I fell flat and lived

Date	Place of exercise	Duration (minutes)	Classic sprint	Dam Sprint	Pullups	Start time
13 Sept 14 Sept 16 Sept 20 Sept 23 Sept	Tirana	≈ 45	51.87 51.50 56.25 55.77 55.97	1:07.95 (lake sprint) 1:37.25 1:42.46 1:43.31 1:42.34	5,9,7,5 5,11,9,5 5,9,7,5 5,9,7,5	06:42 07:38 07:07 08:00 08:25

                There was nothing to deflect my concentration from picking up my toes, picking up the knees and whisking across the broken pavement.  I had given my phone and my keys and my head phones to Jerry before I began the sprint. I felt free. I imagined Jerry seeing me charging away like a bull toward the red door of the cow house. The half a pound that was the phone must have given me subliminal boost of speed—I was running like mad.

                This was the second sprint of the day. Jerry and I had walked over to the park where he calmly did some yoga or something—I didn’t see it because I had run my usual route to the dam and back. I performed pullups at the doorway to nowhere perched gamely alongside the path. Then I ran along the rest of the yellow-brick road to the dam, where my effort today was a mediocre, even lousy, 1:43, nearly 10 seconds slower than my record.

                I jogged comfortably down the long decline toward the sprint area, slowed to catch my breath, then sprinted up the hill. It had rained nearly every day for the last two weeks, and there was water everywhere. The pavement was a bit damp, but nothing terrible, so I can’t blame my totally unremarkable result of 55.77 on the water. It was more than 5 seconds slower than my typical goal. But I wasn’t stressed out—my legs felt fine, arms fine, neck fine—I was happy because I know what it’s like to feel pain. After the sprint, I turned and walked back to the park. I found Jerry and did another turn around. We walked down the hill and I walked back along the route back to the apartment, and I thought, “Hey, I’ll do another sprint.”

                This was when I unloaded my peripherals. A day ago, I had consciously thought about picking my legs up and down more quickly. I tried it. No more plodding along. This strategy, whether beneficial or not, felt great. Increasing the cadence, taking shorter strides, came into my head immediately as I began the second sprint. I could feel energy in my body and breeze past my ears. I charged up the hill, my legs and arms churning like I was making butter.

                Near the top of the hill, there is a car wash place. There are guys washing cars seemingly 24 hours per day. I wonder sometimes what they think about me as I blow by them each day. Do they think, “Wow! He’s really moving today!” or do they think, “There’s that moronic foreigner again.”

                I was getting excited about the result. I felt like I was literally moving faster than I ever had in my whole life! The glory, the satisfaction, the fame that would ensue from achieving a new record was unheard of; I’d be my own biggest fan.

                Then, just as I was passing the car wash dudes, I hit some uneven pavement. My step was a bit lower than my subconscious mind expected. My stride was thrown off. I recovered quickly, and took another stride. The next stride hit some pavement that was a bit higher than expected. I saw my record time falling off the table. I actually had time to think this thought. I also had time to think about the car wash men, the unevenness, and the water as time slowed down before the inevitable. I even thought about how I would write about it in this blog. The next thing, my legs tangled and down I went. Straight down. I didn’t do a face plant, thankfully. I scraped my palms, ripped my pants, and my shin scrapped the pavement. No big injuries, but I’m sure it looked horrific. The car guys certainly flew to my aid. Imagine, someone simply running along the road and falling without any provocation! Then I rolled on my back, just trying to keep things smooth. As I caught myself and mentally accessed the damage, I laid comfortably. In keeping with the slow and detailed thoughts, I imagined trying to wash my t-shirt and get the stains out.  Ilir and Genti came to my aid first thing, they reached down to help me up. I actually would have liked to stay there for a few minutes—which would only have served to let the water seep into my pants more thoroughly; but I wasn’t going to brush off people who were so eager to help me.  

                Two weeks later, my hand is nearly healed and life is fine.