Tag Archives: run

Four on the Fourth Pt. II

A few months back, I was asked to write a follow-up to my initial post on the Four on the Fourth. On the eve of the race I thought I would post it. A ton has changed since I wrote this, and it feels like the world is hurtling toward a clearing. As it turns out, I’ll be lacing up my shoes and running the race in person tomorrow in my hometown. Nonetheless, I still thought these reflections to be worthwhile.

The days have stacked on top of each other like thin sheets of paper. In waiting for the return to what we had a book of experience has formed. It can be hard to read the pages, time feeling both brief and elongated.

The news is the same on the English language Korea news site. Everyday the editors find inventive ways to talk about virus numbers. The numbers go up and down and up again. One day in the 300’s, one day in the 400’s. Back to the 300’s. Hope has been anesthetized by boredom and repetition. Waiting has become a habit that I take for granted. It’s a privileged routine, but still a tedious one.

I wake up and run 10km every day before work, training for nothing in particular, snapping photos of the sunrise from the same spot at the same time each morning. And so it’s another March with the same spring weather, the same blossoms, the same return to green. Jeju starts to wake up. The picture I take imperceptibly grows brighter.

I receive the news of a widespread vaccine distribution with the weight of a year of waiting. It’s warming but so distant. Hope shouted from halfway around the world. Who knows when it will reach Korea. It could be another year. But, in the midst of it I receive an email that brings it more into focus.

It’s the race director, Bill Graham, from my hometown race, the Four on the 4th. He’s read my previous piece on the run, and is hopeful about this year’s return to a more normal event. There will be a virtual option, but also potential runners side-by-side in the streets of small town Bridgton.

It conjures up a memory of red, white and blue–tank tops, hats, bumper stickers, flags–flooding the street like vivid paint on a sunny day. The race’s waiting corral packed with anticipation. Thousands of tight springs waiting to be released. The national anthem, a gunshot, and then the joy of running. Falling in with a pack and sprinting away from the noise of main street into the quiet backroads of a small town. Enjoying the freedom of movement.

The race has always been a benefit to raise money for the local library since it began in 1977. The course has shifted from time to time–the starting place moving from a couple’s doorstep, to the golf course and eventually to downtown. It traces four miles through the heart of the small town. There were no more drastic changes, however, as in 2020 when I found myself running my hometown race “virtually” along the Han River in Seoul. I was a lone maniac sucking breath, trying for a fast time as I dodged the leisurely joggers. My time fell well short of my goal, but I called it good enough.

It was a fleeting connection to the streets of my town as I snapped a blurry selfie and sent it to my family, joking that I was the first one to the finish line. There’s nothing like that last mile in Bridgton, coming down main street while you’re pumping air. The smell of hot dogs, the flashes of yellow from the Lion’s Clubs Great Bridgton Duck Race, the library on the right. Seeing familiar faces in the crowd blur by. The final turn onto depot street where you spring toward the loudspeaker that blares the same classic rock tunes that have been a soundtrack to small town life for 40 years. The drama of a real finish line.

There’s a meaning to this race that transcends others that I have run. Even though it’s a race full of “out-of-towners”, the race still manages to bring everyone into its fold. Rich folks emerge from the solitude of their summer lake houses, summer campers drive their kids in droves to the starting line, locals take a short walk down to the starting line, and returners like myself show up for the mixing pot of the race.

Other races lack this community. Big events with corporate sponsors and plastic goodie bags full of swag. There’s a personal touch to the Four on the 4th that elevates it. Even the elite pack at the front stick around at the finish line, chewing on watermelon and catching up with old acquaintances. It’s a race that brings you back.

What is it that makes the Four on the 4th a little different? Perhaps it’s the seed that was planted at the race’s inception. The idea that we are running to raise money for the library. The library itself is a brick building in the center of downtown surrounded by tall sentinel oak trees. It’s a town mainstay that’s easily taken for granted. It’s a physical and intellectual guidepost.

Growing up, I didn’t run the race. I never fancied myself a runner, and in my teenage years I wanted to be anywhere besides Bridgton. An event that brought the town together was something to avoid. My friends and I invented a harmless counterculture of guitar playing, kicking around skateboards and late night drives. We weren’t into partying in high school, and so we had to find creative ways to spend our time. Bands with names like The Warbirds and The Sneakies formed. We were more interested in the quiet nighttime stage of the small town than seeing the whole town’s population in the light of day. Late night talks on lawns or by lakes about how we were going to get out.

And eventually I did get out. It’s my tenth year living in Asia, but I’ve had the chance most years to return to Bridgton in the summer. The race has become a yearly ritual that will continue this year (whether it be virtual or in person). There’s meaning in returning to grounding points. The revisiting of old sign posts spark insight. I’ve shifted from small town escapism to appreciation.

I used to be more intense about my training, designating specific workouts for speed or endurance. Now I take a more patient approach, taking what my body gives me on my runs. I usually get in a daily run, but don’t feel the need to force it. I enjoy the movement and the daily accomplishment of distance. I’m slowly settling into something more manageable.

The Four on the 4th is a testament to the power of intention and tradition. A race that started with the goal of bettering its community has continued to cultivate community. Its runners get a small taste of that intention and carry it with them–new seeds to be planted wherever they are in the world. The race will keep going, building upon itself each year, writing its story. The oak trees will continue to grow and stand guard. I’ll be running the race this year whether it’s in Bridgton or Korea. In the meantime the library’s bricks and the asphalt of main street will wait patiently for the race’s yearly return.

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A Year Without Treadmills

My 2020 round of running started in Portland, Oregon. While visiting my brother there, we set off into the city on a long run, moving from his residential locale to the iron and glass of downtown. In the intervening zone, we passed an oil change center, a destitute mall, tents on sidewalks, graffiti under a bridge. The grit of the dreary Pacific Northwest muted by clouds and the threat of rain. We hit the river and crossed Steel Bridge, feet pinging on the grated metal. I looked down and saw the river flickering through the tiny openings.

We meandered through the city. Up the gondola to the hospital where he works, then down the hill on winding roads to a farmer’s market. We greedily ate some food cart tamales that smoked in the chilly air, then hit a donut shop.

“You should sell a running food tour of Portland!” I joked as we made our way back to the river. His beard framed a grin. Then over the Hawthorne bridge–the bridges curvature making the ascent seem protracted as we dodged bikers and runners. The suspension bridge stretched time. Eventually we were descending. And then back to his house. 21 kilometers in the books.

At some point, I decided to give up treadmills (or the “dreadmill” as runners jokingly call it). Maybe it was my two years in Shanghai that burned me out on them–countless hours spent pounding away on the spinning mat while an air filter whirred next to me. Hiding out from toxic air. Watching episodes of old HBO shows that I had missed while I sprinted. I watched all of The Sopranos, Six Feet Under, The Wire. Eventually the treadmill mat formed a hole big enough for me to slip my running shoe through.

On that fraternal morning run through Portland, I decided to avoid the treadmill for the year. It would be a challenge. Each kilometer would be earned by a step on soil or concrete or gravel or tree root. From Oregon I went to Hawaii for a few days before journeying back to Jeju. Runs up to Diamond Head Crater and Ala Moana Park. Grinning through the rain showers that would come and go a few times in one run. The thrill of exploration, pushing it just one more kilometer, one more kilometer, before I decided to turn around and make my way back.

There is a different feeling when mapping out a new route in a strange land. The body is attuned to elevation, turns in the road, intersections, noises, and weather. The brain processes a million stimuli as the body cruises. This is rewarded with the awe of new sights. Topping Diamond Head Crater or coming around a bend to stunning views of a jagged coastline. There is something about the novelty that pushes the body. The mind converts new stimuli into running fuel. Discovery.

Upon arrival in Jeju after vacation, my running regimen resumed. Approximately 80km a week on the farm roads around my apartment. Early morning slogs through chilly morning air. Post work 5k’s to blow off steam. At this point, after seven years of running these roads, every turn could be anticipated. Every distance had been mapped. The trees and cracks in the pavement all familiar. I began each weekday morning with some light yoga and a 10km loop, snapping a photo of the sunrise each time from my favorite spot. The weekends were reserved for longer runs and surf sessions. Sundays were a chance to run my favorite Jeju trail to check in with horses that hang out on a nearby oreum.

During my runs, I’ll put on music or an audiobook. I’ve worked my way through a small library of books on my runs over the years. Recently I’ve noticed a strange effect. Vivid scenes from these books will come back to me mid-run. I’ll spot a stone wall or a familiar bend in the road and it will trigger a memory from one of these listening sessions. They are always incredibly random scenes that spring from the depths of memory: one of the jester scenes from Hartley and Hewson’s reworking of Hamlet or one of the heated debates about colonialism from Adichie’s Half of a Yellow Sun. Books that were listened to and buried five years ago are brought into vivid forefront from a stone wall, a tree, a farmer’s barn.

I wonder how much of our memory is tied to place. What is the biological function of this? This year has been a forced exploration of the stationary, but it has bolstered my memory. These repetitive runs reinforce the stories that I listen to, and ask me to revisit them. Connecting to an oral tradition with moving feet and headphones. As I run, I hang memories from the trees and hide them in rock crevices to be discovered later. This is done without realizing it. Memory becomes blended with the local landscape. A library hiding out in the orchards.

On my bucket list is the dream of running across the entirety of the USA, coast to coast. The romantic idea of plodding along day after day toward the other edge of the country. It looks poetic from a distance, tracing a mental line.

The running app that I use spits out my year end totals in December. This year I ran 3,858 kilometers with 65,161 meters in elevation gain. That’s nine Everests. That’s enough distance to get me from Cali to North Carolina, ocean to ocean.

But this year most of my miles were spent on loops, exploring the familiar. No outward discovery, only an inward one. And that type of discovery is more arduous and slow to come by. Repeated scenes and turns in the road might be growth or stagnancy. It takes time to decipher which.

I’ve stumbled upon a certain genre of YouTube video in my watching algorithm lately. It’s thru-hikers who condense their journey into an hour of footage. It seems like these videos have certain conventions: the thrill of the journey’s beginning, a few moments of desperation, the finding of quiet on the trail, friends met along the way, the thrill of finishing. Classic hero’s journey stuff. Each video always ends with some maudlin reflection about humankind’s relationship to nature and tries to eke out an epiphany. The journey definitely had value, but it’s clear that it’s near-impossible to put into words. These videos try though. It’s fascinating to me.

It makes me wonder what purpose a thru-hike or a run across the USA would serve. One of the most insightful comments made in one of the YouTube videos was in a candid moment in which a delirious hiker addressed the camera on the verge of tears. It was late in his journey on the Appalachian Trail and he starts talking about the trail speaking to him. “I’ve realized that I don’t confront things in the moment as much as I should. You know what? I’m going to be better about that.” It was a simple but sincere observation. The journey hadn’t given him special overarching insight, but had provided perspective on what he needed to work on in the real world. He had arrived at a starting place.

3,858 kilometers in 2020. I wonder if this distance would have served a different inner-purpose if spread across the entirety of my home country. I think there is something to be said for making the time for such a sole pursuit. Maybe there will be a day for that. In the mean time, I keep plodding along through the orange orchards, tilling connections to my home soil.

One of my last runs of 2020 was in mid-blizzard. Jeju snows differently than most places. It comes in waves of wind and white-out, punctuated occasionally by gaps of blue sky framed by tangerine clouds. I ventured out into the sideways snow, intending to do a 10km run at most. But as I got to a fork in the road I went left, extending the run. I knew that this was committing to at least 14km. And then at another turn-off I went left again, extending to a half marathon. I felt wild taking slugs from my water bottle, stomping my feet into snow-drifts. When the wind and snow kicked in hard I whooped and hollered, letting the Jeju wind rip the sound from my lips and disperse it across the orchards. Despite the familiar trail I thought for a moment that, “This was discovery. It might even beat Hawaii. It sure as hell beats a treadmill.”

each footstep’s handshake

greeting new and old terrain

body over land

Recommended reading (both are read by the author on Audible)

Barbarian Days by William Finnegan

Sigh, Gone: A Misfit’s Memoir of Great Books, Punk Rock, and the Fight to Fit In by Phuc Tran

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What I’m Carrying

Since August I’ve been counting down the daylight. Each morning during my run, I stop at the same spot to snap a quick photo and track the changes of the sunrise. The sun shifts a bit more each day to the southeast–rising a few seconds later. Finally we’ve reached the turnaround. The days will start to grow again. We cautiously embark on a new year. More daylight starts to sink in.

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Heart Beat

I remember hearing a podcast about how cities have different tempos. Some are slow and methodical (Kyoto comes to mind) while others are on the more frantic end of the spectrum. It has something to do with the molecules within a city agitating each other into a more frenetic rhythm the more busy and crowded a city becomes. I imagine that Shanghai–a city known for its population, nightlife, and neon–possesses the tempo of an ear-throbbing techno song.

A year into living there, I had settled into a modicum of comfort with the city’s pace. The push and shove of the subway’s snaking masses had become second nature. I could weave through a crowd in rhythm to the music on my headphones. Loud yells and bells and blurs of light had settled into a picture that I could make more sense of. It had taken time, but I was finally starting to wrap my mind around the city.

Jing’an Temple, Shanghai

At the beginning of that second year, I bit of more than I could chew at work. There was an ambitious initiative that needed a lot of groundwork to be laid. Free moments were spent thinking, planning, scheduling, writing. As my picture of the city started to settled down, my internal tempo began to quicken. Work, like it had done before, began to seep into the free moments of my life. But still I’d plan outings into the city that felt more like missions–trips with a deliberate purpose in mind.

A lot of time in China seemed to be spent in large malls. There were endless floors of shops with restaurants always on the upper levels. Massive ornate displays of Jeff Koons-like contemporary art seemed always on display. The malls were always sparkling clean and milling with people. Whirring cogs of commerce.

It was during one of these forays into a downtown mall that I picked up a new Garmin GPS watch. My old one had developed problems after a year, and for some reason I found myself buying another one of their unreliable watches. This time I stood at the kiosk staring down at a model of watch that shot green lasers onto the upper part of the wrist to somehow detect your heart rate. This was a feature that I had no use for. At frequent times I resented the watch that I did have, and questioned the wisdom of even tracking my miles in the first place. At the same time, I felt the anticipation of regret if I didn’t shell out the extra money for this slick feature. Besides, I was a modern man living in a modern city. I deserved something a bit more classy. In the end, I got the watch with the heart rate monitor.

That Monday at work, I caught the watch face on a doorframe leaving a room and left a little scratch that is still there. My heart sank, and I kicked myself for carelessness. This new shiny device was already tainted. But the laser feature seemed to work, and I continued to check it with interest. Work continued to surround me, and I plugged away through my routine. I’d run, work, gym, eat, work, sleep, repeat. My movements became almost machine-like and I began to assess my routine for inefficiency. Everything began to feel like clockwork. My running times got faster. I had a treadmill in my kitchen that I could hammer out a 10 mile run on in an hour and ten.

And then I began to notice something on my watch. The resting heart rate was low, under 40 beats per minute. On some days it was at 32. Just for reference, a healthy heart rate is between 60 and 100. A small pit began to spin together in the pit of my stomach. I had heard of athletes’ heart rates being lower, some even around 40, but this seemed abnormal. Of course I ignored it, and jumped back into the routine. Run, work, gym, eat, etc. etc.

But the heart rate stayed the same. And the pit in my stomach spun into something a little larger each day. I decided to see my doctor–a chilled out Californian who had pictures of himself doing yoga on the wall. His bedside manner was some of the worst I’d seen in the industry. He’d make a noise like, “hmm…” and then give a long pause, letting you really soak in the silence before he’d say “oh yes this is common.”

But he was kind and competent, and I can be fiercely loyal to even small hints of kindness, so I found myself going back to him for issues that arose. I found myself in his small office showing him my watch and asking him about my heart rate. He paused for many moments with a puzzled expression before suggesting, “well we could do an EKG?” The statement was poised in a way that could have either been whimsy or medical advice. Either way it was covered by insurance, so I found myself in another small room, electrodes being placed onto my chest. I put on my shirt, walked out into the lobby and waited. There is a vulnerability to waiting rooms. The quiet anticipation of judgment from the doctor while what feels like judicial deliberation is happening behind closed doors. As if there’s a panel of people in a huddle back there whispering, “Will we give this one good news or bad news?”

My name was called, and it was back into the small room, my racing mind bracing for the worst. This suddenly felt like a very real test that could throw some very real truth my way. The doctor looked inscrutably at the test and said the words “incomplete right bundle branch block” and then looked at me and really let them sink in. In addition to sounding like a bad grade school tongue twister, it also sounded terrible in conjunction with the heart. Something was blocked? Something was incomplete? What the hell was going on here? Maybe he detected my panic, or maybe not, but he decided with nonchalance to fill me in. “It’s common. It could be the result of an infection when you were little. A lot of people have this. It’s probably nothing to worry about.”

Probably: that word that lodges itself into your brain and then slowly starts to needle. It’s a seed of doubt that spreads slowly over time. There’s a strong chance that everything is fine, but the probably is always there, tugging at your pant’s leg. The doctor definitely sensed my inner panic this time and said with atypical assertiveness, “Maybe we should do a holter test to make sure.”

I came back the next day to get outfitted, the thirty minute ride in the DiDi (think Chinese Uber) was starting to feel common place. I went to work and then I went to the doctor’s office. The receptionists were starting to recognize me. I felt a sick comfort in my “regular” status.

Wearing a holter is like wearing the most obvious wire in the world. It’s a box with electrodes that stick to the chest. I walked around for a day like the world’s worst spy. Yet still nobody noticed the outline of wires under my shirt, or the chunky remote control in my pocket. The results came via e-mail a few days later and were concerning to my eyes. My heart rate was getting down to 29BPM. At no point did it exceed 120BPM. It stopped for 2 seconds or more over 105 times. The report included words like “sinus arrest” and “junctional escape.” And at the very end the words, “Suggest to see a cardiologist for the further assessment.”

I distinctly remember listening to Bill Callahan’s incredible tune Too Many Birds as I walked up to the specialized clinic high rise in the glowing metropolis downtown. I listened to that song on repeat a lot at that time. My headphones kept out the city’s ambiance and I could focus on the songs groove. The bass and drums low-key churn providing a backdrop to Callahan’s guttural deadpan that delivered gut-punch lyrics with a soothing unhurried tempo. The premise of the song is simple: a tree full of birds. Eventually there isn’t room for the last bird. I don’t know why he picked this image, but it’s a striking one. “One last bird and then another.” And then he builds the final line, saying it again and again, adding a new word each time: “If you could only stop your heartbeat for one heartbeat.” The line is a question and a statement and a yearning all in one. With that line ringing in my body, I walked into the clinic to see the cardiologist.

Yes, I’m aware that it’s messed up that it took a GPS watch to tell me that something was wrong. As an ultra runner, I spend lot of time checking in with my body for aches and pains, things to tune up. But these micro issues are sometimes pointing to something larger. It’s easy to get caught in the tempo of what surrounds you. The noise and rhythm can get so loud that you forget all about the drum that is causing them.

In the end, the cardiologist said that there was nothing structurally wrong with my heart. She said that I should exercise less, only 40 minutes a day (advice which I promptly ignored). My heart went from something that I was constantly monitoring, trying to sense signs of danger or abnormality, to something that I could once again leave to its own devices.

I still wear the watch–it cost a small fortune after all–but I find myself checking it less and less these days. My pulse returned to more normalcy after that chaotic year. I always had a hunch that it was stress related, the compaction of responsibility and schedule squeezing my heart beats into forced efficiency. It’s becoming easier to carve out time for the important things in life that allow space for the molecules to roam. Maybe its Jeju or maybe it’s more of an inner change. Either way, I find myself wandering in my free time a lot more, letting time unravel at its own pace. The scratch on the watch face doesn’t even bother me anymore.

Nighttime dancers at Fuxing Park

Recommended listening: Bill Callahan Too Many Birds

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