A post-race mindset

I was a little choked up by the time I finally crossed the finish line on Saturday night.

To be fair, you would be, too. Apparently it doesn't matter if you've been hardened by years of love and loss, international politics, the monotony of day-to-day life and the soul-crushing process of watching your hairline recede. Disney has a way of getting to you. And so does running.

~~~

Last Saturday my brother and I ran the Disney Wine and Dine Half-Marathon. It’s was a 10,000+ runner shuffle through the Walt Disney World campus just outside of Orlando, starting at the Wide World of Sports complex and winding through both Animal Kingdom and Disney Hollywood Studios before finishing with a gigantic drunkfest at Epcot. I finished in 2:23.20.

The run itself was so masterfully executed that I couldn’t help but spend the entire jog in awe of, well, everything around me. The sidelines were littered with heart-tugging distractions. There were Disney characters in full regalia posing for photo-ops with runners. There were employees, families, volunteers, and drunk revelers all screaming and shouting your name as you nimbly leaned into each turn off the Oceola Parkway.

And while I was in awe, I didn’t really come to appreciate those perks until I was out of Animal Kingdom and entering the seventh mile of the race. It was during that lonely stretch (look between 6 and 7 on the map above) that the nature of my training-- its successes and shortfalls-- became apparent.

Fitness was not the issue. While Orlando itself is a flat sack of swamp not unlike Houston, the course was littered with overpasses and upward inclines through the artificially elevated sections of the parks. In this way I was actually lucky that I spend the past four months training on a treadmill with an incline setting rather than dashing through the sweltering, flat expanses of the Houston Heights. Coupled with the distance-building regiment I followed to reach my goal, I’d say the run itself was fairly painless.

I mean, it hurt. Oh god it hurt. But physically, I never doubted myself throughout the entire race. My lungs were tar-free and my heart was pushing ruby-red, oxygenated life force to my legs. Have you seen these legs?

I had to part ways with my brother around the fifth mile marker because cruel asthma was tightening its icy grip around his airways. That felt like a scene out of a war movie, with him belting out “go on! go on!” between breaths. And barely a mile after that heart-wrenching moment, I looked around at the costumed couples and the families on the sidelines and this place from my childhood and I felt very, very alone.

Crap.

~~~

Now, running and I have a long and somewhat complicated relationship going back decades. No kidding. It all started in kindergarten-- no, wait. It starts with me in a stroller, being pushed by my grandparents up and down paved sand dunes in coastal small town America. They were runners.

Then there I am, in kindergarten, a skinny and slightly blonder version of myself winning mile-long fun runs with my dad. He would coach me to the last 100 yards or so, then “go, Kyle, go!” and I would take off in a sprint to the finish. He was quite the runner, too.

I’ve got a cigar box back home full of blue ribbons from these events. Almost all of the Christmas Morning pictures from my childhood feature this small, blonder, but just-as-white image of young me donning a way-oversized commemorative T-shirt from some fun run that me and my dad ran together.

As I passed from elementary school into middle school, running became less of a thing for all of us. I was focused on computers and games and this new concept of homework and making friends. I became a little more thick and stout and my achievements all shifted toward academic performance. My dad began experiencing some tightness in his knee and after he tore his ACL coaching my 7th grade soccer team, that was about it for him and running.

Then he got cancer, and that was really, really it for running.

At the behest of a therapist and my mom a few months after he died, I tried running again as a way to help deal with it. Instead it only reminded me how out-of-shape I was, and how I had peaked physically in kindergarten and that, above all, I would never really get the chance to run with him again. I would do it from time to time, but usually as a way to placate my mom than for any self-motivated reasons.

During my senior year of high school I was able to start running for myself. Something about the prospect of leaving all of those bad memories behind coupled with fact that, no matter what, my time in Panama City Beach was almost over. I lost a little weight, felt free for the first time ever, started seeing a girl on the weekends, blogged and expressed myself like a madman, etc etc.

My first few years at Rice saw running as a personalized expression of the come-and-go college workout fad. Running definitely wasn’t a regular thing, but I did it from time to time, and I still wore it like it was a big part of my life. In reality it had been a big part of my life, but it wasn’t at the time.

Then in late 2008 I started running a lot. Like, a lot a lot. And I don’t really remember why. At one point my girlfriend at the time had to sit me down and have a serious talk with me about how running twice-a-day in Houston, in the middle of the summer, with little shade around the perimeter of Hermann Park was probably a bad idea.

So I calmed down a bit but ran religiously until the beginning of my senior year of college. It was the best shape I’d been in to date, I could eat whatever I wanted without remorse, and I felt almost as free and confident as the day I left for college.

Now, let’s fast-forward in our story to about a year ago. That’s when my brother completed the Wine and Dine Half-Marathon by himself. At a point in my life when I was feeling less than capable of doing the bare minimum, he had been able to balance his courseload at UCF and train for a half-marathon and finish it. It was exactly the inspiration I needed-- a reminder that there’s potential in my genes-- to get me off my ass and back to pounding pavement.

~~~

So, about that race.

Where was I? Right. I was talking about the shortcomings of my training. Running on a treadmill can only take you so far.

It’s one thing to watch three back-to-back episodes of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives while galloping in place three times a week. It’s one thing to do leg presses with an ear full of Stuff You Should Know. But this first half-marathon was over two hours spent inside my head, navigating a sea of sweaty strangers while facing down every doubt that popped into it.

That’s why I wasn’t prepared for that weird, lonely feeling that overcame me halfway through the race.

I was by myself. There was no one running alongside me to help me keep pace or compliment my form. There was no friend on the sidelines shouting, “go Kyle!” or “nice legs!” There was no girl to impress. No music or distraction to retreat into. I was alone.

And a short time later it hit me. I was doing a hard thing-- a good thing-- by myself, for myself. No distractions. No shortcuts. I was being selfish in the good way, where you do things for yourself because they’re good for you. Not the selfish I was used to, where you take things for yourself because they make you feel good.

As I mentioned earlier, I have felt truly free a few times in my life. Once was that stretch of time before college, when I was younger and felt the infinite possibilities before me. And another time was the last seven or so miles of my first half-marathon. I felt like my own person again, separated from the complex of validation I so often seek.

I kept moving. I smiled and appreciated the encouragement from the random people around me. I laughed at the characters and costumed runners around me. I cheered and pumped my hands up when random Disney songs would suddenly be blaring around me. I let loose.

In that last mile before the finish line, I couldn’t help but feel like the half-marathon was going to be a really cool turning point in my life. A point when I stop taking shortcuts and the means to getting where I want to be are just important as the end to which I’m trying to reach. A point when goals are real, and not just a consequence of a lifestyle I want to live. A point when I start living.

When I did finally cross the finish line, I laughed a little bit and thought to myself “so what’s next?”

We’ll see.

Appreciating the Brent

Without getting too personal or too mushy, I figure the best way to spend this Houston-bound afternoon flight is to reflect on the very reason I’m making this trip: My brother.


This year for my birthday, my brother sent me the following items.

1. 5 lbs of Haribos (gummy bears).
2. Moleskine notebook.
3. DVD copy of The Room.
4. Pair of silvered aviator sunglasses.
5. Texas flag.
6. Gundam Heavyarms scale model, direct from Japan.

I’m not sure whether this list says more about my brother’s creativity or my completely eclectic, crazy personality. Together, they’re the best birthday package I’ve received in a long, long time.

Look. Apparently, siblings can be a complicated thing. I have sweet, innocuous, reasonable friends who constantly battle with their blood relatives. Some of these otherwise reasonable friends of mine won’t even speak to their respective brothers and sisters. More commonly, though, there’s some rift—a lack of common ground or an age difference or an insurmountable distance—that keeps them from enjoying what might otherwise be a very rewarding relationship with the closest thing to a clone that nature and nurture have to offer.

With that in mind, I’m practically the luckiest guy in the world when it comes to siblings. I only have one. We’re separated by an age difference of two years. We see each other at least twice a year. And by some divine providence, we have the same warped, meme-tastic sense of humor, which is something I demand from each and every person I chose to bring into my closest inner circle.

We love YouTube Poop, /b/ memes, the weirdest shit that Adult Swim has to offer, Bret Easton Ellis, cheesy videos by Paul Wall, the collective nothingness of Charles Bukowski, jaded liberalism, trolling our friends, TV shows that haven’t aired since 1998, professional wrestling and, above all, our mother.

Aww.

Now, it would be unfair to keep going without first mentioning that we do have our differences, too. These are things we have learned to set aside in light of everything we have in common. He drinks beer and I chug it, but we both can sit down to a beer and laugh about the latest stupid thing we read on the Internet. That’s what being brothers is all about, I think. I’m hardly the expert on people.

I’m lucky to have a brother like Brent. I’m also incredibly proud that he’s been able to excel at everything he’s put his mind toward: His degree in literature, his relationship with Dina, his out-of-college job, and just about everything but keeping his room clean. Heheh, lol.

So congratulations on making it this far. I'll see you in three weeks.

Bad Things Come

So how are good people supposed to feel when terrible people die?

In the aftermath of Monday’s late-night announcement that Osama Bin Laden was killed in a spectacular firefight, I’ve seen all sides of the argument. My Facebook news feed has been a mishmash of rabble, apathy, opportunistic joking, disgust and celebration. Some of my friends have already penned eloquent responses to the news. Others drop precision-guided cynicism bombs loaded with the potent fact that Bin Laden’s death will not stop America’s continuing military endeavors in the Middle East.

And then you have the sanctimonious humanists. These are your far-left political cartoonist types who only see the world in shades of “do not kill.” My Twitter feed and (to a lesser extent) my Facebook feed were both hit with a deluge of messages reminding me that killing is wrong, no one deserves to die, and that even Osama Bin Laden has a family. Well, they’re less reminding me of those things and more reminding me how bbbbad I am for cracking a smile at the news. Moral posturing might be another name for it.

I miss having a prepackaged moral compass because it makes dealing with these sorts of situations a whole lot easier. Back when I had a head full of Vonnegut, I’d be up on that hill pointing and huffing at anyone who posted this song last night. And on the other side, there was once a time in my life when I’d have been downright ecstatic to hear that Osama had taken one between the eyes. Either way though, I would sleep soundly knowing my position was right.

My experiences throughout the past five years have taught me that the world is a highly complicated place where no canned response is a truly fair response to news of this magnitude.

• Cynicism is an insult to the well-meaning individuals who have died in the past ten years trying to bring an awful man and mass murderer to justice.
• Blind enthusiasm over Bin Laden’s death does nothing to improve the human condition. Obviously, this world isn't going to get better with more death and destruction.
• Pacifistic piety is selfish and, though sometimes well-intentioned is also ignorant to the complexities of a world where crazy people who hear voices are trying to kill innocent families for no reason other than to prove a point.

The only thing I really knew in the wake of the news was that I was unsure about my own feelings. This made me feel unprincipled. Big news tends to do that lately. I can’t jump into a respectful argument and see it through to the end without stopping to second-guess myself or concede to the other guy. But I decided to take this opportunity to really sit down and trace out my feelings, point by point, until I’d actually made a position on this issue.

So then how am I supposed to feel now that this dude is dead? I started by thinking about the dude himself.

Listen: Bin Laden was not promoting a progressive social agenda. He wasn’t fighting for the proletariat or the little guy. He’s no Che Guevara (who maybe kinda arguably had violently-executed good intentions) and he’s no hero. I think anyone who dedicates their life to murdering innocent people and disrupting peace has a place in this world that’s situated about six feet underground. And whether the means to that end is an expensive military raid or a less-expensive missile or maybe an expensive raid followed by an expensive spectacle of a trial, it’s the ultimate justice a man like Osama Bin Laden deserves.

So that’s how I feel about him.

Here’s how I think we’re supposed to feel about his death: Justice was served. Whether you frame that feeling with a smile or an uneasy, suspicious slanty-face is your prerogative. But Osama Bin Laden’s death is not the sort of occasion on which you can build a convincing argument for either pacifism or warmongering. There are millions of people all over the world who deserve your undivided sympathy and compassion more than him, his followers or his family. Conversely, you can’t argue after ten years, billions of dollars and thousands of dead Afgani civilians that the ends justified the means.

A bad man got what was coming to him at a great cost to the world. America did what it said it was going to do ten plus years ago and affirmed that you can’t just murder 3,000 Americans and expect to get away with it. A man once thought to be invincibly illusive is now shark food. Anything else that might be said is just noise or a portent to some bigger issue that is not the death of Osama Bin Laden.

So, he’s dead. And I feel pretty good about that.

The Bus

Through darkness he could hear the school bus pulling away from soft, wet sand and gravel. The air was hot and held itself like a hand over his face. He could feel straps digging into his frail frame, gluing him in place as the rickety yellow machine built momentum over the dirt road.

And it was loud. Voices like sirens grew louder with every step he took down the aisle. The drone of the diesel motor shook his uneasy feet along the floor.

His weak arms tested the void ahead as he fumbled for a seat. More yelling. More sirens.

Then his outstretched hand found refuge in another, and it pulled him close.

“Danny?” an angelic voice shouted through the chaos.

“Me! I’m Danny!”

“It’s your sister.”

“Margeaux!”

“I thought we were going to lose you there for a second,” she said jokingly, cradling his small head against her shoulder as the bus bounced over tree roots and potholes.

“Is it like this every day?”

She laughed and patted his hand.

“I promise you’ll feel better once we get there.”

He took no solace in the unyielding darkness of the early morning hours. With his eyes clinched shut, he pictured the blurry tapestry of oak, pine and moss as it had whizzed by him so many times under an overcast sun. His sister weaved her hands through his tangle of blonde hair, and he imagined the thick, damp Louisiana air blowing it around as it had on so many trips to town with his mom in her beige, wood-paneled station wagon.

He smiled and his grip loosened. His sister held firm.

“No, I’m here with you,” she said, and squeezed his hand.

“Okay.”

“Think about our first road trip. To Auntie’s house. You were only four years old.”

It felt like so long ago. He focused through the noise and the shaking and imagined an open road cutting through gently rolling hills and pastures of farmland. The road was black and smooth—just like in town—and it stretched on for miles and miles and hours and hours. There were big, brown, silly cows lazily grazing over acres of green grass.

“Remember racing that train?” His sister asked with a hint of sadness in her voice.

“I said ‘race it, race it!’” he replied with a big smile.

“That’s right,” she choked.

There was a pause.

“I love you, Margeaux.”

“I love you too, Danny. It won’t be long now. Just stay with me. Stay with us.”

He thought of his mother, and his sister, and his whole family, and his dog, Barkley, and kept going. He remembered his first day of school, and meeting a very pretty girl on the playground. He thought of his friends and throwing his cap high into the air at graduation. He thought of throwing a white veil over the soft brown hair of that pretty girl and kissing her like it was the first time. He thought of her face, beet red and glistening, as they held their newborn daughter.

He released these thoughts and smiled one last time before he drifted to sleep.

...

The old woman said nothing to the paramedic. He gently removed the oxygen mask from the old man’s face. Tubes and cords swayed back and forth around them as the drone of the diesel motor finally came to a stop.