Tomorrow morning, I'm waking up at 4 to eat oatmeal and almonds before spitting a few thousand words of what will one day become the second novel in a series of three that will define my generation before heading off to CWC with something like 5000 Philippine pesos in my pocket. Along the 7 or so miles it takes to run between my hotel in Naga and this joint in Pili, I'm going to try and find a place that'll let me pay to stay for 4 nights because the place I'm staying now is throwing me out after 11 days because I didn't do something ludicrous like "book in advance with the race organizers." Everything in town is sold out through the gestapo I'm going to refer to as the Philippine 70.3. They wrote me an e-mail yesterday in response to my e-mail thanking them for letting me extend my stay, which they earlier said they would do, saying something like ooh...sorry...we were mistaken...you're shit out...regards...and by the way we are just going to leave it like that...without even the slightest suggestion as what to do...because we care...the Philippine 70.3. I can tell you that my initial reaction was to write a quite colorful e-mail, which by the end, I deleted, knowing I would have to face these people at some point, not wanting to worry, again, about the possibility of my own prosecution in a foreign country.
I'm starting to wonder why I titled this post the way I did, considering everything I have now written serves as an exact contradiction to my self-promotion. I think I started on the theme of growth because I knew the eventual direction of the post, which was going to steer towards a chance encounter I had with some guy named Rallay who told me he had a friend from Manila who was going to be driving down on the 19th in a pickup truck with another friend and their two bikes, and that he might have a smaller size bike I could use for the race, and that maybe he could fit it into the truck. I gave Rallay my e-mail and heard nothing for 2 days until I saw him running laps at CWC. He flagged me down, calling me Mr. Reilly and enthusiastically before telling me he didn't have any more updates but that he would know by the 19th or 20th and that he would send me an e-mail to either confirm or deny. In the meantime, I let all my other hopefuls fall away because they either involved a drive up to Manila or a purchase from some guy trying to make a buck through unloading some dead steel.
So I'm sitting here on wednesday night, about to pretend like I am going to be able to go to sleep early in prep for tomorrow's trying morning. I'm running a half-Ironman in 3 days. I don't have a place to stay. And I don't have a bike. But you know what, If there were a mirror in front of me, I think I would look at myself and think something like, that guy's got it all under control...that guy can handle anything. In the past, I'm pretty sure that entire last sentence would have been my punchline...and it sort of still is. But inside of me, it's not, and I'm really not trying to be that funny. Everything was starting to feel pretty clean around here, comfortable around here. Tomorrow, my life turns to chaos and I can feel it and the potential approaching disaster coming, and hard, really fucking hard. I want it to try and find me. I want hotels to refuse me at every turn. I want everyone to fall through. I want to have to sleep in some poor Philippine family's creekside tent in the country. I want them to make me work their land in exchange for my stay. I want them to send me off before supper on the last night with a live chicken I became friendly with, the patriarch of the family handing me a butcher knife and saying something like now you become a man. I want to wake up the morning of race day and eat oatmeal and almonds with the family, borrow the youngest boy's tireless BMX and his plastic army helmet. I want them to see me off with no understanding as to why I came to the Philippines in the first place. I want to ride up to that starting line, sparks kicking off my rims, fuck you all in my eyes, before I drop blood across the lengths of CamSur.
