PATRICK STEPHENSON

I’ve been at this for a week now. Last Saturday was difficult and, as I wrote in the last entry, shocking. Running sucks. Who knew? I worked out at the gym four of the last seven days and worked out otherwise on the remaining three (I biked a hell of a lot; I ran Hennepin Ave.; I practiced intervals at Lake Harriet with Weez).

The pinnacle of the meditative moments I previously mentioned took place on a curb outside the hardware store across from Whole Foods. I was wiped out from biking up, down and around Summit Ave., and with a bottle of water in hand, I sat on the curb and drifted out. Drifting out is something I don’t do well. Part of my personality is that I’m highly aware of what’s around me—traffic, people; it makes me observant and intuitive, but it means that being anywhere is an intense experience unless I can shut that down. Briefly, on that curb, it was as though I existed outside the non-stop engagée. Outside time, I’m telling you. Detached and at peace. I like that I’m engaged, but a vacation from it’s relaxing.

A Chuck Palahniuk quote I read this week perfectly describes the way I felt: “Being tired isn’t the same as being rich, but most times it’s close enough.”

Progress-wise, I made a treadmill breakthrough on Wednesday. I’m accustomed to intense biking and elliptical workouts, but I’ve never been a runner. My stiff-legged running last Saturday had me thinking, “Maybe I am not meant for this.” But on Wednesday night, as I watched Keanu Reeves chase a Ronald Reagan-costumed Patrick Swayze on my treadmill’s TV*, it felt like my legs were breaking out of a cage, Forrest Gump-style. Suddenly, there wasn’t pain, and I could run as much as I wanted. It was tremendous. Today, I ran faster and farther than I ever have, and it felt good.**

*Point Break: Awesome movie. **One side effect: Working out this much means my testosterone level’s pretty high, and I have to work at not being an asshole.