Rocky Twoska

I suppose an explanation is in order for my absence from the blogosphere (buzzword alert!) over the past two months.  In Rocky II, Rocky lost motivation to train when Adrian dropped into some sort of panic-attack-inspired coma, which remains among the stupidest plot devices in the history of movie and would only be redeemed by the Thunderlips fight in Rocky III.  

In real life, Adrian has not been in a coma.  But I've been in Rocky's funk.  To wit:

1) I am still running.

2) My knee still hurts.

3) I am not in fantastic shape.

4) This is going to be another grind, one that I can now fully appreciate in its dreadfulness.

Marathon Oneska was an adventure.  It was a challenge to my lifestyle and a test of my own character.  It was a fun kind of difficult.

This "adventure?"  This is a nightmare, and I'm scheduled to sleep until sometime between 1:30 and 4pm on Sunday.

It's a physical test, unlike the mental reorganization required by the first run around the city,  and my body has failed it to this point.  I cannot stay healthy.  I've found it impossible to write about because, frankly, I hate complaining about pain, and it's dominated my thought processes of late.  I always found a way to suck it up and keep truckin', rub some dirt on it and let's go.  Lately, though, this truck has a blown-out tire and is grinding axle on pavement.  This truck is overloaded and running out of gas.    

I'm reminded of my last offseason of football in college, after my freshman year of what was a demoralizing season on and off the field. Still, I intended to come back and play.  When the first workout came up on the schedule, though, I couldn't convince myself that it was something I wanted.  I didn't go, to that or to any others.  When a coach called, I could barely muster the voice to tell him I'd quit.  But I had, and I did, I just hadn't told anyone yet.

I am not a quitter, though.  I am going to fight Thunderlips in Rocky III, and to do that I have to beat Apollo this week.  And so I need the old Matuska, the one that kicked ass, and knew he could.  He knew it because he was, and is, a "hard try-er," as current Phillies manager and always baseball man Charlie Manuel likes to say, and if the effort is there and the will is there, the body will adjust to the absence of "ifs" and will resign itself to the inevitability of the finish line and complain later.  

So I write this and smile, because this is going to be fun.  Because the finish is inevitable, because I'm already there, because my best is good enough. because I've written it and thus it is so. I simply have to run the path.

When it's over.

Miles run:

Who knows

Beers consumed:

Who cares

Let's do this thing.