Dragons

I closed out the week today by driving out to Snyder Hill to dispense with a little elbow grease. Now, the splendorous public incline that is Tumamoc Hill is certainly nearer to the 821, but anyone who really knows me is aware that I have somewhat of a psychological addiction to driving, so I didn't mind the trip. After a number of sessions on the 'Moc, I've come to the conclusion that I still need Snyder in my life. Bad. The thing is, Tumamoc plays games with you-- starts out like any other road, then gets sorta steep but not really, then a little steeper, and by then you've wasted so much of yourself wondering whether or not you should be running faster that by the time you get to the real hard part you're just a cipher. This wouldn't be so for a runner equiped with a more capacious aerobic base, but I am not he, and since frontloading the zygotic phases of my training with power work is a central tenet of my new method, I had to go to Snyder. Where the 'Moc could be compared to one of the opaque concoctions served up at the venerable local lounge by the name of the Kon Tiki--starting out sweet and mild, then upping the ante once the patron's defenses are weakened, providing for the possibility of certain Dragons satellite affiliates barfing under their tables-- Snyder Hill is more like a Maker's Mark on the rocks served up with cold professional precision in a hotel bar by a man whose bow tie doesn't connote class so much as classiness. Far from the warm din of the Kon Tiki, where fellowship is foisted upon strangers by the silliness and seventies-ness of the environs, this hotel bar, which is most emphatically not located in a strip mall at Broadway and Craycroft, is inhabited only by yourself, the barkeep, and ESPN. Here, a man can take advantage of the bourgeois mobility that allowed him to get to such a distant and foreign place, and really be knocked flat on his ass by such a classy looking thing as a glass of bourbon or a really steep hill that boasts its proverbial houses, feeling at once naked for being so profligately bowled over in such pristine and lonely surroundings and anonymous thanks to the far reach of the geography. It is a magical situation, though not without its terrible ramifications. That said, I had entertained thoughts of finally breaking the stalemate that has me only up to doing 4 x 30 seconds. I entertain a lot of thoughts in a given moment, and it turns out that, were they to be rated according to possibility, this last would have fallen somewhere below my dream of touring as the opening act for the Brazilian post-punk dance pop art school sensation Cansei de ser Sexy.
Four reps was it today, but on the week I logged about 15 miles.