Saturday, August 30, 2014

Andy Anderson Snags Mt. Whitney FKT

Andy Anderson has been kind enough to share his account of breaking the Mt. Whitney FKT (Fastest Known Time.) Andy is also the owner of the Long's Peak FKT and the Grand Teton FKT (see those links for his accounts of those records.) Nice work, Andy! The words below are his:


*  *  *


“Those look like old man shoes,” joked my friend Ann as she printed out my day permit for Mt. Whitney.  

“Well, I'm almost 40, my forehead keeps getting bigger, and my beard is turning grey. I am an old man,” I replied.
This was my third trip to Mt. Whitney this summer. When I ran up it for the first time in July, I spent a little more than five hours exploring the Mountaineer's Route looking for the fastest variations. On my second trip, on August 6th, I tried to go fast and ended up at the summit in 1:50 and back at the car in 3:13. While I managed to get the ascent record, my downhill time remained too slow for the overall record.
This time I hoped I could actually run fast enough down the mountain to break Brett Maune’s existing record of 3:06. While I am pretty sure-footed when climbing and scrambling through steep technical terrain, I am also adept at crashing when cruising down seemingly benign terrain. On my second attempt at Whitney, I sprained my ankle coming down a smooth section of trail and had to hobble for a while; and just 11 days ago, I crashed hard enough to possibly have broken a rib during the Marlette 50k Trail Race here in Tahoe (Ed. Note: Andy won by 10 minutes). During the race it didn’t really hurt. The next day after a short run and some hard rock climbing (maybe not the best idea - but hey, I thought a little cragging would loosen up my sore rib), everything I did - breathing, sitting up, rolling over, everything - hurt. I haven’t gotten it x-rayed, but I figure if it heals in two weeks, it was just bruised. If it takes six weeks to heal, it was probably broken.  
Due to the rib injury, I ended up with a week of rest. On Tuesday, nine days after that 50k, I ran a bit, and my rib felt ok. It still hurt, but I could ignore the pain. More important, it did not seem to slow me down. I decided that I could give Whitney another try. If my rib hurt too much, it would just be a training run. If not, maybe I could break three hours. I drove down Hwy 395 the night before listening to Meb Keflezighi’s inspiring autobiography, Run to Overcome. 
In the morning I went to the ranger station and got a Mt. Whitney day permit. After chatting with Ann, I headed up to the Whitney Portal Trailhead where the Mountaineer's Route starts. I had to stop at McDonalds to use their Wifi and download some exciting music for the drive to the trailhead. Meb’s high school exploits reminded me of high school cross country and those memories meant cranking Jane’s Addiction. I pulled into a parking spot at the trailhead, filled my pockets with Clif Bloks and Clif shots, did a warm up lap and a few strides, and headed up the old Mt. Whitney trail.
Some might think that the loose, scree-filled, oh-so-steep gully above Iceberg Lake is the hardest part of the run, but the first 30 minutes of the climb up to Lower Boy Scout Lake works me over. There’s scrambling, route finding, and it is unrelenting. In addition, old men like me take longer to warm up so the first part of a run is always harder. Each of the three times I have done this climb, I have thought about turning back somewhere in those first 30 minutes. Luckily there are usually some people in this section who think I’m crazy, and well, crazy people don’t turn around -- they are too crazy.
By the time I scrambled past the ledges and up to Lower Boy Scout Lake, I settled into a rhythm: just running across the scree and rocks and climbers trails until I whacked a large rock with my knee. Needless to say the rock did not notice. At least it wasn’t my rib or my still swollen ankle.
Running up the granite slabs towards Upper Boy Scout Lake, inspiring scenes from Last of the Mohicans flashed through my head. I made it past the lake and across the scree and sand to Iceberg Lake in about 1:13. Then came 1600 feet up that steep, scree-filled gully. Did I say this gully wasn’t as hard as the start? Uh, yeah, well, maybe I was wrong. It’s steep. After climbing up this gully, I made it to the col just below the summit and scrambled as quickly as I could up the final mostly-3rd-and-sometimes-4th-class chute to the summit plateau. A quick tag of the summit at 1:49:10, and I started back down.
I am not a speedy down-climber. Consistently my downhill splits are slower than those of others who try these things. I knew I would lose time on the downhill. I down-climbed the upper couloir and started screeing down the loose gully back towards Iceberg Lake. For those unfamiliar with screeing, it’s akin to skiing except in running shoes on loose gravel, dirt, and rocks instead of on snow. Falls hurt a little more, and it is a bit more out of control… but it is a speedy way to descend a scree filled gully.
Back down at Iceberg Lake, I stopped and spent two minutes emptying rocks from my shoes and socks. With lighter and more comfortable shoes I ran down the climbers trails, through the boulder fields, and down the slabs. Time was running out for the sub three hour mark.
Just above Lower Boy Scout Lake I slowed down as my quad started to cramp. I had forgotten to eat and drink enough, focusing too much on running faster and not falling, and not enough on fueling. After consuming a package of Clif Bloks, a Clif Shot, some water, and an electrolyte pill, I sped up and my legs felt fine.
2:40 - 20 minutes to go. I was back at that first steep section of the route where I thought about turning back. I heard Johnny Cash’s deep sonorous voice in my head singing “20 more minutes to go” over and over again. People thought I was really crazy now: a sweat and salt streaked, shirtless runner with a lopsided smile and crazy eyes careening down a mountain muttering “come on, Andy, faster, faster, faster,” to himself as he goes by. At least that’s how I pictured myself. The reality probably looked more like a middle aged, balding, uncoordinated, gangly, skinny guy muttering to himself while picking his way clumsily down the mountain with a lopsided smile and a crazy gleam in his eyes. The smile and the crazy eyes are consistent.

“12 more minutes to go” sang Johnny. Down, down, down. I made it across the main trail and over to the old trail. “Two more minutes to go.” Go, go, go. Making tire screeching noises around the switchbacks (playing cars with my four year old has reminded me just how much fun sound effects are), I hit the three hour mark with a little more than a quarter mile to go. One lap to go. A quarter mile takes fast runners only about a minute on the track. My last quarter mile took a little under three minutes even with the sound effects. I rolled into parking lot and stopped my watch: 3:03:05. Not under three hours, but it is a new record. I jogged around a little, changed clothes, and drove back down the hill to have lunch with my ranger friend. She treated me to a burrito at the local taco truck, then I headed back home to my family in Truckee listening to Meb.
Splits:
Trailhead: 0:00:00
Lower Boy Scout: 31:00
Iceberg Lake: 1:13:20
Summit: 1:49:10
Iceberg Lake: 2:10:43
Lower Boy Scout Lake:  2:40:14
Trailhead 3:03:05
Gear:
Food:
  • Clif Bloks
  • Clif Shots
  • Hammer Endurolytes
  • Creek water - Hope I don’t get Giardia.
Link to my run on Movescount: http://www.movescount.com/moves/move39367473
Link to a shaky video of me screeing down a slope in the Dolomites several years ago with my sound effects: http://youtu.be/UaVjxlKJIGE
photo of me and the post run burrito taken by Ann Piersall:


Thursday, August 21, 2014

On the Runner's Dissatisfaction

Looking back upon the time that I was running hard, the thing that strikes me most was how little satisfaction I took in my fitness.

The drive to train can be cast in a positive light as a sort of drive to athletic perfection, a noble quest to be better today than we were yesterday. Each run a testament to the high-school coach's simple minded but effective euphemisms about work, practice, effort, will. Yes, we take pride in our discipline, and the lean and honed body of the runner reflects it and displays it.

But -- but, every runner who has really given himself over to the sport knows that the intensity and effort of training is also fed by darker and wilder motives and impulses. Driving through a set of quarters in the dripping August humidity, rolling steadily on tired legs through yet-another 10 miler -- this is not the stuff of cheery euphemism. If I remember correctly, it was hardly ever the thought of improvement that got me out the door. Dissatisfaction, though -- that did the trick.

Indeed, it is possible to generalize on this point. Runners are a dissatisfied lot. We want more, almost always. Yes, PRs or the occasional great race brings feelings of joy and accomplishment. We use these moments as justification for all our suffering, and perhaps spouses and friends over for dinner parties see the occasional running trophy or marathon medal as evidence that we do it for the moments of triumph. There is a reason, though, that running trophies are made out of cheap plastic: they reflect the value of satisfaction in relation to the rest.

Nice as they are, these moments of satisfaction are fleeting in relation to the time spent brooding and pondering, mulling workouts and strategies, wracking our brains for what went wrong in the last training cycle and what might, this time, go a bit better. We run a great workout and then want the next one to be even better. We run a great race and within the hour have ramped up expectations for the next outing. Yesterday's dream hollows out into the bare fact of what we've done, which is not enough.

For me there have always been two well-springs of motivation. The first is simple bodily immediacy: the joy of being outside, the glut of sensation, the intimacies of cold and heat and rain and breeze, the tireless and animal feelings of the well-trained body -- all of these immediacies that every runner knows. These feed and fund us as runners, outside of any thought of purpose or goal.

The second spring of motivation is the more consistent, and it this feeling of dissatisfaction I've been discussing. The thought that I could always be better was not the reason I ran; it was a reflection of an even deeper, almost metaphysical dissatisfaction. This dissatisfaction is no choice or attitude, no thought or mantra: it was the reason for, not the consequence of, my choices and attitudes towards running.

Please don't be confused: it's not that I was unhappy. Dissatisfaction is quite different from unhappiness. Unhappiness is not an active state: its pain is passivity. That said, to be dissatisfied is not a pleasant feeling, and I am not even sure it leads to pleasant feelings or can be justified that way. The dissatisfaction I remember lies outside this sort of economy of exchange.

This sort of motivating dissatisfaction is more like the drive or hum of a heavy diesel engine. It works and hums and labors in us without end, like the beating of waves against the sand and the bee hives that have buzzed a single note since the beginning of time, connecting the runner to the endless churning dissatisfaction of the world itself.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

On Un-Becoming a Runner

Over the last few months, I have become less and less a runner. None of this was an act of will or a decision. Things have conspired -- family, body, job. I know this is true because when I go for a run now there is an absence of fluidity. The identity is not natural; it's artificial.

The causes of this change are not so relevant, and understanding them would bring little understanding to the fact of change itself. This is the thing about change: in the raw core of its newness its origins can't be traced. Things do come into this world out of nothing, putting the lie to the the logic of causality. The philosopher decrees: ex nihilo fit nihil. And yet -- each morning novelty covers the grass of the world like fresh dew.

Some changes, of course, run deeper than others, and we use the language of identity to talk about those deep changes. We say: I am this, as if the words am, is are, be were incantations that take a moment in time and lock it up in a case. John Dewey, following folks like Nietzsche, Hume, and Heraclitus, took the metaphysical view that what is most fundamental about the world is in fact its precariousness and fragility. The Real falls apart. This is what is most natural and basic in the world. What takes effort and thought and coordinated intelligence is the holding of this precariousness together, through rhythm and harmony when it is working well, through strain and routine when we have to. Identity, being real, is no different.

A fully functioning identity in a precarious world is not an essence of the Aristotelian sort. It is not held together the way a mathematical equation or analytic proposition is constructed. What we talk about as identity is held together the way in which all things in a changing world hold together: through the rhythms and flows of life, the harmonies that are constructed through action, and the stresses and strains that are the mark of more difficult effort.

So, to say now that I am less and less a runner, is to say that the rhythms and harmonies and even stresses and strains that held this identity together are unraveling. It takes much searching and many false starts to find the beat. In part this is because every rhythm needs to be rewritten in order to remain vital. Identities can die through staleness -- unlinked from vital forces, harmonies become mere repetitions.

Since this is a running blog, it's sort of odd to blog about un-becoming a runner, but really I think this happens to all runners at various times in their lives. It already happened to me once in my mid-20s. When I was in the full blush of my running identity, I looked back on that time that was lost to running and couldn't recognize that person. Who could get up every day, for days on end, and not go for a run? What did I do to keep myself sane? It was literally hard to imagine myself.

But now, just months into my un-becoming, I look back on the runner that I was and I cannot imagine the amount of energy that I poured into my training, how deeply I depended on the run or two a day, the races I anticipated, the feelings of strength and power, the honed and sharpened body. Who was that person? I see him now, in the bodies of others, in the lean streaks floating like animals around the track. He is not me.

Is it to the good? It's hard to say. It's good like the summer is good: the end of one season and the beginning of another. As I write I find myself trying to avoid a nostalgic tone and find a medium between two false extremes. The one extreme would say that identifying as a runner is a pretty trivial identification, and it's better to find deeper identification in deeper streams: fatherhood, career, etc. The other extreme treats dis-identification as a runner as a betrayal. As if I were born to be a runner, and as if losing this identity is a failure to follow out a script that has already been written.

I've believed both of those extremes, sometimes simultaneously. To identify as a runner means to happen more often than not on the idea that you were truly born to run, to feel like it is your destiny. And it also means that you have doubted whether all that time spent headed in asphalt circles amounted to much more than selfishness.

Neither of these thoughts capture what has happened with me. This change came sideways, not through the extremes. It strikes me that this is what happens most often. We rarely win an argument with ourselves about what we should be. Instead, we just change the subject. What was important, shimmering, and vital now seems ordinary. What was unseen, gray, and banal is now full of color, wild, and beckoning.

To live is to change; the logic of life is not a logic of identity.

Saturday, May 24, 2014

Why Do We Choose to Suffer?

"The strenuous life tastes better." --William James

* * *

Effort is the currency of endurance sport and of course of life itself.

There is a thin but essential line between effort and suffering -- at the maximum intensity of effort, this line is thinnest, but the thinness of that margin makes the difference between the two all the more evident.

I have been pondering the sources of human effort lately in no small part because my life has become more demanding. I find myself working long hours and coming home to a busy house. There are few moments in my life in which effort is absent, and yet I find myself more capable than ever of giving effort.

Is this what distinguishes effort from suffering? Effort is the sort of act that leads to the growth of the feeling of will and power. Fatherhood feels very much like this, an activity -- when it goes well -- in which our actions lead us to feeling fuller and more capable. A good job that matches our capabilities also seems to have this sort of spiraling effort feedback loop, in which our efforts lead to growth in capacities, an ability to give even greater effort.

Suffering, at its root, is the opposite sort of loop. It's what happens when effort dissipates and leaves us feeling less capable, more diminished. At its extremes, suffering requires self-destruction on behalf of survival, as when a trapped animal chews through its own leg in order to free itself. That's a gruesome image of overt suffering, but the human animal is capable of similar sorts of psychic mutilation when it finds itself similarly trapped.

When we race and train, we play on the boundary between the positivity of effort and the negativity of suffering. The best races have this strange effect where effort finds itself almost magically in a positive feedback loop, where our success in taking risk brings with it a rush of adrenaline and a feeling of confidence that allows us to break through capacities and boundaries of performance we thought were fixed.

But just as often a risk hurts us, and we find ourselves in the realm of suffering -- a realm in which every turn we take leads to more pain of some sort. Once the veil of suffering has been pierced, all that's left is to decide whether to keep going or to stop, each angle, each glance seems likely to bring more pain. We feel like trapped foxes staring at that damned leg.

Let's not move too quickly, though: to draw parallels between suffering in a race and suffering in life is to conflate fiction with reality. Suffering in a race is always metaphorical -- no matter how much it actually hurts us or even injures us. We do it out of an excess of life, in same way that works of fiction are in excess of reality, no matter how deeply they shine the light on reality. Reading a novel or a work of philosophy is never the same as living a life or having a philosophy -- the stakes are not the same.

Maybe this distinction allows us to frame an answer to a perennial question that distance runners ask themselves, especially after bad races. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we choose to suffer? Part of the answer, of course, is that we are looking for the high of effort but like junkies sometimes overdose on effort and land ourselves in trouble. But I think that we also choose to suffer. Because of the fictional nature of suffering in sport, there is a way in which we can enjoy it. Like a powerful novel, the realer it is, the more it hurts, the more we appreciate it. This appreciation is not necessarily enjoyment (do we read Joyce or Faulkner for enjoyment?) but something else.

We do it because it allows us to to make an encounter with suffering, not to be overcome by it -- which is what happens with actual suffering in the real world. To live reality is as different from understanding reality as life is from philosophy. Racing gives us an embodied way of doing philosophy: we encounter pain; we encounter suffering; we encounter dire choices. And then we come away from them just as we come away from reading a profound novel or a well-constructed argument -- with an enriched sense of reality and a deeper notion of life that in turn helps us deal with the actual and inevitable diminishments of human experience that we live directly.

To sum up in a sentence: racing turns suffering into an experience of effort. Through the encounter with suffering, we have the chance of taking collapse and turning it into growth. Gillian Welch sings it this way: "There's something good in a worried song / For the troubles in your soul / For a worried mind / Is a long way down / Down in a deep dark hole." The worried song allows the worried mind to encounter itself as a subject of art. Suffering in a race allows us to encounter our own suffering as a conscious and even brave act.

And so, in this way, the virtual and the real find themselves as partners, not antagonists, and we find ourselves as real beings who are also able to take flight from the world in order to return to it, more capable of effort and also more capable to face suffering. Even if in the end we will never be able to fully endure actual and real, we can at least know it, which is better than nothing.

Saturday, April 19, 2014

Boston 2014: Running Together

My buddy and training partner Andrew sent me these thoughts as he headed up to Boston to run the marathon on Monday. Andrew would be the first to say that he is not an eloquent writer, but the thoughts he shared with me struck me deeply, and I think they will resonate with everyone in the running community. He's given me permission to share them.

I have to admit, I wish I was on that train with him -- but for those of us who are not at Boston 2014 in person, we are there in spirit, stride for stride. Good luck to all the runners: may you endure well.

My old cross-country coach used to say it like this: "shared pain is less pain." 

*  *  *

Where to begin?  As I sit on a train headed toward Boston, I figure it's about as appropriate time as any to put down some thoughts and reflections on what brought me here.  April 15th, 2013 was a day that I'll always remember.  I don't think I need to dwell on what that day meant to me and to us, to runners and our community.  

I say community because that's what it is.  This was a direct assault on our community of runners that is not bound by walls, borders, ethnicity, gender, age, or religious affiliation.  People often think it's fun or funny to "attack" runners, either by verbal jeers, hand gestures or the mocking cat calls that we've all come to expect...and most times they get an unexpected result.  This "runner" isn't quite as docile and timid as they think, and the standard 1 finger salute heads their way.  Well back to me now, cause really this is all about me...I tend to take things that like extra personal and lash out with a touch more retaliation then may be necessary.  (See Lords of The Sidewalk.)  Over the years I have yelled, cussed, chased down, spit in windows, kicked in sides of doors, and overall just plain lashed out against those that attack my run.  It makes me angry to know that while I'm trying to get away from it all, people will butt their heads into my world and try to disrupt my attempt to distance myself from them.  So that's a bit of me...and when this attack happened you can pretty much multiply that feeling by a million.  They didn't just attack MY run, they attacked the running community.  Fuck that.  Fuck you.  It's time for someone to get punched in the face. 

So what options did I have?  What options did we have?  Well I did the only thing I could think of....I got on the mighty internet and looked for a race.  I found one 6 weeks out that seemed like it wouldn't be too hot, or too crowed, or too sold out.  I don't typically run well in the heat so I knew that if I had any chance to quality for Boston 2014, it would need to happen fast....without much "marathon" training.  So I ran.  Not away from what happened, but toward retribution against those that attacked us.  My training gathered up steam and I focused with renewed interest on a singularly particular goal.  Boston 2014.  Must.  Happen. 

I started to realize how many other people felt this way and were doing the same thing.  Friends came out of the woodwork with similar goals, internet message boards flowed with stories and plans for people to make it to Boston 2014..the entire community was angry and filled with a renewed passion to fight back!  To attack not just the people that hit our symbol, but to fight back against anyone and anything that stood in the way of what we wanted..  Summer marathons, small marathons, big marathons, hilly marathons, it didn't matter.  People attacked them to fight back and take their goals.  We would make it to Boston 2014. I was overwhelmed with how unified we had become.  

It took me 6 years of running marathons to get my first BQ.  There was a lot of blood, sweat and tears put into that race.  That's one I'll always remember and I literally cried on the ride home thinking about all of the effort, time, and miles I poured into that.  Since then I've qualified a few more times, but it was never the main goal after that race.  I moved on and made breaking that 3 hour mark my main focus, which I accomplished twice.   So you see I'm not a great runner and I'm not a bad runner, I'm just a guy that works hard and enjoys the struggle and accomplishments that come along with that.  So when I started this 6 weeks focus on Boston I was a guy nearly 4 years removed from a sub 3 hour marathon, and I hadn't run a BQ since 2010. 

After I signed up for my race attempt to BQ I got a call from one of my best friends, Jeff.  He was going to fly on his own dime up to the race I registered for, pay for it himself, and help pace me to my goal.  I suspect there are others with stories like that.  People within our community trying to help each other out, trying to arrive in Boston at the same time.  Jeff wasn't planning on running Boston, but it was enough for him that I run Boston.

As it sounds we ran BOSTONSTRONG that day. It was all business, focus, and desire.  We ripped down that final stretch together and I had my BQ, my PR, and my 1st Sub 3 hr marathon in 4 years.  2:56:41  I booked this train ride to Boston that day.  It was done.  As I crossed the line that day I headed right to my car so I could text my friend Mike.  He too had poured his heart and soul into another marathon going on that same day.  He was "retired" from marathons until April 15th, when that bomb shook us all.  The text came back....2:56.  Success!  The feeling I had that day will likely never be duplicated.  It was a feeling of relief, excitement, and still so much anger. 

Later that summer I had a chance to try and repay the favor, to help pace my college roommate and former training partner to a BQ.  I jumped at the chance...and as strong as he was, we didn't make it.  Training through the summer was difficult and making the gains needed were too much in too short of a time.  One thing that I take from that day is that none of us are alone and we're all in this together. Jeff was there beside me for 26.2 miles, and without his strength I don't think I would have made it.  I was right there next to Ray for miles until we couldn't hold the pace needed any longer.  Today I take strength from him as I prepare to represent myself...and my community well in Boston. 

Over the next several months I trained.  I trained hard, focused, and I ran literally thousands of miles to get me to this point.  In shape, ready to not only conquer the 26.2, but to do it better and faster than I have before.  Like many, I'll be toeing the line with mixed emotions.  Happy that I'm there, but sad that it took something tragic to get me there.  Happy that I'm fit and in shape and ready for a PR, but wanting to soak in the experience and enjoy the celebration with my friends.  Nervous that I'll let down people that are looking to me for strength and excited at the opportunity to make people proud.  But like everyone, I'll run.  It's what we do: my buddy Mike says it best, "Runners Run."

For those of us in Boston there are thousands that we're carrying alongside us, pushing and pulling us toward that finish line.  I am fortunate to work at a running store, able to share my passion for this thing we love with other people.  I draw so much strength from my local community of runners when they accomplish the goals laid out in front of them.  It's been overwhelming to hear the thoughts, well wishes, and excitement from people training for their first 5k through marathon.  They are with me.  To them I am a part of the iconic symbol that is this Boston Marathon.  We all are, and we all carry the thoughts, hopes, and dreams of many.  Monday we run.  Monday we'll carry the strength of everyone we've ever run alongside of, the strength of 36,000 people running to the same place, and the strength of literally millions that will be in attendance and watching. 

I'm just a guy sitting on a train headed for Boston. These are my thoughts.

Friday, March 14, 2014

The Running Bum as Sad and Admirable

There is a thread on the letsrun.com message board right now about whether running bums are sad or admirable. I find the thread sort of fascinating because you can't really separate out the sadness from the nobility of it. Most arguments against building your life around running in your 20s make an instrumental argument about that part of life. If you decide to become a running bum, the argument goes, you are sacrificing your future potentialities. You will wake up some day in your mid- to late- 30s with sore achilles tendons and nothing to fall back on except 15 years spent working stocking shoes in a running store. Many posters find this sad, and it might actually be.

But it's exactly this thought that is the nobility of the running bum lifestyle: the thought that life is not fundamentally instrumental in nature, that the present ought not be sacrificed to an unknown future. The running bum forsakes imagined possibilities of midlife success for all sorts of real immediacies: the feeling of strength in the well-trained body; the simple and ascetic discipline of the running life; the brotherly clan of training partners; the sensations that others will never have a chance to know: the body working at a level that others could literally never imagine: clipping off 5 minute mile after 5 minute mile, effortlessly, flying.

We wake again and again to ourselves in the middle of life somehow, bound to a contract of habit that we don't remember signing. This is the case for everyone. The running bum's contract is different than most. He seems barely to have a grip on life, a grip that is certain to fade as his body fades, as the miles rack up, as the tendons degenerate, as the muscles lose their elasticity, and the crows feet spread out from eyes too used to staring out at horizons to find their focus beneath the florescence of office lights. His plans only involve circles, outs and backs, open roads, open sky and lost dogs in the dead of night.

The running bum intuits what the rest of us also know: life is short and it will fade for us all. In the end all instrumentalities of life, all the best-made plans, lead us all into the ground. His choice is noble, as it honors the present. He throws himself deeply into it without regard for futures beyond his experience.

This point comes for all of us, not just for running bums: the moment when we cease to trade the present for hopes only dimly imagined and decide to throw ourselves into the life that has chosen us. The moment feels something like this: we wake up one morning and find ourselves trapped by the choices we've made and by the path that fate bore us down. Life forces us to choose to be who we have become -- the recklessness and singularity of this choice is our only chance at freedom.

The running bum makes this choice to become who he is early in life, long before most people even realize that life (or, to speak honestly, death) will force this choice. It is strange to see someone choose a life so young, when they are still in formation, when most of us believe that we still have many lives to live beyond the one that will inexorably happen to us.

The lives of others are always sad and always admirable. Singularity is like that. We are sad for the losses that others must endure. We wish that they had made better choices. We mourn for the futures they could not live and hope to make better choices than they did. But at the same time we also admire the lives of others because they chose differently. They took paths we did not dare to take, made choices when we lacked courage. They became who they are, and the otherness of that choice beckons us out of the narrowness of our own perspectives.

The lives of others always reflect the singularity of our own life: the fact that this life is mine alone, and I have chosen it. I chose it sometimes sadly and blindly, sometimes nobly and deliberately, and sometimes without knowing which was which until much, much later, and sometimes without knowing at all.

Sunday, March 2, 2014

What Parenting and Running Have in Common: or why joy is more essential than happiness

In the fascinating and perceptive All Joy and No Fun: The Paradox of Modern Parenthood, Jennifer Senior takes a look at the cultural expectations surrounding parenthood, adulthood, and childhood. The book is fashioned out of a lovely mix of psychology, philosophy, sociology and real-world reporting, and while the drama of parenting is her ostensible subject, she uses this drama to explore even more fundamental questions. The book is not a manual for parenting; it's a book about the way we frame our lives and the narratives that support the answers we give to the hows and whys that face us down as parents and even as human beings.

The most interesting claim that she makes in the book is that the pursuit of happiness at the center of contemporary culture, enshrined in the Constitution, and a central guiding concept in parenting--we want our kids, more than anything, to be happy--is deeply problematic and a threat to other, more important, more achievable, and more satisfying human goals.

She explains that one of the first lessons of parenthood is that happiness is superficial, vague, and ill-defined. Study after study shows that becoming a parent does not lead to happiness. The people she interviews in the book make this case in all sorts of poignant ways. It's also clear that trying to make their children happy leads parents more often than not into paradoxes and difficulties and failures. Anyone who has tried to make someone else happy understands what a frustrating experience that can be. In fact, when we take happiness as a goal for ourselves, we end up making our selves miserable, more often than not.

Senior explains that contemporary culture misunderstands the nature of happiness when we take it as a goal. She allies herself with the Ancient Greeks, who saw happiness as an effect of a well-lived life, as a consequence of flourishing, rather than as an end to be pursued (Aristotle said famously that we could not know whether a man was happy until after his death.) She notes that the most powerful thing that children give us is a sense of this Greek ideal: a well lived life, formed out of duty and purpose. This duty and purpose structures the experience of living in a way that satisfaction is possible, not in an absolute sense, but in a series of concrete senses. Further, parenting gives us structured life in a way that connects us with other people, our children, our partner, our schools, other parents, community. So, the satisfactions that we get from fulfilling our duties as parents are shared satisfactions.

Senior sees parenting as one of the only human activities in the 21st century that allows us to combat a contemporary narrative that says that the purpose of life is to achieve happiness, painted as an internal and psychologically complete state. On the contrary, it paints a picture of life as a matter of family and communal flourishing and downplays the idea that life is about the maximizing of a solipsistic view of individual happiness. It refigures the purpose of life in terms of external attachments and duties, which can be actually measured and achieved in concert with others.

Runners ought to understand Senior's argument intuitively. She helps us articulate why an activity which from the outside (and even from the inside) involves a great deal of suffering, discipline, and is fundamentally painful and tiring (yes, running and parenting have a lot in common) is something that runners continue to do and even identify with. Runners and parents have a lot in common -- those who do not engage in these activities find them fundamentally annoying, don't get what the big deal is, and see parents/runners as masochistic and self-sacrificing.

Runners and parents also do a poor job of explaining why it is that they identify with these activities. We too often pride ourselves on our pain tolerance or paint what we do as self-sacrificing or more noble than other activities. This is why others find us annoying.

Running, parenting -- these things don't make us happier or more virtuous in themselves. They are not a direct path to self-improvement. But, they are activities that frame human activity in terms of duty and allow us to share those duties, with ourselves, with our peers, with our families. I think this is why we do not say that we do running or that we do parenting. Instead, we are runners; we are parents.

We are these things because they provide the duties and framework that allows us to see ourselves as connected, as attached, as beings with purposes and goals and the means to attain those goals or to fail at them. These rich activities (playing music, being married, deep friendship, working a career, being a neighbor) give us the very threads out of which we weave the patterns of our lives. In comparison to this quilt of real and shared responsibilities, happiness is a pale shadow, a mere consequence, a fleeting state.

Senior reminds us that what we want out of life is something more akin to joy than happiness. Joy erupts and fades; it is a feeling of flow, a sense that the structures of the universe -- or at least of our local environment -- are in line with our own being, a sense that we are magnified and larger than ourselves, connected in dynamic ways with experience, with others. Senior quotes GE Vaillant, saying that "Joy is grief turned inside out." Joy is the presence of what we grieve for when it is absent.

If happiness is too pale, inward, and controlled to be a life goal, joy is too vivid, outward, and wild. But articulating the value of life in terms of the one over the other says a lot about the types of experiences we frame for ourselves. The pursuit of happiness frames life as an inward mission towards a state of final internal satisfaction. Happiness is something we pursue and possess. The pursuit of joy frames life as a series of risks taken on behalf of hard-won, often lost, and mutual goals. Joy is never a possession: it's a celebration.

The runner, the parent, the human is never fully satisfied, but often experiences satisfaction. When we celebrate that satisfaction, for ourselves, with others, jubilantly -- when we grieve the loss of hard-fought battles -- we hardly notice ourselves, but for that very reason we are very much alive.
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