Specimens, Days

There are two things lodged in my mind now between other thoughts-- the first is the Eliot line about the "negative wisdom of humility," & the second is 5:13:57, my finishing time in the Equinox Marathon up in Fairbanks last week. Its completion means the world to me, & there is, as I anticipated, a renewed sense of self in me now. But very clearly buttressing that is a renewed sense of where I erred, where I didn't offer ample respect to the endeavor, where I thought my ego might possibly fill in where my training was lacking. & so I imagine it was my ego, coupled with the thrill of a race & the odd presence of other people at all during a run (I never run with others & rarely if ever see runners on these mountains), pushing me to a quick start. At the nine-mile mark my time was at a respectable-but-ludicrously-fast-&-in-no-way-tenable-for-me 65 minutes. I came out gunning with 7:22 miles, hanging with the first quarter of runners for some reason.

As of tomorrow morning, I will be counting down seven days to the Equinox Marathon in Fairbanks, wherein I will at long last consummate my long-standing courtship with long distance running. Each morning now I glance out the window at the thermometer & past where it hangs to take in the distant tableau of mountains either bathed in alpenglow or cloaked completely in roiling grey cloud. Each day in running I feel for anomalies in my feet, I survey the trails for jutting roots, I yell my hey bears the louder the closer I get to the date of the race & the more berry-dense shits I see scattered along the way. & in spite of my chosen terrain, I’ve been incredibly fortunate thusfar— tripping & falling three or four times with no lasting issues (a comical shitshow with all three dogs attached), seeing a couple bears with no negative consequence, trying new shoes with no resulting hot spots. So I feel this odd cautious optimism. Last time I tried to this I was hamstrung with pe

The fledgling signs of winter’s approach now over the painted hills & mountains, snow line down lower along Healy Ridge & down south over Panorama. & all the fireweed gone red. Running twenty miles yesterday, the leaves underfoot along the trail vermillion & crimson & gashing gold, rain-slick or lazing unhurried from white bough to black dirt. & a few days ago, running on a sheep trail on top of Sugarloaf, a gargantuan hyperphagic griz sauntering about in the berry patches just below, so that to reroute I had to sidehill a steep scree-field for a mile. & here it is September, already. The moose in rut, temperatures to thirty overnight, the autumnal crispness attending the mornings or carried in the breeze. & the colors in this place pyrotechnic & endlessly beautiful again. On the property we’ve been stalled by busy-ness & marathon training. I hauled the concrete piers out a few days ago in five trips totaling somewhere around 700 pounds. Didn