Walt Whitman...and Ultrarunning

Ran across a pair of unrelated Walt Whitman quotes recently, that could pertain directly to Ultrarunning:

And the second, from Song of Myself: 

I think I could turn and live with animals, 
they are so placid and self-contain'd, 

I stand and look at them long and long.

They do not sweat and whine about their condition, 
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins, 
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God, 
Not one is dissatisfied, not one is demented with the mania of owning things, 
Not one kneels to another, nor to his kind that lived thousands of years ago, 
Not one is respectable or unhappy over the whole earth.

A Concise Philosophy of Ultrarunning

Some weeks back I decided I'd try to get back a bit closer to the original impetus for this blog back in 2010: the sport of Ultrarunning. The bride recently pointed out that over the years I had kinda veered more and more into the philosophical and political.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So, many of us know this famous quote. It was used yesterday (4 Jan) as the quote of the day on my homepage, REFDESK, and I could not help but realize just how well it nails the essence of Ultraruning in just 4 succinct lines of verse:

To see a world in a grain of sand,

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

-- William Blake

Now go for your trail run and (re)capture the magic.  Be alive!

It's Been Awhile Since Posting on Emily Dickinson...and Ultrarunning

Once I had a loved one who became lost...desperately, dangerously, life-threateningly lost.

I could do nothing, except keep my fingers crossed, and hope.  I wore a white wristband in those dark days, on which were inscribed the words "Faith, "Hope," and "Love."

I wasn't much into Faith in those days, nor did Love seem to be doing the trick.  Thus my favorite was "Hope."

So when I found this Emily Dickinson poem, I printed it out and attached it to a plastic six-pack can holder, and taped it to my desk where I would see it many times each and every day.

See, when this loved one was in elementary school, one of the things he/she learned was how plastic waste--like six-pack holders--were polluting the ocean and killing seagulls and turtles.  We had to judiciously snip each of the six compartments with a scissors so if that piece of plastic somehow made it to the ocean, it would not get wrapped around a critter's neck and pose a threat to sea life.

In those dark days I longed for a return to the time when the principal problem of my loved one was plastic waste, not a life-threatening dark monster that was about to engulf him/her.

So I became--and remain still--a proponent of Hope.  With a capital H.  Here is the entire poem:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - 

That perches in the soul - 

And sings the tune without the words - 

And never stops - at all - 

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - 

And sore must be the storm - 

That could abash the little Bird 

That kept so many warm - 

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - 

And on the strangest Sea - 

Yet - never - in Extremity, 

It asked a crumb - of me.

Hope must have worked...my loved one has now been a whole human being again for several years, and so will remain for the rest of their life.  

Ultrarunning, by contrast, is an optional leisure pastime with no obvious life-threatening implications.  Indeed, the connection to Ultrarunning seems superfluous and trivial, but represents the hope we all have of the next run or the next race being somehow magical or mystical, and far surpassing all hopes and expectations.    

As we head into the new year, may all your loved ones be safe and all your runs magical.

William Wordsworth....and Ultrarunning

From the Writer's Almanac for 7 April--always a good read, and you can get daily free emails.

We learn here of the English poet William Wordsworth, who was born on 7 April 1770 in the unfortunately-named town of Cockermouth:

He was always a fan of long hikes, and in 1790 he took a break from college at Cambridge to embark on a walking tour of Europe. While hiking through the Alps, he found inspiration in nature, and later said, "Perhaps scarce a day of my life will pass by in which I shall not derive some happiness from those images." After he left the Alps, he spent some time in France during the French Revolution, and through his exposure to it, Wordsworth became interested in the "common man" — mainly his voice and his concerns. 

The connection to Ultrarunning is, of course, Wordsworth's passion for the backcountry, and his ability to capture it in verse.  Here's an example of seeing some beautiful daffodils, which are coming on strong right now here in southern Pennsylvania:

I wandered lonely as a cloud 
That floats on high o'er vales and hills, 
When all at once I saw a crowd, 
A host, of golden daffodils; 
Beside the lake, beneath the trees, 
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

"Inaction of Shoes"...and Ultrarunning

[updated 13 Feb to add an ASICS link]

Now, if that Subject line abo
ve does not reel you in, you obviously have no curiosity whatsoever.  What can this be, the "Inaction of Shoes"?

From The Writer's Almanac for 3 Feb 2014. I know, it's poetry and as I always say here, most people can't hit that DELETE key fast enough. But just read it. It's short.

"Inaction of Shoes" --Ron Padgett

There are many things to be done today
and it's a lovely day to do them in

Each thing a joy to do
and a joy to have done

I can tell because of the calm I feel
when I think about doing them

I can almost hear them say to me
Thank you for doing us

And when evening comes
I'll remove my shoes and place them on the floor

And think how good they look
sitting?... standing?... there

Not doing anything

Our shoes...just sitting?...standing?...there/Not doing anything.  What an image, coming after--to use an Ultrarunning example--a backcountry run of many miles during which thousands of steps are taken, all important, yet all likely taken for granted, along with the shoes that made it all possible.

As long-distance runners, shoes are our lifeblood (I'm setting aside, of course, that segment of the running community that opts for minimized footwear or even barefootedness while running).

I've blogged about this before but seems appropriate to repeat it here.  I have only a couple pairs of dress shoes, and 5 pairs of running shoes:

1. Gnarly trails, rocky, rooty, etc: I have an older pair of Montrail Vitesse that I keep just for this type of running. Perfect example around here is the Appalachian Trail or most of the trails from the Massanutten 100 in VA.

2. Easier trails to dirt roads: I use a pair of Vasque (forget the model). I run in these for the JFK 50 miler in MD.

3. Dirt roads and jeep trails: ASICS 2140 trail, which can also be used just fine on pavement--a great Umstead 100 (NC) shoe.

4. Pavement: Whatever’s on sale, although I have never had a pair of ASICS that I didn’t like.

 

5. "Ice" shoes, where I've screwed in hex-head screws for traction.  I normally only use these every couple years or so, although this winter has been the exception.  I posted about such shoes in "Modify Your Shoes for Ice".

 

 

 

[image credit Gary]

 

 

More Mary Oliver...and Ultrarunning

As I have said here more than once, I realize that when many of you see poetry, you cannot hit that DELETE key fast enough.

But...if you ever got up at daybreak for a run, you know this feeling (credit to The Writer's Almanac). 

So just give this one a try--please?


Why I Wake Early

by Mary Oliver

 

Hello, sun in my face.
Hello, you who make the morning
and spread it over the fields
and into the faces of the tulips
and the nodding morning glories,
and into the windows of, even, the
miserable and crotchety—

best preacher that ever was,
dear star, that just happens
to be where you are in the universe
to keep us from ever-darkness,
to ease us with warm touching,
to hold us in the great hands of light—
good morning, good morning, good morning.

Watch, now, how I start the day
in happiness, in kindness.

 

"Animal Spirits"...and Ultrarunning

     The need passed as I grew;

     the mind took over, devising
     paths for that force in me, and the body curled up,
     sedentary, glad to be quiet and read and read,
     save once in a while, when it demanded
     to leap about or to whirl—or later still
     to walk swiftly in wind and rain
     long and far and into the dusk,
     wanting some absolute, some exhaustion.

 
Source: Excerpt from "Animal Spirits" by Denise Levertov, via The Writer's Almanac for 14 May 2013.

As I always note whenever I post a bit of poetry, mots of you can't hit that DELETE key fast enough, the moment you see the verse format.

But this poem is about being an active child, then a largely sedentary adult, except for those times when the body demanded to be used.

People who are active as adults (such as Ultrarunners) know they joy of motion, for the sheer animal pleasure of it.  We know the pains and the pleasures, and the sheer exuberance that comes from going to the edge in an extreme athletic endeavor.

And the beauty is that you get to define what "the edge" is, and how close you care to come to it:

     to walk swiftly in wind and rain
     long and far and into the dusk,
     wanting some absolute, some exhaustion.

  

Emily Dickinson....and Ultrarunning

That's Emily Dickinson, mysterious and reclusive poet in the middle 1800s, who, I am convinced, had the soul of an Ultrarunner and may have become one of us had she lived now.

Why do I say that?  Because she understood all the right things:

“I hope you love birds too. It is economical. It saves going to heaven.” 

“Dying is a wild night and a new road.” 

“Whenever a thing is done for the first time, it releases a little demon.” 

“I hope your rambles have been sweet, and your reveries spacious” 

“The only Commandment I ever obeyed — 'Consider the Lilies.'” 

“Forgive me if I never visit. I am from the fields, you know, and while quite at home with the dandelions, make a sorry figure in a drawing room.” 

 “I believe in possibility.” 

 

From goodreads, here.  The first quote is my favorite of the bunch, far and away.

 

 

When I Am Among the Trees...and Ultrarunning

Yes, it's another poetry post, and I just did one last week.  Have I suddenly begun to despise my readers?

Fear not, this is another good one (also from Hecate, here) , short, and you in all likelihood will not need to fire up the DELETE key.

When I Am Among the Trees - Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness,
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
 
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.

 And they call again, "It's simple," they say,

"and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine."


Trees--Ultrarunning--what's not to like?  And the trees DO save me.

 

The Peace of Wild Things...and Ultrarunning

I know, it's poetry, and as I've often said, most of you probably can't hit the DELETE key fast enough.

But, it's short, and beautiful. You should invest the 30 seconds it will take, and will thank me.

The Peace of Wild Things - Wendell Berry

(Via Hecate, here)

 

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.



On the trails I at one with the peace of wild things, and my psyche is renewed.

 

End of Days...and Ultrarunning

As always, the Writer's Almanac does not disappoint.

Have you ever had to euthanize a cat? (I can't say "put to sleep" although I want to). Then read the following. I know, I know, it's a poem and most of you can't hit the DELETE key fast enough. But read on, Ultrarunner, I'll meet you down at the end.

End of Days by Marge Piercy


Almost always with cats, the end
comes creeping over the two of you--
she stops eating, his back legs
no longer support him, she leans
to your hand and purrs but cannot
rise--sometimes a whimper of pain
although they are stoic. They see
death clearly though hooded eyes.


Then there is the long weepy
trip to the vet, the carrier no
longer necessary, the last time
in your lap. The injection is quick.


Simply they stop breathing
in your arms. You bring them
home to bury in the flower garden,
planting a bush over a deep grave.


That is how I would like to cease,
held in a lover's arms and quickly
fading to black like an old-fashioned
movie embrace. I hate the white
silent scream of hospitals, the whine
of pain like air-conditioning's hum.


I want to click the off switch.


And if I can no longer choose
I want someone who loves me
there, not a doctor with forty patients
and his morality to keep me sort
of, kind of alive or sort of undead.


Why are we more rational and kinder
to our pets than to ourselves or our
parents? Death is not the worst
thing; denying it can be.


"End of Days" by Marge Piercy, from The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems, 1980 - 2010. (c) Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. Reprinted with permission.

The connection to Ultrarunning? Most of us won't admit it--I know I don't like to--but our ultra careers are finite. There was a beginning and there WILL be an end. For the lucky few, I suppose, they will be running up until the day they die, and never have to face a life without Ultrarunning.

But for most of us, old age will take its toll, slowing us down and chipping away at our limbs and our organs and our minds, until at last running becomes impossible. After decades, probably, the sudden stillness will be abrupt and final. One day, you are an Ultrarunner, and the next day you are not.

Frankly, I am afraid to cope with that eventuality. I started running in 1979 when I was 27 years old, when a job change afforded me the opportunity. I have been a runner for the 32 years since, with brief timeouts for surgery etc (although I have never had a serious running injury that put me on the disabled list for more than a week).

But wait, read the poem again. If the decline is gradual, I will see the end of Ultrarunning and come to accept it as just being time. I will look back and be eternally grateful for the quietly rich pageant that has been my ultra career, and bask in the memories until my real light finally goes out for good.

Forgetfulness...and Ultrarunning

The Writer's Almanac seldom fails to please. Those nice people are kind enough to send me a free daily literary infusion. 

On March 22nd the featured lead-in piece was a poem by Billy Collins.  I know, when most of you see or think poetry you can't run away fast enough.  You're trail runners, by god, and are tough and physical.

But be cerebral for a moment, bear with me, and at least skim the short poem that follows.  It really resonated with me because I am slowly falling into that forgetfulness pit.  I read this poem and I said, "I get it.  That's soon gonna be me."

Forgetfulness by Billy Collins


The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.

No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

As long as I don't lose my memories of and love for many happy hours spent on the trail....

 

I Feel my Heart Pumping Hard....

Some weeks ago I ran across a quote that I just loved, from a Mary Oliver poem entitled Starlings in Winter:

I feel my heart pumping hard, I want to think again of dangerous and noble things. I want to be light and frolicsome. I want to be improbable beautiful and afraid of nothing, as though I had wings.

This is the way I sometimes feel while out on the trail...these are the types of runs that all ultrarunners live for.  Delighting in your running body and thinking thoughts that soar.