I run because I’m not famous, I don’t want to be famous, but I still haven’t outgrown self-comparison and a mild obsession with writers and musicians and movie stars. I run because aging hipsters aren’t myths, they’re people.

I run because I really like the word “and.” I like the rhythm of it in life. I know it annoys people to deal with it over and over and over and over. There’s a march to it. A cadence. It’s moving forward. It’s the first (only) rule of improvisation: we only have “ands” to play with, no “buts.” For example, a man and a woman, dressed only in black, take the stage:

“Gee Sally, why do you have a raccoon on your head?”

“Do you like it? I think the pink is fabulous. I had to buy it.”

I run for Sally, who went with the raccoon on her head and wherever it might lead them.

I run because life is a lot like improvisation. We can argue with each other and fight about who is in charge and who is telling the story, or we can build it together. I run because I think the world needs a little more and-and-and and a little less but-but-but. I get a lot less but-but-but from my mind and my arms and my body and my heart when I run.

I run because it’s important (and difficult) to be alone with myself. No people, no family, no TV, no music. Just me.

I run because I don’t like myself very much. When I’m alone in the mountains, I have conversations with myself. I argue. I laugh. I get annoyed. Sometimes I’m proud of me. I run because I’m still trying to figure things out. I run because I don’t think I get to stop trying to figure things out. I run because I need to get along with myself more. We should be friends: me and myself. Running is an ongoing accomplishment. I run so I can look pain and self-doubt and exhaustion in the face and smirk like an aging hipster.

I run to stay sane.

I run because I believe Jeff Tweedy: distance has a way of making love understandable. The further you go, the more you understand. Or, the further I go, the more my body pumps endorphins into my bloodstream and I’m so high I either think I understand or I don’t care that I don’t understand. I’m cool with either one.

Like most things that fight for attention, both sides of the dry creek bed, east and west, offered the same thing: dirt, sand, rocks, roots, patches of sun, and glimpses of giant red and white cliffs as the canyon began to squeeze into formation.

About five miles into the canyon, the trail didn’t have time to fight with itself anymore. It was disappearing. I could not make out the clear worn edges and smooth middle of the trail anymore. It came and went in patches. It would dip into the dry creek bed and seem to not come out again.

But I was able to follow the trail. Someone, some hippie/hunter/searcher/poser had been here before and left stacked piles of rocks behind to point the way. Within the weeds and bushes and boulders and trees, were small, silent stacks of rocks. Out there, they looked as man-made as a shopping cart. Despite being made of the ground around them, the piles were clearly different. They were clearly created. Clearly composed.

These piles were notes to the world, to any other people who come this way, “There’s a way through here. Follow along. This place is huge and beautiful and epic and scary and you belong here. Right this way.”

Kind of like a wink left behind for all of us to smile at.

I wonder what my piles of rocks look like? Am I leaving any? Am I following any? Do I stop when the trail gets dicey? Do you?

Still, I’ve been told that if you share your resolutions, you have a better chance of keeping them. Official self-reflection every year can’t be that bad, right? What did you accomplish last year? Are you better or worse? Happier or sadder? More fulfilled or more empty?

I guess I’m uncool enough that I think it’s worth it. Besides, it makes me feel good to keep any of them. You should try it. Self-satisfaction tastes a little like  an artichoke heart after nibbling away the leaves one by one by one.

To all the bearded, tight-pant, checkered-shirt, scarf-wearing  hipsters out there, here’s 5  resolutions from my 2010 laundry list:

1. Read 36 books. That’s 3 a month. I did 23 last year. I have 18 lined up already. Everyone should have a reading goal. Reading books will make you famous.
2. Picture a day. One photo from each day of the year. I got through February last year. You’ll look at the world differently if you do it. You can watch my flickr stream to see if I’m keeping up.
3. 2 marathons, 2 triathlons, 2 ultras. This, of course, means I’ve got to figure out what’s up with my knee and build my mileage up again. The hundred mile run will be in October. That’s plenty of time to get ready, right?
4. 50 blog posts. It’s all about building your brand, or in my case, continually figuring out what my brand is. 50 posts makes sure that I am writing everyday. Lucky for you, I don’t post everything I write. Otherwise, you might be reading about little, bearded men talking to me from my grandparent’s bushes.
5. 3 months as a vegetarian. I seem to try this one every year and forget about it during some stressful day in February when I attack a plate of buffalo wings.  This year, I’ll shoot for at least 90 days (for month long stretches). I’ll start in January and decide what happens after that.

I’ve got at least 6 more, but believe me, you’re better off not knowing what they are. These are the good ones. The others will give the tight-pant hipsters out there a little too much ammunition.

Now go, be uncool, and make some of your own.

Can anyone really explain how they can love running? You love sunrises and dirt and being alone among the boulders and trees in the middle of a metropolis before you sit at a meeting and people give you the crazy look when you tell them that you ran nine miles in the hills before you took a cold shower, ate a banana and some oatmeal, and thought about the salt on your skin before you hopped in your car and drove to the office to sit down for a weekly state of the union. It gives you perspective and takes it away.

Anyway, too much too soon gave me a bum knee. If you’re also in this situation, here’s the best advice I’ve found. Follow it, and you could be good to go in a week or two:

1. Take a break from running. This part of it stinks, but there’s no way around it. You’ve got to stop long enough for it to heal.
2. Ice your knee. If it’s like mine, I have to ice right below the knee cap. Elevate your knee when you do it. Read a book.
3. Work your core. Most runners I know get so in love with running, they don’t do any of those other fancy-shmancy workout things. Use the opportunity to strengthen your core. Your body will thank you when you’re back on your feet.
4. Swim. No biking, no walking, no elliptical machines. Avoid activities where you bend your knees a lot. Thing is: to swim properly you shouldn’t bend your knees all that much. Swimming will feed your endurance/cardio craving.
5. Write haikus. It’ll help give you perspective.
6. Stretch. Now is the time to take up some yoga. When you’re not icing, stretch. Before you go to bed, stretch. After your swim, stretch. Make sure you do the funky cross-your-legs-touch-your-toes ITB stretch.

I’m giving it a week. I have a race next weekend and we’ll see how it goes. I think I caught it early. Which, I think, is the most important lesson:

Be big enough and wise enough to take a break when you’re supposed to. You’re still a runner. It’ll be there then you finish your haikus and get out of the water.

I’ve been obsessing about this for weeks.

I walked for 15 miles in the middle of the night–in the middle of the desert–with a guy who set out to run 100 miles. I joined him at mile 45. We had a full moon, headlamps, and plenty of pretzels every five mile to keep us company. And he was breaking down, his body had stopped tapping into any of its reserves. His only energy came from whatever food we got into him. We walked and walked and walked and shuffled and walked.

We got to know each other pretty well. We quoted Weird Science a little too much and talked a lot about a girl who was dressed up like Rainbow Brite. We created our own religion–it gets goofy out there. He can quote Pulp Fiction from beginning to end. 6+ hours later he finished the race at 100 kilometers. He didn’t finish the 100 miles, but he went further than he ever had before. Up until this race, the furthest he had gone was 38 miles. He did 62.

This is what amazed me. There was nothing in him that said, you can’t do this–you need to prepare more. Keep planning, keep thinking about it. Somewhere he decided that 38 miles was good enough to try for 100 miles. He had been running, he had been training, and then he just did it. I admire the way he believed in himself (and still believes in himself).

Me? I debated doing the 15 miles with him. I wasn’t sure if I could deliver a noteworthy performance. I knew I could finish, but I didn’t know if I could finish without being laughed at? I knew I could finish, but would he regret taking me on as a pacer as he struggled to keep me at his pace?

I plan too much. I think about what’s next too much. I worry about how I’ll look or what people will think too much. It’s left me questioning my goals. It’s left me, at times, wondering who I am. What is it I really want? Because, I reason, if I really wanted it, I would have already acted on it. Right? So I guess I don’t really want a whole lot.

6 hours in the desert with this crazy guy gave me some perspective. My “it-must-not-be-what-I-really-want-attitude” is crap. I wouldn’t plan and obsess and think about it if it wasn’t what I really want.

I have a favorite word in Polish. It’s już. In Polish, it sounds like “youshzz.” It doesn’t quite translate into English, but the closest word is “already.” It can mean I’m coming, I’m there, I’m here, too late, or it’s happening. I need to say this word to myself more in relation to what I want and what I want to do. Sometimes, I just need to stop preparing to do something and remember that I’m ready to do it.

Run 50K. Już.
Get an audience. Już.
Write a book. Już.
Write a novel. Już.
Be a father. Be a friend. Już. Już.

If I ever get a tattoo, this will be it. Don’t worry mom, I’ll put it somewhere professional. Unless you know me, you’ll have no idea I have it.

I’d rather be known as the holy-crap-that-guy-is-crazy-we-never-know-what-he-might-do-next dude.

But, here I am, planning out races for next year. I’m getting excited about stuff that won’t happen until April. This, I guess, also means that I think I’ll still be around in April. How exciting. How optimistic of me.