So I did it. Again. Well, technically for the third time. And it all reminded me of Aristotle, somehow.
Courage, in modern time, involves facing something that makes you tremble, and overcoming that fear. To achieve despite the fear. The greater the threshold of intimidation, the greater the resulting hero.
Aristotle would not have been amused.
He maintained that true heroism meant being absolutely unfazed, no internal conflicts or overcoming latent angst, while doing the deed. So for the hero, it really isn't the effort, because it is in that sense effortless. His heros just are heros, they don't swallow their apprehensions and become heros.
You see, I was feeling more than a little apprehensive before the race. I am 15 pounds heavier than last year. I have biked less than 10% of the distance I had covered the same time last year. My wasted knees and once-broken ankle have been acting up on me lately. The list goes on. I was worried.
And then I woke up. It was not just raining. It was literally pouring. One of those I-can't-belive-it's-really-raining-this-hard downpours. The heat had dropped below 60, for the first time in weeks.
But I stubbornly talked myself through it. Got up at 5:30. Stretched. Ate my last carbo-load. Put on the cold biking outfit. Stretched some more, while I waited for my biking partners. Followed them up to the starting place. Took a deep breath before exiting the car. And became drenched just while taking the bike out of the trunk. I know that I will laugh at this claim come wintertime, but it was cold. There were many bewildered bikers there, standing in the rain. Quite a few stayed in their cars, others returned to them. But my partners calmly followed my lead and took out their bikes. And then, quietely and without fuzz, it came time to head out.
One hundred miles, countless powerbars and bottles of gatorade, and more than eight hours later, we got back up that hill. I was euphoric. My endorphines had kicked in hard around mile 85, and after that I was high on life. Utterly. My partners where, characteristically, calmer about the whole affair.
But we did it. Despite everything. And it actually felt good. Good? Hell, it felt great! We stole the time. Just for one day.
And we were heroes.
Just for one day.
Saturday, July 9, 2005
Monday, July 4, 2005
Code, not text
Text has lost its magic to me.
I probably finally realized this when I began reading a blog started recently by a dear friend of mine. Although he is a magical photographer, it turns out he is also a really good wordsmith, something which he almost stereotypically has consistently denied, often vehemently. As I read his beautiful and captivating prose, I realized that it did not—and could not—move me in the magical sense that his photographs can, and do. And what is more, no other text can, anymore. Over the years, I have become somewhat numb to the medium. Like a professional musician loses the awe he has for music, and moves into it. Or a seaman stops seeing the wonder in the ocean, leaving him with nothing but a workplace. Or perhaps the best analogy, though crass and even sensationalist, is the prostitute who has been stripped of any shred of mystique when it comes to the act of making love.
I am a text whore.
My work calls for my constant manipulation of words into text. Text for a specific purpose. In several different languages, of which English is neither my first nor second (as if that were not obvious). I need to achieve a particular level of precision in my work, but I am also more often than not forced to also put a slant on what I write. To nudge the content. To represent a view. To advocate. To paint in colors that I did not pick, but which have been handed to me. So you can see how while I am still able to respect fancy footwork of the pen, when I see it, I have also lost the ability to lose myself in it. 'Cool trick' is as far as I can be moved these days.
What still has not lost its sparkle to me though, is another kind of word use: Code. That relentless, unassuming, unbiased, clean, ugly, beautiful, virgin expression of pure logic in words. It beckons me, not only on an intellectual level, as a source of demanding puzzles or elaborate mathematical constructs, but on a much more fundamental level of innocence. Where there can be no agenda, except to convey a train of thought which can be carried and executed not only by the corrupt and conniving minds of our degenerate mortal selves, but also by the brutally ratiocinative processor of the modern-day computer.
So while I should be slaving away at my day-job manipulations, I instead spend my nights admiring things like these.
Oh, if I were but an unsullied geek.
I probably finally realized this when I began reading a blog started recently by a dear friend of mine. Although he is a magical photographer, it turns out he is also a really good wordsmith, something which he almost stereotypically has consistently denied, often vehemently. As I read his beautiful and captivating prose, I realized that it did not—and could not—move me in the magical sense that his photographs can, and do. And what is more, no other text can, anymore. Over the years, I have become somewhat numb to the medium. Like a professional musician loses the awe he has for music, and moves into it. Or a seaman stops seeing the wonder in the ocean, leaving him with nothing but a workplace. Or perhaps the best analogy, though crass and even sensationalist, is the prostitute who has been stripped of any shred of mystique when it comes to the act of making love.
I am a text whore.
My work calls for my constant manipulation of words into text. Text for a specific purpose. In several different languages, of which English is neither my first nor second (as if that were not obvious). I need to achieve a particular level of precision in my work, but I am also more often than not forced to also put a slant on what I write. To nudge the content. To represent a view. To advocate. To paint in colors that I did not pick, but which have been handed to me. So you can see how while I am still able to respect fancy footwork of the pen, when I see it, I have also lost the ability to lose myself in it. 'Cool trick' is as far as I can be moved these days.
What still has not lost its sparkle to me though, is another kind of word use: Code. That relentless, unassuming, unbiased, clean, ugly, beautiful, virgin expression of pure logic in words. It beckons me, not only on an intellectual level, as a source of demanding puzzles or elaborate mathematical constructs, but on a much more fundamental level of innocence. Where there can be no agenda, except to convey a train of thought which can be carried and executed not only by the corrupt and conniving minds of our degenerate mortal selves, but also by the brutally ratiocinative processor of the modern-day computer.
So while I should be slaving away at my day-job manipulations, I instead spend my nights admiring things like these.
Oh, if I were but an unsullied geek.
Sunday, July 3, 2005
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