Why Billie Holiday is Better than Ella Fitzgerald.

  Because when she sings "Good Morning, Heartache", you can feel her crying through the microphone.

  Because you can feel the sweat pouring out of her as she sings deep inside of Harlem.


  Because she sang as Louis Armstrong sang and played, but better.
 
  Because you can smell the smoke drifting through your speakers as it sits in her fingers.

  Because you can hear the little girl named Eleanora singing along to the records at the whore house she
  cleaned at, but then began working at.

  Because the words she is singing feel like they are not just lyrics; they are what she is living.

  Because you can imagine her running to the things she is trying to flee from.

  Because you can see her chasing after all the things you know will kill her and you know she knows as well.

  Because her voice cracks and wanes into rustic, rhythmic imperfection.

  Because the abuse and destruction she sang of were her own.


  Because her soul was empty and longed to be filled, but never would be no matter what she tried        to crowd into it.

  Because when she sings. "Let's Call a Heart a Heart", you can imagine her singing with her head titled back and trying to give her heart to anyone who would truly care for it, but no one ever did.

  Because even at her lowest, she could still melt all who sat before her inside the hallowed walls of Carnegie Hall.


  Because there will only be and there always be only one Lady Day singing of her troubled life with a gardenia guarding her fragile heart with delicate efflorescence.

Wishing Billie would have lived much, much longer,

      David

24 Hours a Moment-A Poem

24 Hours a Moment 

Trading hours for mere moments, 

Till all of life has been reduced,

Not singularly, but exponentially,

To rabid time so obligatory,

Always moving, clock hands working,

Ticking forward, never backwards,

Washing each day away,

Like castles on a deserted beach,

Nothing left except mounded remnants,

Sweet and sad,

Tired, but accomplished.

Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon

   At 11:21 am on Saturday morning, I crossed the finish line of the Chickamauga Battlefield Marathon. It is a moment in time during my 31 years of life that I had been working towards since July 27th of this year, but really something I had been plodding along and contemplating for many, many years. It is a moment in time that I will not soon forget or replace.

  A marathon is not something that one plans to do the week before, or at least it is not something that most plan to do the week before. I hope not. If you look on the internet, in libraries, in bookstores, in magazines, or talk to runners or coaches, they will point you towards 20, 18, or 16 week training plans. So, in the smallest amount of time, you are talking about 4 months of one's life in order to train for this ultimate race for mere mortals. Yes, I know that here are 31 mile races, 50 mile races, 62 mile races, and the infamous 100 mile races, but I am not talking about those. I do not know for sure the percentage of the population that makes up these "ultrarunners", but I can only assume it is more than small; especially since only 0.1% of the population has completed a marathon.

   So, going back to the moment that I began with: me crossing the finish line. It was a moment that I had spent 4 months preparing for. I had run in the intense heat, in the rain, in the early morning hours, in the late night hours, in the cold, etc. I had charted my way through a 16 week, 112 day training calendar. No, I did not complete every run. No, every run was not my best, but I did complete 98% of the runs and what was required of me. I wrote down the details. I went through two pairs of shoes. I drank countless amounts of water and gatorade. I fretted over each run. Frowned at my watch after running intervals on a track. Celebrated two more miles added to my long run. Worried about a short run gone bad. Smirked over the seemingly lightness I felt after what I thought would be a rough run. In short, I was filled with what is known as the, Spirit of the Marathon, for four months. I know this sounds a little excessive or even cultish, but if you have trained for it and run it, then it may not.

   They say running a marathon will change your life and I am not ready to say that or not. I still feel I have so much to process about what exactly happened a couple of days ago. There were miles I hated it. There were miles that I enjoyed. There were moments when I was completely lost in the facts of motion, moment, and time all surrounded by the beauty of the battlefield. It is these moments that I will treasure the most. I lost count of what mile I was on and thought only of falling leaves (I caught two that day!) and how blessed I was to have people praying for my every step, and a beautiful wife to cheer me on in the cold, and a God who created such a magnificient world for me to enjoy, and this same God who would care about something so simple as a run and a short, balding guy trying to complete it.

  And complete it I did. Ordered the sticker today in order to quietly brag on my car. I am now a 0.1 percenter, or that is what Paula Radcliffe called me when I plugged up my Nike+ SportBand after the race. However, crossing the finish line was nothing like I thought it was going to be. It was more like I hoped it would be. It was exactly like finishing every run that I had completed since I got back into running when I was in my mid-twenties. They had all led to this. It was like a parable coming to life. It was the journey of a million steps finally arriving at the destination. It was a journey that had begun as an effort to make it around the block, through a 5K, through the mountains of N. Alabama, through the streets of Dothan, several 10K's and 15K's around the streets of Macon, and even some half marathons. They had all led me to this place: the finish line.

  I cannot tell you how nervous about the race I actually was. But I know God was out there with me because from the moment I stepped into the crowd of racers before the cannon went off until I crossed the finish line I felt so calm. I felt this voice inside of me telling me that there is nothing to be afraid of today because today I will finish what I had set out to do. I will say that for 23 miles it was almost the easiest run I had done in all of my training or maybe ever. I did not care about passing or being passed. I would slow my breathing and speed up and it felt like nothing was taxing. Miles 23-26 were painful. My mind kept saying what I had left in small increments and my legs and lungs kept telling me it would be okay to go home now, but I slowly prodded along. When I came into sight of the finish line, I took off. It was there to be had. There is a popular t-shirt that they sell at XC meets that says, "The faster you run, the sooner you're done." That became a little mantra of mine. However, 26.2 miles gave me a lot of time to think about all the little things I tell my runners. Some of them I will never say again. Some I will say even more now. And the one that comes to mind is, I tell them to never, never get back into the bus/car/suv, etc and know deep inside that they still had some to give out there. It will haunt them. I know from experience. I tried my very best to live by this for 26.2 miles. And when I crossed that finish line and hugged my wonderful wife. I knew that there was nothing left. I had given my all. It was wonderful. It gave a the smallest glimpse of heaven. I hope I will have done the same. I want to have nothing left.

  Trying to decide if I am hooked or not,
     David

The Spirit of the Marathon

   I know this is my 5th post about running. I apologize, but you have to understand that it is on the brain as of late. It is almost all I can think about or pretend to not think about. I will write about some other topics, I promise. I know the 5 people (or really three people, since 2 of my followers are Mel and her best friend, Mel or really the same person!) who read this thing are probably tired of the running posts. I will move on, but moving on will have to wait until next week. This week is dedicated to the Spirit of the Marathon. I hope you understand.  

   I haven't told many people about my running of the marathon because I am worried enough for the most of us. It sounded like such a better idea 25 weeks ago when I signed up for this thing. I saw visions of myself running through the finish line chute under a clock that read 3:30 and still having the energy to smile for the picture. Now that the race is tomorrow, those visions have long faded. I now see me crawling to the place where the finish line had been set up hours before. I hope by tomorrow at 7:30 am that I can talk both sides of my self into some more moderate visions. We will see.

  To be perfectly honest, I am only running the marathon for two reasons. And those two things are: a sticker and a little thing called pride. I know, I know. Pretty lame, but the sticker is pretty cool. It looks like this:

      I am sure it will look neat on the old Forester, but that is what I am banking on. It will also help with the second reason.  I have been running since I was 19. I am 31. I have run a lot of races. I have coached XC for 5 years. I have run 800-1300 miles a year for the last 5 years. This year, I may make it 1500 this year.  However, when someone finds out that I run, it seems that they immediately ask me if I've ever run a marathon and then I have to look at the ground, shuffle my feet, and tell them no. And then they move on, but I am left there hating my answer. I do not want to do that anymore. That is part of the reason I am running 26.2 miles tomorrow. I want to be able to answer yes. Then they will ask about the time I am sure or did I qualify for Boston and I will say no and I will not care. I will have run a marathon. 25 miles more than most humans. 6.2 miles farther than I have ever run!

    When I think about the marathon, I think about the history. I think about Phidippides running to Athens with an urgent message and then dying; leaving behind this legacy where weird people by the thousands run the same distance and try not to die. I think about the recent NYC marathon where many of the top elites gave out before the finish line. I think about the movie that bears the same title of this post and how I got misty-eyed. I am not sure if Mel understood. I think she did. When we lived in Dothan, we used to watch the Ironman Competition in Kona and we would get pretty torn up about it all. I know we are the lamest. Glad no one is reading this.

    Anyway, my marathon is tomorrow. I am excited and terrified. I hope that the Spirit of the Marathon will find me out there running my two loops of 13.1 miles. I hope I can make it. I hope that 16 weeks of training will produce a good race. I hope to finish and be able to tell people that I have indeed run a marathon. I hope all of these things and more. And hope they are more than just hope. We will see.

    Running 42, 195 meters tomorrow,

         David

Wired Running 2 and a Personal History of Running ( A Short Version)

      So, I came into some money lately. No, not a large sum, but a small sum. I could use a large sum, but a small sum felt just as good almost. But if you have a large sum to donate to the David Dark Educational & Philantrophic Trust Fund, I will promise to you personally that it will be spent wisely on things to be used for the Future and it will help children. (Hint: It is always good to help the children of the future. They will decide things for you and me.) And I promise to be as transparent or more transparent that the current administration who promised to be the most transparent in our country's history. They even have a committee. I will one up that, I will personally oversee the use and spending of this money and will even send you the receipts.


      Anyway, I came into some money that was given to me for my birthday. I looked at my money and looked at my wish list and saw a couple possibilities; most of them had to do with running. Weird. So, I did some research on several of the items on my list and found one that really stuck out. After letting it sit in my mind, I realized that not only did I want it....but needed it. And this is what I needed:

     

        Yes, it is just a watch, but it is also not JUST a watch. It is the Garmin 110. Yes, I already have something that looks similar to this. Yes, I already have my Nike + SportBand that does many of the same things. But, this does it with accuracy! I needed that in my running life. If you don't understand this, talk with my wife. She will give you the details.

        When I first got back into running, I lived at home after college and used to run around this half mile loop until I couldn't do it anymore. I didn't wear a watch, but only counted the number of times that I went around the loop and divided by two. (Oh, the easy days!) I entered my first post-collegiate race and came in second in my age group. Began wearing a watch around the loop. Got faster, but only a little bit. Got a new job in N. Alabama.

        Moved to N. Alabama and ran to measured landmarks from the all boys camp that I worked at. I quit looking at my watch. Running in the mountains is so much different that in the Sunshine State. My only measuring tool where sore legs and the goal of, "Don't come in last because high school boys are not kind". 22 years old is ancient. I succeeded some times. Got a little faster, but only a little bit more. Got a new job in S. Alabama.

      I moved to S. Alabama, quit running for a year. Decided that the bike was for me. I bought a $25 dollar road bike that weighed 1000 lbs. or felt like it. Road a lot. Loved it. Pretend I was on the USPS team and then Team Discovery. Entered a race. Died at mile 50 of a 62 mile ride. Rode harder. Went to the library and made some copies of training plans. Entered another race. Did better. Died at mile 60. Began reading bike magazines, watching the TdF, set my sights on a Trek, contemplated spandex.

     Started my second year of teaching, got handed the reins of a varsity cross country team. Gave up the bike. Went back to the library, read all I could about coaching running. I ran in college, but coaching is not like getting coached. Started running again and realized that I had lost most of what I had gained. Put back on the watch and began training again. Set the same goal as I had at the boy's camp, "Don't come in last". I succeeded sometimes. Entered some more races. Did okay. My XC team did better. They made it to Region twice in two years and to State twice in two years. Got married, gained 30 lbs., slowed down a lot! Started running more and longer. Needed to. Had to. Stopped passing the Little Debbie aisle at the store.

    Began a ritual that I brought my wife into. I would run all around Dothan and then get home and get my keys and my wife. We would drive down all the streets and places that I had run with the odometer on Trip B.  It is also when Mel would kindly tell me that I really didn't need to be running down a certain street or in a certain area because I did not want to be selfish. I would change my route. I would take members of my XC team with me. They would let me know that we were running in the ghetto, but then I would let them know that we were on the street that I lived on. When we got back home from riding in the Jeep,  I would measure this distance against my watch. Sometimes, I would be pleased and other times not. Did this for two years. Entered some more races. Did better, but still slower than I had when I lived in the Sunshine State and much slower than when I was at Mercer. Entered my first half marathon, finished, but got passed by an elderly man who passed me while jumping cones. I was just trying to not throw up. I made it to the car until that happened. Got very tired of Dothan and God graciously moved us somewhere else.

    Moved to Macon. Began coaching JV XC and continued my own running. Got better. Saw glimpses of my own running self. Bought the Nike+ SportBand. Took my running to the Web. Entered more races. Did better. In May of this year, I beat my timed 5K race that I entered several months after I had graduated from college. Read more about running. Kept coaching. Runners took me to State three times in three years. Got up earlier and joined a running club and ran around the historic Triangle in Macon. Entered more races. Did a little better. Became obsessed about it all. Began caring about the difference between 3.10 miles and 3.11 miles.

    Broke down and used my birthday money on a satellite that fits on my wrist. Hooked the GPS watch up to the computer and started a 4th place to log and track my runs and results. It looks like this and is awesome:

   Found myself 6 days away from running my first marathon with so much anxiety that I could hardly run three miles without having a mental/physical/emotional breakdown. That was three days ago. Ran four the next day. It didn't get better. Ran 5 last night. Got a little better. Made myself a promise. After Saturday, I am taking off these gadgets at least once a week and just running like I used to in college and around the loop, but maybe more like I used to run around in elementary school around the playground. I ran because I loved it and because it felt good. Not because it was a goal or made my pants feel loose. I ran to feel free. That is the game plan after this Saturday and I guess I will still go with the same goal: Don't come in last!

   Will tell you more about the awesome Garmin 110 later, didn't plan on this becoming a confessional, but I am sure Mel knew it would be!

      David

3 Days Till Chickamauga!

A Pet Peeve

  

   Everyone has their certain pet peeves. Right? Am I alone? My lovely wife, does tell me that at times I am. At least, I am, in my pet peeves. To be honest, the reason for this is that I have a lot of little pet peeves. So, here is my pet peeve, or at least one of them:

                  This (fill in the blank) is the best (fill in the blank) of the month/year/decade/ever.

      I am not real sure that many people can or will agree with me, but statements like the one above get the best of me. Here is an example:

"Once a Runner"--The best book about running EVER written. What does this say about books written about running? What does this say about the other books? I am a book snob. I will not deny this, but how can a book (a rambling one) about a runner who at times seems unintelligible is the best book about running. There are times when the book is good. Times when the writing is good. Times when the writing makes you want to run, but the BEST book ever written about running? How can one say that? Better than the book about Bowerman and his Men from Oregon? Better than Bart Yasso's account of his life on the run? Better than Christopher McDougall's account of barefoot tribes that can run hundreds of miles at a time? It just makes me wonder. How can someone say this? I hope that I am not alone in this, but will be okay if I am.

Having the best day ever! (Just playing)

   David

A Longing for Home

      I am a very blessed person. I say this because I all too often look around and feel the opposite. They should tell you when you are very small to never look around. You will always see what is beyond and what is below and then you will quickly forget the below and yearn for the beyond. I do this and should not. I have always done this and should have never. I know better and still do. I hope that will go with age.

     This post is not about being content it is about longing. It is about longing for a place and that place is home. Home can be a lot of things and there are many things that it can't be. I am so blessed because I do not have much, but I do have a home; not a house, but a home. I have a wonderful place to come home to everyday after work. I have a place that I can take refuge in. I have a place I can come to and hide. I have a place to rest. This post ia about having a place to come to.

     This place is an old home; over a 100 years old to be honest. The paint is long overdue for a new coat. The shingles need to be replaced. Some of the tile in the kitchen is cracked. The stairway needs to be sanded down and refurnished. The list of what needs to be done at my home is far too long for this little post, but this has nothing to do with my Home. All of these things are merely accessories to my Home. I did not say that my Home is nice, palatial, large, luxurious, etc. My home is restful and peaceful. I wouldn't trade that for anything. Anything. Not even new paint, a new roof, a flat screen t.v., a yard makeover, etc.

     Home is something you long for. What I mean by this is that when you are away or sick, you have some place that you long to be; somewhere you would rather be. Home is the place you long for. I know whenever I was sick or something was going really badly in college all I wanted to do was lay in my bed at home and have everything taken care of. That is what home is to me: a place where everything is okay, no matter what. It is a place where the whole world is fallen down around you and you can rush into your home and it is a refuge. Home is that. Home is a refuge from the whole world and everyone in it.

    Home used to be in Sorrento, Florida. I longed for this place on six continents. I longed for this place through 4.5 good, but rough years in college. I longed for this place for a couple good, but rough years after college, but then in 2006 my home became a person.The person that painted the picture that starts this post. I am not saying that this place was perfect in high school, college, after college, etc. That is not what home is. Home is far from perfect. Home is broken like everywhere and everything else, but it is different. No matter how bad things are at home, it is so much better (to me) than anywhere else. Home is not easy. Home is home. Home is a refuge, not a fantasy place of tranquility.

   I am in no way trying to say that my life is perfect. All I am trying to say is that I have always had a home. When I was pretty young, it was a a brick home on a canal with a small room that I shared with my older brother. When I was a littler older and up until I got married, it was an old house surrounded by woods that made me who I am. And now it is old house that sits on a hill, but mostly it is a girl with curly hair and a smile that lets me know that no matter how crazy things get, how thin the money needs to be spread this month, no matter how long my to-do list is, no matter how much hair I lose, weight I gain, etc. that all is well and that I am home and all is well.

   Sitting at work and looking forward to going home,
       David