Back To Alcatraz...

Sometime around May of 2010, I was standing in the general manager’s office of Equinox Westwood. I had just gone through the employee time trial for a shot at winning an entry in the prestigious Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon. My bike wasn’t calibrated exactly right, and my overall time slid below the national top 25 that would have gotten me into the race. I was begging this guy to understand what I was saying, that I was completely screwed by the computer (which was very true), and even rode the leg again on another bike to prove it. I was begging him to do the right thing, because I deserved it, because I needed it, because I was convinced that racing Alcatraz would somehow change my life. Somehow, I got in.

It’s May again and I’m about to go back to Alcatraz, the very thing that started it all. This year, to make damn certain there was no confusion on my invite, I somehow pulled in the Equinox National #1 time the night before the LA Marathon. That means a couple of things. First, after some TOUGH races, it was nice to see my name next to a number like that. Second, and far more important, it means that everyone I beat is hopefully saying something to themselves like I’m going to beat THAT fucker, especially the guy who lost by 1 second. I hope he’s pissed. I hope I can find him out there, shake his hand and then battle him. Honestly, all I’ve ever wanted to be in this world is THAT fucker, so it should be a fun, fast race. I need one. I’m really looking forward to it.

My whole life, I’ve been a somewhat high level athlete, but an athlete second. There has always been something else driving, something else incendiary inside. In the past, I’ve looked back on stretches of my life and deemed them not acceptable against the standards I’ve set before destroying my collected comfort by stepping into new worlds, usually about a dozen at a time, before returning, winding my clock, and starting anew. I mention this because Alcatraz has made me peek over my shoulder, wrap the year into a single box, and examine. It’s been a serious 12 months.

But I don't support indulgent satisfaction. Or falling off. Ever.

The Reason Arctic Monkeys Slam The Door On Book #1...

This Girl...

Again with the fascination. It's all I can think of this week or all that's reaching me. Completely surprised and then not at all. Jealous of NYC for a night. Then, go listen to 1-12 of Actor.

Fascinating...

Dear SNL...

Fallon made cameo last week in the extraordinary live action Ambiguously Gay Duo. So clearly, this is in the playbook. You don't have to say anything, but please, please tell me you're rehearsing Barry Gibb right now with JT back in the saddle for the season finale. You don't have to say anything, but please. It would make my week.

Why You're Playing College Baseball At Radford And High Point...

It's Not What You Think!

It's About Time Someone Put Charlie Day In An Actual Movie...

Might Be Here...

I'm Finished...

There's a large chunk of this video that's cut out. I bitch a bit about the course, about not being able to breathe, the wind, the heat. Then I go on to talk about how Kona is going to be my last full Ironman. I ended up taking all of that out. It all seems so trivial now, even as I was saying it. There was a distinct point somewhere in that run, where I was more defeated than I have ever been in my life, more broken than I have ever been, where it felt like something fell from me, like I let something go that would have otherwise tormented me for breaking down, for not being stronger, for not finishing higher. It's not here. Wasn't this morning, or last night. I don't think it will ever be here again. If that's true, then what I'm taking away from St. George is so big, it's nearly unspeakable. I've been gone for 3 days and it feels like months. Sometimes people ask me why I do what I do - any race, but in this case, a 2.4/112/26.2. Because without bullshit, a single day shows me exactly who I am. Because I cried a little bit for every person I saw finish that race, because I knew.

Here We Go, Almost...

3:27 in the AM and I've got my boy BF here, nearly running on repeat. Things are looking good. The world is outside, and waiting. The day is waiting. I feel like there's a dame outside my door, waiting to take my hand and show me everything that's anything. I'm going to make her wait for another hour because I'm primadonna, but also because when I walk out that door, the gloves have to come fucking off. And I need to breathe just a little bit longer.

So Utah...

It sort of feels like there's nothing here in St. George, and that it goes on forever. Tonight, I was driving part of the course after the sun had set and everything was glowing. Then, I just started screaming. That's what it's like here. I'm going to try and find that tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow, and then I'll go back to California, and remember how simple my life really is, knowing all I'm ever after is something that makes me scream.

Fuck Week...

NPR is streaming Okkervil River's new album. This is the second time I've made it through today. Love them, not yet sure if it's better than really good. There's all this shit on my desktop, motorcycle insurance and appointments and academic articles I write because I'm a false fucking whore. Tomorrow morning, I have to go into the DMV, then I have to run, have to sit in the sun, have to let my skin strengthen and burn and grow confident under this suddenly scorching California. I got a call today from someone trying to make my man-u into a movie, who told me about some big swinger in some faraway city who is afraid of my truth, afraid to take my hand, afraid I will break her bones. No, she won't even look into my eyes and it's making me fire, and it's making something recently dormant inside of me agitate. The seams aren't splitting like they used to, instead resilient, expanding and stretching as I breathe weighted, obscene, absurd breath. Everything about this feels so fucking absurd. Everything about me, this week. Hopefully not next. Thursday, I'm driving to Utah. Saturday, I'm running the Ironman and I feel flat, controlled. I feel strong, like I can see him, the Devil, looking at me, hands already tight in white tape. His clout is fading. I'm going to take him by the throat and pin him against the ground, drool and spit rage all over his face. I'll tell him these things, speak my peace then let him up, before I ask him to take my hand and show me what's next and where to wander and where to not fear the fall. He is my friend, sometimes my mentor, often misunderstood as vile. Only when he returns do I realize how much I've missed, the depth of my responsibility. Someone's hand is on my face, holding it, a girl. I'm not dismantling her for trying. There is no desire. There's a ring on my finger that won't come off. It means more to me than anything. It has to always. The streets are too many, my remaining steps too few.