Another race dispatch from your favorite gonzo trail runner (ʜᴏᴡ ᴍᴀɴʏ ᴄᴏᴜʟᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴘᴏꜱꜱɪʙʟʏ ᴋɴᴏᴡ?).
Da’ RACE :: 𝗝𝘂𝗻𝗴𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗿 𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗥𝘂𝗻
Da’ LOCATION :: The Arizona desert
Da’ DISTANCE :: A modest 25K
From the top of a hill near the start line I notice a colossal wedge of white jutting skyward 5-and-change miles from my location. The spectral form is tall, far too tall for this rural desert. It resembles a Dubai skyscraper, towering above the sun-silhouetted mountain range it bisects. I remember the town JJ (ᴍʏ ʀᴜɴɴɪɴɢ ꜰʀɪᴇɴᴅᴏ) and I drove through an hour prior. It was retirement town, with a large reservoir encircled by park greenery. A huge circular structure of dark inward arcing arms floated in the lake’s center, like a dead tarantula on its back. A town called, ah . . . 𝓕𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽𝓪𝓲𝓷 𝓗𝓲𝓵𝓵𝓼.
Studying it, I can see it’s slightly opaque. I can just make out the black of the blocked mountain range through what I now discern is mist.
To my eyes, this geyser is a man made phenomenon devoid of context. A great middle finger to the arid lands on all sides. On a level, it offends me. It seems like just kind of conspicuous 20th century hubris that has left the 21st misted in █▓▒░ 𝗣𝗘𝗥𝗠𝗔𝗰𝗿𝗶𝘀𝗶𝘀. But on deeper primordial level, I’m gripped by a wonder akin to that I feel watching construction cranes at work, solar eclipses, or a KAWASAKI NINJA™ traveling at top speed. A childlike . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
A distant megaphone shouts . . .
“THIRTY MINUTES TO START.”
JJ and I descend the hill to partake in the pre race festivities. The starting line of a trail race is a strange ying-yang of ꜱᴇʀɪᴏᴜꜱ & 𝓢𝓲𝓵𝓵𝔂. One booth sells branded swag (technical fabric tees, trucker caps, and spandex arm sleeves), while another canopy shelters the runner sustenance station. Its folding tables are sparse. The volunteers haven’t broken out the good snacks yet, dissuading us from belly loading on handfuls of 𝓜&𝓜𝓼™ and 2” squares of chopped up PB&Js this early. In a few hours, the volunteer's job will be to dissuade runners from skipping these same calorically dense morsels, which — after 15 miles of running — can be as revolting as they are imperative.
For now there is water, a carafe of cold-brew, and a scuffed-up orange drink cooler filled with a liquid labeled 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 𝙃𝙔𝘿𝙍𝘼𝙏𝙄𝙊𝙉. Next to that is a bottle of 𝗧𝗨𝗠𝗦™ and a plastic jar of good ol’ 𝘚𝘲𝘶𝘪𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘭'𝘴 𝘕𝘶𝘵 𝘉𝘶𝘵𝘵𝘦𝘳™ anti-chafe cream. (ꜰᴇᴇʟɪɴɢ ᴀ ʙᴜᴅᴅɪɴɢ ᴄʜᴀꜰᴇ ᴡɪᴛʜ 10 ᴍɪʟᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ᴛʀᴀɪʟ ᴛᴏ ɢᴏ ɪꜱ — ꜰᴏʀ ᴛʜᴏꜱᴇ ᴡʜᴏ’ᴠᴇ ᴇxᴘᴇʀɪᴇɴᴄᴇᴅ ɪᴛ — ᴀ ꜱᴄᴀʀɪᴇʀ ᴘʀᴏꜱᴘᴇᴄᴛ ᴛʜᴀɴ ᴅɪᴘᴘɪɴɢ ᴀ ꜰɪɴɢᴇʀ ɪɴᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴜɴᴀʟ ʙᴏᴛᴛʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴄʀᴏᴜᴄʜ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴍ). JJ pours himself a cup of 𝙂𝙉𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙔 . It's eclectic purple and smells like berries and science. I ask him what it tastes like. He says it tastes like, “water with something added to it.” As someone with a tendency toward over-description, I appreciate his conciseness.
We drift to the start line as a the DJ (ɪ ᴅᴏɴ’ᴛ ᴋɴᴏᴡ ᴡʜʏ ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ ɪꜱ ᴀ ᴅᴊ) full deck does a rough fade from some generic reggae to an obligatory playing of The Final Countdown. He is set up between a row of Port-o-Potties and a food vendor doing business as 𝗗𝗘𝗔𝗧𝗛 𝗕𝗬 𝗣𝗜𝗭𝗭𝗔. The Port-o-Potties all rattle when on bass beat, adding a 𝘷𝘪𝘷 𝘷𝘪𝘷 𝘷𝘪𝘷 to the soundscape. There are maybe 75 gathered at the start, dressed in slick skintight fabrics colored in black and vaporwave neons. On our heads are pounds of accessories (ꜱᴜɴɢʟᴀꜱꜱᴇꜱ, ʜᴀᴛꜱ, ʜᴇᴀᴅᴘʜᴏɴᴇꜱ, ᴘʟᴜɢꜱ, ᴘɪᴇʀᴄɪɴɢꜱ, ᴀɴᴅ, ᴏꜰ ᴄᴏᴜʀꜱᴇ, ʜᴇᴀᴅʟᴀᴍᴘꜱ, ᴛʜɪʀᴅ-ᴇʏᴇ-ᴘᴏɪꜱᴇᴅ ᴀᴛ-ᴛʜᴇ-ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ). The megaphoner is shouting race tips over the DJ set.
“IF YOU SEE A SIGN THAT SAYS ‘WRONG WAY’ YOU’RE GOING THE WRONG WAY!”
The Final Countdown starts again (ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴊ ᴊᴜᴍᴘᴇᴅ ᴛʜᴇ ɢᴜɴ) and the megaphoner says . . .
“GO!”
We go.
The trail is soft and sandy, and the first few miles pass fast as JJ and I banter. I adopt the persona of an endurance couch/Youtube personality, conceptualizing an entire online course called 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗢 𝗚𝗥𝗜𝗧 𝗧𝗢 𝗤𝗨𝗜𝗧 𝗦𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗠. For $299.99 you can gain full access, learning to get more sun, eat more organ meat, thank more cops for there service, and suppress more sadness (ᴏɴᴇ-ᴏɴ-ᴏɴᴇ ᴄᴏᴀᴄʜɪɴɢ ᴀᴠᴀɪʟᴀʙʟᴇ ꜰᴏʀ $1000 ᴘ/ʜᴏᴜʀ ʙᴇᴄᴀᴜꜱᴇ ɪ ᴄʜᴀʀɢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ɪ’ᴍ ᴡᴏʀᴛʜ).
The fountain is on again. Despite the jet being phallic in concept, the wind catches the shaft of it, wisping it east and giving it a more vulvic appearance. I think how Freudianly bad-ass it would be to see some fighter planes fly through it . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
I’ve never run a night race before and the deserts golden hour had me seeing the appeal. I’m not sure I’ve ever been so present to the subtle process of day becoming night. The world takes on an OᑌᖇOᗷOᖇOᔕ quality — light feeding a growing dark that is destined to feed the morning. When it comes to an OᑌᖇOᗷOᖇOᔕ, I always focus on the spot where the snake's mouth bites the tail, the single point of action on a loop of continuous emergence. Where is that point now? In what single moment does night swallow day?
I can’t find it.
It’s absence exposes the imperceptible gradualness of nature’s transitions. Human constructions are full of abrupt ons & offs. Nature's only abrupt off is death (ᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴏɴ ᴏꜰ ʙɪʀᴛʜ ɪꜱ ɢʀᴀᴅᴜᴀʟ). It’s 8PM, too dark to see the fountain’s blast, but it has a schedule to keep. I get out my headlight.
Three bright dots are lined up in the near night sky. At first I see them as planets — Mercury, Mars, & Venus leading the star’s shine as they do — but then realize they’re commercial jets on trajectory to 𝗣𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗶𝘅 in an endless queue. More rude machines, wrestling my attention from dimmer, slower engines of the cosmos. I look back over my shoulder and see dozens of bobbing headlamps, snaking back on the trail like holiday string lights . . . human engines . . . the bridge engines between the world’s fourth tallest fountain and the desert . . . ᗯOᗯ ᗯEE.
At night, light draws my attention in a manner that shadows don’t demand in the day. The planes, the stars, the headlamps, and the distant muddy glow of 𝗣𝗵𝗼𝗲𝗻𝗶𝘅. The night is as much a celebration of light as it is a reprise from it. A chance for it to prance around and play hard to get. Darkness is has more temperance, content in to wallflower in the background. Light is a narcissist — darkness is stoic, or possibly, a schemer.
JJ’s headlamp acts as our headlight, while I keep mine the red setting, bringing up the rear. Viewed from a quarter mile, I bet we resemble a silent dirt bike. Running is when I feel most connected to my friendship with JJ, listening to the noise of our synced up foot falls . . .
.•°*•.ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ
. . . the only audible noise save for crickets. Treating it like a mantra, I slip my skin and dip into the comfortable silence familiar to dude-pals. A secret flavor of non-dualism. It’s hard to say which side of the slip relies on illusions. In a non-dual state, am I forgetting the truth or remembering it? As I age, my friends feel more and more like storm cells — moving spirals of heat and pressure squeezing around each other, exchanging the molecules of four edges. Our continuous becoming going unnoticed, until it produces some hurricane level cacophony or double-rainbow awe.
In time, .•°*•.ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ .•°*•. ᑕᖇᑌᑎᑕᕼ lulls even the meta-introspections. Whole minutes go by where I’m just gooone. How do two winds blow in the same direction?
Every now and again, I have a panic attack. They happen when I feel forced into an undignified feeling powerlessness by bureaucratic machines. One came on when I maxed out a credit card to pay the 𝗜𝗻𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗻𝗮𝗹 𝗥𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗻𝘂𝗲 𝗦𝗲𝗿𝘃𝗶𝗰𝗲 — going into debt to support a war machine I despise. Another came after I was required to photograph my face (ꜰʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴏɴᴛ, ʟᴇꜰᴛ ᴘʀᴏꜰɪʟᴇ, ᴀɴᴅ ʀɪɢʜᴛ ᴘʀᴏꜰɪʟᴇ) for a rental application. Something about paying a $35 background check fee that required me to snap my own mug shot was so bleak it thrust me into a day of short breathed despondency. The most recent one occurred when a redlight camera ticket arrived in the mail for me. I was driving a borrowed car, but the authorities still identified me by the grainy image of my face printed in the corner of the mailed ticket, next to . . .
“𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐀 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆”
Running right now — letting the barriers selfhood melt into the desert and my friend JJ — I form a theory about these bureaucratic induced attacks. I’m becoming too indiscriminately permeable. Perhaps the same qualities of connection and non-dualism that coax me out of my body and into the benevolence of now and nature, are being abused by power-over machines. I’ve let my soul play unsupervised, and it has been ambushed by a vampiric forces. In both nature and bureaucracy, I feel out of control of my life, but unlike the former the machines of power-over are not benevolent, and, often, not even malevolent. They are as cold and efficient as a 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐃𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐞™ thrasher, grinding mice and squirrels to pulp as it harvests mono-crop grain. Or maybe, I’m just thinking too much.
But that machine is far away right now, and nothing is taking without giving. I exhale and the desert inhales. I inhale. . . the snake eats its tail forever, behind it is a ring of creation, ending in a gift.