Hugh Trenchard

Assuming there is an odd handful of people who do come to take a peek at these ramblings, it is probably a reasonable assumption that most come to read about my latest running or cycling endeavors, which, for what they are worth, are of some interest to the running and cycling community. I don’t doubt there is truth to this, but to what degree, I am largely unaware.

In recent months, however, I surely disappoint those readers, few in number though they may be, since the reflections here are much less about describing such exercises of the body, than they are about engaging in the exercise of the literary, or academic, or purely speculative mind and, where-ever possible, exalting one of my favorite themes: self-referential paradox.

Having said that, I am willing to reach into the shifting sands of all the errant words heaped here that distract from the efforts of my body, and extract a kernel of reference to my latest bodily endeavor, that being the Pioneer 8km running race, before, during, and after which my legs felt like bricks, or lead, or cement and the effort like running in sand, or water, or snow, and the desire to cease the effort after 5km, intense, and the feeling of great fortune for having stayed the course to collect the top Master* award and one hundred dollars, bitter-sweet. Bitter, because the time was nigh 40 seconds slower than last year when I was sixth Master in a much deeper Masters field, and sweet because the reward was unexpected and, in a sense, at least some objective validation of the hard work, regardless of my own perception of the result. Bitter sweet too, because there are others, younger and much faster, who linger on the precipice of becoming Masters runners and who instantly will shift me down the ranks of that category.

But why the effort should not simply be satisfying in its own right and nothing less, I am amazed now even as I write these words that I still must ask myself this question after twenty two years of relatively serious athletic competition. But at least there is always the ever pervasive sense of hope, the sense that the body, if properly rested, or sharp, or peaked, has much more to offer me. But there is also acceptance and elation, muted though these emotions may be, for it is certain that I could not keep doing this if after every effort there was not, buried somewhere, a kernel of these too.

Having said all that, we, like the ouroboros, come around again: we may write about the exercises we engage in, or we may, by writing, engage in exercise and speak of our exercises, ones of the body and ones of the mind, analyze them, speculate upon their origins and their trajectories, and then stop here… because the last word written reflects the cycle within the cycle; it is the last one read by an odd handful of people who come to take a peek at these ramblings: this one, here.

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*Craig Odermatt won the 40-44 year age category, but is 39 at this time. He turns 40 this year, and so for the purpose of the race series, he is in the 40-44 category. To qualify for the top Master award, one had to be at least 40 on the day of the race.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, January 12th, 2010 at 10:16 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.