Cheating on the Instant Messenger

Ok, so I need your best advice. I have a friend, and she has a problem. And I can't decide what to do. I'll do my best to preserve her confidences.

See, say there was a certain person, who was your friend. And say that this certain person was married to a certain other person, who is also your friend.

And say that certain person told you something, in confidence. See, that certain person has a weakness, an addiction really, that isn't really good for that certain person. And you know that certain other person would not want that certain person engaging in conduct involving that addiction. But that certain person was cheating on that certain other person.

See that certain person told you that they had engaged in that addiction just then and felt that she had carte blanche to cheat because the certain other person did not know.

I mean, that certain person has goals and potential, but that certain person just keeps falling to this addiction, and I feel dirty not telling that certain other person that his this certian person is cheating and telling me about it.

I mean, I should tell that certain other person, right? Wouldn't you?

Swim Star

Yay for me. I led my lane in the masters workout yesterday. First time EVAH!

There was no one around with a camera, so I've found a piece of video in the public domain that sort of approximates my performance.



OK, so I wasn't quite like Phelps. And seriously, you MUST seek out and watch his current perforamances at the World Aquatic Championships. He is shattering records every time he gets wet and this meet may go down as one of the most dominant in the history of the sport. He is a man among boys right now.

Unlike Phelps, I have no flip turn, let alone an explosive flip turn that allows me to grab a length and a half on the competition, all underwater. Just LOOK at how far he travels under the water and how he gains ground at every chance.

Obviously, my lane was not the fastest of the lot, but I hung in there. What a difference over last year. For each of the intervals, I would gain ground on my lane mates by the middle of every length and lose time in the turns. I gotta get me a flip turn. If I master a turn, I could graduate to a faster lane.

No promises for the race this weekend, however. In open salt water, all bets are off, and I just want to make it onto the bike without being pummeled by some Amazon woman with a hatred of short guys in neoprene.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

The Amazon part I mean.

Could be. Who knows?

This is a recovery week for me, and not a moment too soon. I was just getting to that can't-stay-awake-can't-fall-asleep-droopy-overtrained state. I am getting where I know my limits.

But the thing about recovery weeks is that being still sometimes causes me to think too much. Some of that thinking has my stomach tightening into a tight little knot. See, if my tri-season were a Broadway musical, this would be about the time that everyone breaks into song, and someone like Tony from West Side Story croons:

Could be!
Who knows?
There's something due any day;
I will know right away,
Soon as it shows.

***
Something's coming,
I don't know what it is,
But it is
Gonna be great!

(So, um, yeah. I kind of know some show tunes. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Don't make me post about the road trip where I learned all the lyrics to the patter songs from The Music Man. Don't make me.)

The air and waters have turned warm here in South Texas. Sweat is once again dropping to the asphalt as we bike. We live in 45 spf suncreen. Dreadmills are a thing of the past. And all the shavey-legged, spandex crowd with abnormally low body fat are all a-quiver. All this training isn't just for grins. RACES are just around the corner.

I know a lot of you think Wildflower is "just around the corner," and it is. I can't wait to see all those triblogger friends in one place. I'm truly California Dreamin' about that race. But, my first corner is just a lot closer than that.

This Sunday, April 1, I have the first race of my season. This time out, however, the first race is the Lone Star Triathlon Festival at the half-iron distance.

**gulp**

So this explains the little knot in my stomach. It's one thing to put a local event on your calendar with the intention of simply treating it as a long training day. It's another to get back on a race course with real athletes, and buckle down for 1.2 miles in the open water, 56 miles on the bike, and 13.1 miles on your feet. Still, it can't be the hardest thing I've ever done.

The swim is in a sheltered, salt water bayou, not in the open Gulf.



The bike course is pancake flat alone the coast. I have ridden it before and have a good feel for how to meter my effort.



The run course is . . . a run course.


With the exception of potentially brutal winds on the bike, the course should be less of a challenge than Buffalo Springs Lake last summer. Still, . . . .

There's always that doubt . . .

and that faith . . . .

Could be. Who knows?

Blogaversary

I did not realize it yesterday, but the weekend of my solo century also marks my Blogaversary. I did my first post one year ago. Kind of a nice ribbon around the whole year. Go here if you want to see the beginning.

Solo

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

--T. S. Eliot

Fall, 1985. It was my senior year of high school. The school itself was one of those sprawling, gigantic high schools common to bedroom communities outside of larger cities. Among the 893 people on my graduating class, we could easily have sent members down to central casting to replace the ensemble in The Breakfast Club. We had preppies, cheer leaders, band geeks, brainiacs, stoners, athletes . . . all the stereotypes.

Anyway, I placed a sticker on the inside of the rear window of the car I drove. The sticker said "University of Wisconsin at Madison" and had the school's Numen Lumen symbol. I had won my audition to enter the school, and it was my statement: "I am not staying here. I am not going to the same college down the road where everyone else is going. It's clear across the country, and I am going by myself. But this is what I am doing."

At 18, I had never taken off alone before. It was a barrier to cross, and once crossed, everything changes. From that point on, I did not "live" at "home." That is "home" was elsewhere, not with my parents. I was too full of 18-year-old immortality to notice at the time, but it was an important moment, going it alone. A lot of important moments happen that way.

I don't know for sure, but today might be one of those moments too, on this journey back to Madison. I had plans for a big ride, a breakthrough in the bike training. I intended to start early, before an organized group ride, and tack on miles to exceed their distance. My plan was to do two loops to their one on the hilly Montgomery County roads that are my haunt at the weekend. I was going to do the ride with a friend, but my intended partner unavoidably had to cancel.

So. Me. In the dark. Pumping up the tires. Mixing the nutrition bottles. What to do?

Well, I knew one thing. I am not staying here.

When it was just light enough to be safe, I left. Solo.

I was alone most of the day, the long route group behind me, and catching short route riders as they came back into the start. The cheerleaders and drill team members who benefitted from the ride cheered me as I came first through the aid stations and road on past without stopping--like I was Floyd Landis or something. (THAT never happened in high school, I can assure you.) And I finished up the first loop.

But now what? The heat is coming, the wind is picking up, and the cheerleading aid stations will all be gone on your second trip around. I tried not to think as I mixed up more Perpetuem. With the bottles in place, I began again--solo--this time in the full sun.

They did not cheer as I left. They just looked.

Up to the half-way point of the second loop, one can turn around and save some effort. After that point, there was nothing for it except to get as low as possible on the bike to try and hide from a dead on wind that stretched the flags taut and felt like a convection oven. Even this does not work when your legs beg to stand during a climb. No cheering this time.

Except for one. Me.

We train in groups, we encourage each other in person and on the internet, and we cherish the friends that we make in this sport. But there are also those times, some of them very important times, where the aloneness is what forms us. When we are alone, like no other time, we have to decide who we are and how far we intend to go. Today was one of those times.

100 miles.

Solo.

Nanner Nanner Boo Boo

This just in from the "You Wish You Were Me" division of Greyhound Central.

Guess who is going to be the guest speaker at my next tri club meeting?



I'll give you a hint. She was coincidentally featured in yesterday's post.




She's world class fast and powerful, and had the privilege of racing with Trigreyhound last year at Buffalo Springs Lake 70.3. (I was somewhat slower than she.)


.

She was TOTALLY ROBBED by the Iron Kahuna when not chosen as Tri Geek Dreams Tri Diva for 2007.




How could you not be drawn to this "tracter beam 'o hawtness."





I mean that in the most professional and athletic of senses, of course, . . . but, I digress.

Yes. Our guest speaker is the incomparable DESIREE FICKER!!!



**pause to breathe deeply in paper bag**

Did I fail to mention I'm in the best tri club on the planet? San Diego and Boulder can kiss my lone star . . . . ahem.

Oh, and Kona Shelley, that whole contest about getting Des' autograph. You lose.

Nanner.

Nanner.

Tagged

I was tagged by the feminista of the west. (Settle down. It's a joke.) See, the tag was to name the five things I can thank feminism for. I was a little reluctant to post, in part because feminism (like most "isms") is one of those things you can't joke about. Like most "isms" it is a loaded terms that sets people off. I make it a practice not to set people off, at least on the blog. I like people to want to come here.

Plus, I'm suspicious of all isms, from communism, to liberalism, to conservatism, to fundamentalism. All isms are mixed bags that are responsible for both good and ill in human society. Even so, the isms tend to inspire adherents who insist the bag is completely full of truth and light, and anyone who does not think so is at best ill-informed, or at worst an enemy to the state. Thus, debate in this country usually degenerates into name calling that would get a first year laws school mock trial team laughed out of competition, and elsewhere it degenerates into violence. (List these among the reasons that I NEVER watch any television news program.)

Me, I'm not a full bag kind of guy. I'm not even a "glass half full" or "glass half empty" kind of guy. To me, it's just half a glass.

BUT, I gotta respect the power of the tag. So I put my little dog brain to work. Given my antipathy toward all "isms," I will change the inquiry only slightly. What are the five things I can be thankful for that are due to the increasing equality and dignity of women. (You, reader, can attribute that increasing equality and dignity to feminism, in whole or in part, or not at all.)

1. My wife.




Beyond her being a strong human being with a willingness to use her brain, I never would have met her in a prior generation.

This is a tale of two flutists. My wife and my mother were both flutists from small towns in Oklahoma, just from different eras. My mother had the opportunity to solo with the Olahoma City Symphony back in the 1950s, and was invited by the guest conductor to come and study at the Curtis Institute on scholarship. But good girls from small towns in the 1950s did not pursue ambitions like that. In contrast, my wife clawed her way into college on her flute and went to the Aspen Music Festival where I met her and fell in love with a gifted and ambitious woman.

2. My daughter.



This is more than just "if I hadn't met my wife I would not have my daughter." The most interesting people on the planet are older elementary age girls in that time right before they enter the dark tunnel of adolesence from which many never fully emerge. (Read "Reviving Ophelia") They are smart, curious, rough-and-tumble, girly, not-so-girly, know-it-all-or-soon-will-master-the-universe kind of little people. I'm thankful that no one (especially me) is telling her to sit down, be quiet, and act like a lady.

3. Title IX. On this I agree whole heartedly with the other tag-ees. I love women's sport. Maybe it's because I'm the father of a daughter. Maybe it's because I know how good sport is for a young woman's development as a person. Maybe it's because I train so often with women. Maybe it's just because female athletes are hawt. WHATEVER. I just love it. I know my mancard is in danger, but I have to admit to not watching a single nanosecond of the NCAA Men's basketball tournament. I have seen some of the women's tournament, however. And the NCAA women's cross country championships. And soccer. And volleyball. and . . . . well you get the idea.

4. The Title IX brain. Because of Title IX, we think differently about women in sport. Even women who never played college sports feel the power and freedom to participate here that they do not feel elsewhere. (Witness the lack of female competitors by comparison in European triathlons).

What would the transition area at Wildflower look like in the absence of Title IX? Who would be blogging about triathlon in the absence of Title IX? Do you want to train and race in such an environment? I surely don't. Title IX brain means I have new friends like:

Iron Wil




Curly Su




Nytro



Trimama and Trisaratops



and many others. I would certainly be impoverished in the absence of coming to know these extraordinary women. And I never would have met them in the absence of Title IX brain.

Title IX brain also means that we are beginning to value and glorify beautiful women who are talented and powerful--not just for being some skinny, no-talent waif who walks a runway after snorting coke and smoking a cigarette. Just think of:

Amanda Beard



Mel McQuaid



Jessi Stensland



Desiree Ficker



Carrie Tollefson



and the next generation like--

Sarah Bowman


or Brie Felnagle.



(So, um, yeah. I know the sophomore standouts at colleges I never attended. I told you. I love women's sport.)

Beyond the obvious "ez on the eyes" reason for a guy to like these women (and I don't deny that reason for a minute--I am ALL guy on that one) I want my daughter to equate beauty and feminity with power and accomplishment--not with the right shade of lip gloss or an eating disorder.

5. Getting closer to right. Warning, reader. This is the part of the post where I get all theological. If that is not you're cup of tea, then move on. You have been warned.

Did you know that the original Christians were criticized for recognizing the dignity of women and slaves? It's true. The faith was derided as beneath the contempt of a Roman man because it was the religion of women and slaves. The ancient Hebrew and Christian creation account tells us that "God created man in his own image; . . . male and female he created them." Both genders in our species were created in the image of God. Both genders are needed to understand the complete image of God. To the extent one denies the dignity or worth of either part of our human race, one distorts both the nature of humanity and the nature of God who created them. To the extent we value both, we are closer to right than we were before.

Done.

Fear and Karma

For several weeks, I have been planning to return to masters swim for the first time since my injury took me out of the pool. I had even put it on the training plan in the sidebar.

But I didn't do it.

I didn't do it because I was afraid.

What if I haven't gained back as much strength as I think? What if I get hurt again? What if I can't hang with the workout? What will the good swimmers think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Friday, I did it anyway. I was in the slowest lane, but I did it anyway.

Saturday, I almost did not show up for a group ride with the Lone Star Multisport club from the Woodlands. Again, I was afraid. I've never ridden with that group before, and beyond my usual reluctance to meet new people, I knew they were a strong group. I wasn't wrong. There were at least half a dozen studs with ironman finisher gear. What if I can't hang with them? What will they think of me? I'll look like a fool and a poser.

But Saturday, I did it anyway. I got dropped by the Justice League crew in the first group, but I did it anyway . . .

. . . and I pulled someone on a road bike who later thought better of pursuing the long route that day. Karma.

On the hills outside Anderson, Texas, having long since been dropped and riding alone with my own thoughts, I crested a hill and saw another solitary rider. Actually, he was not riding. This card carrying member of the Justice League was on the side of the road with one slowly leaking tube, one tube that would hold no air, and having expended all his CO2.

As luck would have it, I was carrying 4 cannisters instead of my usual 2. Karma.

I was la lanterne rouge of the long route, and the little voice in my head was telling me just to avoid the ignominy and jump in the car after my brick run. I was embarassed to talk to anyone, but I did it anyway.

The only person around happened to be the CO2 superhero's friend. He and I both did our first half-iron distance events last year. We began talking about our race schedules and how I had signed up for Ironman Wisconsin after seeing my friends on the course while volunterering. A spark of recognition dawned on his face. He knew I was talking about Iron Wil, and he figured out that I was Greyhound. The superhero soon returned, and besides meeting two great people, I learned some useful information about Wildflower. Karma.

Shortly before Ironman Florida, The Tri-Geek Kahuna observed one profound result of his training: "The one emotion that has ruled his life, that he was weaned on, is missing: fear." Maybe that is one of the things I'm looking for in my Ironman experience. I am the older of two brothers, and yet it was my little brother who had no fear. I was afraid of everything: swimming, girls, boys, athletics, locker rooms, my own appearance, failure, embarassment . . .

. . . a lot of the same things that have kept me out of the pool or away from the group rides.

I will always be the cautious older brother, and the future is always going to have another "it" to be afraid of. I hope that part of this Ironman experience will be increasing measures of courage . . . to do "it" anyway. If I can do that . . .

"If" by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;

If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;

If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;

If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!

"That Guy" Part Deux

"Guys! guys, guys, guys, GUYS!!!! STOP THE TREADMILLS!!

"It's 71 degress outside, mostly sunny, low humidity and a nice fresh breeze. There are poor, frozen triathletes in Minnesota who are starving for weather like this.

"GO OUTSIDE AND RUN!!!"

"That Guy"

Nobody wants to be "that guy." You know the guy I mean. I'm not talking about the friendly, helpful guy who encourages the newbie. I'm talking about that guy in the transition area or the gym who has all the answers, who knows that his aero helmet will save him .72 seconds per kilometer and your transition area would be 21.7% more efficient if arranged thusly, and optimal stretching is accomplished in only one fashion.

I don't want to be that guy, offering free advice on proper form to all the people in the gym. Much of my life can be explained as an ongoing effort not to be that guy. In fact, I think part of my quiet nature as a child came from observing many examples of very outgoing people who were actually "that guy" and did not know it. Thus, I became a reader instead of a talker. My policy: "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt."* Stated differently, "I have often regretted my speech, never my silence."**

Thankfuly, my industrial strength speech filter was in place at the gym today or else one might have heard . . .

"Um, sir. The exercise is called a crunch, not a jerk, snap, rupture, fit, spasm, or seizure. SLOWLY. And BREATHE for the love of God. This is not a race against the clock. At least don't rip your head from your shoulders or rupture a disc until after I leave."

"Excuse me sir. Do you hear that sound? The one that sounds like an M1 going off every time your foot slams down on the treadmill? STOP IT! Nobody else in the gym is running that way, and you're going to hurt yourself. It hurts me to watch."

"Stop, stop, STOP! You're going to take someone's eye out. Besides you're doing it WRONG. You're going to rupture your rotator cuff if you keep swinging the the dumbells around like that."

"SIR! PLEASE! That horrible cracking and popping sound when you slam down into a deep knee bend--that's just WRONG."

"Um, if you can read the paper and watch television on the recumbant bicycle without breathing hard, there really is no appreciable training benefit over driving your couch. Just thought you ought to know."

I was not that guy. I held my tongue, as I'm sure you do. Buuuuuuuuuut, if you didn't, what might you say?


*Abraham Lincoln
**Publius Syrus, Maxim 1070

Cigarettes and Whiskey and Wild, Wild Women

Yes, faithful reader. It is that time again. There must be at least three or four people that watch this space for the Sunday evening recap of the training week, which is typically called "Whiskey and Chocolates." The decadent indulgence in single malt scotch and fine chocolate is a reward for work, well done.

Well, this weekend, all the spouses were gone, and it was boys gone wild for Triboomer, Brett and Greyhound. It was off the hook. And the night only started after we terroized the fourth largest city in the United States, rolling around H-Town on our Harleys -- going from strip club to strip club. The police were involved, women's underwear was strewn all over the LATC, and we trained a little bit in between keggers, binge drinking, and making farting noises with our hands. In the words of the old country song:

Cigarettes and whiskey, and wild, wild women,

They'll drive you crazy, they'll drive you insane . . .

****Remove Middle Aged Married Guy Boast-O-Meter*****

Even middle-aged married guys like to think they're at least a little bit dangerous; but, under truth serum, I'd have to admit the reality is not very dangerous.

Friday, Boomer was already at the house when I got home from work. Brett arrived later. I fixed the guys spaghetti, broccoli, and other healthy stuff to eat. (Yes, ladies, I cook. I am told it is my sexiest quality, but alas, you're too late. Some hottie already snagged me.)

Instead of cruising the "Richmond Strip," Boomer started to fall asleep at 8:15 and was in bed by 8:30. I followed about 9:00, and I think Brett was not far behind.

Saturday, I rolled out early and fixed pancakes and scrambled eggs for the Zentri Army before we repaired to Montgomery County for a ride in the hills. By mile 24, I was starting to despair a little about whether I could hang with the fellas. I was afraid I was holding them back, but by hour three in the ride, Carmen Tequilo and I found our rhythm and we had ourselves a little fun. Harder, faster, longer . . . the bike ride, that is. 58 miles.

But nothing is ever simple when you're an age grouper without a sponsor riding sag for you. The Boomermobile decided it didn't have the stomach for any more work, and wound up at the local dealership. Listen for the upcoming Zen and the Art of Triathlon episode for all the details.

But transportation be damned. It was off to the olympic standard Woodlands Athletic Center for the evening swim. We were observed by the surrounding pines and a gorgeous Texas sunsent. Thence, to the LATC for scientifically engineered recovery food--pepperoni pizza and Shiner Bock beer. One single malt scotch and then lights out by nine.

Sunday, we rolled out in a dense fog and drove to Brett's house for the coup de grace, 65 miles to finish off our weekend--or perhaps to finish us off. With us, apparently it must always be an adventure. Some wind, some hills, some harassment by law enforcement, some alleged wheel rubbing on the Zentri Master's TT02, and changing a flat on Carmen Tequilo. At the end of the day it was a very long ride.

So, the report: In bed by nine every night. 120 miles on the bike. About an hour in the pool. Two wonderful friendships cemented by miles in zone 2. These friendships will last 140.6 miles in Madison.

Triathlon is wonderful.

Manly Blogger Palooza

This weekend will be a "Celebrity Something" like nobody's bid'ness. Two MAJOR MAJOR celebrities of the podcasting glitteratti will arrive at the Greyhound LATC ("Low Altitude Training Camp") for a weekend of EPIC proportions.

There will be EPIC rides on both Saturday and Sunday. We will spring from our bikes like we were shot from cannons and run like we're chasing down Norman Stadler. We will take to the water like the porpoises we are and crank out yardage like we're . . . like we're . . . . swimming really hard for a really long time.

It's a tri-stag weekend full of Kelly Clarkson, pedicures, pride and prejudice and . . . . NO! WAIT! I mean training, sweat, beer, pizza, peeing on the bike, guns, killing small animals, and NO GIRLS ALLOWED.

Celebrities like this obviously have to give the paparazzi the slip, so the details are quite secret.

But I can tell you, right here, right now that we will acheive a completely zen like state of conciousness.

Bloggers Down

Newly in from the "Get A Life" division at Greyhound Central, youtube has been taken offline IN AN ENTIRE COUNTRY! Not only that, it is a country that fancies itself to be modern, secular, western and is a member of NATO. Why, you ask? Because internet dorks insulted the father of modern Turkey. Here's a news story about it:


Turkish court shuts down YouTube
By Vincent Boland in Istanbul
Published: March 7 2007 17:05 Last updated: March 7 2007 17:05
Turkey’s largest internet services provider shut down access to the YouTube video-sharing web site on Wednesday after a court ruling that some of its content insulted Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, the founder of modern Turkey.
The decision followed days of furious insult-sharing among Turkish and Greek users of the popular and controversial site.
The result was a flood of complaints to the site and to the media from Turkish users angered by what one newspaper said were “fanatic Greeks broadcasting videos” insulting Ataturk.

**************************
Seriously! Are democracies so fragile that they are threatened if someone photoshops George Washington?

And from the "nanner nanner boo boo" division of Greyhound Central, here is one of the offending videos. (Parental Advisory: it's not totally over the top, but may not be appropriate for pre-teens)



Ooooooo. Scary. The internet. Grow up.

Te Amo

Mrs. Greyhound just does not understand. Oh, Carmen. My sweet Latin Flower. Mi Latina. It has been too long. Too long have we been separated. Too long have I yearned for you.

How I have pined for your smoothness in my arms as we glide, your power as we ascend faster and faster, your sleek, naked sensuality as I mount, as I slide easily into my place. Day and night I am consumed by thoughts of you, how you look, how you feel underneath me, how you are when we are one.

In the past, it is true, you have hurt me, Carmen. Hurt me badly. I thought I might never recover from you. I could not live without you, and yet, to be with you, to embrace you was pain.
But we have a new understanding now. We have a new embrace. I hold you closer to my body, and my heart throbs. You touch my very center and hold me higher than before. You know exactly how to touch me to make me wild. I don't care what they say. If this is wrong, I don't want to be right. I could go all day, even all the night. Longer, faster, stronger.

Even your scent stirs a passion within me. You are grease and carbon, metal and rubber. You are too much for me. Mi diosa.

Te amo, Carmen. Te amo para siempre.

**er, so, . . . um . . . yeah. I rode my tri-bike again this weekend with a new bike fit. It was the first time I was able to ride since shredding my cervical disc last fall. It was fun.**

Your Move

Welcome to the planet
Welcome to existence
Everyone's here
Everyone's here

The song has been playing in my sidebar all week--and it’s right. We are none of us at our destination, none of us where we are intended to be. As long as we are breathing, we won't be. We’re all here--here in this moment between what is now and what will be. And we cannot stay. We have to move.

Do you think you are happy with yourself? Maybe too self-satisfied? Are you discontent? Are you mourning? Are you rejoicing? Is life turning out how you planned? Has your happily ever after evaporated? None of that changes things. Good or bad as here is, you cannot stay here. You are a living, breathing organism, created to love, to grow, to change.

Everybody's watching you now
Everybody waits for you now
What happens next?

What’s it going to be? Stagnation or growth? Rot or glory? Comfortable paralysis or painful effort, growth, improvement and discovery? The last chapter again, or on to the next chapter? Maybe a new story altogether?

I dare you to move
I dare you to move
I dare you to lift yourself up off the floor
I dare you to move
I dare you to move
Like today never happened
Today never happened before

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. What is called resignation is confirmed desperation.”* But, I dare you. Be resigned to nothing. New Year’s resolutions are gone. Most of the newbie gym rats are gone with them. But, I dare you. Stretch. Risk. Challenge yourself. Do something new. Chase the person that you imagine yourself as being.

If it’s running, bump from a 5k to a 10k to a marathon. If it’s triathlon, do your first. Get wet. Swim. Do your next. Get stronger. Go longer than you think is sane.

More importantly, if life has you on the ground, point your face toward your destination and step out. Fall, get up, grab the hand or lean on the shoulder of a friend. Everyone’s here. Lift yourself up off the floor. Better yet, let everyone lift with you. Go boldly in the direction of your dreams.

Welcome to the fallout
Welcome to resistance
The tension is here
Between who you are and who you could be
Between how it is and how it should be

Sure there’s a barrier. Sometimes it is real, sometimes it only seems that way. Sometimes it is the weight of your own inertia. Sometimes it is the wounds of the past. Sometimes it is fear. Doesn’t matter. You can’t stay here.

Tear down that wall. Close your eyes and take your step. Walk through it. Go over it. Step around it.

I dare you to move. Move from who you are towards who you could be. Move from how it is toward how it should be. Fail or succeed, just move. You can’t stay here.

Maybe redemption has stories to tell
maybe forgiveness is right where you fell
Where can you run to escape from yourself?
Where you gonna go?
Where you gonna go?
Salvation is here

Salvation is here--in that first step. You can’t “kill time without injuring eternity.”* It’s your move.

*Henry David Throreau, Walden Ch. 1 (1854)