Associations…

Associations…

I can’t tell you how long it had been since I had walked on a track before last Sunday.  I honestly can’t recall.  What I do know is I hate the track.  I really, really hate the fucking track.  I am no good on a track.   It is a curse.  All the tri training I have done.  All the Marathon training I have done.  It matters little I am terrible on the track.  The issue is one of shin splints.  Have you ever looked at my legs?  I mean really looked at them?  I have nice fucking legs.  I should I carry two and a half people with me everywhere I go.  As Lloyd Banks once said everywhere he goes he has got a tag along, so do I, only mine isn’t a glock mine is fat.  The corner stone of my nice legs are my huge fucking calves.  They are big, thick, and nice.  However, my legs though nice are flawed.  Because the front of my legs are underdeveloped and therefore the calves pull the other muscle and shin splints are the result.  Thank very much JC for laying this out for me on Sunday during stretching.  See I do listen J  What still remains unknown is why the track makes this so much worse for me.  Even at the height of my half marathon training, when I PR’ed (that is a personal record for the uninitiated) in back to back events in three weeks of each other this was the case.  I could go walk thirteen miles on a trail or road and as long as I started out slow, I would be fine.  Track even starting slow, I would be in pain by lap two or three.  It could be a condition of the mind.  Every time I think track, I think shin splints and therefore I fulfill the prophecy.  If you have learned anything about me over the course of my writing is that I believe in the mind.  I believe in its power to create.  If gone unchecked it can destroy.  Never every underestimate the power of thought and its impact on our lives because it does impact each and every one of us, each and every day.  That is probably one of the reasons I had shin splints on Sunday after one trip around the track.  I probably got shin splints the moment that it was determined we would be walking on the track on Sunday.  I hear track, I think shin splint.  I think shin splint, I get shin splint.  The mind is all power.  It should be loved and feared for it is the one and only true God.   That being said as JC put it my front leg muscle underdeveloped and they must be trained again.  It will take time to reform these muscles.  I will have to stretch, and stretch a lot to keep them loose. 

As I was walking around the track on lap two, I was trying to take my mind as far away from the track as I could.  I didn’t want to think about shin splints. I didn’t want to think about the funny surface that was the track.  I didn’t want to see RG over on the grass stretching, wishing, I was lying on the grass as well, but not stretching, no I wanted to be sleeping because I was tired and moving for over an hour was hard for me.   I didn’t want to look at JC as she raced around the track as elegant as a gazelle.  She is so absolutely graceful in her walk run stride.  My walk/run hero, coach, and guide.  I will admit I loved seeing CP on the track as I have said it was a long time since I had.  CP just makes the world a better place.  Seeing her back training after all that has happened is an inspiration to me as it should be to all of us.  However, I don’t want to see that she is whipping my ass on the track and more than a half lap ahead of me.   It has always been that way though, she is speedy.  I am last and slowest.  It has always been that way too.   I would lie to you if I said that doesn’t bother me.  It does.  I have these huge legs that are so powerful, I should be faster.  However, they are walking for two or three not one.  So I am slow.  However, I am out there.  After all isn’t that what is really important.  Yes, truly it is.  At the same time, I do want to go fast. 

So, I am walking and I trying to find a place for my mind to land.  I am trying to think of something that will take my mind away from the pain, which is shooting up through my left ankle.  I am trying hard.  I am coming into to turn three.  I see a sign.  A sign that is full of symbols explaining the marks on the track.  It is a legend of track and field terms.  My mind began to race as I looked at the symbols.  I did a double take to look one more time.  Then I allowed my mind to go.  So it went to another time and another place.  It danced across the fields of time and suddenly….

The boy walked across the field with his head down.  He hated being here.  At the stupid track.  Doing track and field events, of course after one look at him the head of his division had told him to go see the shot putters.  The same thing his gym coach had told him six months before.  He was stalky for a thirteen year old.  He hadn’t hit the same growth spurt at this age that his brother had.  Or his best friend’s mom had promised him a year earlier he would go through.  His face was round still.  His body fleshy and unformed and he carried a pooch for a belly.  They called him fat.  They all did.  He wasn’t fat, not then.  No not fat, just not meeting anyone’s ideal image.  Even his own, he heard the jokes people made. 

The South American kids telling him in Spanish Burkle meant pig.  They were really referring of course to Puerco.  He gritted his teeth and bared it.  What else could he do?  He was amazed at how many Mexican and South American families sent their children to summer camp in the middle of nowhere northern Indiana.  Where there happened to be a lake instead of a fucking cornfield.   How did they find this place?  He had no idea.  It was a military school after all.  It was Indiana.  It’s not like it was some fancy place.

He didn’t hate them though.  It wasn’t all of them that teased him.  He had actually become tight with some Columbians.   Well until the ice skating incident.  It wasn’t his fault he was clumsy after all and fell and when he did the kids were to close and he sliced ones ankle open.  He would have nightmares about the cartels coming after him after that one. 

Plus it wasn’t just the South Americans that called him fat anyway.  It was the Americans, Canadians, European.  Kids where kids after all even at the adolescent age and kids above and beyond all else were cruel.  He knew this because he could be cruel.  Then again couldn’t we all?

He hadn’t com willingly to this summer camp.  In fact he came kicking, screaming, and crying.  He hated his parents for abandoning him here and his baby brother at younger camps across the lake.  It wasn’t right.  You didn’t do that to your children.  You didn’t send them away.  His older brother would be here soon as all stars were over after all he was the athlete of the family.  Six weeks he had been sent to a military academy for the summer.

His parents said he would have fun.  It would be the time of his life.  He didn’t care.  He still hated them for it. If it was so great why didn’t the sister still at home have to come?  If it was so great why had it felt like a punishment?    He had to march everywhere.  He had to drill and train like a little solider.  During the days he had to wear white shorts, with a white t-shirt.  At night he had to wear what he called his Donald Duck suite, his little sailor suite, Dixie cup sailor hat and all.  If his friends back home saw him it would be grounds for an as kicking.  During the weekends at least he got to wear gym shorts, and a gym shirt.  That was at least tolerable. 

He couldn’t march.  As dumb as that sounded he couldn’t.  He was never in step.  He just had an issue with staying in step.  This lead to being called out in front of everyone and of course didn’t you know it had to be because he was Puerco after all.  Pigs can’t march; they should just lay in shit and be lazy.

There was something about it though he loved. The organization of people into battalion and companies, the discipline of the military mind was very fascinating to him.  He loved to study the hierarchy.  He loved the concept of the regimental command.  He loved the swords the older boys got to carry.     Yes, the third year boys got to carry sabers and hadn’t he always wanted to carry a saber?  Yes, yes he had.  For the rest of his life he would say to himself and wonder what it meant: “And to the Regiment?”  One voice would ask in his head. Only to be answered by another from a different part of the head “And to what regiment do you cry?” the other would answer “Any regiment that had two ears and would listen.”  For the 25 years he would ask himself these questions and try to riddle out where exactly they belonged.

Mostly he loved his classes.  Mornings were spent in Aikido learning to defend himself.  Then he would be off to ice skating.  He loved the smell of the rink.  Do you ever notice the smell of an ice rink?  It is distinct.  Unfamiliar and cold yet he loved it.  However, it wasn’t the morning he really loved.  No it was not the morning he loved, but the afternoons outside on the water. 

Lake Maxinkuckee was huge.  It went on forever at least he htou8ght it did.  He came out here every afternoon.  His first activity would be sailing.  Then he would wind surf.  The water was great.  He loved it.  He loved the water.  He belonged to the water.  Summer after all meant being outside in the water did it not?

Most of all his final activity of every day was two or three hours on Lake Maxinkukee water skiing.  It was here he first learned to live and get radical.  No matter how fat or much like a pig he looked in the dorms or on the marching field, here he was a god.  After a week he learned to Solomon and after that there was no looking back.  He didn’t need ski’s tied together.  No he just needed his gloves, his one ski and he was awesome.  He would cut sprays that were awesome.  He would jump the wake.  He would be free.  Each day ended after a good ski and watching the sun go down over a lake.  It was peaceful.  It was heaven. 

Walking across the field to the bleachers he was not thinking about the fun.  He was pissed off.  He was after all a competitor and he hated to lose.  Had he not broken an Atari by throwing a controller when he lost?  Had he not cried after allowing Merchants bank to beat him in his one and only playoff start in baseball?  He had been good that game, the best he had ever been, but they were better.  They were two time defending champs for a reason.  He was angry because he couldn’t shot put worth a damn.  He was regulated to sit in the bleachers and to cheer on his unit all day.  How fucking boring was that? 

He climbed the bleachers to his troop.  There he sat with the other non-athletic kids of his platoon.  Most were older boys.  Two were best friends.  He liked these two.  He spent many nights talking to them.  Mostly about comic books, he was after all a comic book junky.  Or he was becoming one.  He had never read a comic book before this summer.  However, it was 1989 and batman was coming out to the theatres.  He was so excited and he wanted to know everything about him.  That was the summer he learned the true nature of Mr. J.  That was the summer he fell in love with him.  After all how can you not love someone who beats the boy wonder to death with a crow bar?  Talking with these two he had even started drawing his own comics.  They were bad, but they were fun. 

He sat with them and they all sort of giggled.  The thin one was from Ohio; the hefty one was from Indiana.  The thin one was working on a soap opera of his family.  He was telling heft about it.  The boy was always fascinated by this.  He also thought to himself; if you want a good soap ask me about my family.  I have some stories to share.  Then again, we all do.  They laughed because they were the un-athletic.  They knew it. They didn’t really care.  Didn’t mean that he liked to lose at sports though, no it didn’t mean that at all.  However, talking with the guys he quickly forgot about his terrible shot putting.   

He asked if they had any comics with them.  They said they didn’t.  Hefty said he had some books in his bag and handed it to him.  He opened it hoping to find something.  Something else he learned about himself this summer was he liked to read as long as it was something he wanted to read.  He was hopeful. 

He pulled out four books and frowned because they all had the bad words on them.  The two words that he associated with fear and nightmares his entire life. The two words to be exact that read Stephen and King.  The Hefty kid looked at him and noticed his frown.  Too scary for you he chuckled.  His face must have said yes without saying a word.  Try the one on the bottom.  It’s not scary at all.  I promise.  It is sort of a western.  No nightmares, I guarantee it. 

The first book was IT.  He saw a big claw coming out of a sewer tunnel.  He tossed that back in quickly.  The next one was called, Dead Zone, he turned it over and read about it.  He saw the word killer and quickly dumped it back in the bag.  The third one went back in without turning it over because of the two puncture marks on the side of the women’s neck.  Salem’s lot was not for him to read.  Not then.  Not when he was not convinced that vampires didn’t roam the earth. 

He looked at the forth book he held in his hand.  It was a dog eared paper back.  It looked old and well worn.  Skinny boy said, that is a good one.  It is a classic.  Hefty said, it’s good, I promise you I wouldn’t scare you.  I told you my older brother always did that to me and I fucking hat that.  The boy took the book and nodded.  He leaned back on the bleachers and tuned out Hefty talking about wanting play with some girls boob or something that happened to be running by.  He looked up to see.  Of course he did he was thirteen and boobs were the most fascinating thing on the planet. 

He opened the book.  He passed all the preamble, the thank you’s and what nots.  He didn’t understand any of those.  He didn’t care.

He opened to the first chapter and for the first time in his life he read “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.”

THUNDERCLAP AND LIFE TIME OF OBSESSION AND DREAMING BEGAIN AND HE WAS FOREVER HOOKED INTO Stephen King’s worlds.  He had started his path to his very first Tower. 

As I passed the sign my memory took my back.  I smiled.  I can’t believe it was on a track like this one.  So many years ago, was it 30?  It was probably more like 20 years that I first laid eyes on the Gunslinger novel.  That I first turned the pages and read those powerful words “The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed.   He had learned religion from that book.  Where else had the concept of KA been developed in his own mind?  After KA as he understood it was writing from King himself.  It would be years before he would meet himself in the books in the form of Eddie Dean.  He smiled coming out of turn four.  Thinking about that now right now he came to a realization.  He was Eddie Dean, the hero junky from the streets of our New York.  That stood and was true and faced down the enemies of KA.  I know that heroine will never be my drug of choice, I aint sticking myself with no needle and even though I am fascinated by sweet lady H, I will never be here slave.  As, I crave something that will get me higher than that.  Something that is more pure though. Something called life.   My drug is food.  I am a food junky.  It is that simple.  Instead of fighting the enemies of Ka, instead chase another tower.  The tower that I chase will both discipline of the mind and of the body.  My tower is a drawing of three (dark tower fans you will get the reference, is it not where we meet Eddie?) but instead of three people it is three disciplines.  Swim, Bike, Run.  My tower has a start and a finish and has many distances.  This year I take a sprint.  Ka has decreed it.  September 14, 2014, I am will walk to the top of my first of four towers.  I knew for sure when I headed down the straight away and getting ready to go into turn one again.  I have come full circle.  I am now the master of my own destiny and 25 years ago, on a track in the middle of Indiana a boy was introduced to concept that would shape and form his life.  Much like the characters in that book he read the first time on that day.  His tower, no my tower, no, Just the TOWER is closer…