Greenville SC Marathon

A burst of cold wind rustles the treetops. This brief disturbance frees the cold drops of last night's rain from the net of leaves and branches above. They fall fast and hard to the paved trail. A few of them find me. The sensation wakes me from the haze my mind has begun to dip into. I look forward, down the seemingly endless path - a flurry of orange and red leaves are following the rain from the fall canopy above down to the trail below. Confetti. A parade. Ahead in the distance are some other runners - the scene is idyllic and iconic and it pulls me forward.

Forward. That is what I need right now. Anything that can pull or push or drag me forward. Because my mind wants it, my will wants it - but my legs are faltering. I can't get them to go fast enough and sometimes I can't even keep them going at a slow run. So I walk. And that hurts. It hurts physically and emotionally. My thighs have cramped up in the 43 degree morning air. Pain. And beauty. Joy and frustration. I've pushed everything to the edge and with 5 miles left I want to be happy but can't help feeling depressed.

The first half of the race through downtown Greenville, along the Reedy River and up the Swamp Rabbit trail was incredible. I moved at an excited quick pace - feeling like I was pushing myself, but at the same time holding myself back to reserve energy for the latter stages of the race. I quickly warmed up, removing my gloves after mile 6 and my knit hat after mile 14. I was thrilled to be running the race that I had devoted so many months of training to. I calculated my pace at the half way point and determined that if I could maintain my speed I would cross the finish line at 3:55. I envisioned that finish over and over. Naively optimistic? or a positive mental outlook necessary for success? Either way I was convinced it would happen.

The miles between 10 and 15 were rather hilly and I attacked them with vigor. And with vigor, they did me in. At marker 17 as I entered the campus of Furman University I hit my wall. My pace dramatically slowed. My legs screamed with pain. I decided to walk a length around the lake but instead of alleviating the pain it abruptly worsened the knot in the my left thigh. After walking it out a bit, the sting faded, and I trotted off again at a slow pace.

There was a clock every two miles and I had calculated my time again and again. I'll cross the finish at 4 hours - I figured. . . Then the 4:00 pacer breezed by. I couldn't keep up - she easily flew by with a small group of two or three runners who were hanging on close. My optimistic goal had slipped by. But if I could just maintain a 10 minute per mile pace I could get 4:05 - still ahead of my more conservative goal of 4:15.

Now between markers 21 and 22 those stretches of walking have came more and more frequently - each one a defeat. Five miles to go melts into four. More and more runners on the path have resorted to walking breaks which helps me feel not as bad. But my disappointment hits a new low when the 4:15 pacer passes me by. I keep up with him for a while but I know I can't run the remaining miles straight through. Sure enough, after a couple minutes, my desire can push my legs no further and I stop to walk.

I consider for a moment how long it would take to walk the remainder of the course - I shake this thought away quickly though. I haven't trained for all these months just to walk the last four miles. At this point my mind turns to the snowy slopes of Mt. Kilimanjaro - thousands of miles from Greenville, South Carolina and thirteen years in my past. Somewhere on that slow final ascent to the peak in the early predawn hours I remember feeling something similar. Simultaneous joy and depression - a pain from absolute exertion - the feeling that I was pushing my body to its limit and it hurt. And with that hurt it is easy to slip into anger and frustration and a boiling welling up of emotion filling your chest and then choking your throat, spreading across your face and then there is nothing left to do but to simply cry or to push it all back down into your gut. This was physically the hardest thing I've done since Kilimanjaro (clearly not as adventurous - but every bit as painful and rewarding).

That disappointment at not achieving my time goals abated though when I got to the final mile. I knew I had to run that entire mile - I wouldn't let myself do anything less - and I knew I had to do it with a smile on my face as well. And then Optimistic by Radiohead started playing. The line of runners had stretched out sufficiently that I could sing along in near solitude for most of it. "You can try the best you can / If you try the best you can / The best you can is good enough." I spent a fair amount of time collecting songs for my marathon playlist and so many of those songs were key to my performance during the race. This one though came at the perfect time to lift my spirits and help me up that final hill and across the finish line. I had created a playlist that was 4 hours and 30 minutes long. I finished the race with one 7-minute song left unheard. 4:30 I suppose, was my final backup goal - which at 4:23:10 I beat by a good enough margin.

There was definite elation after crossing the finish line - my mind and spirit elated for the accomplishment, my body elated for the race to be over. The soreness that would persist for days in my legs and feet would prove to be a constant reminder of my first marathon. A reminder of both the joy and the pain.

The Peak

The thunder is heavy and deep-voiced, dramatic like a ribbon of "BOOM" rippling through the dark atmosphere above. I have reached a happy saturation point - the rain continues to pelt my bare back, but I can't get any wetter. My feet make a game of avoiding puddles - particularly the deep ones - but my feet are saturated as well so when an unavoidable puddle stretches out in front of me I just trot through it with quick staccato steps.

It is week 13 of my 16 week marathon training schedule. I've looked at the schedule so many times I thought I had it memorized. I realized though this morning that I had miscalculated. The schedule calls for 4 runs a week. Three shorter runs during the week and progressively longer runs on the weekend. These increase in mileage up to a 20 mile run then taper down for two weeks before the marathon. 

I have enjoyed these long Saturday morning runs. To keep the monotony level low I've rotated every Saturday between Miami Beach, Hollywood Beach, and the Rickenbacker Causeway to Key Biscayne. Those runs in the heart and heat of the summer were a bit brutal and I had to wake up earlier and earlier to avoid the sun. Most of my runs in the last two months have been half way over by the time the sun even started to think about lighting the horizon. I've seen more sunrises in the past year than at any other time in my life - about a week ago as I was leaving work I noticed an orange red glow over the western horizon and it caught me as strange and out of place until I realized I was staring at a sunset and not a sunrise. 

On the weekdays I have had to squeeze my runs in around the margins of the day - early mornings or late evenings. Especially when these runs got up to 5 and 8 miles I found these runs to be more challenging even than the Saturday 12, 13, and 14 milers. Last Wednesday I woke at 5am to run 8 miles. I took off my pajamas and was about to put on my running shorts - instead I stood there for what easily could have been 10 minutes looking back and forth at the pajamas and the running shorts. Pajamas... Running shorts... Pajamas... Running shorts. The running shorts prevailed and I made way south on Collins Avenue. It was slow going and my mind was foggy. Street lights and headlights and people waiting at bus stops. Was it morning or night time? After running two miles I turned around, I couldn't do the full 8 miles - 4 would have to do. I got home a little after 6am, showered and climbed back into bed. When I woke up again I wasn't sure if the 4 miles were just a dream or not. The damp socks and shirt draped over the tub confirmed those miles were real which I was glad of even though I did feel disappointment on skipping out on the full 8 miles. Overall though I have stuck to the schedule - only missing one run out of the 52 so far - and feeling my endurance level strengthen with each passing week. 

For some reason I had it in my mind all this past week that I was on Week 12 and that I had one more week until my training peaked: 5 miles on Monday, 8 on Wednesday, 5 on Thursday and 20 on Saturday. So I woke up this morning mentally prepared to run 18 miles - not so bad I thought, that is the same distance I ran last Saturday. But at about the 7 or 8 mile mark this morning, after having run the entire stretch from the Rickenbacker causeway to the entrance of Bill Baggs State Park on the tip of Key Biscayne I started to realize my mistake. I couldn't figure out where I had gone wrong. I took out my phone and looked at the calendar and confirmed my suspicion. Today was my peak run - not next week. Today was my marathon dress rehearsal, my final distance trial before the 26.2 miles in Greenville South Carolina in three weeks. I had to mentally tack on the additional two miles and plan my route to compensate.

And a storm was brewing. 

The run was going smoothly, the sky was overcast and dark clouds had been passing by overhead for the last hour with little more than a light sprinkle. But as I was running along the beach at Crandon I looked out over the choppy Atlantic and saw a familiar wall of white blur approaching over the gray water. Two minutes later I was hit with a solid sheet of falling water. The rain was hard and fast and thick, coming in at an acute angle aided by the bellowing wind. I thought I would just tough it out like a real hardcore runner. But I could barely even see where I was going - the rain was stinging my eyes and despite my resolve I could not run far with my eyes shuttered. So I found a picnic shelter and waited out the worst of it. For each passing minute though my legs longed to keep going. It didn't feel right to just be stopped and held up like that. After about five minutes the rain had lessened to where I could get back out and continue the run.

Normally this stretch of road is packed with runners and cyclists. The rain has driven most of them away. The skyline of Miami stretches out beyond the curved horizon of the tall arching William Powell bridge. The collection of skyscrapers and waterfront condos are usually bright - reflecting the sun and sky and blue water of the Biscayne Bay. This morning they are enshrouded with mist and low clouds. Their colors gray and drab. I begin the incline up the bridge - one big hump before the final 3 miles of the run.

On a morning like this I love the rain. I wouldn't have wanted it any other way. That happy saturation point I spoke of earlier has everything to do with it.  We usually are at odds with the rain - fending it off with umbrellas and rain gear and such. When we get wet then it is as if the elements have won.  But once you are completely wet the rain can do no more harm regardless of how hard it tries, and when this happens suddenly you are free, you are liberated, there is no battle any more and in this way you have beat the rain. Running like this dripping wet feels like victory. 

The rain water is rolling down my face - at first it had mingled with my sweat and tasted salty on my lips. Now however it is clean and almost refreshing to the taste. I open my mouth to it and let the rain fall on my tongue - I drink it in sips and drops. Without even realizing it I have reached the top of the bridge, I look over the rail at the water so far below and it accentuates my height. It is churning down there all gray and white capped and for some reason looks so exhilarating.  I start on the downward slope and naturally - with gravity on my side- my pace increases. It is thrilling. So high, so fast, so far. No one is around and so I feel unbridled and let out a loud WAHOO! of pleasure and pride. I've reached my peak.

A few miles later and I am back at my car - 20.3 miles completed. I stop and take inventory of my body, my feet, my calves, my knees, my thighs, my back, my sides, my chest. Could I do 6 more? Will I be able to on race day? 

I'm feeling good. . . Bring it on. 

Indigo's Baptism

"Are you ready?" I ask her.

Indigo looks up at me, smiles, and then nods.

She is in quietly rippling water up to her chest. Dressed in white. Soft light shimmers through the backdrop of golden glass windows. The viewing area is abuzz with the energy and excitement of those who are there to witness this event.

So simple. So focused. So pure. This will all be over in less than thirty seconds. The prayer is concise, the fall backward is easy and light, she is immersed in the water for but a moment, then she emerges and it is done.

Indigo had wanted me to mess up, to do it incomplete so that I would have to repeat the ordinance two or three times before getting it right. I opted for doing it properly the first time, but I can see why she would want to extend it, to draw it out, to make it last longer.

Of all the saving Priesthood ordinances - baptism is one of the quickest - but it is also one of the most symbolic. That short thirty second act contains volumes of spiritual and doctrinal meaning. That simplicity is symbolic of the entirety of the gospel - the whole of our theology.

Among other things, baptism marks a moment of change and commitment. It is a moment of transformation, a rebirth. I help her up the stairs and I ponder for a moment in what ways that transformation has taken place. Is there really a difference between Indigo now and the Indigo of one minute ago? She still looks the same physically - just more wet.

My eyes cant see it but I know it is there. Somehow through that physical ordinance of body and water and white clothing and Priesthood power, the spirit is modified - the covenant is signed - the journey begun.

An unseen glow now radiates, brighter than the sunlight which pours through the golden glass windows.

The Temple Baptistry

I don't feel quite right until I have slipped off my stiff black shoes and dark socks - replacing them with clean white socks or slippers - for the place wherein I stand is holy ground.

We've gathered together in the small chapel of the Orlando Temple baptistry. We have filled it to capacity. Standing room only. Thirty seven young men and women. Fifty of us altogether. Everyone is silent and waiting. I'm proud of all of them - their presence here is a demonstration of faith, an indication of righteous living.

I decide then that I need to write this down. So many spiritual experiences cross our paths and go unrecorded - they deserve better. I'm hopeful that some of the youth feel this same desire  - to record at least for their own selves (if not others) the experience of this day. Our memory can be triggered by the slightest catalyst. Something simple will suffice. One or two lines can bring back to the foreground of our minds the sights and sounds and sensations of this day.

But this isn't what I want to tell them. What I want to tell them goes unsaid. We are all waiting and it is regarding the waiting that I want talk to them about. It is the quiet gaps between the "stuff" that I want them to pay attention to. It is in the empty spaces where one can recognize the Spirit. It is in the void where one can see the face of God.

In the world we despise the waiting. We fill every gap with music and status updates and apps. We want to be first in line so we can be the first one done so we can wait around afterwards for the last one to finish. We curse at the traffic jam and complain about the speed of everything. That patience is a virtue, we all agree, but we figure there must be a quicker and easier way to achieve it.

In the temple though things work differently. There are many incredible things that we do in the temple. But there is also a lot of time spent in quiet waiting. For this reason I try never to wear a watch in the temple. We should be in no hurry because there is no where better to be than where we currently are at that moment. It is during these gaps of waiting where nothing is happening, these voids and empty spaces where we can pause to really experience the spiritual around us and in us. It is within these gaps that we understand more completely the framework of life's meaning around us.

It is the empty space that makes a door useful. It is the empty space that defines a window. This is what I want to tell them. This is what I want to pass on. These moments are easy to pass over but shouldn't be overlooked.

Bear Cut Nature Preserve

I'm lost.

I stop moving so I can consider the situation. My breathing is heavy. Sweat keeps dripping from my brow through my eyebrows and threatening to sting my vision before I whisk it away with the flat of my palm. I want to keep running, keep moving, the clock is ticking.  But I'm stopped, dead in my tracks.  I'm staring at a chain link fence - ten feet tall - topped with barbed wire.

Blast!

I thought I was getting close. I could hear the dull rush of car traffic, then I saw a solitary street light through the trees. The road was right ahead of me. No more than 50 feet away. But then the fence emerged from the thick tropical vegetation and I knew I was trapped.

Why the barbed wire? To keep me in? Or others out? I'm not supposed to be here.

I consider my options. Keep going? Look for a week spot in the fence, somewhere perhaps where I can duck under? No - the fence looks too new. Perhaps I get to the fence and follow it to the end? No - the vegetation is too thick here, interspersed with mud and water - could take an hour to navigate.

So, go back? Retrace my steps? This is the option I didn't want. But I concede. It is the only option. 

I knew this was a possibility when I started down the trail. I was exploring, and I love exploring, but sometimes when you are exploring you have to be open to the possibility that a particular path won't always take you exactly where you want go.

I've ended up in a place called the Bear Cut Nature Preserve on the north end of Crandon Park, Key Biscayne. I never knew this place existed. The path along the beach had ended and rather than heading back to the road immediately I figured I would just keep heading north as long as I could and find the road later on.

There was no path for while. Just white sand and palm trees. Then a path emerged, cut from the swath of sea grapes and saw grass. I was running down this path for a while before a sign told me it's name, the Bear Cut Nature Trail. The course of this morning's run had taken me over a high span bridge across the inky black intracoastal waters in the pre-dawn darkness, past a marina, along the tranquility of the bay at Hobie Island Beach, past a seaquarium, over another bridge, past another marina, then along the tree lined road that stretches past an unseen golf course and tennis center, then through the village of Key Biscayne to my turn around point. After running along the beach at Crandon Park I saw the Bear Cut Nature trail as one more experience along the way that I couldn't pass up even though it may mean having to back track.

After running half a mile along the trail it intersected with a paved path. At this point I had a few options - continue north along the same trail, go south-west on the paved path (back towards the last parking lot I had seen where the trail began), or go directly west on another paved path. I chose the path heading west hoping it would lead me to the road. But after 100 feet or so the pavement abruptly ended. Undeterred by the ending of the pavement I could see that many before me had just continued on into the brush. The trail was faint but it was still heading in the direction I wanted to go. So I kept running, slowing my pace to work my way through the thick undergrowth. The single path narrowed into obscurity and more possible paths opened up and then closed and then there was no path at all. I stopped running and continued walking, not sure where my next step would land. The tall grass hid the uneven ground and at one point I came close to stepping right into a small pond. This is when I heard the cars and saw the street light.

A few seconds later is when I realized that I was trapped. 

I turn around at this point feeling a bit defeated by the fence and start back in the direction that I had come. The grass here is up to my hips and I'm a little worried about setting my foot down on some wild animal or walking through a spiders web and getting a long legged little monster right in the face. After stomping through the thick growth for a while I realize it is getting higher and thicker. There are not even minimal trails here. I can't find any of the paths that I had arrived here on.

Trapped. And lost.

I realize that my Nike+ GPS is still running. This should help me, hopefully. I pull up the map on my phone and see the broad red line of my path meandering through the middle of nowhere until it stops and begins heading in another direction. I can see that my "about face" back there wasn't a true 180 degrees. I turned around but I am heading nowhere near the short paved path that I was looking for. I try my best to correct my trajectory and then head towards a clump of trees hoping for dry ground with less underbrush. I reach the trees and sure enough I am on dry ground and the saw grass and winding vines are more manageable, but now I am tangled in the low branches of the trees and can't continue in that same direction. I adjust my approach again to avoid the trees and struggle again through the mess of plant life until I see a welcome strip of black asphalt.

Back on track. I'll have to run another half mile to get back to the road but I'm no longer feeling trapped or lost. I went 1 mile out of my way through the nature preserve but I wouldn't have changed it for the world. I check my Nike+ app - 11 miles down. 5 to go.

The Half Marathon

We line up in the pre-dawn cool. The black pavement is wet from rain. The sky is overcast and everything is dull and grey. The temperature is a brisk 54 degrees but the anticipation and buzz of the crowd keeps me warm. There are close to two thousand of us here - milling around, stretching, making last minute preparations. Small bursts of color break through the damp drab. Yellow caps, bright green shirts, orange stripes on shoes. We are all tagged and individually numbered. We are all there to compete against each other and to help each other compete against ourselves. We share something that goes without saying. We share weeks and months of training. Collectively we have logged tens of thousands of miles to get ready for this moment when the cannon booms and we start the race.

I start alongside Bryan who encouraged me to come and who served as my coach and mentor and pacer for my abbreviated four week training schedule. We run together for a hundred yards or so then we reach the split in the road. The marathoners turn right. The half-marathoners turn left. We wish each other luck and then I am on my own.

I'm trying to figure out my pace, taking note of my form, adjusting my speed, keeping my movement focused forward, not up and down. The course is crowded and I'm maneuvering through small groups of runners. I wonder if I'm moving too fast too soon but I've already set my sights on a runner ten feet ahead of me that I decide to stick with. He is moving swiftly but I keep pace. But just in case he pulls away, I choose two other random runners to follow as well.

Albany, Georgia is not particularly beautiful along this stretch of road. Southern Georgia seems to have an excess of faded and vacant billboards. Albany couples that with faded and vacant buildings. A Cinemark movie theater along the route looks like something out of the book "The World Without Us" - a study of what happens to man-made structures when left to nature and the elements to reclaim them. Even in it's heyday, I'm sure it was ugly - a white corrugated metal warehouse with a flashy marquise. Now it is wasting away like so many other buildings in the area.

The first few miles seem to fly by and so far I'm feeling good - ahead of my goal. The course at this point turns from commercial to residential and we are winding our way through the tree and house lined lanes. There are people at various points along the way. Some of them are there to cheer us all on. Some anxiously await a particular runner to cheer on. I wonder where along the route I will see my family.

The line of runners has lengthened by now and I've lost my original three runners to keep up with. A girl begins to pass me on my left and I'm determined not to let it happen. I move my legs faster to keep up but she slowly inches past me. I follow now in pursuit. These are faceless and nameless opponents. You never look these opponents in the eye. All I know is the back of their heads, the color and style of their tech shirts, the bounce of a pony tail, the color of a cap.

Just before mile six I check my time. My conservative goal going into the half marathon was 2 hours 15 minutes. My optimistic goal was beating 2 hours. I'm running the numbers in my head as I pass under the canopy of tree branches ornamented with clumps and strands of hanging Spanish moss. If I can just keep the same pace I'll win my race.

I sense that I'm beginning to slow down though. I'm guessing that everyone else is feeling a bit of the same. I've reserved a chocolate energy gel for this point in the race - I open it and down the contents hoping for a water station soon to wash it down. I've miscalculated though, and there is no water station around the corner or the next or the next. So I'm left to contemplate the after taste for the next 15 minutes.

I don't find any kind of burst of energy from this. I'm fading. I need something else. And then I realize what might help: I turn up the volume on my iPod. Radiohead "Jigsaw Falling into Place" sounds delicious and I devour it to the pounding beat of my legs' motion and my Nike Free running shoes bouncing off the pavement. The music converges from right and left ear buds to a central point inside my head yet it feels like it is completely surrounding me. Personal and powerful. How are the runners without ear buds doing it? They are the purists for sure. I need the help of Bright Eyes and Pearl Jam and Moby.

Every mile after 8 seems twice as long as it should be. I'm longing for each mile marker for much longer than i should, and find myself occasionally confused - overestimating my position on the course. "Am I on mile 9 or 10?" only to find out I haven't even made it to mile 9 yet. Our half marathon track has merged with the marathon track by this point and I pass their markers as well. 22 miles. 23 miles. At this point in the race my body cannot even comprehend running 26.2 miles. Of course two months ago I couldn't imagine running 13.1 miles either but yet there I was doing it.

The crowds of spectators are getting larger and louder now. I don't know them but their enthusiasm pushes and pulls me down the track. I slide past mile marker 11 with anticipation for the race to finish.  Then I see some familiar faces waiting for me down the road. My family is cheering me on. I raise my arms triumphantly to echo their cheers. Samuel runs out into the street to give me five. With a smile on my face I continue on, bolstered by their support.

I find small opportunities to surge while rounding a corner or going down the slightest incline. Most of my picks for competitors have come and gone. There is one left. She passed me a few miles back and I've kept her in my sights ever since. Now she is slowing and I'm gaining. Little...by....little. Then, near marker 12, I pass her and gain the lead. This success is followed by the knowledge that I am now also prey to the numerous runners who were saving their speed for the final mile. Each time someone passes I try to keep up for a moment but the gap always seems to widen. The line of runners now is stretched narrow and thin.

Then the finish line comes into view. The crowd is endlessly cheering as runner after runner breaks through the line. The clock is ticking away the seconds and see that I'm going to reach my goal. It is at 1:54:29 when I push myself through the finish line. My legs wobble and nearly buckle as I walk around afterward enjoying the rush of the accomplishment.

I finished in 146th place overall out of 816 runners. 102nd place out of 334 men, and 12th place out of 29 men aged 30-34. I maintained an average pace 8:42 minutes per mile. I felt completely depleted and somehow that was best possible feeling I could have had at that moment.

The Next Obsession

It is still dark out. The emerging dawn just a promise on the eastern horizon. A smear of dim orange crowned by purple clouds. The beach path is empty. I own it for now. . . others, I'm sure, will be joining me soon. The landscape steadily moves around me - shifting one stride toward me and then behind me each time my foot hits the packed sand. The ocean is useless to gauge myself by - too vast and featureless. The fence posts that line the path are pacing my immediate movement. The line of condominiums, like giant sentinels keeping watch on the lapping ocean, slide by easily, marking my larger progress. I'm warming up. My body humming. My legs and knees and feet feel each impact, sending a slight shock through my gut, torso, head and out through the bobbing hairs on my head. My lungs and heart are ramping up, increasing the flow of oxygen and blood coursing through my body.

I never really enjoyed this until recently. I never though of running as a sport but as a way to train and prepare for a real sport. A means to an end - not an end in and of itself. I've occasionally gone running along the beach during the years we have lived here and occasionally I've enjoyed it. I've never done it with any real frequency and consistency though. In September that changed. . .  a little.

I've reached North Shore Open Space Park - the sand is softer here along the path. Each step must be careful and deliberate. On the southern end of the park is a large mound of sand. Perhaps brought in at one time as a store to quell potential beach erosion - not sure, but it has been here for years. The growing vines from the adjacent dunes have spilled over onto the base of this sand mound climbing half-way up its slopes. The incline is mushy and I have to widen my stance as I pound up the hill. The hill levels out for about twenty feet - giving me a brief view of the beach and ocean and park from a slight elevation - a treasure in a landscape as flat as Miami's.

In late August after stepping off the bathroom scale I came to the realization that my relaxed attitude regarding my health and my weight would need to change. Either my metabolism was slowing or I was unknowingly increasing my caloric intake. Either way I had reached a new high that just kept on creeping up. I decided to stop and lose 20 pounds before the year's end. Again running became a means to an end - a necessary part of the equation - something I did to burn calories. Not something I did just for fun and adventure. My left knee would often hurt. I was winded and sore before I reached a mile. My pace was slow and I ended up walking more than jogging. Other runners would breeze past me at these paces I thought I would never attain. And so running fell to the bottom of my preferred exercise list, replaced almost entirely by biking and the aerobic videos in my Netflix queue.

South of the park there is a paved pathway that snakes along the beach for about 15 blocks. More and more people begin to emerge. It is lighter out now. The light blue of the sky all but dimming the waning crescent moon and the brilliant dot of Venus in the east. There are the homeless of North Beach strolling not far from the littered underbrush where they sleep, there are a few people out on the beach watching the sunrise, lovers loitering on the romantic deck of a Lifeguard stand, I wonder how many of them have been out all night celebrating the New Year - finishing the night by watching the sunrise over the Atlantic. Then there are those of us walking and jogging along the path. Are their efforts on this morning compelled by the nature and meaning of this day? How many of them will still be here next Saturday morning and the week after that and the week after that?

At some point I went from an occasional run back in September and October to a week such as this past one. Since Monday I have gone running four times and logged about 20 miles. I stopped to think about it a week or two ago: When did I start liking running? I traced it back and realized the day was Thanksgiving. On that morning I woke before the rest of the family and crept out of the Sails Resort Motel in North Redington Beach on the west coast of Florida. The morning was strikingly beautiful, the flat smooth beach with the water at low tide created the ideal running surface right along the ocean's edge. Maybe it was the exploration I enjoyed - when I passed the fishing pier I realized that I was entering foreign territory. I had never been along this stretch of sand before. Well into the run I realized that my pace had quickened. My knee wasn't hurting. I wasn't getting winded and felt I could continue at the same pace for a while still. At this point I had lost about 15 pounds - my load was lighter and my legs, heart and lungs were stronger. I picked out a distant landmark to reach before turning back and revisiting the entire landscape in reverse. On the way back with my face to the recently risen sun, the music in my headphones thumping out the beat to which I ran, I picked up my pace and felt an exhilaration I hadn't previously known.

When I reached my target weight just before Christmas I was elated, but I was also a little bit lost. I had focused so much on this goal (often to the point of obsession) for the previous three and a half months, that I was unsure of what I would do next. I had become so accustomed to logging my calories and recording my exercise - would I need to continue? Should I try to loose a few more pounds? It took a few days for me to realize that my next goal should not be weight-based, it should be to improve and develop something I was really beginning to enjoy. The goal became to make running my next obsession. Running would now be the sport. Running would be the end. Good health and maintaining an ideal weight - mere ancillary benefits.

The Wall

When I was seventeen years old I went on a trip with our church youth group to the barren plains of Wyoming. To re-live a bit of what our Pioneer ancestors experienced, we would walk portions of the Mormon trail across Rocky Ridge, along Rock Creek and on to Martin's Cove - where the Willie and Martin handcart companies were rescued from the deathly cold of an early winter back in October of 1856. We covered over 12 miles of the original trail - and to pass the time along a particularly empty section of the path a friend and I decided we would sing all the lyrics to every track of the double disk album The Wall by Pink Floyd. At that point in my life I was probably listening to The Wall an average of once a week - so it was not surprising that I was able to accomplish this feat, even with no background music save the slight howl of the summer Wyoming wind.

I have my older brothers to thank for my love of Pink Floyd at an early age. By the age of ten I was borrowing and listening to my brother Gregg's tapes on a frequent basis - Animals, Wish you Were Here, Ummagumma - I still remember listening to Dark Side of the Moon for the first time. The cassette tape playing in my walkman while I was in my room - probably toying with GI Joes or Transformers or something. That sound from the song Brain Damage - the soft squeal and slide of the guitar, the moan of the back up vocalists, the lyrics - I still remember that moment thinking "Wow - what is this?" I bought my first Pink Floyd albums at the age of 12 from the Musicland at the Cottonwood Mall - this would begin a collection that took several years to complete.

Of all Pink Floyd's albums my favorites have shifted from year to year. And while The Wall hasn't always had the number one place for me, it is such a landmark album that it really stands out unlike anything else Pink Floyd created. The art and intensity and scope of the album is in large part due to the personal outpouring of Roger Water's soul into the music and concept. The original concert performances of the Wall took place 30 years ago - things of legend that only four select cities witnessed. These concerts were then adapted into the 1982 movie which many people witnessed - but the movie is something that explores the music in a very different way. The Wall is in fact a story of a concert - of a Rock Star going mad while on tour. What better way to experience its music and story than in the concert format.

And so I was thrilled at the announcement earlier this year that Roger Waters would be back on tour - this time performing his magnum opus - The Wall. We went to the show this weekend. It was more than just a concert - it was a spectacle, unlike anything else I have ever witnessed. The music alone has been a part of my life for nearly 25 years - there is a familiarity to it that courses through my identity, that is woven through the soundtrack of my personal history. To experience that music in this way - in the way it is meant to be experienced - was amazing. The lights and projections and pyrotechnics and props and costumes. . . think broadway show, mixed with stadium concert, mixed with opera, mixed with fireworks spectacular, mixed with giant puppet show etc etc etc.

Loved it loved it loved it.

Behind the Scenes at Roman's Blessing

I leave my office in a rush. It is already 9:00. Maybe my counselors would be on the stand. . . ready to start. . . just waiting for me. Nope. I don't see either of them. They are still scrambling. Last minute preparations. Sometimes I wish I could just sit and enjoy sacrament meeting - just show up and be fed - rather than cooking the meal. . .  or serving it . . . or however you want the metaphor to go. It is my calling to worry about every little detail. Even on my son's blessing day.

There's my family. Filling two entire rows. Collectively traveling thousands of miles to be here today. I don't have time to really acknowledge them. Sharon comes up to me, going out of her way to give me a hug and let me see Roman in his carefully chosen blessing outfit - the moment is nice, but quick. I'm going through my mental pre-game checklist. Prelude organ music is playing - check - although not by our regular organist. Someone else is filling in, spur of the moment. Sacrament is set up - check - although it looks like the lace table cloth was put down first under the trays and the solid table cloth lay over them. "Is there bread under there this time?" I ask the lone priest at the table. He nods "You can check if you'd like." He remembers lifting the cloth a few weeks ago ready to break the bread only to find five empty bread trays staring right back at him.

The chorister isn't present. It is already a few minutes after 9:00. So far only one deacon has shown up to pass the sacrament. A good three quarters of those who will eventually fill the chapel are not here yet. They are arriving in the parking lot and stuck at a light down the street, and just leaving home. At least the late ones will never know that we are starting late, I remind myself. I tend to obsess about starting on time. Maybe because the Bishop before me obsessed about starting on time. . . or maybe because obviously no one else does. . .

My first counselor is conducting today. I find him on the stand and do a quick assessment. "Are those the correct hymns?" I ask pointing to the placard on the wall. "No I tried calling our chorister earlier but she hasn't returned my calls." "Well do you want to get with the organist and pick out some hymns?" He quickly moves to the organist to pick out some hymns. The prelude music stops while they talk. The silence accentuates the fact that we are clearly not prepared this morning.

I'm looking for the portable microphone in preparation for the blessing. . . oh yeah, and we have a confirmation. Where is Paul? Doesn't look like he is here yet. I locate the microphone but the cord is missing. My second counselor is up on the stand now. I send him to look for it. "Check the library," I tell him and he runs off.

The hymn numbers are in place now the prelude music has resumed. My first counselor returns and I send him off yet again to find a chorister to fill in. My second counselor returns empty handed. "Wasn't in the library." "Check with the other ward's Bishopric." He leaves again.

We are running 5 minutes late now. A chorister has been found and I'm running through a few announcements with my first counselor. We are changing the Relief Society presidency today and I want to make sure he has all the names correct. My second counselor returns with the microphone cord. "I don't know why it was in their clerks office."

"Alright let's get started," I indicate, and my first counselor gathers his notes and begins the meeting. I take a deep breath. I can relax slightly now. There is still only one deacon ready to pass the sacrament and one priest on the stand to bless. Paul still hasn't shown up for his confirmation.  But members are steadily strolling in during the opening hymn.

The announcements and sustaining go quickly and then suddenly it is time to bless Roman. I meet Sharon half way down the aisle and take Roman into my arms. He is calm and quiet. I hope that everyone else I've asked to be in the circle comes because I don't even look around to make sure. I trust that the microphone has been plugged in and is working because that detail has left my mind. My entire focus is on my son.

I step into place and the circle closes in around Roman. I realize at that moment that I have so far given no thought into what I might say in the blessing. I close my eyes - not tight, but I feel the solid weight of my eyelids sealing out the distractions and details outside, blocking the noise and the running checklist in my mind. With one hand under Roman and one hand on my father's shoulder I can sense nothing physical outside of that Priesthood circle. There is a singular focus. I'm no longer rushing rushing rushing. But time seems to slow.

I bless him with health and a long life. A long life of service to God and man. I pause for inspiration which is followed by words. I bless him with wisdom and faith. I can sense his potential. I can see what may become. I bless him to one day serve in the priesthood, to serve as a missionary, to serve in the temple. I bless him to be a follower of Christ and a leader of men. I bless him that he will uplift and inspire. That he will be a good son and brother and friend. I know that the Lord is perfectly poised, ready to pour down numberless blessings to him and anyone else that will acknowledge them and receive them. I end the blessing and open my eyes and the physical world comes back into view. The circle breaks leaving just me and Roman for a moment.

I return to the stand still feeling the exhilarating sensation of the Spirit. We are ready to begin the sacrament hymn. I take a look and we are still short one Aaronic priesthood holder to pass the sacrament. I consider nudging my second counselor and asking him to go grab someone but just then walks in another family. The 16 year old youth sits on the back row. He looks up and I make eye contact with him. I nod my head in the direction of the sacrament table. He understands and comes up to fill the final spot. I check that one final thing off my mental sacrament meeting checklist and then the tug of war of responsibilities shifts back to my family for a moment as I look down at my wife and our son that she holds in her arms.

Autumnal Equinox

The sky is a dark steely hue, one hour shy of midnight blue. The hush of wave sound and wind rush rise and fall at irregular intervals. The cricket chirp is faint but adds a distinct rhythmic tempo. We contribute to nature's chorus some music of our own, Neil Young's Harvest Moon. The album choice is obvious - what else should we choose on this night? Hanging boldly and high in the eastern sky is the full harvest moon of September being chased by the bright white speck of Jupiter.

We sit on our balcony chairs to hear the harmony of man and nature, to feel the whirl of the tepid air, to see the night cast in dramatic moonlight. But what holds my gaze and attention and imagination more than anything is the approaching bank of clouds.

Growing up in Utah, my horizons were always filled with the jagged and rolling masses of mountains. I was fascinated how Mount Olympus changed shape and size as i drove around it on Wasatch Boulevard. The single mountain could show you 360 different faces - each view hiding and revealing something more of itself.

Since I moved to Miami 10 years ago it has been the large billowing clouds that have filled that void. And tonight as I look up at that slowly shifting and glowing pinnacle of water vapor it reminds me just how similar a cloud and a mountain can be. Those sweeping crags and crevices and cliffs - the moonlight revealing the intricate contours of the massive cloud. There is a wispy silvery bluff, an immaterial basin, and a fluffy butte.  A soft but steep outcrop is forming right in front of me. Unlike the mountain you need not move around it to see if fully. With patience the cloud does all the moving you will ever need.

The bank of clouds is like that distant mountain range growing and growing as you move towards it. . . . It resembles a slowly moving wave - no shore to crash on to - nothing to stand in its way. So it ebbs and flows in the currents of the atmosphere until it is nearly on top of us. And just at the moment of the autumnal equinox, 11:09 local time, the sea of mountainous clouds eclipses the harvest moon keeping it hidden like a precious jewel that we are not yet worthy to see. . .