A short story...

I submitted a short story to a fiction contest in February. I got word in September that it was not accepted which is all well and good. My next thought was to submit it to "Running Times" as they sometimes select short fiction for publication. Alas, my short story is about two times too long for them. Which brings me to this outlet. Over the next few weeks I will be releasing parts of the short story for all three of my readers to enjoy. ;-)

Be warned it is a completely over the top scenario for a short story, but it was immensely fun to write. My ego tells me it is part Lord of the Flies with elements of Palahniuk and John L. Parker, Jr.

Please let me know what you think as I release each section.

To hell with this, I am one of the millions...

Enough is enough. We have lost a giant to his demons. He's not the first and he won't be the last, but I can't sit around anymore and act like I'm perfectly fine. If more of us admit there is a problem, perhaps that will put an end to the stigma of depression and addiction in this world.

So here it is: five and a half years ago I was diagnosed with depression (nothing as serious as bipolar disorder or other diseases that can plague some but depression nonetheless). Let's be honest things aren't all that bad for me--quite the opposite in fact. I have family who love me and gave me everything I could possibly want or need growing up and a wife who now does the same today. My friends would die before they let anything happen to me as I would for them. That said, none of that matters because this disease does not discriminate and you cannot always control how you feel or what bothers you or what makes you low. As I think back upon my life and some of the ways I have reacted to my experiences, I have come to realize I've been battling this particular demon for far longer than I even knew. I am lucky that I discovered outlets in my life that have taken the brunt of the pain, and I do not not have to turn to substance abuse to fuel my highs or lows. 

My addiction is to excess in work and sport: sixty-hour weeks plus pounding the pavement or hitting the trails to train my body for faster and faster times. Stupid I know, but I also know for a fact that these activities have kept my demons at bay. Fortunately, these things are much more creative than the drug or alcohol addiction that is in my blood. That said, it can switch in an instant and I know that when I pour my third, lonely glass of bourbon on a Wednesday night that I should turn it off--luckily I can. But I can't turn off the depression. It's there. Always. I have good days and bad, and the good days are a lot better and numerous than they used to be and my bad days aren't nearly as low either. 

This is not a cry for help from me. Trust me; I am fine now. It is cry for help for you... Reach out to your friends and family and tell them. They will not judge you. You're not a burden to them. This is why you have them. I wish I had reached out to more of my friends and family years ago instead of them having to discover this now. 

Please, talk to a professional--trust me; they help. I can't emphasize that enough particularly when you feel violent toward yourself or others. That was my wake up call six years ago before my diagnosis. 

Reach out to someone who can help you. 

Friends, if you can tell someone is not right in the head talk to them about it; don't let them stew. If they're as stubborn as I have been they will wait until it is too late. Robin Williams' death has created in me the need to take action and remove the stigma from this. I have depression. There it is. It is not taboo any longer. And, I do not care what future employer or client reads this. We are all broken in one way or another; let's admit it and ask for help so yesterday's tragedy doesn't hit closer to home than it already has or how it feels it already did.

You don't need to do reach out in an egotistical, look-at-me sort of way either (the way I obviously am). Just be honest with yourself and open with your loved ones. Ask for help. It is okay, and it will be better tomorrow and the day after that...

Trust me. 

The Red Oak Woods

The following is an excerpt of the short story I recently submitted to the Ledge Magazine's annual fiction competition.  

We heard the planes before we felt the bombs shake the ground under our feet. An armada had arrived. Thunderous engines roared. We had been in the midst of a standard 12-mile progression run when their bombs started falling. We were already on our way back to the team van when we started running faster and faster. This was no longer training. This was a race to see what the hell was happening. Explosions. Planes coming and going. We had to get back to Coach Novak who had already driven back from our turnaround point to give us fluids. He was to return to our starting point at the edge of the trails to call our splits as we crossed the finish line.

            Today, our times were going to be the best they ever were. We did not think of stopping. We agreed on that; Novak had the van, which was our best way to safety from whatever was happening in the heart of town. We ran faster.

            We had to.

            There were a few murmurs about what might have been going on? A world war? The War? It did not matter at the moment—we could not control the rest of the world. We could only control getting back to Novak. Back to the van. We had to move quicker.

            We had to.

            The ground continued to shake underneath our steps. I rolled an ankle during the last mile as the trail moved under my foot shifting a root and with it my foot to the outside. I pulled up lame for about 30 seconds—the others continued on. Walking was worst. It felt like the explosions in the distance were meant for me, and me alone. The running—even though it was toward the noises—seemed safer.

            Was this the end of the world?

            Most elite running groups from college teams to the professional ranks had a team van. Usually it was a nondescript white van for getting to and from workouts. Slim called vans like ours a “slapper knapper” because the darkened windows in the back made it good for hiding anything you were keeping back there—like kidnapped children. Dark? Yes. However, we were runners, and one of the things we were all really good at was coming up with new names for tired clichés. Slim called them slapper knappers because of the variation he created on the “punch-buggie no punch back” game whenever one would see an old Volkswagon Beetle. If you saw a van with the windows painted out: “Slapper Knapper!” and then you would slap the person next to you.

            Oh the things we used to care about.

            The last half-mile back to the start seemed an eternity even though we were running at just over five-flat per mile pace, the two minutes and thirty seconds we had left were daunting, because we knew we were going to get answers when we got back to camp.

            We had to.

            Coach Novak was nowhere to be seen. The slapper knapper was gone. Our sweats, our Gatorade bottles, our towels, and our protein bars had been purposefully thrown from the back of the van. They hadn’t been stolen, what with their deliberate placement on the ground. We spoke quickly and exchanged ideas. We decided that Novak had abandoned us, taken the van to save himself, but with what little Catholic guilt he had left, he decided to leave our stuff behind. Maybe he wanted to give us a fighting chance. It turned out to be a good decision, but at the time, it felt like we had about as much chance as a marathoner in an 800 meter race…

            None.

            What the hell happened in there? We were east of town. And, all that came from the horizon was smoke. It blanketed the sky. Had all major cities been destroyed? There was no one driving on the two-lane road that ran along the Greenway. Not a single car. Meyer ran down the street to a series of townhomes to see if he could discover what was going on. No one answered their door. It was as if during the 70 minutes we were working out we missed an evacuation notice, an air raid signal, and the raid itself. Meyer snagged a handheld radio from one of the houses to see what was going on. Every station was static. Even the one used for emergency broadcasts.

            The planes were gone now, too.

            We need to find a transistor radio. See if there are others out there, Pickens suggested.

            Not sure what good it would do, I had said. If everywhere else is as bad as us, the next people could be a hundred miles away. At least.

            There could be people on the other side of town.

            Could be.

            Maybe they know what happened.

            Maybe.

            We decided to take an easy run down to the Publix that was a mile and a half away. We needed to shakeout our legs anyway from the progression run, and Zephyr and Diesel had left their wallets in their sweats. We had a little money in our pockets. If the grocery store was still there, maybe they would take our money.

            It took us ten minutes on the deserted roads to get to the Publix on Mahan Drive. We ran up behind it to keep a low profile. None of us wanted attention—we did not know who was out there: friend, foe, or otherwise. We figured if this was the end, we should not tempt fate by being conspicuous.

            The trip seemed a lost cause. Burning was all there was. What had once been a Mecca for people’s hunger was now a smoldering concrete building. But, the closer we got we saw there was still a delivery truck out back. It was no longer connected to the loading dock, and looked to be in decent condition.

            We risked it and ran toward it. The sliding back door to the container was half-open. Pickens found a backpack in the driver’s cabin and brought it around back. We grabbed what it could carry. Fruit, some bottled water, and granola bars. It was as if this delivery was for a bunch of stranded runners. Turned out it was.

            We ran back into the woods behind the burning store to eat our snacks.

            Should we try and get back to the houses?

            They’re not there anymore.

            What about the highway?

            If anyone survived? Probably jammed.

            Do we want to get out of here?

            I don’t think that is a good idea. We don’t even know what happened here.

            All those people. Hundreds of thousands bombed and burned. Gone. Dead.

            Whoever did this, I am not giving them the satisfaction of defeat. This is my town, and I am not leaving it.

            We thought of our families around the country. Asked aloud what we thought was happening? World war? Had our government gotten tired of us? Bored with us?

            We didn’t know—couldn’t know. We just decided to stay together to look for a place to call home. Surely there was a safe structure or two not in flames or blown to bits.

            That was two years ago.

            We’re still in the Red Oak Woods today. 

Character.

He dreamt he was running a 1920s-style cafe and bar. Patrons had to dress like they were characters of a Gatsby party if they wanted into the establishment. The employees too dressed to impress--shirts had to be pressed and shoes shined. Each employee received a complimentary fitting for two outfits when they were hired. The cost wasn't deducted from their first paycheck either. This was an investment. The Owner liked investments. All kinds. He preferred good ones of course, but he loved playing with money so much that he had made more than his fair share of bad ones. Placing his employees in the right clothes was a no-brainer.

The Owner had always been a dreamer. Or had the Dreamer always been the Owner?

The dreams had been coming for years; violent and passionate, angry and destructive. As a child, his parents found him under his bed screaming. His dad pulled him out from under there only to see his son perfectly asleep despite the child's howling. He woke the child, and then the Owner began swinging wildly catching his father in the eye. The father then dropped his son to grab his own rapidly swelling eye and the son cracked his head on a wooden dresser.

That poor mother.

A once screaming and now unconscious child, as well as a husband on his knees with the pain in his eye while at the body of his bleeding and broken son.

Two days later after returning from the ER, a black-eyed father and trembling mother had pieced together that the Owner had seen a fleshy skeleton dressed in red robes (like a Catholic Cardinal from the sound of it) "enter him" through his own chest... fully possessing him.

That dream still stuck with the Owner. It haunted his thoughts at church, his prayer at home. He never felt the demon leave even after his headache from the dresser left a month later.

The dream lingered; the demon remained.

His anger was like the blue of a fire. Unwavering. Wrath had been with him since the possession, for years and years through middle school spelling bees, freshmen football, Brain Bowls, and later varsity basketball. He was the meanest player on the court. He was short with his friends and insubordinate to his teachers though they all found him to be the kid in class with the most potential for greatness.

Just not goodness...

UNF Spring Break 2013

After a successful summer and fall on the roads, I decided it was time to return my attention back to my second love (cross-country is my first) this Spring: the Track. I ran a 1500m last Saturday at the University of North Florida's top notch track and field facility. This is Spring Break meet is perfect for an aging never-was like myself, because there are a lot of college kids from around the southeast who come to race and a lot of them are running for programs that carry talent about on par with mine. This isn't a dig--this is the truth, and I am happy for it all. I love getting the chance to race, and it was especially nice to do it in my hometown in front of parents and one of my best friends. I didn't have a team out there, I was wearing an old singlet from the BK Alum TC, and I was just out there for me.

It is nice to cling to my youth for one more spring. I just got word that I have been entered into the 1500m at the FSU Relays as well, so that will probably be one of my last "real" track meets ever. I have done my time I am afraid, and hung on as long as I can. Alas, the marathon is calling my name from Boston and I can't run hard speed intervals forever. I can certainly try, but I also just know in my heart that my body has reached its limits for the shorter and quicker stuff. I do still think I have another PR or two in the 5000m and certainly more than a few in the ten, but the Metric Mile? I have about reached my limits.

I don't feel this is anything to be upset about, like Quenton Cassidy's realization in the final pages of "Again to Carthage," I have finally accepted my fate.

The most fascinating thing I learned from my 4:19 (which converts to a 4:39. mile) is how quickly that time goes by on the track. It isn't something I forgot, it was something I learned from being on the roads for so long. You see in 10Ks & half marathons and even XC to an extent you have a lot of time to think and you have a lot more control over your race. On the track, especially in the shorter races, the margin for error is a lot smaller. As I was cooling down and then hanging out the rest of the day I was surprised how much energy I had left. The race itself had hurt like hell, but it wasn't exhausting like longer races where I usually require a nap afterward. Definitely a catch-22; I wanted to go out and race another one.

Hopefully, I get that shot at FSU if they accept my entry--if not, I will be able to get into the 5000m, and that will be alright, too.

State XC, a change in AT pace, and the future.

Well... It has been way too long since I last wrote. There is lots to report--who has the time for a blog? I don't know how the dedicated ones do it! Yeah, I do. Just answered my own question. Like so many things, if it is important to you you will find the time.

I can't remember all the things that have happened since I last posted, but I know a few of the highlights. The team I help coach earned runner-up honors at the Florida State XC meet, I got a new PR in the half marathon of 1:13:38, and it has been a month since Christmas and New Year's. WHAT?!?!

The first two are the ones to be proud of to be certain. The kids absolutely crushed it at state. Everyone had a job to do, and they went out and took care of it. An article ran the week of the meet about how there were really only two teams with a chance to win and it was a guarantee that they would finish 1-2. That is why we run the races--one of them tried to do too much and our guys ran smart the first mile and went to work in the last 2k. Now on to track...their goals are just as big.

My half was a similar situation of running under control for the first few miles. Traditionally that is how I try to run most of my races no matter the distance: keep from really redlining until you must. My goal was to run 18 minute 5Ks all the way through and I was just a few seconds off pace of that through the first 3.1. I kept moving up and taking fluids for the next 5 miles and got to a point where I was just trying to catch the next pack or victim of a too hard early pace in front of me. I felt great which is always nice on race day--let's face it that does not always happen.

In fact, it hardly ever does. Anyway, by the time I got around to the ten mile mark I was a few seconds off my ten mile PR and knew that nothing was going to stop me on that day. I went on to pass three more people in the final 5k for a 6th place finish at the Jax Bank. Stoked for the future...

And now with the Tallahassee Marathon this weekend--I have to say that it is time to return to the marathon in one year's time! I am making my last go of it on the track this spring running two 1500s at UNF and one at FSU (if they'll have me) and then it will be mostly road racing for me and the 5k will be my shortest distance other than the ever tasty Breakfast on the Track :)

Thanks for reading and look for some training stuff from me soon. Happy Running!

the GOP election postmortem

I really wanted to come up with something better for this post, but I am just burnt out on politics right now. This is all I can muster. The following  is what I have to say to the conservatives who think their message wasn't part of the problem during the course of the 2012 campaign:

"You stacked the deck with your Citizens United Supreme Court decision, limited the number of days people could vote in some states while fighting a phony war on voter fraud in others, your candidate had been running for president for seven years; all of this in your favor and you still couldn't win. Only 39% of whites voted for the President and it seemed like the rest of the country who are all a bit more peppery did. You had the money, the marketing, the advantage because the economy is still not "fixed".... maybe it is time to take a look in the mirror and figure out a better and more uniting message than the one you have been using for the last decade."

Truthfully, I hope both sides work together for a change to get something done. That would be a sight to see.

In other news, I had the distinct pleasure of driving to Charlotte, NC on Black Friday for one of my favorite cross-country meets: Footlocker South Regional. It had been eleven years since I last raced in the McAlpine Greenway Park, but every single step was exactly as I remembered it. This wasn't a completely self serving trip though as I took a handful of members of the More Otters track club to go after some fast times to close out the season. The result? Two PRs and three 2nd best times ever. Not a bad way to end the XC season. Three of the kids I took to Footlocker have been under my coaching tutelage since I started in fall of 2008. I don't know what this team looks like without them and the other members of their senior class. They all started when they were in the 8th grade and I have been so very lucky to have been a part of their lives. They are really special kids, and smart as all get out, too. The colleges they are considering: Georgetown, Catholic, FSU, Northwestern, ND, Indiana, Wake, UNC, etc. This train she's bound for glory...ain't she?

It definitely is and it's because of them. I am a lucky guy for getting to surround myself with smart, young adults like them.

Until next time, Happy Running...