DAILY ROUTINE OF AN ELITE-SUB-PROFESSIONAL-SUSHI-BOY-LONG-DISTANCE-RUNNER

7:00 AM: Wake up. Limp out of bed. Question if my right Achilles is finally ready to explode. It isn’t. Which is a bit of bummer, because a day or 180 off would be nice. Oh well.

 

7:02 AM: Roll downstairs. Eat a banana. Drink coffee. Clean up the coffee grounds Fauble managed to decorate the kitchen with.

 

8:00 AM: Begin morning run with a few hundred hobbling shuffles and then settle nicely into 7:45 mile pace. Gradually increase mile pace until a Strava-acceptable 7 minute-per-mile pace is attained. Run this pace for 60-90 minutes. What a time to be alive.

 

 9:30 AM: Make a big, beautiful bowl of oatmeal. I love oatmeal. Oatmeal is one of my oldest, dearest friends. Sometimes I look at oatmeal and I say, “wow oatmeal, thank you for always being one of my oldest, dearest friends.” And then I eat oatmeal.

 

10:00 AM: Lay down. Purposely lose track of time because ignorance is the purest bliss we can know.

 

10:50 AM: SHIT! Realization sinks in that I have to be at work in five minutes.

 

10:52 AM: Saddle bike. SHIT! Realization sinks in I will be late to work.

 

10:56 AM: Arrive to Karma Sushi. SHIT! I’m late to work.

 

10:56 AM – 2:55 PM: Enter zombie mode. Bus table. Seat guests. Bring out edamame. Eat miso soup. Manager tells me to pep up. I (don’t) tell manager (but probably should) I’m running 120 miles-a-week and have no pep to give at this moment or any moment forward.

 

My 19-year-old counterpart bosses me around and tells me to clean something. I hide in the bathroom. I am full of shame.

 

My coach, Mike Smith, messages me an excerpt from some ancient text. It scares me and goes something like this:

 

Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones. That's the kind of sandstorm you need to imagine.

 

I’m now inspired, but still in the bathroom. I leave bathroom.

 

2:56 PM: Leave Karma Sushi forever! I tell myself this, but I will be back tomorrow. But, as they say, ignorance is the purest form of bliss.

 

3:00 PM: Enter the apartment. Fauble is sitting on the couch, watching Breaking Bad as is the routine. Maybe eat, maybe don’t. Thin to win. Lay down.

 

3:45 PM: Enough of this laying down crap. I am a small, light, bouncy sandstorm dammit! Go for a run.

 

3:46 PM – 4:46 PM: Play mental games with myself. Manage to talk myself into running at least eight miles. Question the validity of all this nonsense. Become blissfully happy I live in a beautiful town abound with nature while chasing down a dream. Manage to run a few extra miles.

 

5:00 PM: Lay down on yoga mat. Don’t even really pretend to stretch. Ask Fauble to massage my hamstrings. He acquiesces. I second-guess my request. We end up tickling each other. This goes on for a few minutes.

 

6:30 PM: Open fridge. Pop open a cheap, domestic beverage. Ahhhhh. Eat contents of fridge.

 

7:15 PM: Fauble is up to his decorating again. Wipe crumbs. Throw away wrappers. He is a festive man, but this is no time for celebration.

 

7:30 PM: Watch sports. Sports are fun. I like sports. I’m sleepy.

 

8:30 PM: Drink some tart cherry juice and chase it with a drug cocktail of: iron, vitamin C, vitamin B complex, amino acids, and magnesium.

 

8:35 PM: Goodnight Fauble, I’m going to bed.

 

8:37 PM: Get into bed. Help.

 

9:00 PM – 7:00 AM: Attempt to become human again.

 

Tomorrow will be a new day. But not really. It will all be the same: a beautiful swim in the depths of self-loathing, soreness, and blissful ignorance. I don’t live like this to experience some sort of “runner’s high” during or after a workout. I made the decision to live like this so I can transcend the pre-conceived limits my mind has placed on my body. And so I can eat a ton of Mexican food.  

Stephen Kersh