Words are hard to find these days
Maybe they are lost in the breathing
Maybe gobbled up by a lack of interest.

A friend dreams, vividly I hope,
Once I dreamt, it was good,
Creativity flowed, life was easy.

Funny thing, hope,
When things are great,
It’s there, then it’s gone

Which is where my writing is,
Hopefully just lost in thoughts of fitness
Running, swimming, biking

A different dream, satisfying
Easier to manage, less compliant,
Hopefully, it will all come back together

That dreamy state, melding with the sweaty one
So I can get my swerve back on
For my writing could use a boost

The winds whispered, “Now I have a goal,”
Breezy banter asked, “Are you doing that heart rate thing?”
My morning fog
Took them both in
And barely knew how to process them.

The first, a statement of comradery, made me think
Thoughts about my training
Where the ideas about how to get more fit
Fester in the comfort of a couch
And seem so easy when they are graphed out.

At 5-am the reality of what is really necessary,
The commitment, the drive, the smarts
Are nearly obstacles to getting things done.
Hearing someone say that they had a goal
Punched my gut bringing me out of a morning fog.

The second question, directed right at me, was a jolt of caffeine,
Making me realize my plan for being solo
Would not be good if I didn’t stick to the plan.
Run slower, keep my heart rate down,
Lessen the impact, and see far into my running future.

My talkative friends turned, I headed straight.
I’m guessing their pace was fast, mine would not be,
My watch became a coach, telling me to slow down
When it burned yellow, a cool green was the goal.
It was harder than it should have been.

Navigating the flattest streets in my little town
At a turtle-like pace took its toll on my motivation.
I wanted to let go, let my feet turn over quickly
So my heart and lungs could test their limits, so
My ego could be fulfilled.

But that wasn’t my goal,
That wasn’t my plan, so
I replayed those quotes from before,
Drawing strength from the awareness they inspired in me
To finish that run almost always in the green.

Clarity,
Induced by bags of sand
Lifted in a metronomic meditation
Built in forty second bursts,
Comes quickly
To a harried mind
Living in the muck
Of do-gooders
Who have failed
The ones they’ve helped.

To keep stepping
While the mind tempts muscles
With rest and promises of make up days
Is exactly what aggravates accountability,
Leaving those needing help
Right where they are.

Better to battle the mind with heart,
Letting each beat pound some sense,
Sense developed from discipline,
Determination, and shown
Through confidence, swagger, chutzpah
Into a soul, which is so much better than
Walking away, taking leave, quitting…
Unless, course, the latter is the truest option.

Clarity,
When quads ache and breathing is labored,
Sees life’s journey in black and white.
The choices are clear,
Get busy
Or
Quit.

Give me the grinders,
Give me the strength to persevere,
Let me compete.

Busy.

He says to get back at it everyday,
That dude, the fit guy,
With the bald head,
And the life-credibility
To make all his profanity and practicality
Something to stand on.

Even with my one bad leg.
To get back to running tomorrow,
No limits in my mind, only the soul to suffer
To attack pain and make it submit
To my will,
My terms.

That does not mean showing pain apathy,
It means respecting the process,
Embracing the struggle,
Massaging the pain,
And clearing the mind.
Again, my terms.