Begin Again: Pseudo Reality Prevails

I ran my virtual Boston in 2020 with a sinus infection and a fever of 102 on dirt trails out to Stillwater. finished the distance and threw up in a garbage can.

Switched jobs, gained weight, lost fitness, lost faith, ran less, parented, ran more, sold a house, bought a house, figured out what I wanted to be when I grew up, lost weight regained (some) fitness and here we are.

The last three years are a blur. I haven’t had a good race since 2019 and blamed the running for my poor experience; the truth like most things is more interesting. Running doesn’t care about what you want to get out of it, it does what it does without your input. Road racing and running in general is like riding a bull, you can tell the bull all the things, but in the end it comes down to how much you show respect and are able to hold on for dear life as it carries you away.

I didnt respect the bull and I got thrown. So begin again as Danny says. Rereading my old journal entries and the posts on this little corner of the internet, I forget that the magic of the act of running is what hooked me to begin with. When it works, its like the pain and endorphins are music in your head and your feet is tapping out the rhythm of your soul on the roads.

But you got to show respect for the roads.

Begin again.

Getting back meant starting over. I missed running and feeling genuiny happy. and unexpectedly, I found it on the corner of brookfield road and north avenue at 6:15am.

Some backstory: I went home for the first time since covid began and for no reason in particular the idea of beginning the day running felt like a good form of self care with two littles in the backseat the remainder of the day. So I strapped on my shoes and headed out from the hotel and ran the streets of my childhood alone in steamy mid July heat at dawn.

about 20 minutes into an uneventful run Noah Kahan starts playing on my headphones and croons,

So pack up your car, put a hand to your heart
Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are
We ain’t angry at you, love, you’re the greatest thing we’ve lost
The birds’ll still sing, your folks’ll still fight
The boards’ll still creak, the leaves will still die
We ain’t angry at you, love, we’ll be waiting for you, love

Unexpectedly my pace turned over faster and easier than it had in years; it was like a rope broke holding a ship to the shore and I was free. Bawling in a way I rarely do (I don’t really cry ever) and smiling at the same time, I ran in no particular direction and took in the sights of my cherished memories and places I used to know so well.

So much has changed and for those of us still here it feels like a version of reality, ‘pseudo reality’ as Musil called it, is all of any of us has.

But the birds still sing and leaves still die. So here we go, towards another marathon in the fall, renewed in training spirit, we won’t get the old days back but we can take it with us.

you just got to respect the bull, trust the training, and remember the joy of those footsteps because we won’t be here forever.

 

Book Review: The Men Who Lost America: British Leadership, the American Revolution, and the Fate of the Empire by Andrew O’Shaughnessy

Primarily a character study on the impactful political and military profiles that worked to keep the American colonies part of the empire during the American Revolution, the first 60-70% of the book is standard fare for most. If you’re familiar with the political intrigues of the early 19th century in the pre-regency era of George III’s reign you won’t find much here new. However the study of some of the military characters is helpful in understanding the breakdown of the British military in the colonies.

The latter part of the book widens the lens and places the revolution as a very small part of a number of ground breaking events across the empire that makes more sense as to why British focus was so splintered.

3/5 Stars. Recommended for those new to American Revolutionary History or looking for a broad understanding of American focused political crises in pre-regency Britain.

 

Recklessness is what we came here for

“Why are you doing this to yourself?”

I wish I had had a more intelligent answer, or quoted Cavvy or Musil about the absurdity of life, instead I just shrugged and mumbled about it being what I do. What else is there to say when a friend you haven’t seen in ages due to the pandemic happens upon you on a crowded trail at mile 13 of your planned 18 for the day.  I had split from my group so I could be home in time for the child care handoff (and lunch), and in truth didn’t feel like sticking around for the whole thing. There’s only so much that can be said on a long group run before you feel like your fingernails are bleeding from scraping the bottom of the emotional barrel for conversational topics.

So I stopped, chatted. exchanged information about our days, acknowledging each persons mileage posted on Strava–the veritable door from which each runner posts their  run data in an attempt to validate the all-consuming process of early wakeups, gear, distancing, and pacing.

I ran 60 miles this week. Double what I was putting down in a week this time last year, when Liliane’s four times a night call for food and soothing would awake me like clockwork. Now, even with a consistent seven hours in unaffected sleep I could run for hours.  The recovery really is as important as the mileage; as I found out at last year’s TCM when I crumbled at mile 24 from a combination of exhaustion, upset stomach, and a wicked sunburn.

Flash forward to a pandemic that has robbed tens of thousands of their lives and friends and relatives of their loved ones. For 99% of runners, races are actually meaningless. One’s running is not more or less validated by a chip inside a wax paper bib.

So why do we show up?

The mourning over a race isn’t really about the course, or the BQ. It is the absurdity of it all. Out on the road, grinding your body through either ten kilometers or 26 miles and pushing your body past the point of reason and then going further.

Long distance running is reckless. In that space, there’s also a restoration. Spend enough time on any road or trail and time and space will eventually bend for you. In that headspace, you can be anywhere, at any time, with anyone you care about, living or dead. In that space, the magic appears. It is the magic combination of meditative silence combining with the pain receptors of your brain in overdrive as your endorphins start cranking.

Climb on into the pain cave.

Clark asked me why I was running 18 miles when my real race was canceled. A good question to ask when the world looks like it is collapsing around us. I should have said that I wanted to bend time back, if only for two and a half hours, because that’s all were all doing

 

 

 

 

Mary Oliver, nostalgia, cold weather running

 

In an advertisement for her Masterclass, the famed novelist Margaret Atwood notes that the best way to write is to “write more, fail more, fail better”.  In the spirit of those words I am writing a blog post on a cold and frigid January afternoon whilst my toddler lies in slumber.

Run clubbing-

Ran 12.5 miles today with my run club. It was the bone chilling cold where your gloveless fingers begin to hurt at the joints in minutes of being exposed to the cold air outside. In a somewhat successful attempt to stave off the cold I wore the following:

• Base layer tights with thermal underwear
• base layer top
• running socks
• smart wool socks
• light running jacket w/ no hood
• thermal running jacket
• neck bandana
• pom hat
• winter mittens

It mostly worked. The sunglasses I had brought along fogged up within minutes of running, but made me feel somewhat cooler.

 

I am signed up to run the Lake Wobegon Marathon on 15 May 2019.

Talk of the town:

I am really enjoying this version of Listen Up performed by Noel Gallagher with his High Flying Birds in Buenos Aires on a tour a couple of years ago. This is the kind of song that ages really well. The initial version, from Masterplan, features riotous vocals from Liam and the loudest guitars imaginable for a BritRock era song. This version melds nicely with the keyboards and has a weariness of the world to it that is less confrontational and more subdued swagger. The Chief rocking a long sleeve polo and 511’s makes its easily cool too.

Sticking with the Dad Rock theme:

I love this version of All The Wine, from the debut LP Alligator.

Zagreb is a magical city, and has a haunting quality that makes you want to roam the streets at night and ask it your questions and feel comforted when it gives you no answers. This version of the song perfectly distills the nostalgia and hiraeth of wandering old city streets full up on Dalmatian wine.

Other things

Mary Oliver died this week.

Oliver reminds me that when we die we die, and theres a closing of doors behind you. What you leave in that room you cant come back for. I will miss her voice.

 

 

back to the start,

On a whim I restarted watching the series ST:DS9.  I have previously written about how amazing this series is for a science fiction series to deal with areas like collective guilt and war memory.

I might have gotten a bit ahead of myself by jumping right into season five when I should have addressed the really great aspects of the pilot and first season (ie before Worf).

What’s most interesting about the pilot, to me, is that it is very aware of its time. Sarajevo was burning,while  LA was still smoldering.

Add into to this dimension the underlying plot line of the Borg vs. the Federation and things get really messy. For those not keeping points at home, I will sum it up as thus: a techno-alien race that forcibly assimilates societies into its collective (Borg), captured Jean Luc Picard of the Enterprise (of ST:TNG fame)  and used his extensive knowledge to find weaknesses in the Federation battle plans. This resulted in Borg and Federation forces meeting at a small constellation called Wolf 359. It was at this violent end that  Commander Benjamin Sisko was the first officer on  the USS Saratoga, where his wife died as a civilian casualty in the Federation’s attempt to stop the the Borg at what would be called simply Wolf 359, and you have one of the finest plot set ups of any series.

Roughly speaking then, Commander Ben Sisko is a man apart from every connection he could wed himself to. His temporary commanding officer is the man who (inadvertently) killed his wife; the provisional government he works with distrust him, and the facility he has been assigned has been all but burned to the ground.

Added all together, there is no reason why this should work as a ‘Star Trek’ serie in the conventional sense.

But that’s the brilliance here. Only on the fringes, of the Federation, of the series, of Sci Fi generally, could a show like this succeed in developing a plot line that shows that the ugly and messy business of governing in the aftermath of war, genocide and destruction are as unpleasant today as they are in the future.

If there is anything the pilot of the series adds that hasn’t been mentioned before, it is the frankness that the series begins with. Unlike its sister show, TNG, there is no naivete, no unbridled optimism. It is a rough beginning for a rough time. It is this factor that makes this series age better than its elder, and sadly, too indicative that we have not escaped Sarajevo.

 

Currently Consuming

Oh, poor negelcted blog! How I have left thee to suffer. New Year’s resolution: blog more. I feel like I have made this resolution before, but what are New Year’s resolutions if not repetitive?

Anyways,, here is what I have been excited about/ consumed a lot of lately:

This track by Daughter, “The Woods”.

I am a big fan of this band, Daughter. The setting for this live track is all the better too, as St. Stephen’s is a gorgeous Anglican Church built in the  late 1840’s. The silent beauty of the acoustic guitar along side the sparse low-church background is just perfect.

The King’s Peace & The King’s War by CV Wedgewood

Two of the most important books on the English Civil War.

Julia Ioffe’s profile of exiled dissident Mikhail Khordokovsky.

 

Book Review: The Terror: The Merciless War for Freedom in Revolutionary France by David Andress

So a while ago I started to write a review about David Andress’ beautiful work: “Terror: The Merciless War for Freedom in Revolutionary France” and for reasons beyond my control I kept forgetting to finish it. The review is more of a fragmant and a sketch than a full review, but I thought it was worth posting in its rough shape because: a) its a great book and every person should pick a copy up ASAP, b) I’m bored  and c) it’s my blog.

Thus:

History tends to remember the blade that fell on Louis XI neck, while forgetting the tens of thousands of necks it also separated. Of course, few of those whose death was to take place under the “Terror”, the period of time when the Committee of Public Safety, were to be remembered in such vivid terms as Louis Bourbon.

Andress is skillful in humanizing the twelve men who for a brief period of time were the ultimate power over the whole of France and outwardly were a monolithic institution, but behind the doors of the Tuilleries, the power struggle that was being waged daily was sometimes comical, sometimes horrifying in its turbulence.

It is important to reiterate what others, notably Adam Thorpe in The Guardian has said: none of these men who ran the Terror were “great men” to couch the term in historiographic terms. While Danton is often written about as a giant of the Revolution, not just because of his physical but also his political stature, even he suffers moments where his leadership skills are left wanting.

Danton takes the mystique out of the men who have been at various times villains and heroes of the political order. To some on the Left, Robespierre is virtue embodied. Willing to sacrifice the whole of the body politic in service of greater Rousseau virtue. To conservatives, the Terror is an extreme example of revolutions run amok. It is after all, from Edmund Burke we get the model for modern parliamentary conservatism.

I’ve linked to it before, but its worth taking another look at Zizek’s comments on Jacobinism pace Andress and the skeptics:

Andress’ work is wonderous is scope and character. Engaging and well-written, it is a brave and forthright account that eschews ideology in sake of truth.

 

 

 

 

Book Review: Chavs: the Demonization of the Working Class by Owen Jones

To describe author and activist Owen Jones as a “Bennite” would be something of an understatement. While never having lived through the tumultous  Wilson or Callaghan Labour governments of the 1960’s and 1970’s, (neither did I, though), Jones is very clear at who is at fault for the ills that have befallen the working class in Great Britain.

Thatcher.

The vitriol Jones reserves for Thatcher and her cabinet ministers, and even journalists in Tory papers is unevenly matched against the lamenting school-teacher tone regarding his left-wing friends in the Labour Party.

To understand the premise of Jones’ work, one must first understand what the focal point Jones is entering the discussion. Namely, the disenfranchisement of historically working class men and women in Great Britain who, starting in the end of the Thather era, began to be derisively titled “Chavs” by middle and upper class society. “Chavs”, as both the author and a cursory glance at wikipedia both reveal is a person obsessed with the illusion of station;  as Wikipedia states: “…a young lower-class person who displays brash and loutish behaviour and wears real or imitation designer clothes.”

To be a “chav” then, is to be a the fringes of acceptable society, even within the working class.

Jones leans heavily on his background within British left-wing society to argue that the corruption of the virtuous working class was due in large part to consumerism, Thatcherism, and an unwillingness of Labour leadership to stand up to the rising tide of austerity:

There was a time when working-class people had been patronized, rather than openly despised. Disraeli had called working-class people ‘angels in marble’. ‘Salt of the earth’ was another phrase once associated with them. Today, they are more likely than not to be called chavs. From salt of the earth to scum of the earth. This is the legacy of Thatcherism—the demonization of everything associated with the working class

Jones likely spent hundreds of hours collecting quotes and contrasting perspectives, from  Geoffrey Howe, Lady Thatcher’s first chancellor of the exchequer, to Neil Kinnock, the man who led Labour through some of its most bruising times in recent history.

From the information provided, Kinnock appears resigned that the Left forfeited the fights of the 1980’s rather than create any kind of meaningful change. when asked if the Tories were the ‘real’ class-warriors in British politics, Kinnock shakes his head and bemoans, “ ‘No, because they’ve never had to engage in a class war,’ he said. ‘Largely because we signed the peace treaty without realizing that they hadn’t.'”

Jones concludes that largely as a result of the sustained electoral beatings that Labour suffered from 1979-1992, the survivors of this shipwrecked party latched onto any idea that would keep them from becoming consigned to history, (a very real worry given the declining state of the Liberal party through this time period, which managed to stave off its own place on the ash heap only by creating an odd marriage of convenience with disaffected social democrats to create the modern “Lib-Dem” party), a fact Jones notes with characteristic bluntness:

Because of this desperation and demoralization, Blair and his followers were able to impose the Thatcherite settlement on the Labour Party. Part an parcel of this settlement was the idea that everyone should aspire to be middle class. Little wonder that. when asked what her greatest achievement was, Margaret Thather answered without hesitation: ‘Tony Blair and New Labour. We forced our opponents to change their minds.”

Jones writes lovingly and longingly for a working class establishment that no longer exists in modern Britain, but does not advocate burning down Apple stores to return to this Eden. Instead, his goal is surprisingly reasonable given the disparaging remarks and high standard he holds the Left to in his book.  the result is not a game-changing, epoch-defining solution. Instead, Jones advocates that the Left do what it has always done: advocate and implement good-paying, skilled jobs that provide a decent and dignified income to the working-class.

Admittedly after reading about 260 pages of commentary on how the Left had failed the working class, and the Tories were hell-bent on their destruction, I was a little dejected that the solution Jones advocates is so unsurprising and reasoned. Instead of a Zizek retort, we’re left with a policy proposal.

Chav’s does many things well; chief among them is the crystallization of working-class discontent for the last 30 years. Jones writes with exacting skill and twists the knife into the the Conservative Party with a certain amount of vigour. However, it becomes tiring to read line after line about the moral indecency with which the Tories have governed. After 100 pages or so, I found myself wishing Jones would just wrap it up and get to the point.

Chavs: the Demonization of the Working Class by Owen Jones. Verso 2011 298 pages. Purchased copy

 

 

 

new favourite thing: the kills’ future starts slow

this video from the kills is my new favourite thing right now

 

 

 

 

 

 

“42 minutes on an emotional treadmill”

“42 minutes on an emotional treadmill” is how Chris Martin described the upcoming album Ghost Stories.

A really worth watching inteview that aired on BBC One recently.