Paint Horse

Seven Peaks of the Cascade range come into view partially lit by a five a.m. sun rise. I start my deliberate, steady inhale, and exhale of intential gratitude, my new morning ritual, to wake up my sleepy brain. Some mornings I bring questions, other mornings, just podcasts, still others, silence, as my mind has plenty else to busy itself with today or it's just lacking the energy to put towards constructive ideas at that point in the day.


We typically see new jobs as a gift, a fresh start, a provision of some sort, a path towards a prosperous end, and mine certainly fits somewhere in those categories. But no matter the labor set before us, it's alway a sacrifice. There are always days we'd rather be fishing, camping, you name it, rather than spending the twilight hours in our steel cacoons trying to get through another week. There are many in this world that might kill to have what I have: reliable transportation, a steady income, a beautiful wife; and perhaps that's the persepctive I need to bring with me the next time I trip my breathing habit, but somedays, my mind wanders to bigger things. And not for no reason. I'm continuing to study, to pursue, and perhaps one day to become an entrepreneur. I hope I can look back on this a year or three from now and see the bigger picture. That's always, tough, though, when we're walking through valleys and can only just make out the mountain peaks through the thick pine needles. But the peaks bear the promise, and in the meantime, I can still choose gratitude for the glimpses I get along the way, much like my second trip over to Cleveland.

* * *

My first foray into national-level triathlon sparked a passion-filled five years of multi sport racing. I remember so well the feeling I had in 2014, sitting in Milwakee enjoying the fruits of my labor yet pining for greater things in my new found love of this sport. Over the last two years, I've had the privilage of supporting some of my USMES teammates at the USAT Triathlon National Championships in Cleveland, and that passion from five years ago, I think it's safe to say, has been well satisfied.

I slipped into Lake Erie at 0720 and playfully bounced up and down as the rolling fresh water gently picked my feet up off the coarse, grey sand before setting me down as before. The sun was just starting to crest over the Cleveland skyline, which proved to making bouy sighting difficult later on, but I couldn't complain about the low 70 temps. Relative to the 102 I left behind in Bend, this was cozy.

The countdown began. To build the drama, the race organizers play a sound effect right before the gun of a beating heart, loud enough for everyone to hear. In years past, I remember being full of nerves, with a stomach bouncing around and jitters rolling through my veins, but this year, I brought a much different mindset. I wasn't nearly as concerned about what place I got, or how I did relative to my wetsuit-clad comrades. I also wasn't too terribly worried about the fact that they cut the swim lenth in half due to current concerns. Any good coach will emphasize the importance of being process-focused instead of outcome-focused, but there's a certain level of necessary experience before you can truely embody that. I can't say that I've entirely arrived at that end, but I can say I'm much further along that path than I was when I first got started with this whole triathlon rigamarole.

I set off at a brisk pace; there was not much room between the beach and the first turning buoy and I didn't want to get too caught up in the melee. Before I knew it, I was heading back into shore. I was thankful that the swimmers in front of me knew where they were going. Between the sun and the waves, I could hardly make out where I was on the course.

The green grass bowed down under the strides of wet feet as they gently wisked away most of the grit from the shoreline. I made it to the far end of transition and like clockwork, stripped my wetsuit, doned my helmet and mounted, before laying down an hour of power.

I couldn't think too much about what place I was in at the time - it was impossible to tell anyway. So I did everything I could to stay present and lay down watts. My race in Woodland, WA last weekend went really well and was a great confidence boost for me, and my legs were ready to turn the screws. Mile 12. I'd managed to pick off a few of the fast swimmers and was coming up on a group of similarly skilled speedsters who'd been trading blows all morning. At the half way mark, I'd made several passes, but I settled into a place in the race where those actions wouldn't go unanswered. Game on.

The final 10 miles ticked by in a flash as I jockied with five other riders along the final stretch of highway. We passed by the Browns' stadium on our right, and I caught the sight of a wheel in my left perifery. A bit of ego and stubbornness took over. He wasn't gonna pass me this time. I pressed on the gas just a hair more, and he had no choice but to back off. He'd catch me later on the run, but I can sleep well knowing I made his race day just a bit tougher.

T2. Again, the instincts took over. I sailed along my lane to collect my running shoes, only to realize, just like last year, I'd entered the wrong lane. For a second, I forgot my race number, and time stood still as I tried to figure out how far off I was. Fortunately, I wasn't too far away and was able to make a quick adjustment. It's tough to replicated hightened adrenaline in practice.

My favorite form of training lately has been to head to the moutains on the weekends and just run to my heart's content before visiting the farmers' market on the way back home. I'm challenged with some vertical and awarded with the most stunning views you could imagine up and down the Pacific Coast Trail. Though I wasn't running trails today, my long hours in the moutains were starting to pay off.

The first mile of the run was entirely uphill back along the highway. I didn't want to check my splits on my watch, cause I figured it'd be slow. I downed my last of three GUs and settled into that oh too familiar 10k hurt.

Since last year, they changed the run course to a single loop instead of a double. This really helped with reducing congestion with the other 2000+ racers but meant that the first half of the run would be entirely exposed before we made our way through the deceptively winding paths of Edgewater Park. At about mile four, I made it to the shade of the broad, green-leafed trees that stood guard over their corner of the humble wood. One or two other runners in my age group managed to pick me off but I knew I was running my best race. Come what may.

I sailed past the picturesque Cleveland sign that overlooked the park, the Great Lake, and the downtown area beyond, while I battled the growing pain from the hot spots on the edges of my feet and the silent protestations from my legs. The last descent towards the finishing area delivered a thorough hammering for the quads, but with the finish line, and my best ever 10k split, in sight, the pain was quickly replaced with satisfaction of a day well done.

* * *

It's 0540, just twenty minutes before my shift starts. A small, three-sided shed stands behind a weathered, wooden fence, casting no shadow as light this time of day is in short supply. And there, as every morning, stands a brown and white paint horse on his well worn patch of earth, watching the traffic perform its ritual. He's always alone, and I like to think, never complains. He's well fed, has a place to lay his head, and is adorned as beautifully as any show horse might be, as far as I can tell. Perhaps his pasture could be larger, maybe he could have more horse friends in his life, and conceivably his grass could be greener in another season, yet there he stands, knowing that he has a master that understands his every need, and there's no reason to worry.