message – the only person I got to tell that is myself, twice in this fucking notebook. But what can I do? I don’t know how to make friends. I’d rather just have my old ones back.

Okay. You still there? Awesome! You made it. PHEW. There was a lot of shit in there. That was even difficult for me to transcribe. And I wrote it! So what do we take from this? What insight can you or I glean from this rather old stream of immature consciousness? Firstly, I promise I’m not that despondent anymore. Like holy shit 21 year-old Duff, have you ever heard of Xanax? Second, there is a lot that needs to be said about isolation. Third, (just know you are reading this almost as directly as it’s coming from my mind) there is even more to be said about limitations.

Let’s talk about isolation. Something I’ve grown to learn that I feel is truer every time I’m reminded of it is that, (purposefully) barring any 3rd party intervention, I can convince myself of any negative emotion running through my mind. I’ve obviously learned a lot about the power of being an observer of thoughts though meditation, but when it comes to those nasty self-deprecating habituated thought patterns, reflecting on them with trusted friends is crucial. It’s easy to see how isolation led me to believe that ‘only I feel this way,’ and ‘everybody else is like this,’ and all the other snippets you can pluck from the passage. As paradoxical as it seems, one of the things that keeps me grounded and confident (relatively) is knowing that I’m really not special. I’m not the only person in the world who misses their old friends. I’m not the only person who finds it hard to make friends. And I’m definitely not the only person in the world who likes to run in the morning (read about it here and here). Nor am I the only person who likes video games, Chipotle, medicine, food, sports, and all the other things other normal people like. But it wouldn’t be too difficult for me to believe I was if I did exactly what I did – shut myself in, be too stubborn and scared to make friends, and not have the gumption to connect with old ones more often. Just reading this makes me wanna go back in time and slap the living hell out of me and say “YOU’RE NOT THAT COOL CALL A FRIEND, DUMBASS!” Because, in reality, it’s not cool, or tough, or a measure of fortitude to feel you’re unique in how lonely you are. There was no reason I had to be – or feel that I was. Which brings us to the last point.

There are things I am limited from doing. I will never dunk a basketball. I have no desire and even less ability. I will also never understand why people watch NASCAR, or why at concerts the instruments are so loud you can’t actually understand the words people are singing. What I am not limited from doing is changing my mindset. Reading this post, I was never actually prevented from being closer to any of the aforementioned folks. I was never actually inhibited from forging new friendships or figuring out a way to enjoy life in my current circumstance. Those were entirely constructs that I had created. I was not being held hostage in my apartment every weekend. I wasn’t limited to access for help from friends, and family. I convinced myself that those were denied to me. I was so unable to recognize that being sad was completely normal, and there were very normal, human remedies for it. Please, if you’re reading this, know that I haven’t had a stream of thoughts this negative in months. Maybe for the better part of a year. Recovery, real, true recovery, is a beautiful thing (read about it here). Any affliction of thought is curable by real action, and I can take any instance in the above passage and can say with some certainty in how I would go about resolving the conflict exemplified. Most would involve calling a friend, watching a move, or just being present and aware of those thoughts and letting them go.

Now you might be asking, ‘Ryan, what was that about your mom, and your old high school friends, and women, and –’ don’t worry. There is a lot left in this notebook that we’ll get to. And believe me, I’m learning as much about me as you are. Alas, I only have so much learning I can cram at a time. Graduate school has excavated that well of knowledge capacity greatly, but for this entry, it’s tapped out. Thank you for joining me on this first un-buried post! I’m having fun – hopefully you are too!

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The Calm Before The Storm

Irish 8k 2015 – 28:32

That wonderful running store that I score pancakes at, and have so far convinced a handful of med school buddies to join me, have a race team. It’s an all-inclusive, all experiences welcome team of runners that encompass many of the same folks that I get the opportunity to run with on Friday mornings. It’s a great excuse to be late for class. When I first got into running with them more frequently (almost 3 years ago!) I became really intrigued in taking this running game to another level. I loved the feeling of competing when I ran my marathon PR just a few months prior and certainly being on a team with a bunch of fast and friendly people was a sure-fire way to keep me motivated to train. Especially through the awful summer months of brutal heat and humidity. And I’ll be honest, running the same distance over and over, especially for my crazy and easily distracted scatter-brain, can get monotonous. Moreover, this would allow me to actually train for speed in a way I hadn’t before in my running life. Hell, I would sometimes even ask myself to sprint during training. Yes, me, at my (slow) maximum velocity. There are a good number of high school friends who can attest to just how awkward a Ryan Duff can appear while trying to use an uncoordinated 6-5’’ wingspan to hit full-speed. It’s amazing I never got hurt. It’s more amazing no one else got hurt. Luckily for me, 5k’s and 8k’s are still not sprinting speeds, and if I have to ask myself to try in training, I can do it in a socially isolated venue, before most people are awake, on an early morning track workout. Preferably near the pole vault mats.

I digress. Suffice to say I was signed up and ready to really try my hand at something new. I signed up just in time for the first race of the year, an 8k in Saint Paul at the turn of the season. I was feeling fit(ish) and this race seemed like it had exactly what I needed going for it. I happened to also be trying to bring down my marathon PR at the Fargo Marathon that May, and to do so I was gonna need to improve my top speed. This race would be a great first foray into just such an endeavor. Out and back. Not too far. It was spring-time so the weather was (should have been) solid. In actuality I’m pretty sure it was sleeting at the start. You get what you bargain for in this state. That’s me in the front of the photo. Still have those shoes BTW.

I managed to, once again, surprise myself with my splits. I was definitely not unhappy with a string of 5:40’s for 5 miles. I don’t think I’d ever run that fast in my life – I did definitely feel physically like dogshit by the end of it, but I was feeling good about the overall finish nonetheless. I was, at the time, determined to run the Fargo Marathon in the spring and try to break the Women’s B standard for the Olympic Trial Qualifier. If you don’t know what that means, it’s the time you need to break in order to get invited to run at the Olympic Trials. Any American that wants to run the marathon in the Olympics has to qualify, so you’re talking the fastest people in the country. The women’s qualifying time is 2 hours 45 minutes, and I thought I had enough in me to shave a few more minutes off my PR to make it happen. However, in the midst of training, I was also ramping up the binge eating and falling deeper in the depths of my eating disorder. I don’t need to explain to you how those are completely incompatible states. I would not wish that fucked up habit on anyone, but this specific blogpost is not meant for what I have covered previously (don’t worry, next week we’re going that deep again). Below is me not in the front, not smiling like Mr. Sunglasses, but just a few steps behind my friend Jack Mullaney, who himself has an amazing story to share.

This race gave credence to the idea that I could do some short distance stuff as well. I wasn’t as single track minded as I thought I was, and despite not having run a competitive short distance race since some turkey trot 5k about 3 and a half years before, I could throw-down halfway decently with some fast folk. Unfortunately, as it turns out, this is the last race I have run since my mental health took a turn for the worst. Fear not! After a hiatus of a few years, my return is on the horizon…

I am returning to this race team. This year. In fact, this week, at ‘Flapjack Friday’ (I don’t even have to be late for class this week as we don’t start ‘til 9am!). My next organized race should be on March 10 with O’Gara’s Irish 8k. I’ll be coming back right where I left off. Same store, same race distance, same great group of people, with a handful of new faces thrown in the mix. I have no idea how fast I’ll be running this, but I’ll train like hell for it. Just like always. I don’t know what kind of physical shape I’ll be in, but I can assure you my mental shape will be better than it has since I can ever remember. It’s gonna be a blast. And I can assure you I’ll give myself the opportunity to run more than just this race for this wonderful group of people. I’m already making plans to get my Minnesota born-and-raised ass up to the great city of Duluth for the first time in my life to run the infamous Grandma’s marathon. I know, I know, it’s embarrassing I’ve never been there. Better late than never, right? I have no plans to be breaking a qualiftying standard, or my PR, or anything else. I do plan on having a great time, on sporting the MCR singlet, and a smile twice the size of our friend above. Well, perhaps depending on the weather. I really, really, really, do hate the heat.

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Third Time’s A Charm

Twin Cities Marathon 2014 – 02:50:53

I never raced in high school. I wasn’t in track or cross country (my running form left/leaves much to be desired). With the sports I did enjoy, the teams I was on were not exactly stellar. I honestly don’t even know what having a winning record feels like. It’s far from ideal for anyone who hates to lose. And, like most people, I really fucking do hate lose. Perhaps that’s why I got into this sport (more on that in a couple weeks – promise!). Distance running is an outlet that, more or less, circumnavigates that challenge altogether. Sure, you still compete against others. You can try to PR (personal record). Hell, if you’re that good you can actually try to win some races. But for me, and just about everyone else, that’s really not the point. When there is a race as large as, say the Twin Cities Marathon, there isn’t 1 winner and 12,000 losers. There are people who are just having fun. There are people running for charity. People running to check it off the bucket list. Folks running because it a tradition, or to motivate a friend, or running a destination race for its scenic beauty, etc. There are exponentially more reasons why people are running a race then there are people actually running it (or jogging, or walking, or sprinting – you get the picture). Take me for example. I had run this race a couple times. I was obviously not trying to win, but I do love the course. And I love the atmosphere, with the thousands of spectators and camaraderie built between all race participants. I had many disparate prerogatives influencing me to enter this ordeal again. Alas, there was one big, BIG reason I wanted to run that day. Why put in all of this training? All these thousands of miles?

Well, to try to go faster. Seems appropriate. And try I did. A competitive spirit that can’t find success as part of a team beating an opponent can certainly manifest itself by finding an opponent with itself. Or, better yet, a clock. I don’t remember when I first learned about this whole ‘Boston Qualifying Time[1]’ ordeal. What I do remember is that, once I did hear about it, that I’d be damned if I wasn’t going to try to make it happen.

It was just within reach to some plausible, yet challenging enough that I would never have considered it ‘low hanging fruit.’ It did initially seem elusive however. I needed to average 7:00min/mi pace for the entirety of the race to make it happen. When I first started training seriously for it I don’t think I even knew what a split was, let alone marathon pace workouts, lactate threshold, VO2 max workouts, strides, etc. were. I avoided the track like the fucking plague (although that hasn’t really changed much). Half the time I only made guesses at how fast I was even running. Suffice to say, I was going to need some help. I found a plan by Pete Pfitzinger, a former two-time Olympian, who has written a book that has helped many runners succeed in shaving off time to achieve PRs called Advanced Marathoning. It topped out at about 70 miles per week and included all sorts of workouts and terms I had never heard of before. And because I found this plan as a stand-alone pdf online, I had to do some googling to figure what the fuck a tempo run was. I was basically starting from scratch

What I lacked in knowledge, I made up for in grit. I live in a place that, for about 2 months during the fall, provides the most pristine climate for mindlessly exercising on the roads and trails while you cyclically breathe in and out the crisp, calm of the gently changing season. Everything in between that is a humid, hot sticky mess, or worse, a frozen wasteland of torturously low temperature that it becomes commonplace to hear on your television that you will die if you spend too long outside. That winter before this marathon was undoubtedly the most brutal I’d ever experienced as a Minnesotan. Actually, it was the most brutal that most people had ever experienced in Minnesota. We didn’t see the sun, or the will to open our front fucking doors, for months. But as any running addict can tell you, it did not stop me. If I had time and energy, I was putting one foot in front of the other for whatever mileage I had scheduled. And this was before I started a focused training plan. I was unknowingly sowing the seeds for a successful summer of training. Strengthening my mental fortitude for when workouts would be hard not because God had it out for the northern hemisphere, but because I was going to move my body for stretches of time at a pace that showed I had it out for myself. Sunday long runs that January were a real treat. You betcha. Fuck you mother nature and your negative 65 degree wind chill.

My training started in early June. It also happened to be the first full summer I would spend in Minneapolis. In the past I was either at home or filling up my time volunteering overseas in the most beautiful country on the planet, Italy. But needing to study for and take the MCAT, as well as work and make money and ‘adult’ and all that nonsense, I was stuck around my home city for the summer. I fell in love with it even more.

If winter was unbearably cold, summer in Minnesota is equally unbearably hot and muggy. I would take subzero temps with a low wind-chill over 100% humidity before sunrise any day of the week. Especially when you’re finding out what a marathon pace run is and you have one scheduled at the end of a 60 mile week. But goddamn if it didn’t feel great when I got done. Drenched in sweat, exhausted, legs feeling like jello, those training sessions are when I really began to experience training. Not just mindless miles at the same pace day in and day out. Real, ovary-busting workouts. Not just little fartleks (Swedish for speed play – I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to use the word in a post) that started and stopped as I pleased. Nah. I put in workouts that I could. Not. WAIT. To be over.

But lo and behold, they paid off! I remember running one of those MP runs about 4 weeks before this race with a brand new Garmin (never had owned a GPS watch before, and will never not own one since). I was clicking off 6:45 min/mi and I was really surprising the living shit out of myself. Read more about it here It’s not that fast by any means, but I didn’t think it was too bad coming from a former 195 lb. high school linebacker just a few years ago. And really not bad considering I was just beginning to be indefinitely harassed by a persistent little eating disorder.

If there is one thing I am good at it, it’s finishing strong. Always making sure I have enough in the tank to pull some wicked speed (for me anyway) out at the end. My splits, even in my first marathon, went down from beginning to end. This day was no exception. It’s a special feeling when you know you got your goal in the bag and you let loose whatever you got left as a sort of gift to yourself. It served me well enough to Boston Qualify (BQ) by a solid 14 minutes. I didn’t win the race that day, but I sure as hell didn’t lose. I won some pride, and a ticket (that I’ve yet to punch!) to a historic event. I’ll take it.

[1] As an aside: For those of you who don’t know, the Boston Marathon has a qualifying time standard that limits entry of participants based on a recent marathon time and their age. It’s a world-renowned event, and many of the most elite marathon runners from across the globe compete at this race every spring. Someday I’ll go there!

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A Long Trot With My Best Friend

Twin Cities Marathon 2013 – 06:05:11

Round 2! This would be another fantastic day for a long run. I love this course and the cities it spans. I knew immediately after the race last year that I’d come back for more. I loved the idea of getting faster and stronger at this distance. I didn’t feel completely destroyed the last time, and my splits (if you don’t know what splits are they are just your per mile pace) got faster at the end of the race the year before. There was so much excitement and energy (and candy and Gatorade), I fed off of all of it. You stand out quite a bit wearing American flag shorts, which helps make you an easy target for cheers and jeers. Nonetheless, I know I wasn’t the only runner who could feel the collective enthusiasm for the event making my way down Summit Ave. That year was my event. It was a great debut to the marathon – it was my race. But, this race would be quite different than the first one. This was not my race. As in, I was not running this race for me. Enter Rebekah.

Below is a woman/rockstar/coach/athlete/warrior/best-friend named Rebekah. We go way, way, back. Like 6th grade back. A friend booming with poise, vitality, intellect, and above all someone who actually laughs at my stupid jokes, she is truly the living personification of female empowerment. We have maintained our friendship for over a decade – all throughout middle school, high school, college, as roommates, and now as adults (that term is more befitting of her than me). Our conversations go on seemingly never-ending, but always feel cut-short as we discuss anything and everything on life, motivation, love, politics, health, you name it. And don’t get us started on Lord of the Rings movies (but please do, we love them).

So I can tell you I was not happier than when she asked if I wanted to run TCM with her just before going into the summer of 2013. A chance to experience the trials and tribulations of a stupidly long race with someone I would trust my life with is not an opportunity I would pass up. I had entered the event already by the time she asked (I was hooked on running by this point, you can read about that here). It did not take much convincing on my part after she expressed interest. Before you knew it, we were both signed up and ready to go. In just a few months we would be lining the start line outside the used-to-be metrodome for a few miles of fun. This shit? It was going down. In a big way.

As has been the case for every time I have run this race, the weather was perfect. 35 degrees and sunshine with no wind is my ideal race condition, and was treated with that again that morning. Of the utmost importance, I was physically healthy the entire year before leading up to this race. No injuries, no missed weeks of training, and no running on shoes that I found in my high school gym locker that were one size too small with more than their fair share of holes. Not the same could be said for Bekah. She had missed some of her training due to some injury issues, but regardless we were toeing the line. We weren’t exactly on the same marathon fitness level –I’d kept up a training regimen for an entire year since last year’s marathon that was more mileage and harder workouts than I’d put in for the few months I’d spent training the year before. Bekah was making her debut with some hampered training, much as I had. But all of this was a non-issue for us. This was about running for hours with my best friend. It was about crossing off another impressive accomplishment for her, and realizing the joy it is to share in a transformative experience for me. Whether that meant she was helping me, I was helping her, or we coasted together, I was going to enjoy it regardless.

And enjoy it I did! It was a long day on the roads. For hours we chatted, for hours we didn’t say much at all, for some parts I spent motivating, and at the end we crossed together. Many of those miles were spent in a similar manner in which we hang out. There was no want of laughing, singing, quoting movies, intellectually stimulating conversation, and in an analogous manner of binge-watching Lord of the Rings, just shutting up and enjoying the ride. Running from Lake Nokomis to the Mississippi River up to Franklin Ave is a beautiful route. But it comes in what I consider to be the toughest, late ump-teen miles of the course that really test your grit. It’s generally a good time to listen the course rather than speak your mind. Those are only a handful of memories to live forever in my mind. It’s an incredible feeling when you’re accomplishing your own goals for your own values, but it’s an entirely different euphoria doing it in conjunction with your best friend. For me, it was an experience of a life-time.

But like I said from the outset – this wasn’t my race. It was Bekah’s. To date this is her only marathon (I will convince her to run again, I promise) and if anything, it’s evidence of her mental fortitude and perseverance. Her training had been hampered significantly, and she doesn’t come from the running background that I do. Add it to the list of incredible things she is capable of (it’s long, FYI). But don’t take it from me. Check out her website and podcast. We, by sheer happenstance, touch on many of the same topics in our respective outlets. Her work is dedicated to helping women develop body confidence, which is all about maintaining a healthy relationship with your body and ultimately transforming your life. Going free-form with some awesome women who share the experiences in health and wellness, it’s a must-listen for any woman (or man) needing to cultivate a nurturing relationship with themselves, their bodies, and their minds. Such a resource would have been useful for myself for years. If you’ve followed the blog so far then you have some insight into my eating disorder and subsequent recovery. It wasn’t pretty. And the longer this little experiment of mine continues, you can rest assured we’ll continue to dig up some of that buried trove of repression. I digress – just as this race was not for me, neither really is this post. If you are looking to move in a direction toward a positive, sustainable relationship with yourself and your body, you need to see this woman’s page and blog. Check. That. Shit. Out.

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Race Numero Uno

Twin Cities Marathon 2012 – 03:54:35

Welcome to the world of running, Ryan Duff! It’s been quite the journey since this beautiful early October morning over 5 years ago. That was my first registered, official, chip-timed race I ever competed in. There are few times I can remember where I had more fun in my entire life. I’m not sure how many other marathoners are screaming from excitement during their debut after 26 miles. Nonetheless, there I am at the bottom of Summit Ave just a few short blocks from the capital building.

So – what was the inspiration for me to start this marathon journey? In a lot of ways, this was a long, long time coming. I remember from an early age going on runs with my mom as she trained. It was always relaxed, and I think that was when I first understood how much I love to talk and talk and talk and…

BLOG. Well, we’ll see about the latter anyway. But running loops with your mom as a 3rd grader, I believe, stimulates quite the creative juices. My mom is an excellent confidant (a trait we share, though I’m definitely not on her level), and is a terrific outlet for a kid who can really, really vomit a stream of consciousness. Any existential pondering you can envision, from relationships to religion, thoughts on society, meta-cognition (I’m seriously not making this shit up – I was much more intelligent as a grade-schooler than I am now), you name it, I poured it out. All while running. It was a space that we created that I not only never lost, but found a way to expand. I didn’t have her to communicate with as I ran in college, but I did use that energy and that ability to exercise my mental faculties to peruse the subjects of my head space that gave rise to insightful questions. Even in high school, I would use my sparse solo runs to speculate on many of those issues I had unearthed as a kid. Is there a God? What distinguishes platonic relationships from romantic ones other than just physical intimacy? What happens when you die? Is there free-will? What makes people act against their own self-interest? These essentially unanswerable questions were borne out of this safe-haven of free thought. I was fortunate to have my mom help me cultivate my presence of mind that allowed for such inquiry.

That type of deep, meditative, even spiritual endeavor lends itself well to a healthy dose of distance running. Or perhaps just a great explorative outlet for a quasi-ADHD mind. Either way, when I signed up for this race in the spring of 2012, I was excited to have something to really train for. I was going to be following the footsteps of both my mother and sister, who had completed the journey years before. I was certainly behind my big sister though, who was barely a teenager when she clocked in under 5 hours. Better late than never I guess.

Most of the training I had leading up to this race was based on what I thought I needed to do to accomplish just finishing. I ended up running through a stress fracture in my leg, and was really side-lined for about a month with Plantar Fasciitis about 2 months before the race. It sucked. I got through it. Not the crux of the story. What I really want to get at is, after this race, the training wasn’t really about racing anymore. I’ve been running consistently for years, and (albeit with a few years of eating disorder thrown in) I have really only run a handful of actual races. The miles and miles you spend every week on the road is transformed into a space that feeds you energy and vitality, joy, and catharsis. Hell, I’m sure I have maybe even experienced a little peace. As cliché as it sounds, the training is the destination for me. The long runs in the blistery snow and cold, tempo runs in the muggy, nasty Minnesota heat. Eating pancakes with friends on Friday morning after a few miles shooting the shit. Waking up early Wednesday morning to do some ball(ovary)-busting workouts with some kick-ass peeps. Being greeted by the sunrise on the south side of Lake Harriet, or by the booming Minneapolis skyline crossing the Broadway Avenue bridge. Dodging squirrels racing under your feet as they adjust to their human compatriot rounding out loops in Theo Wirth Park. Yeah. It’s in these places and spaces that I grew (and grow) my love for running. As I have matured (and regressed in a sense, and then subsequently grew stronger than ever), this persistent attraction to the sport has manifested something much bigger than myself (for a later post). But suffice to say, for now, that after this race, well, there was no going back. I was hooked!

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Fast Friends and Flapjacks

Mill City Running – Every Friday

 

I participated in a research project the summer going into my senior year of college. Basically, a grad student at the U of M was looking for runners who would volunteer to come into the labs, get their VO2 max tested, their body fat measured, and their blood drawn. I’d come in once or twice a week to foam roll and run on a treadmill, or run on the track. I can’t tell you which one I hate more. But overall it was a pretty easy way to make $150. This grad student and myself chatted about running and marathoning. I mentioned to her that I was training for the Twin Cities Marathon that fall (2014) and that I had found a training plan online that I thought was helping me get into pretty great shape. I also mentioned that I used MapMyRun to map most of my routes online to get an idea of where to run to fill out my daily mileage. She, being a much more accomplished and talented runner than myself, suggested I invest in a GPS watch. I sheepishly admitted that I had absolutely no idea what that was. Like, the driving navigator thing with the stupid commercials? Nope. Just a watch that tells you how far and how fast you’ve gone. How have I not heard of this? I had no idea the technology existed. Luckily for me, I lived about 4 blocks from a family owned and operated store. They cater to every and any individual looking to buy, well, anything and everything about running! Yes, even for an amateur like me. Enter: Mill City Running.

This place had been up and running for about a year since I had moved so near to its location. I’m sure I’d passed it dozens, hell, maybe over a hundred times and had never stepped inside. Mostly just never had to. There is not much I’m good at it, but if there is something I do well it’s use the fuck out of my running shoes. The shoes I was training in that summer up until I stepped foot into this amazing boutique had seen well over 2000 miles. Two thousand. And they’re still around, for sure. Albeit with their fair share of holes and completely worn-down soles. Alas, I was determined to qualify for the Boston Marathon (that post is coming soon), and if knowing, instead of guessing, my time and mileage was going to help me, then it was time to get a watch. And probably some new shoes.

It was inviting. Warm. I was greeted by many friendly faces (who I’d come to know with some familiarity as the months progressed) who were eager to help me. I said I needed a watch – a GPS watch. Oh shit, was I ever getting fancy. They probably thought what I really needed was someone to dress me like a human being. My normal garb of worn out flip flops, stained t-shirt, and athletic shorts unquestionably looked profoundly stupid. My wardrobe has matured since, even if I haven’t. While watch shopping, I made sure to replace my worn-out, filthy running shoes too. I was introduced to some new Asics styles (my favorite) and some that were on clearance. I found some that I liked, and there I was with some new Asics Gel Cumulus 16’s and a Garmin Forerunner 10 GPS watch. As I readied to check out, I was told about running events that the store put on just about every day of the week. Most of these were in the afternoon, but I was NOT about to get my sweaty ass out in muggy Minnesota with the sun blazing at 90 degrees with 100% humidity. But one day did catch my attention. Flapjack Friday – 6:30am. Growing up I used to have pancakes just about every day before school, and I often ate them on long-run days for breakfast pre-run (my nutrition has matured as well). They were and are still my favorite meal ever. And at 6:30am, I couldn’t pass that up. What could be better than running a few miles in the morning and eating some free pancakes? I’d come next Friday for sure.

And I was more motivated than ever to do so. The next day I took that watch out for a workout. I still remember it like it was yesterday. The workout is still in my google calendar: Marathon specific 17M w/ 14M @ marathon race pace. One mile warm up and BLING. My watch vibrated: 7:39min/mi. Not bad I thought. Now it’s time to bring it down. I needed to average just about 7 minute miles to achieve my goal of qualifying for Boston. I clicked the next 5 miles off with only one above 6:55min/mi. Holy shit. Maybe I’m not as slow as I thought. And I felt great! So I picked it up. I finished with my last 5 miles at 6:37 or less. Did I just run that fast? Granted, this is NOT fast for anyone with real talent, but it was much faster than I thought I could move so comfortably. I loved this little watch! And, I think I’d earned some pancakes.

So I jog out from my apartment and waltz into the store on a hot, sticky, Friday morning just as the sun is rising. A handful of serious looking (and some with rather casual demeanor) athletes stood around and chatted, drinking coffee. I modestly poured myself some and introduced myself to a handful of others. I was met with the some gracious and warm environment as I had when I first stopped in to buy my shoes and watch. After a few minutes, a tall, scruffy man stood himself up on a podium. He introduced himself as Doron, a ‘friend of the store,’ and welcomed the ultimately drowsy crew of a few dozen stalwart runners to ‘Flapjack Friday!’ The routes were simple (and later I would learn, simply beautiful). A four, five, and seven mile route were offered, with pace leaders to lead groups of varying speed. With the good vibes still running through me from my marathon pace workout, I thought it best to jump in with the 7min/mi group for a nice and easy 5 mile route along the river. I was initially a little shy, but opened up just a little bit every mile. I learned the stories of some phenomenal athletes. An Olympian even worked at this store! And there were tons of people talking about the Boston Marathon, and this 100 mile trail race, and all these other crazy events. I was in good company. We made our way back to the store and I was introduced to perhaps the most important and life-changing idea I’ve ever encountered in my existence. Pancakes – with peanut butter. They were incredible (though I can’t say I have always had a great relationship with peanut butter in the past, read more of that shit here). More importantly, I started making friendships. I started learning about other types of races and events. I learned about this ‘Mill City race-team,’ and during the winter I learned about a little something called November Project (read that shit, I promise you’ll love it). I made it to as many Fridays as possible, and was always so interested in learning about other people’s goals, ambitions, and race plans. I loved the camaraderie. And there was an absolute abundance of fast and talented, yet humble, athletes. So many inspiring souls from all different backgrounds. I wanted to be friends with all of them. And I was! How unfortunate it was when my injury, and ultimately my eating disorder, brought me so much shame, change in weight, speed, and guilt about my disgusting habit, that I would again not permit myself to return to a wonderfully supportive group of people for the better part of 3 fucking years.

I was running a tempo run in June 2015 when I got a terrible pain in my hip. I was about 5 or so miles in and was a pretty far ways from home. I kept trying to run through it, but the pain kept getting worse. I ultimately ended up walking 2 miles back home, and that was a struggle. Having been at in the grips of a binge-eating disorder (I do implore you to read my first post for more info) for a year and a half, I went back home and dealt with that stress how I naturally trained myself to. I bought a frozen pizza, doughnuts, a pop, and a pint of ice cream from the convenience store I lived above. You can imagine how fast it was gone. That was a pretty typical occurrence, 2, 3, 4 sometimes even 5 nights a week. It was hell. And all the while I was sidelined from the roads due to this nasty, debilitating pain in my hip. I couldn’t even walk normally. It would be months before I got over that injury. But it would be years before I got over that disgusting habit. The binge-eating. And since my last binge over two months ago, that’s exactly the way I’m going to keep it forever.

This is Jeff, he is awesome. He and his awesome wife Bekah run this place.

This week has been the most emotional of my entire life. I have cried more times (out of happiness) than I thought I was capable of. To this store, November Project, and all of my dearly missed friends, I have a message: Thanks for taking me back like I never left. Thanks for not judging me, for being supportive, for listening to my story, even if you didn’t ask for it. Know that if I ever enter those dark moments again (I won’t), that you won’t be the last people I see. I’ll look to you, for you, for help. And support. Running is the language in which I speak most fluently, and to have so many passionate and empathetic listeners is what brings me so much joy in the conversations that we share. Even if it’s fucking freezing outside. ‘Til next Friday – and flapjacks. With peanut butter, of course.

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A Peanut Butter Ice Cream Nightmare: Food, Impulse, and (re)Ascension to Average

Today is a sort of special kind of day. Two rather significant events occurred. One: I ran a long ways (not that significant but more than I ever have before). Two. I cried. In the arms of a total stranger who had the generosity of helping warm my gloves and my heart during this awfully cold run. It’s been years since I have been that open with another human being, and we had known each other for all of about 4 minutes. It felt amazing. It’s unimaginable to me that I have held held back for so long this almost uniquely human experience for the sake of establishing a façade of stoicism. Not anymore.

So who gives a fuck right? (Btw, you’ll see this is rather uncensored commentary, and an uninhibited Duff probably falls on the heavier end of ‘vulgar’ language. Bear with me). Well, I have no idea. But it’s gonna be put out into the world regardless. Cause if 25 years of living has taught me one thing, it’s the more garbage you hold in, the more septic your mind and spirit become (yes, Ryan Duff is getting spiritual, hold onto your fucking hats). And you don’t need to be in medical school to know that sepsis is really not a good thing. In accordance with my all-or-nothing, impulsive, do-or-do-not attitude, allow me to take out the trash.

So you’ve made it this far and you have no idea what I’m talking about, or why. If you have spoken to me in person you’re in familiar territory. Let me explain. Let’s take a little trip back in time. I grew up in what I will finally admit to the world (or the maybe 5 people reading this) was not an average household. I have lied about that for a while, so let’s unpack that dumpster. Out of respect for everyone involved, I’ll just say I was privy to a torrent of alcohol addiction, drug addiction, eating disorders (remember that one we’re coming back to it), and a suicide attempt to boot. Fights were the norm. ‘Walking on eggshells’ was the rule rather than an idiom. And all around a relative dearth of communication – between anyone. Talk about dysfunctional. As the youngest of 4 progeny, I thought myself ‘lucky’ having escaped all this misfortune personally. ‘I’ll never be like that!’ said my (even more than now) naïve self. ‘How can people be so selfish?’ ‘Why can’t they just be happy?’ ‘Why would they do that to themselves?” Little Ry-blaster had it all figured out. I’d have to wait until my twenties to learn just how dumb I really was.

Sidetrack: I took a liking to running from a young age. There were times running with my mom as a grade-schooler when I remember really being authentic, having meaningful conversations, and pondering on what it means to run through exhaustion. Hell, I still use ‘run to the next street light’ as a motivational ploy to persevere through a long-run bonk, and I developed that at the ripe age of 7. It served me well this morning, this afternoon, and this evening. But it truly took off in college. I remember specifically one cold evening during winter break of freshmen year when I get lost out in the country roads for a couple hours to come back and realized I ran my first half-marathon. Go me! But it was fun. And I felt alive. And I fucking loved it. Whatever concoction of neurochemicals that were sustained in my brain (I’m sure I’ll learn more than I ever wanted to know this Spring) during that first, true, cold, long run was enough to get me hooked. And hooked I still am. But that wasn’t so much the issue. If running was the ‘yang’ of my solitary happiness, then a dark ‘ying’ lingered in the shadow of my constrained spirit: food obsession. Growing out of a sense of loneliness (not solitude) and dissatisfaction, my obsession with it manifested in much the same ways as is common among young adults (usually women, but ask anyone who knows me just how much I hate gender stereotypes). It was borne out of an obsession with body image, a sense of ‘accomplishment’ in achieving a certain look, and a more desirable motivation of wanting to just run faster and farther. It took time, but by my midway through sophomore year of college, well, I was finding out just how deep that rabbit hole went.

I never quite matched the clinical definition of anorexia nervosa. I think I never hit that low of weight, and it didn’t significantly effect my energy levels, but certainly a drop 30-40 lbs in a relatively normal weight, active 20 year-old would be cause for concern for anybody. But with a lack of meaningful interaction with friends and family, who was there to stymie the symptoms? To keep me in check? To ask how I was doing and intervene appropriately? Okay, I would never, ever, hold anybody else accountable for my actions. I was responsible for what happened, and me alone. But I would also never, ever, suggest that I had an ounce of training in dealing with negative thoughts and emotions, how to manage stress and external pressures, and how to just generally socialize with others in a way (well, in ANY way) that is conducive to emotional well-being. Without any of these skills to cope, what’s a rather impulsive, stressed-out, food-obsessed, eating disorder pre-disposed, 20-something-guy going to do?

Okay, fast-forward. About a year and a half. And to, in my mind, more dire straits. We’ve been keeping up this restrictive diet for a while. Restrictive is maybe not the word – let’s go with highly ordered with a (un)healthy dose of mal/undernourishment. What a mouthful! Anyway, fast-forward. Right. I remember it like it was yesterday. Coming home from class, getting ready for my usual dinner of flaked mashed potatoes. Yeah, like the ones that come in a fucking box. No butter or cheese, made with water, but an abundance of salt. Delicious, right? But! A thought occurred. You know what sounds good right now? Like, REALLY fucking delicious. A peanut-butter jelly sandwich. On a bagel. A sweet, chocolate chip bagel! Now this is something similar to what I’d eaten for breakfast just about every day of my life for the past 2 years (keep the pb+j, take out the bagel and replace with 2 slices of some ‘low-calorie’ bread). But for dinner?! You gotta be kidding me – I wouldn’t dream of it! Think about how many calories that would be! Didn’t I already have a big lunch? But sure enough, before I knew it, I was putting away that pb&j bagel faster than you could imagine. Maybe not the craziest thing in the world. Not a totally uncommon snack in America. Especially for ‘runners,’ as one might describe me. But that voice wasn’t finished. That was not satiating, not even close. What’s the harm in another one? When I was in high school, two PB&J’s and a couple of chocolate milks constituted my daily lunch. What really was the harm? Come on, you ran 8 miles this morning, you can put another one away! That sandwich was delicious – have another! And for the first time in many years, well…that’s exactly what I did. Still, no regrets (yet). But here’s the kicker. Now is where it gets really crazy. I mean a little (lot of) bit psycho. About 10 minutes, 4 more Pb&J bagels, half a quart of chocolate milk, and a few handfuls of candy later, and I was, well…satiated? Full? Hmmm…let’s try sick. Enter normal brain: What the fuck just happened? I felt like I had just entered a zombie trance. At no point during that exercise did I feel anything that amounted to rational thought. And…and, well by god – it felt good! At least, while it was happening. That amount of peanut butter, bread, and dairy will put a fucking knot in your gut. But when was the last time I ate something without looking at a food label first? Without knowing it has x calories or y grams of fat? I actually thought I’d accomplished something – like I was really breaking free! Sure, now I felt sick, but wasn’t that better than being perpetually unsatisfied? Anything had to be better than that prison of malnourishment, obsession, and starvation, right? As it turns out, for the better part of four years, I’d find myself in a new rabbit hole that went deeper, and was far worse than anything I’d ever experienced before.

Having not been fruitful in meeting the diagnostic criteria for anorexia nervosa, my perturbed brain thought it would try its hand at binge-eating disorder (it was a rousing success). What I described above was my first episode of binge eating. It was, unfortunately, not the last, not the most severe, and not the last time I’d say ‘never again’. For now, I’ll refrain from expounding the gory details. Suffice to say, there was significant weight gain, a food log, calorie counting, broken promises to myself, attempts at purging (and 2 physiologically induced purges from a couple of really intense episodes), and even some suicidal ideation when I did finally bottom out (another topic for another day).  I truly cannot estimate the pints of ice cream, jars of peanut butter, donuts, boxes of cookies, whole pizzas, sandwiches, burritos, blocks of cheese, bags of chips, and every other imaginable shit food I had consumed individually in those years. If I thought I had been obsessed with food before, I didn’t understand what being under the dominion of it really felt like. Every waking moment was focused on how I could stifle the voice. What and where and how much I was going to eat. And, at its worst, about 5 nights a week, ending with an all-consuming binge. All I can tell you now, is through true recognition of what I was doing, and why, and the tools to stop it, was I able to put that beast to bed. FOR GOOD.

There are three books I read specifically that got me out of that hell. It took a while for me to put that knowledge into wisdom (much like I had the knowledge that an eating disorder could fuck up your life but not the wisdom to actually prevent it), but eventually it…well, it just clicked. Brain Over Binge, and its compendium Brain Over Binge Recovery Guide, as well as Rational Recovery. The RR book was designed for alcoholics, but if I could (and the author of the former book could as well) ascertain anything from this despicable habit, it’s that impulsivity is a mutual component of both binge eating and binge drinking. And that’s what these books got to the heart of. Again, for now, I’ll refrain from the exact processes that are involved as its not the focus of this admittedly long post. The point is that I needed just a little more than what was given to me in these books. I needed to communicate. To share. Even if it meant just putting it on paper. My true thoughts. I needed to establish friendships. I didn’t predict that my that my recovery would find its birth within the middle of the first semester of medical school – but I’ll take it. I will fucking take it.

I couldn’t have recovered, made it through this semester, and (as scary as it is to admit) possibly survived without communication. Without expressing to individuals what I was feeling. There were other factors to (another post for sure), but principally this is a story I’ve needed to share since before it even started. Anxiety and stress exists within all of us. You can hold it in or you can share. I tried the former. Hopefully this post has conveyed to you that didn’t work. Through the semester I tried the latter – no, I didn’t share this level of personal experience. In fact, this is the first I’ve told anyone any of this part of the story. But the overwhelming stress of school, the problems with family, the joys of running (and the not so joyous occasions of falling/spraining ankles). All this I started to share with friends. I could have balled all that shit up into a binge. Into isolation. You don’t destroy yourself with food while around people – it’s a solitary endeavor. Whoever said misery loves company doesn’t know how good 2 pints of Ben and Jerry’s are after a whole pizza and a box of chips ahoy cookies watching Netflix by yourself (it’s miserable). Though I almost had it beat before I started school, it wasn’t until a cold day in early November when it clicked for good (another topic, for later). I had all of the knowledge that I needed to overcome that beast. I knew I had found ways to deal with the urges, to mitigate stress, and to just be present. It’s all because I sought help, and found it within the books described above. But the final piece to the puzzle was communicating my thoughts and feelings. The everyday things that, if left untouched, WILL break you. All the things that just ad to all the toxic garbage that builds in one’s mind and soul. That place of isolation and secrecy is not a place I ever want to be again. Which brings me to this blog. If communicating some of my thoughts/feelings/emotions amounted to successfully ending this nasty ordeal, what effects could there be by communicating all of them? Why wouldn’t I try it? Let’s see how far that rabbit hole goes…

So hopefully you stick along for the ride. I have some ideas for what will be produced in this blog, but regardless of the point of each post, rest assured knowing that the words will represent, now or at some point in the past, my truest and most authentic self. Some reservations will be placed only out of respect of those people involved who would like to be anonymous. Not that I consider myself as someone with a story really worth writing home about. Honestly, this experiment is more for my benefit than anyone else. I know it will keep me ‘sober.’ And if it doesn’t, I’ll be damned if it that story doesn’t end up on here anyway. In full fucking detail. But in my opinion, even a barely average dude like me has got something to share. Meaning everyone has got a story to share. Whether that story is completely public or private, shared with many or shared with few, it deserves to be heard and understood. If I’m good at one thing (and if grad school taught me anything, it’s that that might just be true), it’s doing shit people don’t often do. Run 50 miles to celebrate ‘sobriety?’ Fuck yeah. Write a public blog detailing every hitherto tacit event that almost destroyed you for the sake of being honest? Tell me where to sign. It might be dumb, or strange, but it’s definitely me. And who I am now is definitely closer to me than I have ever been in my life.

Me. Unleashed. Hopefully you stick around. I think we’ll both learn something.