It’s always something.

Last year, I battled injury after injury, unable to stay healthy for more than a month.  I barely cracked a thousand miles for the year.  I didn’t race at all.  This year, I’ve managed to stay healthy, knock wood, but I’m battling another foe – capitalism. Specifically the manifestation of capitalism that requires me to sell my labor for money.  It’s really cramping my style, dude.

As any adult will tell you, working for a living often sucks.  I’m lucky that my job is intellectually rewarding, constantly new, and challenging.  However, it also demands long hours sitting in front of a computer, spending nights here while the sun sets over midtown Manhattan and my hopes for an evening work out fade.

Still, it beats digging ditches (I think).

I realize that complaining about not having the time to pursue personal interests is a first world problem – I don’t think my ancestors understood the concept of “hobby” and there are many people in this world today who don’t have the luxury to do anything besides struggle to survive;  there are people who will never have the chance to run again simply because they went to cheer at a marathon.

But still, this working all the time shit can suck.   I want a lot out of life.  I want a fulfilling job, time with my wife and friends, a rich intellectual life, and a Boston Marathon qualifying time.  Sometimes, it seems like having all these things is not in the cards.  Sometimes I think spending so much time running, or planning to run, is a waste.  That the time I spend on this silly hobby would be better spent elsewhere — with my wife, in the office, in front of the TV watching the Knicks make a run for the first time in for-fucking-ever.  Anywhere but on the goddamn treadmill at ten o’clock at night.

But I made a promise to myself that I’d get good at this.  I said I would put in the time. That I’d get faster.  So that’s what I’m going to do.  Because if you can’t keep a promise to yourself, who can you keep one to?

Anyway, in the short one year life of this silly blog I’ve written some version of this post many time.  I’ll probably write it again.  For now, here’s a photo of Phill Coppess, who, as far as I know, never whined about having to work, and raise three kids on his own while running 2:10 marathons.