Scars

Scars. Our visual memories of harder times. The harder the memory, the worse the scar. We all have them. Some are embarrassing, and we’ll hide them like our hobbies. Doll collecting, or playing Harry Potter with a wand you bought from Sky Mall (for $39.95!). Other scars, we’re ok with. Only through time have we become ok with them. It’s the deep scars that we hide the longest. The ones where even time passing doesn’t change their depth on our skin. Scars are the tattoos we never wanted, but can’t get rid of. Their embarrassing marking on our skin leaves the print of some foreign memory we can’t change, and are to weak to let go. Like getting the tattoo of a penis across your forhead one drunken night. Can we call that regret? At least you’ll never get drunk enough to do that again. (Hopefully). 

If scars are memories then they can’t all be bad. Or at least they can’t all be considered mistakes. No one wants to make a mistake, so let’s play Positive Pete and say they were “Learning Experiences”. Now, that sounds better, doesn’t it? When you say it’s a learning experience, we all know that’s code for “If there was something I could erase, it’d be that...”,  but then again, had it not happened, you would’ve never learned not to do that now wouldn’t you? Like when a child has to touch that red-hot stove, just because it looks so awesomely bright! Then of course you’re left with a crying toddler and a burnt hand. That was a good “Learning Experience.” (Hopefully you only touched the stove once.)

But if you touched it more than once, don’t worry, you’re an idiot. And here’s why: When you touch that stove more than once, (because the same alluring bright colors have sucked you in like gravity), you’re failing to remember what happened the last time: you burnt your hand, dumbass. Now, maybe you have alzheimer’s disease, and in that one case, I apologize for calling you an idiot, and a dumbass. But if you don’t, and you really do just have that short-term memory span, then I’d invest in some brain-enhancers. Sudoku perhaps? Or maybe you should just stop watching the trash on the E! Channel (you did notice the exclamation point though right?) and put down that “In Touch Weekly” magazine. I’m sure knowing what Jennifer Anniston wore to the beach is incredibly useful in day-to-day conservation (hopefully they provided pictures), but the sad truth is your knowledge of Hollywood relationships won’t help you anymore then it’ll help a retail cashier understanding String Theory in all it’s glory.

So the next time that DeVotchka song comes on the radio and you’re short-term memory is wondering “Where have I heard this before?” Just know you probably heard it on My Little Sunshine, and yes, the lyrics are a bit dark and Nick Urata is a strange, strange singer. (They’re from Denver by the way, so all you Denver-Folk should already be on their bandwagon, and if you’re not, trying placing that burnt hand back on the stove one more time to see if it feels different this time). Or, go buy a Sudoku book, or any book for that matter. I’m talking something hardback with more than 100 pages and no pictures - start with that and progress naturally. That pile of mush between our ears has actual uses, and expanding capabilities, so rather than fill it with useless information (did you see what Angelina Jolie was wearing the other day? OMG! Or, “Is this that DeVotchka song from My Little Sunshine?”), fill it with the memory of that burnt hand on the stove, that way you can chalk it up as a “Learning Experience”.

Otherwise, we’ll continue to fill our bodies with frightening body art of unwanted scars, hopefully none of them turn out looking like detailed genitals that we can’t wash off with soap. Damn those tequila shots... Nobody wants to have that moment where you’re both de-robing in anticipation of some steamy sexual experience before you realize one of you has a Hanson’s tattoo on their ass or a Ricky Martin face across their lower back. Moment: Ruined. But hey, you could count that as a “Learning Experience”, right?

The Machete Carrier

Most people will fall for anything, because they stand for nothing. They blow freely with the wind and get carried away into mindless pursuits, because. Infomercials and pyramid schemes. Everyone likes to the chase the ant with the Oreo crumb, brown-nosers mooching off someone else’s kill. They follow around like lost puppies or toddlers begging for milk, marching to the beat of an unknown drummer.

The weak will always travel on the path most traveled. There’s a reason we played “Follow the Leader” as children, and there’s a reason we still play it as adults. Your machete is too big to carry. When did we get soo lazy? Maybe there’s a correlation behind our nibbling at the crumbs someone else drops for us and why America is very literally the most obese country in the world... 

“I’m a begging man, shaking for change”

No. The machete isn’t too big. It’s just more convenient to follow someone else who’s doing the machete-chopping. The challenge with this route is not that it’s an easier path, it’s that you’re not the one deciding the turns along the way (someone else is). Letting someone else carry your machete means they’re in charge of your direction. They could be leading you straight for a cliff for all you know... 

The shocking reality is how somehow, someway, someone cowering behind The Machete-Carrier has been elevated in our culture to the status of: “The Assistant To The Machete Carrier”. It doesn’t really come with any serious financial gains, but it does come with golden-plated business cards with words like “Machete Carrier” (forget the “Assistant To The” before that), and a daily pat on the ass, “Great Job today! Thanks for playing along! (insert wink here)” Because life is just a game, right?

I guess when I sit down for an extended period of time, consume incredible amounts of non-dairy creamer, devour a few dozen boxes of Twinkies, and really put an intense amount of effort into rationalizing irrational things, I get it. 

Following the owner and user of the machete means multiple gains for you (subtract the fact that you’re losing your own creative identity in the process; a small fee). Minus. For starters, if The Machete-Carrier is larger than you, BOOM: No need for an umbrella in the intense sun, you’ve got shelter behind that (hopefully) non-hairy back. Plus. We’ve already covered the whole “you don’t have to wack things” part, obviously, since the machete is too big for you to carry, so moving along, you’re path may be easier if your machete carrier is good. But then again, if they’re good, it means they’re really wacking away, and most likely smelling fairly badly. Minus. But maybe that shiny sweat glimmering off their (hopefully) non-hairy back provides you with some sun (opposing my previous “plus”), and BOOM: Who looks like they’ve been pushing their toes into the tropical sands of the Bahamas? YOU. Plus. Since you’ve gladly handed over your own personal machete (which comes signed by Randy Jackson at birth), you (being The Assistant To The) are subject to a variety of morally questionable sexual games that may leave a few marks. You’ll have to learn to love long-sleeves and find joy in the feeling of a leather booth along your soft skin. You’ll say you like it, but we’ll all know you’re afraid of what’ll happen to you if you say you don’t. There’s always Neosporin for that.

Come to think of it, this isn’t looking so good for the “PB” Assistant To The Machete Carrier.

Besides eating someone else’s leftovers, all in all this idea remains just as bad as it did before I sat down for what felt like hours but was really barely 20 minutes to write this pathetic attempt at proving “A Point”. The machete isn’t too heavy if you decide to stand and carry it yourself, and why would you want someone else carrying your machete anyway? But hey, if chasing ants with crumbs or buying Shape-Ups brings an ignorant smile to your face, then at least you’re smiling! Plus.

Project Mayhem

The first rule in Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions.

Questions require thought. Thought implies you’re doing your own thinking, and in Project Mayhem that is unacceptable, because the fifth rule of Project Mayhem says you have to trust Tyler Durdan. 

Now, I’m no Tyler Durdan, nor am I an schizophrenic who has created alter egos so I can fully express my self. These words - and these thoughts - are my own. 

However, if you continue to question these words or my thoughts, the Space Monkeys of Project Mayhem will have to slice some fat off your thighs and turn you into soap. In a town like Boulder, soap may be hard to come by, given the leanness of it’s residents. Fitness freaks and health-nuts. Maybe this explains why people walk around Pearl Street in dirty clothing. I would assume they’re homeless, but in Boulder appearing homeless is actually a style. So you never know, you can never fully make a distinction between those hitting bottom, and those attempting to appear to hit bottom. We used to wash our hands after touching dollar bills, now we bathe in the traces of cocaine, or at least want to look as though we do. You’ll place a touch of sugar just above your upper lip. 

What? There’s a white residue in my nostrils?

The urge to indulge in self-destruction and the actual act of self-destruction are two entirely different things. It’s the difference between wearing non-prescription glasses for “style”-sake while you read your ethically challenging book in the corner of a Starbucks (Oh, you’re so intelligent), and actually having to wear prescription glasses because the lens in your eyes have stressed enough to the point of no longer flexing properly, thus leaving you helpless to evade the four-eye references for the remainder of your days. Unless you get surgery. 

Self Improvement is Self Destruction. Yes, I’ve cleaned that line up a bit from it’s original delivery, though I feel it holds a bit of weight, particularly within the realm of running circles. The irony is in flipping “Improvement” and “Destruction”, the gravity of the line still doesn’t shift. It’ll still just see-saw back and forth over the “Is”. Children at play. I bet right about now you’re wondering where I’m going with this. You’re beginning to question how sane this writer really is, (uh oh, you’re breaking the first Rule of Project Mayhem...). You’re wondering why I’m taking you so far down the rabbit hole, away from your latte, away from the white noise in the background of your important life, and away from the present reality of your physical being. Welcome to my world. Now sit cozy in my words, and hold on tight. Please keep all hands and feet inside the moving vehicle at all times.

_______________

Green Mountain stands 8,100 feet tall. Its’ shadow stretches over my home in Boulder, Colorado each evening as the sun sets to the west. Trails liter the east side, and in the Summer, runners and hikers alike crawl along the Flatirons like moving ants. But in the Winter, the mountain is cold and lonely. This is why I chose to summit the mountain deep in the Colorado chill. I had slight chances of crossing paths with bears, mountains lions, and ultra-runners (oh my!). The Boulder bubble doesn’t reach into the open space during the winter months, or above 6,000 feet, so I knew I would be safe. I went into the mountains to get away from the noise, the chitter-chatter on stale bar floors, the roaming satellites overhead, and the $50 steaks. I went into the mountains to find out why I had any desire to go into them in the first place. 

What I found along my journey, was how suffocating society’s bubble can be, which seems to be littered with overly-priced lattes, restaurants, and gym memberships. In Boulder, the abundance of running “clubs” could even join the list. Everyone gravitates to the next big “thing” like leeches. Five Fingers. Garmin Watches. Fro-Yo. The Mass of such things pulls and bends light, altering appearance. But if Einstein, in his famous thought-experiments could discover the theory of relativity, then I could discovery something of much less significance on a run up Green Mountain. The smothering bubble is like a mother purposely marking her son with a red-lipstick kiss on his cheek before heading out on a date. Territorial Pissings. Sorry mother, but I’ve got to wipe this kiss off before I head out the door and indulge in self-destruction as I run up this mountain here, no big deal. 

The trails were quiet, they didn’t talk to me - or I to them. Understanding works best when you’re mouth is closed. I linked up to Mesa Trail from NCAR, and headed south towards Bear Creek Canyon where I would start the real climbing. Large boulders were scattered along the trail, ancient debris of some epic battle among the gods I presumed, or maybe they just fell that way. Every one of them looked like a bear, posing as a mannequin, awaiting my arrival before attacking with all might and destroying my body, leaving pieces of my mutilated limbs along the trail. Bear Sighting. I pushed the pace further up the trail as my blood raced, waiting for a bear attack.

Not one human soul was on the trail, besides mine. I clipped along as the snow crunched beneath my feet, echoing though the canyon. The trees watched me pass by, as they wouldn’t see anyone else for quite a while. Lonely trees. The only challenges were natural: mountain climbing, slippery ice, and wild animals (that existed purely in my fevered imagination). The stability of the cosmos seemed to exist here on these trails, beneath the trees and among the rocks; where man hadn’t yet intervened to tip the scale. I was the warm little center of this mountain that every natural life form crowded around. The Zen Master. I didn’t pass a Starbucks, see any training groups in matching uniforms, or find anyone searching for a signal on their Garmin. The challenges out here were real. Unlike life back in the bubble, the purity of the canyon I climbed through, the rocks I hopped from, and the peak I summited, the simplicity of this pursuit, this act of self-destruction was all the freedom I yearned for. The mountain challenged my Will, and nothing less. 

I glided along the packed snow, up and up as the peak grew larger and larger. The higher I got, the silence of the cosmos prevailed. Self-Destruction: Engage. My heavy breathing clung to the trees, stealing my oxygen. The final push to the top was a rocky scramble, coated with ice. “Slide”, the power-animal Penguin would say. Owning a pack of chia seeds, or taking a obnoxious “selfie” wouldn’t be any help here. My blood raced through my body like tiny little race cars on a battery-operated track. I shuffled, but couldn’t quit. I would know if I stumbled to a walk. Don’t Walk. Walker’s walk. You’re a runner. The Will of my ambition teetered on the see-saw. How bad do you want it? Does it matter? The First rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions. I bounded from rock to rock, traversing a path many sea-level tourists would attempt in another six months, when the trail was easier. I daydreamed for a moment of slipping on the ice, breaking my leg and being stuck here for the bears. At least the self-inflicted pain aspect of this pursuit would be over. Redline City had rapidly approached, but then I could see the massive formation of rocks at the top that signaled The Summit. Where’s the oxygen tank?

The beauty of reaching the top of a mountain is always in having the opportunity to look back down on where you came from. Life as a tall man. Boulder seemed small and insignificant from here. Each overly-priced restaurant sat next to another. Even the only McDonalds and Burger King in town found company in being constructed side-by-side. I wondered briefly how a food-chain that didn’t offer wine or organic blends could survive in a town like this. But then I got cold enough to head back down. But not before realizing that both sides of coin existed in the bubble. You can’t have the day without the night, the dark without the light. Ying/Yang. 

Perspective.

From down low, within the bubble, the noise and chaos of the rat race can be somewhat annoying, and quite depressing. From up here, atop Green Mountain, beyond the bubble of civilization, it’s quiet and serene. Life is simplified in the mountains, which began to explain my journey of self-destruction. The mountain doesn’t care if you ate at an overly-priced restaurant last night, it doesn’t care what gym you go to, your attendance record at Pure Barre last month, what training group you’re a part of, how often you eat frozen yogurt, or how many packs of chia seeds you’ve got tucked away in your fanny back. The mountain quite simply, does not discriminate. It only cares for One Thing: The Will.

It cares only for the Will to reach the top, the Will to burn your legs and your lungs in pursuit of something so pure and so simultaneously meaningless. Remember the first rule of Project Mayhem, you do not ask questions. Don’t think.

I set a fire along the trail (not literally) as I cruised down, again hopping from rock to rock and open my stride on the softer sections. The trees were joyful of my temporary return as I zipped on by. The strain became easier on my lungs as gravity pulled me back down to the earth. 

I arrived back at my car and looked at the mountain I just traversed. My warm breathe clouded in the air around me as my heart pumped warm blood through my tired body. From down here, the mountain was just a blue silhouette each evening, but in each glance it beckons me back, reminding me not to get lost or caught up in the trivial pursuits of life. I focused on the peak, searching for the rock formation I climbed to sign my name and claim some territory. Nothing was really accomplished, but nothing mattered. 

My quads burned and my body gave up the fight. Self Destruction: Complete. My mind danced along the ridges of the mountain, and went into a tailspin. 

Running involves a daily bout of self-destruction. And through that destruction, comes improvement. Whether it be Physical, Mental, Emotional, or All of the Above, you must be broken down to build yourself back up. You’ll start every run on a High, but eventually, you’re going to want to stop on the side of the road and cry. Your Pride and Ego must fall. The side of the road is cold and lonely. Tears will fall down your cheek and you’ll wait for mommy or daddy to come save you, “Everything will be okay, sweetheart” they’ll say. 

Sorry sport, but mommy and daddy aren’t here, and it’s all on you to finish this workout. So buck up, and quit pouting on the side of the road, because you’re about to get hit by someone who doesn’t care: Big Pappa Results.

Big Pappa Results is the Godly-figure that looms over you daily, the black and white numerals of your last workout or race. There’s no hiding from Big Pappa Results, because he’s everywhere. He’s the reason you get out of bed before the sun rises each morning, the reason you climb Green Mountain in the dead of winter just to reach the top, and he’s the reason you drown away your pathetic sorrows of your last bad race in a haze of tequila on your kitchen floor. Big Pappa Results, the tourist who never left.

Self Destruction is Self Improvement. There’s no crying in baseball, and there’s no hiding from Big Pappa Results. So before your next workout, when you’re contemplating whether or not to dive into your dirty laundry for that musky flannel, you know, the one that smells of something that died behind the refrigerator, or before you slide of those non-prescription glasses to read that ever-so ethically challenging book by candlelight, remember: Big Pappa Results is watching. 

Some days you just have to literally run yourself into the ground, destroying all that you think matters until something climbs out of the ashes, stronger than before. Only the survivor can describe what climbed out, and if it was worth it.

But you can’t ask, because the first rule of Project Mayhem is you do not ask questions.