Harry K. DeWolf

Social media (even you Strava!) is the shiniest wallpaper. Admittedly, the voyeur in me loves the glitter of the swiped stream, and I can't avoid admiring the runner selfie. And while I tend toward runs based on gear and trinket minimalism, I do support the stop-and-snap preservation of a good jog.

Personally, I refuse to tote any superfluous swag, so I rarely have the opportunity to pause for a picture. That said, anyone who knows my running preferences knows my runner selfies would be dark rectangles.

There I am!

The only run that requires the phone departs from a hotel room on a shakeout or a post-race/pre-travel slog. And even on those runs, the setting or conditions must justify the process of stopping in order to remove, swipe, snap, evaluate, delete, re-snap, evaluate, stow, and start up again. (Even thinking about that to-do list made me want to keep jogging.)

MCM, 2013: On Capitol Mall in Washington, D.C. Shaking out with Bart Yasso and the Runner's World crew.

Very few trips offered the right conditions to inspire an image. (Surprisingly, the evidence indicates I wear/re-wear the same half-zip when I travel and run and run early.)

Shakeout before Boston, 2014: Sunrise between Portsmouth, N.H., and Maine.

The most recent opportunity, in April, followed a tough and rewarding race in Big Sur. I woke with some restlessness, feeling the need to "move." I started walking in the dim darkness, but soon pushed to a jog, moving southwest along the bike path through Fisherman's Wharf, Cannery Row, and into Pacific Grove. Two miles from the hotel, I stopped near the turn toward Lovers Point. I admired the eroding coastline, the soft sloshing of the surf, and the picturesque, overpopulated perch above the bay.

The sun had started to show deep purple colors in the clouds. Nothing fell from the sky, and the air felt brisk--not too cold to manipulate my pockets. I shuffled through the contents of my belt, carefully maneuvering past the cash and the room key, seeking to capture the rare, yet certainly appropriate, selfie sunrise.

 

After framing the ubiquitous cypress and surf, I framed a second photo, this one of the northern coastline, toward the military-base-turned-university I called home for four years. It was a random moment, on another morning, after yet another marathon.

Twenty minutes later, after I'd slipped back into the hotel room and kicked of my trainers, I answered an early call from home. My intrepid, iconic grandfather decided the previous day would be his last. Long after I'd raced and relaxed and celebrated my final sip of celebratory wine, he too decided it was time to rest.

Given his condition and our progressing understanding there wasn't a ton of shock, but in the throes of subsequent travel I succumbed to undeniable connections that welled up from within. I recalled, eventually, the morning's photos of the northern coastline--the ones toward Fort Ord, my undergraduate stomping grounds. It was, I recalled, the last place my 91-year-old grandfather called "home" prior to his deployment for World War II.

I considered my undaunted pursuits of the mornings--those repetitive cycles of waking to train--and began to understand the ways he, too, set out for epic, brisk walks for all those years. He attacked the days through moving and living and thriving. 

My selfie--and it's rare occurrence at this moment--had to mean something. Right? 

As the days roll on, I refuse to impose any further meaning. When I try it feels disingenuous, and I know I'm painting with too broad a brush. I find solace in its peace. I know if that if he was of a generation of individuals motivated by selfishly trumpeting of fitness adventures, he'd likely shrug at their insistence on preservation and march on. 

Though that said, any selfie he might manage to capture would be nothing but a black, pre-dawn rectangle.

Thanks for the push. Love you Harry.

How my students shaped my training this week: There was a lot of on-the-fly teaching this week. That said, I didn't set many alarms in order to accomplish my running goals. Both went really, really well.

What my son taught me about running this week: There are a lot of things a toddler says that only he understands. He keeps sounding off, moment by moment, telling it like it is. Why I ran such high mileage for someone with no set goal or training plan only makes sense in the moment. That doesn't mean I won't keep waking up, lashing out, and pretending I know what the hell I'm doing.