Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Running from Godot
Any lingering ambitions of actually being a good boy and staying home to study flickered out the instant he bumped into them at the gym.
We are going for Tango later, would you like to come?
Hmm. Study. Exam. Exam Fees wasted.
Tango. Two very new and very good friends. Tango!
*****
Unwritten till now : 9:56 last saturday
9:53 today.
At the end of it, lying draped over the handrails, gasping for dear life... I felt quite literally like dying, or perhaps vomiting up my intestines... and then dying.
It was simply exquisite.
I can't wait for the next time I run! :)
******
Okay, so the real reason behind the running is...
... I'm trying to beat a memory.
Sure, the endorphines play a large part of it, but getting to the high takes a lot of pain. I've always been a practical person, and I never really (till I started this ridiculous need for speed quest) relished it.
Even in fencing, the climax of the moment was never the pain, but the destination. In foil, it lies in that secret moment just after you've found - at last - that flaw in your opponents defence, and you launch yourself fully committed at him...
... those fleeting seconds while you hang in the balance, reaching... reaching... towards eternity. And his guard comes up, almost agonisingly slowly...
and in the final moment - too late for him aha! - contact. Crystal clarity of thought, yet near nihilistic nothingness. Perfect.
In sabre, the magic moment for me is when I parry, when you feel your opponents blade crunching - sweet! - into your guard, in that instant, your mind clears of every, and anything. You explode.
It's always been a case of suffering through pain to reach that near-orgasmic moment of perfection...
Running, however is a case of suffering... to reach that near perfect moment, of... suffering.
A younger me would have raised and eyebrow, and declared this older me quite, quite mad.
But once upon a time...
... there was this girl. (hah, isn't there always)
She was the best friend of another girl, whom I shall confess I was madly in love with at the time. Moving swiftly on.
She was the all-star athlete... Ms Perfect. Intelligent, athletic, droll, pretty... the works.
And she had a 2.4 time of 9:30 (or thereabouts)
When I first started running on the treadmill some two years ago, it was simply because I needed to run, and London didn't really give me the... space... to run in. I know it doesn't make sense, but there it is. I used to run the ten click everyone else does at the gym, mindlessly, without objective. It was boring.
One day for some strange reason, I remembered K... (the runner)
And then I wondered... what would it feel like, to actually run at that breakneck speed? And... Why did she do it?
It's been a long journey... I started running at a speed of 12.5 (whatever that translates to in km/h) - that gave me a time of 12:30 (ish)
Each time I felt my body becoming familiar with a particular speed (about four to five runs) I put the speed up by 0.5
And discovered that the time differential was... almost negligible.
I began to hunger for faster results in a shorter time (I do want to do this before I die...)
And so I began sprinting the last leg of each run, putting it up by 0.5 prematurely when I had 800m to go... then 1.2 km.. then 1.6 km... then 2.4 km...
I now run at a speed of 14.5 (effortlessly), cranking up to 15 at the 1km mark (effortfully. near death experience)
And now I know why you used to do it, K...
One day, when I hit 9:30, I'm going to switch back to running for distance rather than speed.
But right here, right now, I'm pretty amazed that I got here... I, the eternally pragmatic and unashamedly lazy.
*****
He watched them dance. Perhaps he watched her dance more than he... but she was his friend more than he. Although they were fast becoming one and the same now...
Her eyes were distant, yet ablaze. Her body taut, coiled like a spring. Her blonde hair unleashed.
She became quite a different person when she danced...
... she became quite, quite stunning.
*****
Premarital Sex, Part Deux
For all the time he had known Her, he had always loved Her.
It wasn't simply that she was so incredibly beautiful, or intelligent - or anything in particular - that he would give his life to, and for Her if She had so asked.
It wasn't physicality which had made him burn for her every moment they were apart, and mourn for Her memory, as time and distance took their toll, a petit morte time, and time again, every time they parted company - until he achieved ultimate finality with his last farewell.
It was something far more enduring, and something far more endearing than mere physicality.
It had something to do with magic. Something to do with meaningless words, and poignant silences.
Something in Her eyes, and Her words; something that told him that She knew.
And that She knew that He knew, too.
Something about the way he always sensed what She was about to say or think - from the first moment He met Her.
Something some people will never experience in an entire lifetime - and most will never experience more than once a lifetime.
It was enough to make him love her for fourteen years.
They had only touched twice before they parted companies forever.
Once, palm to palm, comparing hand sizes; the other when She took his hands in Hers to avert a fateful coinflip. Perhaps the second was a figment of his imagination; the past has blurred now into an indistinct haze in his mind, erased by conscious effort, and early-onset dementia.
And so the truth, which He kept concealed, despite his self-confessed obsession with Honesty...
... was that He did not believe.
With a vengeance.
******
But even that crumbled into nothingness, and in the aftermath, only physicality remains...
... all our ideals fall to naught, our dreams, our pasts lying one by one, by one last, to rest.
We are going for Tango later, would you like to come?
Hmm. Study. Exam. Exam Fees wasted.
Tango. Two very new and very good friends. Tango!
*****
Unwritten till now : 9:56 last saturday
9:53 today.
At the end of it, lying draped over the handrails, gasping for dear life... I felt quite literally like dying, or perhaps vomiting up my intestines... and then dying.
It was simply exquisite.
I can't wait for the next time I run! :)
******
Okay, so the real reason behind the running is...
... I'm trying to beat a memory.
Sure, the endorphines play a large part of it, but getting to the high takes a lot of pain. I've always been a practical person, and I never really (till I started this ridiculous need for speed quest) relished it.
Even in fencing, the climax of the moment was never the pain, but the destination. In foil, it lies in that secret moment just after you've found - at last - that flaw in your opponents defence, and you launch yourself fully committed at him...
... those fleeting seconds while you hang in the balance, reaching... reaching... towards eternity. And his guard comes up, almost agonisingly slowly...
and in the final moment - too late for him aha! - contact. Crystal clarity of thought, yet near nihilistic nothingness. Perfect.
In sabre, the magic moment for me is when I parry, when you feel your opponents blade crunching - sweet! - into your guard, in that instant, your mind clears of every, and anything. You explode.
It's always been a case of suffering through pain to reach that near-orgasmic moment of perfection...
Running, however is a case of suffering... to reach that near perfect moment, of... suffering.
A younger me would have raised and eyebrow, and declared this older me quite, quite mad.
But once upon a time...
... there was this girl. (hah, isn't there always)
She was the best friend of another girl, whom I shall confess I was madly in love with at the time. Moving swiftly on.
She was the all-star athlete... Ms Perfect. Intelligent, athletic, droll, pretty... the works.
And she had a 2.4 time of 9:30 (or thereabouts)
When I first started running on the treadmill some two years ago, it was simply because I needed to run, and London didn't really give me the... space... to run in. I know it doesn't make sense, but there it is. I used to run the ten click everyone else does at the gym, mindlessly, without objective. It was boring.
One day for some strange reason, I remembered K... (the runner)
And then I wondered... what would it feel like, to actually run at that breakneck speed? And... Why did she do it?
It's been a long journey... I started running at a speed of 12.5 (whatever that translates to in km/h) - that gave me a time of 12:30 (ish)
Each time I felt my body becoming familiar with a particular speed (about four to five runs) I put the speed up by 0.5
And discovered that the time differential was... almost negligible.
I began to hunger for faster results in a shorter time (I do want to do this before I die...)
And so I began sprinting the last leg of each run, putting it up by 0.5 prematurely when I had 800m to go... then 1.2 km.. then 1.6 km... then 2.4 km...
I now run at a speed of 14.5 (effortlessly), cranking up to 15 at the 1km mark (effortfully. near death experience)
And now I know why you used to do it, K...
One day, when I hit 9:30, I'm going to switch back to running for distance rather than speed.
But right here, right now, I'm pretty amazed that I got here... I, the eternally pragmatic and unashamedly lazy.
*****
He watched them dance. Perhaps he watched her dance more than he... but she was his friend more than he. Although they were fast becoming one and the same now...
Her eyes were distant, yet ablaze. Her body taut, coiled like a spring. Her blonde hair unleashed.
She became quite a different person when she danced...
... she became quite, quite stunning.
*****
Premarital Sex, Part Deux
For all the time he had known Her, he had always loved Her.
It wasn't simply that she was so incredibly beautiful, or intelligent - or anything in particular - that he would give his life to, and for Her if She had so asked.
It wasn't physicality which had made him burn for her every moment they were apart, and mourn for Her memory, as time and distance took their toll, a petit morte time, and time again, every time they parted company - until he achieved ultimate finality with his last farewell.
It was something far more enduring, and something far more endearing than mere physicality.
It had something to do with magic. Something to do with meaningless words, and poignant silences.
Something in Her eyes, and Her words; something that told him that She knew.
And that She knew that He knew, too.
Something about the way he always sensed what She was about to say or think - from the first moment He met Her.
Something some people will never experience in an entire lifetime - and most will never experience more than once a lifetime.
It was enough to make him love her for fourteen years.
They had only touched twice before they parted companies forever.
Once, palm to palm, comparing hand sizes; the other when She took his hands in Hers to avert a fateful coinflip. Perhaps the second was a figment of his imagination; the past has blurred now into an indistinct haze in his mind, erased by conscious effort, and early-onset dementia.
And so the truth, which He kept concealed, despite his self-confessed obsession with Honesty...
... was that He did not believe.
With a vengeance.
******
But even that crumbled into nothingness, and in the aftermath, only physicality remains...
... all our ideals fall to naught, our dreams, our pasts lying one by one, by one last, to rest.
