Una raya más al tigre

It’s Sunday night, which means the week’s volume has finally been bound together. I made it to 30 miles this week after a rough two months with injuries. This morning’s long run reminded me just how important it is to direct my attention toward preparation during humid seasons. I nearly thought about throwing in the towel at the two-mile mark, but my magic is seeing something all the way through.

I suppose the positive surrounding all these injuries is that I’ve had to solutions architect my body back to some sort of functional state. Through trial and error, it’s apparent now that slam ball explosive work is the new fountain of youth for me! I only wish I would’ve done this sort of work in my prime. Can’t look from the corner of my eye for too long, though.

Can I remain injury-free? That is always the question for me. Trying to sync my mind and body is like trying to pull together two helium balloons. As I age, you would assume the opposite of this, but my vocabulary isn’t as sharp as it once was. As a runner who thrives in solitude, I don’t fully understand what that means for me yet. Most runners won’t ever understand what it’s like to have a fall-off, but I have faith that I am, and that I have been less!

My confidence continues to blossom and dissipate. I’m gaining more perspective on the mural of my personal history. The more I dive into things that are of value to me, the more integrated my thinking feels. The conclusions of my mind feel true to me.

A component of this has been learning the bajo quinto. I love Nirvana, Elliott Smith, and Arctic Monkeys, but my heart is always with them norteñas. The language, themes, and musicianship of it all bring out the brownest, loudest, most extroverted expressions. It keeps me young at heart :) I spent about an hour yesterday mapping and riffing away to Duelo and finally getting the hang of the heartbreak rhythms and plucks.

What does all this have to do with running? Because it’s a form of re-learning what expression feels like. Integrating all that I love builds my charm. Tyger, tyger, burning bright!

And so, some other things:

I may take a summer art class at a local creative arts center. Something about a Wednesday where I work, run, and do an art night class sounds like I’d go to sleep pretty content. I’m thinking I may go for mosaics. Who knows—maybe this could lead to some sort of La Chapelle Matisse / Joan Miró future home interiors?

Most of my free time has also gone toward researching places for my solo summer travels. The three contenders are:

Portland, Maine (Acadia National Park)

Bergen, Norway

Oaxaca

When I think about Maine, I think about standing in the first place the U.S. sees the sunrise. When I think about Norway, I think about 19-year-old Mexican me saying, “Hei, hvordan kommer jeg til…?”, Trolltunga, black metal, and vastness. When I think about Oaxaca, I think about my heart.

Y pa’ presentarme, tengo que contarles,

Erik

No digas que no pienso en ti

Would you agree that the sound of surf is the most soothing form of white noise? Picture an early morning hike suffused with it. 

While we are on the subject of thinking & imagining, what is it about a sound with no words & always a slight variation to it that makes the mind start remembering stories? 

When the trail finally led me to the shore at Torrey Pines, & I looked out at the Pacific, I remembered something I had told M.

En febrero, después de no vernos por un rato, decidimos correr en la Katy. Íbamos a paso de tortugas, tratando de contarnos todo lo que nos habíamos perdido en solo treinta minutos. Era imposible. Me había preguntado qué había hecho para mi cumpleaños, y le dije que planeé un viaje a San Diego en vez de Maine. Me acuerdo que le andaba explicando que si tuviera que escoger entre montañas y playas, mi preferencia era montañas, fácil. Le dije que la arena era un desmadre para quitar de los pies. Me acuerdo que nomás sonrió y dijo que a ella sí le gustaba. 

Cuando caminé la orilla del mar, cambié de mente. Me valio madres el desmadre de la arena. 

But it looks like our time of sharing epiphanies & hearing what we wish to change about ourselves was something brief.

Probablemente, 

E.T

 

Por volver a probar a que sabe el amor

 About a month ago for my birthday I vacillated between two corners of the U.S., San Diego & Maine as the destinations for some much needed time away from Dallas. I ultimately ended up going with the west coast purely on the examination of the weather forecast. 

Day 1: March 27th. 

This hoodrat's first time in SoCal commenced with an ill-fated start. 

After sketching out how I'd spend my time, I showed up to the rental counter for what was going to be a much-needed set of wheels. Skrrrrt!

I flashed my ID and debit card to the car rental agent eager to get the day started at only 8:30AM. The daydreams of nature, food, runs, and perfect city walks flashed like anchovies through my mind as I let bro complete the rental process. 

¡Pero, zas, cabrón!

"Your card isn't going through, do you have another one?"

😐 typical card chip reader error that I always go through, I told him to try to clean the card chip because I definitely did not lack funds. I saw him try again, and again. 

"Your driver's license is expired as well by the way. Do you have another one?"

D'fuck?!?!!??? My daydream quickly turned into what felt like another hazy dream. I looked at my DL and saw the 2/14 expiration date. I kept looking at it, hoping the date would magically not be true. I fumbled through my wallet thinking I must have given him an old one, but no. All reality. Hijo de su reputísima madre...

"No. fucking. way" I said, bemused, laughing in disbelief. I told bro that I couldn't believe how I didn't see this. We both found it amusing. 

Thankfully, I am alive in modern times. The chariots-for-hire, known as uber, would be my primary mode of transportation. The first of many Ubz to escort me on my ventures was a lad named, Cuauhtlah. When I hopped in his car, there was a paper plate with kid handwriting that said, "#1 Dad". A simple proof of love. Fucking awesome. I couldn't help but tell him, "Oye, tu tienes nombre de Azteca!" We quickly bonded over the history of the Aztec & Mexica, about my fuck-up, San Diego, & family. Fuck the car rental. He dropped me off at the center of Little Italy where I devoured an egg & cheese panini. See pics of the day's unfolding:

Also, the plane ride from Dallas to San Diego made me realize that La Firma is our version of pop-punk norteño. More on that later. 

Mueres de ganas, 

Erik T.