The Hypnic Jerk

Marathon Loop 26.2mi
2/7/06 11:30am

“Well, Mom, remember my dream of owning a big house on a hill, and how I used to wish for a living room with a plaster lion in it from Mexico? And how I always wanted a large-seat dining table in a dining room with original paintings by Michelangelo and Rembrandt? And remember how I always wanted a rotating bed with pink chiffon and zebra stripes? And remember how I used to chitchat with dad about always wanting a bathtub shaped like a clam and an office with orange and white stripes? Remember how much I wanted an all red billiard room with a giant stuffed camel and how I wanted a disco room with my own disco dancers and a party room with fancy friends? And remember how much I wanted a big backyard with Grecian statues, S-shaped hedges, and three swimming pools? Well, I got that too.” -- Steve Martin “The Jerk”

Quality sleep in a fire station is often elusive. The beds aren’t comfortable, the air-conditioning is always too cold or too hot, and the roommates snore. Then there are those pesky alarms.
I’ve never been the type to fall asleep immediately after laying down. It usually takes awhile before my thoughts begin to slow and eventually stumble under their own weight. On busy nights at the station, this may be as far as I get before the tones go off again and I’ve spent another evening in the twilight shadow of sleep’s precipice. These hypnagogic evenings do provide some degree of rest, and in some ways they fuel the imagination and lead to connections that I would not have made before.
I think of past evenings spent in a slowly swaying Mexican hammock, lulled to sleep by the hammock’s gentle motion and the distant roar of howler monkeys in the Chiapan jungle. We would light mosquito coils and place them below us in a futile effort to keep the insects at bay. The sounds of the jungle, the bugs, and the constant motion kept me in what seemed like a waking dream where I hung, wrapped in smoke, as the earth turned slowly beneath me. Without the black timelessness of a deep sleep, the days became circular as night was experienced in its own right. At home, things were sequential. Day after day. Here time was a continuum of slightly varied dreamstates.
These days I’ve taken to listening to my headphones in bed, and I’ve found that the spoken word provides a sufficient distraction from the litany of late-night thoughts so that my mind can drift, and soon I’m off to sleep, guided through my dreams by the voices in my ears.
My lullaby for the last month has been Scott Carrier’s radio piece “Running After Antelope” produced for This American Life in 1997. This piece, along with Bernd Heinrich’s “Why We Run”, was part of what sparked my initial interest in running as a contemplative endeavor. Both authors explore the idea that man is biologically predisposed to long-distance running. Carrier believes that man’s bipedalism allows him to breathe independent of his stride, and this gives him an advantage over even the fastest of four-legged prey. Carrier makes his seemingly impossible quest to run down an antelope appear totally logical, and the mysticism and power of this pursuit provide an explanation for the primal appeal of running today.
I drift off to the soft, lilting cadence of Carrier’s voice, imagining a run through the desert’s blank canvas with no destination at all. “I have a plan, and I’m trying to follow it. But it’s hard. It’s a hard plan to follow. I’m trying to get in shape, and I’m trying to live like a primitive man…I want to wake up naked and alone in the desert. I want to eat sand and drink piss and pass out screaming from sunburn and spider bites. But I know it won’t work and I know it won’t happen, either because I’m a coward, or unable, or it’s just not possible at all for anyone.”
After my last failed long run I’ve had doubts about my own ability to complete this quest, but after enduring a few weeks of my own defeatist nature and the unsolicited advice of a few soothsayers along the way, I set off for my final long run before I start to taper for the race. I’ve laid out a marathon-length route made up of three separate loops focused on my house, allowing me to stop twice for minor adjustments, nourishment, and shoe changes if needed.
I immediately forget my plan to run the Rome Avenue loop first so that I don’t have to ascend the MLK bridge after running 12 or more miles, and out of force of habit I head north along the Sulphur Springs route. I’m taking things slowly and paying special attention to the road surface, looking for the flattest possible line. My knee feels good and my new shoes seem to help in relaxing my stride.
I feel like I’ve started to learn a few things from these long runs. A precise rationing of effort is what it takes to complete these runs, and over the last few months I’ve become more adept at the delicate titrations necessary along the way. On the Rome loop headed south I can feel my pace quicken on the flat, level surface of the sidewalk, and I short-stride my way to the top of the bridge without much of a problem. Despite the greater impact associated with running on concrete, the even camber of the sidewalk is what my legs have been craving, and I decide to modify my route for the last loop, to head for Ybor City along Central Avenue’s long, straight sidewalks.
Around mile twenty I realize that I’ve run the last few miles without thinking about my legs, my breathing, my watch, or anything else for that matter. I’ve been moving for so long now that this feels like the normal state of affairs for me.
It is in this trance-like state that, despite the dictates of common sense, running becomes a form of meditation and, consequently, a passable substitute for sleep. A dark, overcast haze has hung over me all morning and now a gentle rain begins to fall, keeping me cool and slowly rinsing the salty crust from my face. I press my face to the mist and run home, the ground moving easily beneath me like a quiet Mexican night.