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Will Run, For Food… or Sucking Face

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Veni, ego ran, comedi…

This is a running story.

I came. I ran. I ate. 

It’s also a story about appetites.

It sounds pretty simple but it’s that middle part about running that always hurts. Sometimes the hurt is good, sometimes it’s the shits.

Either way, it’s a lot of work for a banana and some energy juice like Gatorade…

Actually… this year’s energy drink at the BMO Vancouver Half Marathon Aid Stations was called NUUN… as in NUUN of the good tasting stuff… it should be renamed … YUCK.

Finally, this is a story about different reasons for running.

CAVEAT EMPTOR: Not all of the words I write in this post will caress the politically correct or gender-sensitive #MeToo notes that will please you all.

Don’t shoot me, I’m only the messenger.

Let’s dive in, shall we?

Running Reason #1 – As a man, I figure it’s important to subject myself – as if I’m in the throes of childbirth labour – yes, to subject myself to a mere couple of hours of discomfort building into a major pain in my lower half by the finish. Surely this makes me more empathetic to the suffering of my female brethren who bravely bear little vernix-greasy ragamuffins.

Understanding in all its forms makes the world a better place, right?

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Running Reason #2 – One of the big reasons I used to run in marathons and half marathons and 10k races was for the food.

They say that running is supposed to make you a healthy stud but MY big motivator after the gun or horn sounded to begin the race was to drive a mad headlong rush towards the food table at the finish line.

In years past, the food table… sometimes called the refreshment or recharge zone, was an enticing spread: lots of fresh fruit and muffins and donuts and bagels, chilled chocolate milk, occasionally yogurt or ice cream, even pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream. Wine or beer. Guilt-free gluttony.

I’d walk the line, sweat dripping profusely and load my arms to the gunnels with carbs aplenty.

Who wouldn’t run 21.1 or 42.2 kilometres for this buffet of gustatory delight?

More recently, on a tragic note, my experience has been a dwindling of the repasts that greet us sweaty, smelling-like-The-Walking-Dead-zombies at the finish line. They boost entry fees ever higher while trashing the carb quotient… WTF!

In future, I’m going to stage a sit-in at the halfway mark and disobediently refuse to run further until the food situation is remedied… or… they institute a tradition akin to that at the Boston Marathon as outlined below…

Running Reason #3 – The Boston Marathon offers another type of buffet… another appetitic (my word!) temptation for the runners.

Thousands of young women from Wellesley College, scholarly ladies all, line the halfway point of the route in the renowned “Scream Tunnel”.

Kiss Me, I’m an International Student”; “Kiss Me, It’s My First Marathon”; “Kiss Me, I’m an Econ Major”; “Kiss Me, I’m Single”; “Kiss Me, I’ll Try Not To Puke”.

Yes, for decades now, freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors from Wellesley have mobbed and “signaged” the 21k. point of the marathon: screaming, high-fiving… and… kissing the athletes.

Like ghoulishly-garbed kidlets candy-counting their Halloween loot, the young women compare kiss counts at the end of the day.

And a large group of sweaty, blotchy runners get a joyful moment of reprieve from their discomfort.

OK, it’s maybe not #MeToo friendly, but I won’t judge!

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Running Reason #4 – the final, and for me, the most important reason for running is the endorphin-laced sense of achievement.

Crossing the final few metres of a long run where your Prussian blue New Balance shoes feel like they have gooey bubblegum attached, body caked in salty sweat, scanning the timing clock ticking off the seconds, hearing the cowbells and the announcer’s voice and the loud music is high on the heaven-on-earth scale of inner joy.

Running is a solitary challenge to the body, mind and soul.

Solitary while surrounded by thousands of other human passengers all in alignment with their personal dreams and goals, the joys and sorrows that brought them here to persevere through the taxing kilometres.

Solitary while jostling along the imagined food table line, angling for the freshest, yummiest, chocolate-dipped donut on the serving platter. The final endurance test.

Soul food for the soles.

 

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The Gold and the Guns…

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Sing it Bugs … 

Overture, curtain, lights,
This is it, the night of nights
No more rehearsing and nursing a part
We know every card by heart …

HEADLINE: Pyeongchang, Korea vs. Parkland, Florida

How do we hit the heights and the depths all in one moment; the heavenliness of the Olympics running into a brutal head-on collision with bloody savage gunfire hell?

Easy… the starter’s gun fires springing the loaded athlete from the gate at the top of the mountain… while… simultaneously a loaded AR-15 weapon of mass mayhem fires, unleashing spurting pools of blood and panic in children’s classrooms.

Or, as a fellow named Dickens antithetically noted,

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair…”

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Spring of hope, winter of despair

There are physics’ rules that explain it I suppose.

After all, Einstein himself said, “energy is neither created nor destroyed“….

… Potential energy in athletes created = Potential energy in murdered children expended.

I live in Canada, but I can’t coldly turn aside and avoid the pain that crosses an invisible geographic and linguistic border when children are senselessly annihilated.

There is beauty and heartbreak in sport… is anything more lovely than a young man or woman flying into momentary orbit, spinning on their own axis 3 or 4 times, then returning to icy terra firma in delicate and graceful balletic form?

As the climax of their performance nears, a bright smile of joy alights and beams for the adoring crowd… or… tears of anguish swell when an unsuccessful program marks the end of the journey.

There is beauty and heartbreak in gun ownership… there must be some beauty, although I struggle to find it … a plethora of TV shows and movies are released each week glutted with exquisitely choreographed scenes of gunfire and bloodshed. Forgive my confusion when the censors tut-tut naked bodies and lovemaking, and yet merrily abide mass murder vistas that any adult or child can absorb daily.

Contradiction, we all eventually discover, is a part of humanity.

We have friction and conflict… a conflict of belief systems.

Curiously, I shake my head and gaze on as the “pros” and “cons” of gun control tread ground on opposite sides of a mirror that they believe is a window… they can never quite see each other’s image.

I watch those talking heads on CNN debate gun issues ferociously. It’s fascinating to see mouths moving where no ears are listening.

It’s as if one side speaks Latin and the other side Swahili.

You say tow-may-tow, I say tow-maah-tow… where you see biosolids, I only smell shit.

So how do we move forward?

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OMG, I hope you weren’t expecting me to have the answer. Sorry. I don’t.

I can only view it all through my own lens and seek out some sort of truth that makes sense in my own mind.

Value for me has been teaching ESL and literacy-challenged adults to learn something that seems so easy. Language. Simple, basic language.

I’m forced to break down the elements of what most of us consider too rudimentary to need explaining.

I’m compelled to immerse myself in a world of explaining what I don’t truly understand at the fundamental level.

Oh sure, I know a noun from a verb from an adjective, but I get all muddley-fuddley when we start slipping in terms like diphthong and dangling modifier and reflexive pronoun.

These are experiences that help me step back and look and listen to see what I’m missing. To learn. To understand.

These are experiences that remind me that my culture and environment are not the same as the person sitting opposite me. To learn. To understand.

The gun culture is Swahili to my Latin.

I look around my gun-lite Canadian world and worry that there are too many young boys brought up to traipse the backwoods with a weapon and bring down a living creature … and then… rah rah… call it… sport.

The Oxford English Dictionary says sport is : An activity involving physical exertion and skill in which an individual or team competes against another or others for entertainment.

The use of guns and hunting as sustenance is one thing… but calling it sport makes me vomit.

How do I find a way to learn and understand this “sport”? Killing as entertainment?

In my world, sport is something that pushes the human body to achieve and improve… to aim for higher, faster, stronger… the Olympics at least attempts to solve that equation. A gun may fill your tummy, but will never be about achievement or improvement.

I know our world is driving the long and winding road to more civility, more kindness and understanding. The historic fog is lifting. There’s an inevitability to it that, like the tsunami of technology that floods our world, is unstoppable.

It’s just that, like so many things in my life, I feel an urgent impatience for the next steps to occur along that highway. Hurry up. Learn. Understand. Please…

The internet has proven its worth as a change agent for women and #MeToo… I’ve seen a recent Facebook post that encourages American school students to go on “strike” until gun laws are changed.

These front line soldiers in this battle will be the children of change…

Meanwhile, I’ll dab away my gun-weary tears and watch those athletes that have put in their 10,000 hours of dedicated training, the medallists and the others who have reached golden heights without a medal to hang around their necks.

… Overture, curtain, lights
This is it, we’ll hit the heights
And oh what heights we’ll hit
On with the show this is it…

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I Can’t… But I Can… 

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I’m not Pollyanna.

There are some things I can do.

There are some things I can’t do.

There are some things I don’t wanna do.

There are some things I shouldn’t do.

I’ve had some fun. But was it worth it?

I was handcuffed once and taken into custody. Twice actually. By the RCMP, not a BDSM lover.

It’s a long story I may tell you one day, but it was worth it.

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The morning following my 21st birthday, I gin-vomited my way from room to room around Stanton Yellowknife Hospital while doing my rounds collecting blood samples for lab testing.

I shouldn’t have done it but was the fun of the night before worth it? Yeah, it was!

She made me feel good, until she didn’t. I broke up with a nice girl, a girl who liked me a lot, merely because she cut off my oxygen supply with her tongue while we were kissing.

I selfishly let her become too attached just so I had a girlfriend. I still feel badly. It wasn’t worth it.

I smoke cigars. Occasionally. I love the musky scent and the feeling of relaxation it imparts.

Short-term it feels worth it. Long-term? Maybe not.

I’ve invested in companies – relying on others’ advice –  without doing my own intense research to see if they were great investments for long-term wealth.

I’ve almost always lost money when I got lazy and let someone else make my decisions for me. Definitely not worth it.

LARRY SPEC CARRIER TIFF

Relying on others’ investment advice at 10 years of age!

I’ve gossiped behind the backs of people I considered friends, saying nasty caustic stuff.

Never worth it. ’nuff said.

………………..

Do. Or do not. There is no try.”    

Yoda.

Actually Yoda, there is a try. There should always be a try. A try with conviction and curiosity and wonder.

A lovely friend across the globe has been recently diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.

She’s accepting of her fate, acknowledging the role of long-term smoking, while appreciating the wonderful opportunities she’s had. There’s a contented resignation to the approaching darkness at the end of the tunnel.

Whenever we hear of someone whose existence has just ended or is nearing their end, we internalize and meditate on our own lives and silently wonder if we should be happy with where our lives have taken us. It’s natural and human.

I know I think about the things I’ve done, the things I’ve not done, and those things I can’t do.

My solution? The voice goes a bit like this… “I can’t do ‘x’ anymore” But on the other hand, “I can do ‘y’!“.

I can try.

We can all try.

If you have an accident or illness and sever a leg and you’re an avid runner, then you know you can’t run anymore (or maybe you can, look at Terry Fox)… but you can still exercise your body with swimming or weight training or wheelchair athletics. Thousands have. Witness the Invictus Games.

To try is to hope. We all need hope. Hope is purpose.

Today, I’m reflecting on the stuff I could do in my earlier years but maybe I have difficulty with now.

Sometimes it’s a physical issue, but often it’s a mind issue.

My “Yoda-try” response is to substitute something else I can do now that maybe I didn’t or couldn’t do back then. I try.

Here, let me give you a few examples:

I can’t run a 10k race anywhere close to the 40 minute pace I could manage 25 years ago.

But I can run a half decent half-marathon once or twice a year. It’s slow, but damned pleasing to cross that finish line knowing that my body has been an active friend for 2 hours

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I can’t become a fabulously famous rock/folk/country performer.

But I can sing with a larger range and more emotional depth and connection than I could in my teens and 20’s. Bigger still is the sense of confidence in writing and performing that increases along with the age on my birth certificate. 

I can’t discipline myself sufficiently to write an entire novel.

But I can find the discipline to write and share a thousand words with you here every week. Acknowledging and understanding my strengths and limitations is deeply satisfying.

I can’t make a beautiful flaky pie crust worth a damn.

But I can cook up a pretty impressive assortment of ethnic foods that I’ve learned from home cooks and cooking classes around the world. I’ll just appreciate the amazing pie crusts that others have the skills to execute.

I can’t sleep on the hard ground on a farmer’s field like I did in the English countryside in my early 20’s.

But I can hold out a credit card with my name on it and sleep in an incredibly comfortable cozy bed in a fancy hotel or resort in Canada or pretty much anywhere in the world. Age and saved/invested wealth bestow some pretty incredible benefits. 

I can’t ever have a high-powered corporate career with the all the bells and whistles and stimulating highs and crushing lows. 

But I can take on little “careers” like making and serving soup, bartending, tutoring and making music where money making isn’t the primary goal. There are tiny pots of gold at the end of many mini-rainbows.

I can’t stay up til midnight or 2 am partying with high alcoholic energy.

But I can get to sleep at 10 pm and not wake up with ringing ears and pounding temples the next day. A clear head is a magical gift.

OK, maybe I am Pollyanna.

‘Fun’ and ‘Can’ and ‘Can’t’ come in very different packages for each of us. Ain’t individualism great?

But to try is the same package for us all.

To try is hopeful.

To try is courageous.

Nietzsche said: “No one can build you the bridge on which you, and only you, must cross the river of life…”

Maybe Nietzsche knew something even more profound than that weird little green Yoda.

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Skills = Pleasure

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Skills & Pleasure.

I could be talking sex here… alright… I AM thinking sex here. But I’ll talk about something else, OK?

Guitar, cooking, writing, bartending, tennis, dancing, gardening, chess, biking, languages, investing, birdwatching, chocolate tasting. So many more…

Skills and knowledge; they elevate us and make us more as humans. Our lives are stories, and those areas where we thrive and grow and excel within are those that bring pleasure… and exhilaration to our story.

I crave endorphins. I love the rush, the feeling of ambrosia, beauty inside, excitement. I don’t get it from gambling in casinos, or buying lottery tickets, or injecting heroin.

I get it by doing and learning new skills.

I’m working on one right now that I never knew or even believed existed until recently.

I love playing my songs at Open Mic nights. I was on stage performing 4 songs last night: one I wrote, and one Harry Chapin tune for David because David loves ole Harry.

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My Ole Friend Harry…

Sure, it scares me. Sure, loose bowels, yada yada… but I’m doing something I really really enjoy and it’s an intense learning experience.

I’m studying the art of reading the audience to suss out what works and what doesn’t. Stand-up comedians like Louis CK and Jerry Seinfeld do this all the time.

I used to think that playing the guitar reasonably well was my core strength – my manly muscle flex – and the singing part of my performance was something peripheral that folks just had to yawn about and tolerate to make the song complete.

At Open Mic I watch and wonder at Richard K. when he’s on stage. He’s an eccentric. He’s an unabashed performer, a Johnny Winter lookalike with a snowy white mane contrasted against classy black suit jacket and pants.

When Richard sings, he opens his mouth like a ferocious ocean storm, gaping wide and projecting from the calluses of his foot soles. Singing is Richard’s full body workout. It’s mesmerizing to watch as his voice pours out like a lion’s roar. I watch… and learn.

I’ve always regarded my own voice as mundane and choirboy-like, too buttery. I have dances in my dreams of parking some Kenny Rogers gravel or Keith Urban Down-Under twang in my throat.

But I’m finding that more and more often, I get compliments on my singing. Some of it is generous fatuous flattery.

However… lately… I’m coming around to the idea that there may be more to it.

EPIPHANY!

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Now, I’m starting to unbelievably believe that it’s the singing that’s my strength.

Have you ever read or heard about Frank Sinatra, and how he made a song uniquely special with his pacing and delivery of the lyrics? Sinatra wrote the book on musical phrasing.

It didn’t mean anything to me when I heard that.  How could it be? It’s merely words sung to a melody line, right?… simple, straightforward.

But no other popular singer has ever known better the combined value of exacting diction and conversational delivery. No one before Sinatra seemed to know where the deliberate pause would paint the greatest emotional impact.

Sinatra was perhaps an intuitive musician, but he was also, I believe, an analytical, scientific singer too. He knew that to inflect a word or a syllable can shift the rhythm and increase the genuineness of a lyric, and can also wash attention over an especially attractive melodic phrase.

Subtlety. Nuance.

OK, so I’m a convert. Now I evangelize as if I wander the streets passing out Watchtower pamphlets. Hallelujah.

I’ve heard scads of singers who have pleasant voices and can stay on key and – OMG, if you can’t sing on key, please get off the stage and go join Boney M and drag your fingers down someone else’s blackboard – yet don’t understand musical phrasing.

Roberta Flack had phrasing. Freddie Mercury had phrasing. Adele has phrasing in spades… her voice and cadence betrays her frailty and, by extension, her humanity. It’s a skill.

No doubt you can think of a dozen singers that insinuate themselves inside you with the timing and pacing of their approach to lyrics. You may not be aware of the effect, but it happens, trust me.

When I practice a song these days, I’ll play it over and over again, and then once more. Jackson Browne would do this for hours on end when he lived in the basement suite below the Eagles’ Don Henley and Glenn Frey in L.A. years ago.

Each time I play the song I’m working on, for example, the popular song Let Her Go by Passenger, I’ll try out many different interpretations, and work on timing and nuances within the lyric lines.

Eventually, I unearth a pattern that, to me, extracts the most emotional impact from the poetic words and rhythm. Skills and pleasure.

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Subtlety. Nuance.

Learning through practice and concentrated effort brings me a feeling of nirvana… satisfaction … and… intense pleasure.

You’ve felt this powerful perception in your world when you put in your best effort and surrendered to the sensation. The soaring awareness of endorphin-packed execution wraps you in a blissful tranquility.

We’re all a complex bundle of simplicity and complexity, perpetually incomplete humans in all areas: physical, spiritual, emotional. Our desires will never be fully answered, nor should they be.

But when I’m always ready to learn a new skill, or improve an old one, I’m once again in my “beginner’s mind”, and like a tiny child, I hold that shiny object over my head, and wonder at all that it holds…

Now that’s pleasure.

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How You Become A TOUGH MUDDER … Oo-Rah!!

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Oo-Rah!!

The mud-saturated young lady in front of me backed up, and with a trembling voice said, “No way!

She maneuvered past me on the narrow wooden platform and left me to inch myself forward. Forward on a plank raised 25 ft above and overlooking a dirty-brown manmade pond way down below me.

Despite the modest height, it feels like I’m jettisoning myself from the top of a skyscraper without a parachute.

My heart is thumping in my throat and I feel a heavy heavy lump in my gut … I know I can’t think or I’ll seize up … so I leap …

……………

I like to do ridiculous things.

Like write blogs!

When I think of dressing up like Lady Gaga … or surfing down a Nicaraguan volcano … or eating a Peruvian roast guinea pig … or starting a Tough Mudder event … I feel my pulse start to race and I get excited about life.

Last weekend my daughter and her partner talked me into joining their team to run and confront a bunch of military-type obstacles at Tough Mudder in Whistler, British Columbia. Obstacles with names like:

  • Warrior Carry
  • The Liberator
  • Berlin Walls
  • Cry Baby
  • Mud Mile 2.0
  • Birth Canal
  • Pitfall
  • Balls to the Wall
  • Kiss of Mud 2.0
  • Shawshanked
  • Walk the Plank
  • Devil’s Beard
  • Hold Your Wood 2.0
  • Everest 2.0
  • Arctic Enema 2.0
  • Cliffhanger
  • Funky Monkey 2.0
  • Dead Ringer
  • ElectroShock Therapy

……………

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Oo-Rah!!

The exuberant deep-voiced guy at the start of the Tough Mudder challenge with the red and yellow lanyard around his neck that declares “MARINES” gets us pumped and cheering …

Just 70 kilometres from here is the finish line!” … he grins naughtily with a teasing beam of white teeth knowing the course length is really 17.6 kilometres. “Give me an Oo-Rah!

Oo-Rah!!

“Today many of you are doing something for your first time… let your life be filled with firsts.”

Oo-Rah!!

About 200 of us in this every-15-minutes-released wave of craziness sing the Canadian national anthem and then enthusiastically burst under the START banner.

Four hours later, mud-caked, freezing cold from chilly downpours, scratched and scraped from slithering through mud bogs and beneath barbed wire and climbing over 12 foot high wood walls, we cross the finish line in the early evening sunshine where we receive the coveted bright orange TOUGH MUDDER headband, a T-shirt and a can of cool beer.

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Ahead of time I was psyched out anticipating that the final challenge … ELECTROSHOCK THERAPY … 10,000 volts (can the human body survive 10,000 volts? Apparently YES!) of electricity running through dangling wires that you dash through … would be hair-raising. The event organisers make this challenge sound the most dangerous and scary of all the obstacles.

But after all of the other challenges we encountered and conquered that afternoon, it just seemed so anti-climactic in the end. A few sharp zaps and it was done. EASY!

Either that or I was so glad to make it to the end of the numbness and hypothermia that I didn’t care about anything anymore. Yup, that must be it!

During and for the first few hours after finishing, the mantra running through my head was:

Been there, done that, good enough.  NO need to do it again!“…

But just as I’ve discovered over and over before – perhaps similar to the pains and strains of childbirth (like how would I know?) – the positive emotions and memories edge out the discomfort with a little time.

The discomfort of the cold mud … the icy sensation of pouring rain … the sting of menthol gas in my eyes and throat as I crawled on my belly through the murky CRY BABY obstacle … and that optimistically hopeful word “MAYBE” begins to seep back into my pores.

MAYBE means we have a growing confidence in ourselves.

MAYBE is a stepping stone through a raging river to a positive future of YES.

TOUGH MUDDER was a challenge.

But everyday life is filled with challenges too.

Work challenges, family and relationship challenges, health challenges, physical challenges, friendship challenges.

Challenges that make our bowels loose, our spirits soar, our blood pressure rise, our faces smile, our eyes shed tears, our dreams climb into the clouds.

And so long as we’re breathing when our head hits the pillow at the end of the day, we know we’ve found our way through them. It’s a good feeling when we meet and surmount challenges.

It’s just so … so … human.

MAYBE … Each of us, in our own way, day-to-day, are all TOUGH MUDDER‘s of life.

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My “TEAM GREEN+” c0-survivors post-MUDDER …

Achievement and The 7 foot Tall Dude

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I arrived at the start line of a 10k running race the other day and there was this dude in hot orange fluorescent neon shoes. He was 7 feet tall if he was an inch.

We were all gathered there at the start line – about 200 eager runners hopping nervously in the early morning chill, a bit of dew still clinging to the grass blades under our feet, all revved up and ready to go, waiting for the crack of the starter pistol or siren.

Then this oddity-of-height dude begins jumping up and down, probably to keep warm, but it looks like he’s on a trampoline or something because he floats way above the heads of the crowd.

You know just looking at him that as long as he can stay upright on those fleshy stilts sticking out beneath his shorts that he’ll cross the finish line in about 10 lopes of his supernaturally long legs, miles ahead of anyone else.

And sure enough, he did.

I used to enter running races with this imaginary vision of myself crossing the finish line, arms raised in glorious triumph … crowds of well-wishers cheering the winner … yup … ME.

Of course this is a totally imagination-based scenario because I’ve broken the tape of a race at the head of the pack … not once … nope … not even remotely close … not even when I was in my prime 20’s and ’30’s.

And I never will, but that’s OK, because I live my days like a scattergun.

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I call it my “ADHD” which probably offends those with true medically-diagnosed cases of the disorder. But, for me, it loosely describes my everyday approach to life.

My ADHD is what allows me to enjoy and feel passion for all of the things I love to do. It’s unrestrictive… it’s like the passing wind, rustling freely through a wheat field with lots of wide open space to reach towards the horizon miles off in the distance.

I like to achieve.

But my life isn’t based only on success in one area that I practice … I pursue a lot of interests each day in a lot of different regions … sports and physical activity, investing, reading, building, writing, cooking, gardening. And that’s where I find my comfort zone… my zen.

Maybe it’s a neurosis or a psychosis or a vicious brain tumour that makes it happen, I don’t know.

I’m driven, maybe even haunted, by reaching for the carrot that taunts and teases me in front of my nose.

If I can’t make my nose bleed with excitement each day with a feeling of “I made this”, or “great forward momentum“, I end my day feeling blah and uninspired, maybe the way you feel when you can’t summon your daily bowel movement routine.

Achievement is my mental “Ex-Lax“. I produce, I achieve, I feel light and unburdened.

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Not every day produces something – a blog post, a new song, a gate on the chicken coop run, a chicken parmigiana to die for – I’m proud of … many times I do get achievement “constipation”.

But I know enough that if I plug away day in and day out, leaving worrisome thoughts behind … a day arrives where the stars align and something otherworldly materializes and this is enough to keep me motivated to get up the following day and keep trying.

Maybe this is one of the reasons aging gives us confidence and understanding. We learn about our capabilities and believe in ourselves – we finally believe in our own powers that once locked us in doubter’s prison in our earlier years.

I know what I need is there inside, I just need to be patient, get in behind and push a little, and allow it to surface.

A smile will come to me as I realize that once again I’ve produced something. I’ve achieved, therefore I am …

In 1880, Leo Tolstoy, after he wrote “War and Peace“, published a book that took him 30 years to write called “The Kingdom of God is Within You“.

This book focused not on a supernatural heaven that waits us later but on the choices we can make today that can make us happy and inspired. My “ADHD” is a choice that I’ve embraced and makes me feel happy and inspired.

In the end, I feel like I’m 7 feet tall at the start of the race and I know I’m a winner.

When I’m acting in a creative, productive way, even if I don’t cross the finish line first, or have a million blog followers, or make 25% annual investing returns like Warren Buffett, I’m enjoying the process and getting my little thrills in the little things that I can make happen.

And that’s all I ask, thank you very much …

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