Me, You, and Ya' Momma Pt.1

I always thought it was important to check in with yourself and what you need on a daily basis. Or at least weekly. I am fully aware of the minus and plus that come with living on Earth as a young black man in the United States of America with two college-educated parents. I understand that is not normal and as well. 

As a child, I would be holler out "Hey dad" and he would holler back "Yes, son" with that in itself being a big flex.

The privilege I have to check in on myself, as I have been doing subconsciously through my journals since around 3rd grade has been above all things, terrifying. I lived in the suburbs my entire childhood, and I remember being terrified even to go asleep. 

9/11 happened, what if it a plane runs into our house? The DC sniper, what if he is waiting outside for me? What if I have a heart attack from all of this soul food by the age of 12? What if I never make it into the Justice League?

The world is huge, massive yet the world in itself is tiny, bite-sized compared to everything else. When I listened to the words of Carl Sagan talking about being a speck of dust on a speck of dust scientifically speaking, what do you do? Where do you grow from at that point? How is someone who was afraid of any and everything, supposed to develop into a semi-functional human. 

Where did any sort of eternal sustainable happiness come about after so much self-conscious, degrading thoughts that were proven to be true when life hit as an adult.

Maybe it is when I got to college and started meeting folks. Maybe it was when I went to Alaska for a summer and was isolated. Or maybe it was between Me, You, and Ya' Momma.

Nina Simone’s Inner Nina Simone

Sometimes you need to hear that you’re doing a good job and somehow KNOW you’re not wasting your potential. And be kind of a dick about it, 

The Jons and I were listening to “Igor” by Tyler and one of my favorite comedians Jerrod Carmichael referenced the concept of ‘wasted potential being detrimental to the soul’ (paraphrasing) which is not to be taken as a radial ideal. N*ggas continuously waste their potential every single day. Like most of the people I know in my Tier 1 and Tier 2 friendship will quickly take opportunities and then just as quick toss them in the garbage. The amount of people who loved doing activities or skills that are now lost for one reason or the other,

Why do people do that? Why do the Jons do that? Everyone does that sh*t.

One may look at self confidence and self esteem and self anything, really. You’re working a job and you’re doing great job and you’re numbers are high and you’re efficient and blah, blah, blah. At a certain point, nobody cares. People take that greatness for granted. Could you imagine be so proficient at something and people not acknowledging that you’re the lifeblood of a company. You’re probably putting minimum effort into it and you being more efficient than a heat pump. And nobody saying a thank you or a please or anything. 

At a certain point, free company yoga during a lunch break or a pizza party coddles you and suppresses you’re freewill cognitive ability. People over here in a cubicle selling paper in bulk and they can juggle knives with their tongue. Leaving no fingerprints,

Older people talk about working at a job for 25 years or talking about having kids and being married to their high school sweet heart. Some may call it consistency. Which is great and important but there’s also (I’ll call this a radical notion) that people don’t want to do those things. Sometimes people talk to Jonathan like making dance videos are embarrassing and “wait until I get older”. If I’m 48 and don’t love making dance videos over these past few years, please take my legs. Not everyone wants to be as miserable as you are,

When you bring me out, can you introduce me as JODY

You asked me to tell you a story about what I know 

Stories about how to make cornbread moist and why I Listen to chief keef on the way to teach 12 years about ecology 

Well...

I know I never forgave you for stealing my lunchables from the 1st grade, 

I know I’m still half Black, half licorice 

I know her tinder profile said she is a mother of 4, But told her I’ll book the sitter since I already bought the 2 for $20 from Ruby Tuesdays 

I know I’m like Ye’; wish I could run across a beach and jump into my own arms,

I know I have a shade a field nigger, but where’s the sunscreen because I’m still not trying to get skin cancer 

I know I’m cut from elastic, long built like Mr. Fantastic 

I know tall Ethiopian women rule the world through tibs, honey wine, and coffee

I know niggas don’t give a fuck on what street I stay on,

I know I still giggle every time I say penis or doo-doo, 

I know the worth of 3 dollars and 6 dimes, call it knowledge, wisdom, and gumption

I know my momma and auntie worried about me but that’s why I keep sage, cocoa butter, and an Acts of Faith comp in a bedazzled Fanny pack 

I know my seat don’t roll back, 

I know the next shade of my skin isn’t black, it’s purple and that’s royalty 

I know Renny & Smiley love me, 

I know Jonny, Jon, and JODY still love me,

I know hugs from old black ladies who call me suga’ is the closest thing I’ll be to heaven on earth 

I know I cry too much for a heterosexual cis educated black man who grew up in the south. Air Bud is just a great movie 

I know I want to be a superhero and I just want my dog back

I know that players is quitters, JODY is Jon, I have more love than Jonny Bravos love for his mom, and gentrified cornbread is bomb

I Believe in The Pop, The Lock, AND The Drop

Dirty Shawn Bradley’s, the cracked screen of a MP3 player, and my mom’s flimsy headphones. 

Stretch the thighs, hamstrings, shoulders, lower back, fingers, neck, biceps, triceps, and most importantly your spiritual animal.

Flip through Outkast, Dangerdoom, N.E.R.D., Yeezy, Pete Rock & C.L. Smooth, & start with Young H.O.V. to get started. Wait for Ms. Storm’s menacing scowl and short strides to pass by.

Start.

Up Twin Cedars, right on Twin Cliff, loop around Cedar Cliff, down to Stoney Parkway, up Greyfield, wrap around Wraywood to Old Happy Hill to come back. Negative splits so high schoolers don’t mock your efforts.

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Pump your arms, relax your double-jointed hands, caress the chest, evenly breathe from your diaphragm, strike the ground more, lower your forehead; your body is synchronized and one with the infinite, whatever that means. 

T.R.O.Y. starts to play as I loop back around, my second wind keeps my pace honest but my hand-me-down baggy clothing exposes my left shoulder. The saxophone medley makes my heart sink, and I phase out of this world. Into a sort of ignorant bliss.

Have you seen it? It is truly spectacular. The spectacle of a vista in the tundra could not compare. The eternal sunshine of the spotless mind if only for a fraction, a millisecond. The deciduous trees reach out to bid me a greeting to an elevated space, to feel every cell in my body to work as a whole system. Complete synchronization.

Goofy grin on my face, middle school composure, ashy kneecaps, arms flailing carelessly, headphones keep falling off, half a mile left, 30 minutes until my bus arrives at Foxwood. 

Chris Diamond, acne-prone 16 year-old, 4th string quarterback, 1st string white trash. I initiate an euphoric wave to the hormonal group of teenagers, showered by routine calls of “faggot.”

Right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left, right, left.

Revenge of the Jon: Dennis Rodman's Bodega Pt. 4

I think a lot of the times I think I am the sh*t but also I am a sh*t.

The name "Jonathan Nyles Whiting" often shortened to "Jon Whiting" is like the whole wheat bread of who I am that encases all of the meats, veggies, condiments. And it has been a good name to me, no matter who generic. Whenever I hear it from other people's mouths, Jonny feels good about it. It's not too crazy of a nomenclature but it gets the job done,

Yesterday Jon had my 18th run in Wyoming for the #runningjonchallenge. I had been feeling well about everything and the weather and atmosphere was perfect for me to get my sub-19 minute 5k. But the night before Jonny had drunk two beers, slept 4 hours that night, and didn't eat food the morning of. And for the first time since Boston in 2017, I stopped running during a race. Just didn't want to run anymore, stopped around the 2.3 mile mark. Only had to run 5 more minutes at that pace to get my post-college PR. But I stopped on the curb, teary eyes glued to the pavement, Jay-Z blasting through my headphones, hands on hips. Angry. To keep in mind I finished 8:20/mile pace and walked the entire last mile. All the way from the finish line to the Capitol Building.

--

When I started this challenge a few years ago, my goal was to run in every state before Jon turns 35 years-old. It was started from excitement, eagerness, and to fill a void. I lived in Portsmouth, Virginia and taught at a school and area I hated. Yes I mean hated. After the realization that "I didn't want to die sad in this sad place" this challenge was birthed. At that point in my life, I had only been out of college for a year and that 'glass half-empty' mentality was creeping in. Was Jon supposed to teach for 30 years then exist above this garage apartment saturated with roaches and owned by two Trump supporters who drunk Coors light all day? What do you tell a big-eyed 23 year-old at that point?

And it's been a miracle from that point; not just this challenge but my overall demeanor change back to wonderment of a child. I've been more intentional with almost every person and almost everything Jon does. Of course I have setbacks such as my Wyoming race. I did talk about with my mother and brother over our group chat. Like my Boston race, my mind was not invested in it.

Since July 2018, JODY has run in California, South Carolina, Michigan, Ohio, Wyoming, Nebraska, New Mexico, and Colorado. In to put into thought of me mentally preparing for this one thing for a few months with the anxiety I carry all the way through the race; the finances into transportation, lodging, racing fees; physically just pushing my body to finish at a certain time; it honestly does hurt. And if I am not putting in 100% effort into then ultimately I can't 100% enjoy it.

Now this is a challenge, challenges have setbacks. It won't be this exponential amazing time all the time. It's going to hurt, it's going to be difficult. But the support I've gotten from friends, family, and the Jons has been worth it. Jon was too proud to use a GoFundMe since it's not a life or death situation but link is at the bottom of the page. Can't do this alone. And aye, almost at halfway point, 9 years left. Let's get it,


GoFundMe: https://www.gofundme.com/f/runningjonchallenge&rcid=r01-156234321375-3cc8d2ae194d49d8&pc=ot_co_campmgmt_w

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/gentrifiedcornbread/

Writing this entry while listening to "Under the Sun" by Dreamville Records has put me in a good mood.

The Last Black Superhero In Arvada

I don’t think it’s fair to rule out the possibility of superpowers in today’s modern world. The preconceived notion that it’s only found in comic books or blockbuster movies seems ignorant at times to a Jonny. Because I’ve see these powers before, I feel them,

—

After an afternoon nap, I had this dream where I sleeping in my own bed and I woke up. All of my Christmas lights were on and handful of people I know were standing in my living room. Around all of us were paintings and drawings and writings that I created as a child until present day. Even though I don’t illustrate anymore, JODY saw one of my more prominent works as a child.

It was a picture of my friends Alex and Matt along with me going against our common enemy (John with a “H”.) Alex was in a green cape, I was in a red cape, and my friend Matt was in a purple cape. I remember I drew Matt’s face with a slight grimace, but not sure why. It was though I wasn’t sure about him,

—

Ever since Jon was a young Jon, everything was this epic or graphic novel of sorts. My friends, my identity, my family, church, going to school, making food; it’s as though every scene or scenario gave off this huge aura or vibe. As solid or as bright as Christmas lights. Everything to me had its own place in this eternal journey. Well at least in my head so it seems. Everything must be drawn and fleshed our to me. Like it had to be extra. And what did I do with all of this information?

First of all not a Jonny, Jon, JODY, nor Jonathan was the hero in my own narrative. I was the narrator narrating everybody else’s epic climax (nice one Jon). But forealla, all of the friends who were heroes or bullies who were villains or friends that turned out to be villains, was described on paper. Whether it be illustrating or writing, every thing had to be documented. Everything essentially had its own purpose. 

This is also reflected in my own self-reflective nature, yes, right, absolutely. So whenever something happened in Jon’s everyday life to one of the protagonists, it would often intercept my energy levels and I would often figure out how to correct it. Because that’s the job of a narrator I feel like sometimes and that’s the job of a friend. I think,

And the powers that everyone encompasses has a range. My friend Jamal has the ability to serenade anyone with in 100 feet with his classical guitar. My friend Abby can redirect any opposing threat with a few choice words. Big KAT can lower anyone’s emotional or intellectual shields to make them vulnerable with a willingness to share almost anything with her. Beanie Baby’s ergh, baby has to beginnings of showing great strength at a young age, the physical stature of a brick wall almost. 

What are my powers? Depends on whatever my narrator gives me,

A Single White Mom With A New Magic Wand

I ran a 5k with my family last thanksgiving. My parents, Big KAT, JW, and His lady.

I finished first, ran back to finish with my brother, ran back to finish with my father, ran back to finish with Big KAT, ran back to finish with Holli & Momma.

I was so happy to see black people (+1 Mayo) together and being active and healthy. Not a cookout, funeral, family lecture, candlelight vigil, day drinking, school hearing. Just some fucking niggers going for a fucking jog in fucking Bluffton, South Carolina

Why the fuck couldn’t we be doing this the entire fucking time throughout my entire fucking life. I’m over here trying to be fucking be carefree like a white 35 year-old mom stay-at-home/freelance necklace maker who’s off the grid and drinks fucking mimosas while Forest and Chet eat mayonnaise sandwiches 

Well Jon consider the following:

You’re not a 35 year-old mayo woman with two adorable little translucents,

Jon is the half black, half niggerish, half licorice, half don’t get a zit,

A heavily tattooed colored man from the south who runs more 5ks than an Asian from San Fran and teaches more yoga classes than a , uh, 35 year old white women with two kids(?)

I got a unicorn on my leg and niggas think I’m sweet like an episode of Doc McStuffins (oh my Jon that’s a huge compliment!)

But they the ones suckling down Arizona teas like a toddler when they need to be suckling the sweet teat of a Dasani bottle and fondling skittles while they need to be fondling some robust spinach and rutabaga 

I’ll work on those analogies later.

But I fell deep in the waters, 

I was trying to hydrate.

Like sometimes I’m am the shit or I’m just a shit.

Jon be making up excuses like ‘I’m just impulsive or ‘it’s the uncle curses’ 

When I really don’t even know those folk

People wonder how a Single Jo(h)n passed away but Golden Corral has a higher body count then some gangs around LA 

But who gives cares when heart disease didn’t take one of my former students or Tamir or Trayvon ,

Now they weren’t even old enough to earn a free timeshare in Williamsburg or sign off on field trip permission slips to the National Arboretum 

Now I’m reading this 14 year olds obituary the only thing more scary than Terry

And I wonder one day if they ever wanted to just run a 5k with their families in Bluffton, South Carolina

Elmo Came With That AK-47

Most people know that Jon loves running. If you don't know this by now, you may be an idiot. 

Dog running for a few bucks,  25-30 miles a week, 1,000 miles a year, trying to run in every state before I turn 35. Countless hours crafting playlists once a month off of pure emotion, hundreds on dollars spent on shoes, 3 am runs. Buying bananas and electrolyte powder by the Costco-load, high-fiving crossing signs, keeping dogs specifically on my left side, Strava run sessions lost, head-nodding the only other black dude at a 10K,

One pair of homemade snow-running shoes,

One pair of city-running shoes,

One pair of trail-running shoes,

One pair of oh-God-that's-all-I-have-to-run-in-shoes,

But at a certain point, one has to wonder when does it stop. Everything comes to an end, right? Like Iron Man said "put of the journey is the end"; what do I do when part of my legs just stop working correctly? What if that truck actually ran Jon over at my race in Nebraska when I crossed the finish line? What if I am in the wrong neighborhood and Jon got ran up on a run?Why does happiness always present itself to me when there are literally people desperately digging in the trash for their livelihood?

These thoughts linger as I began to enter my prime with running. Jon has to consider what is the point of it all when it comes down to it. That's with anything, ever. Why do people get certain jobs or what makes a hobby different from a job or what do people consider responsibilities versus a duty? Like running is not that hard, all you do is put one foot in front of the other. I do that for a few miles, bada bing, badda boom, Jonny Boy is happy. And now JODY is getting paid and recognized for it,

A quick and firm reminder, I ran for my school in 8th and 9th grade. That was about it. It was only until college where Jonny wanted to impress a girl enough to run with her. What sort of foundation is that for someone 6 years later winning a small town race in Imperial, Nebraska? When does something you love become your livelihood? While I was sitting on my bed last weekend with the flu, I had to cancel 2 yoga classes, 3 dog clients, and a full day of work with the kiddos. It was strange because for the first I realized 

these jobs are dope. but what Jonny is getting paid on the other hand...

"4 Phantoms" by Curren$y gives me the old school car, riding around the block vibe that I typically feel on night runs,

Blood on The Leaves

I think about how my life will be when I am 32 years-old. I think about how my Papa feels whenever I call him and catch him at the right time for a 15-minute conversation. I think about how a kid reacts when I redirect them after talking during an exam. I think about what would happen if I didn't leave you. I think about about how painful that needle is when it hits my skin after every tattoo.

I think about how my body feels since it's been over 2 months since it hasn't had some sort of alcohol in it. I think about you a lot. I think about holding my body weight directly over me in gym and how vulnerable I feel underneath it. I think about the two bites I take before swallowing a forkful of chicken pad thai.

I think about how Noname was feeling when she performed Bye Bye Baby and if she didn't mind if I cried singing along with her. I think about the endorphins that flood my body when I hear a Cameo song when I am lifting. I think about what that guy was wearing on his crotch in that one Cameo song. I think about how Astro & Snoopy feel after I run them every Saturday morning at Hilltop.

I think about how hard it has been for me to enunciate specific words since I was 7 and wonder if I should take more speech classes. I think about my old friend who committed suicide a month ago and wondered if I could have helped. I think about how wacky it must have first sounded when Kanye West mixed together "Strange Fruit" & "Down 4 My N*ggas".

I think about how Shanita feels when I send her obscure memes with no context. I think about much joy I feel when I post a new dance video. I think about the people I blocked in my life because they made me feel like rotten two-week leftovers. I think about the 180 kids I left in Norfolk and if they ever think about me. I think about how Christmas lights look on my skin as I wrap myself in a fleece blanket and pass out on the carpet.

I think about how much I love running in the city and weaving through black figures and illuminated posts. I think about you and me and leaving behind the mundane life of a stable 25 year-old. I think about the people I instinctively hug or call after a run or if I get off of work. I think about how rooted I feel when I flow through triangle series in a Vinyasa flow.


And when I think about everything and the mind gets flooded...

"Blood on the Leaves" by Kanye West has always had a special place in my heart.

Gentrified Cornbread

It's 3:18 pm and I am sitting in a coffee shop. I used to say coffee is the devil's nectar but here I am sipping on a venti caramel frappuccino with a dose of espresso. It is not called 'express-o' don't worry, I checked.

So as you can see, I reopened my blog (again) with ultimate hopes of "chillin' tf out" during this next school quarter and updating folks on why I love physical fitness and how it connects to my overall Jonny spirit. 

This is not a "how-to-guide" on how I balance teaching yoga, running dogs, and the high-and-lows of being a 3rd year teacher as well, as I do my own fitness practices. This is just how a Jonny boy does it and yes, these things may nest its way into my blog.

I will be blindly optimistic, vent, rant, praise, throw up, eat the throw it back up again,.I will sing, dance, yell, laugh and I will do it by making paragraphs 2-5 sentences in a palpable (that's for you JW.)

I think highly of myself (even as far as calling myself J.O.D.Y. = Jon of Da Year) but I know how much life can suck and I know how blessings just fall on top of head while I ignore them because I am still cursing on why life sucks. 

But there is so much to the little things of life that are so important: like getting a good crack-of-the-neck, kids who try to race me on my 5-milers off Colfax, that guy in Planet Fitness that falsely told me I look like Terry Crews. 

Oh geez, I keep telling y'all what this blog is about to be about and what 'imma do' and la-di-da. Wait well let me get one more attempt in,

This blog is about all of the things in life that make me happy, make me sad, make me tired, make me glad; this blog is about how I ran a 5k in 17:12 while I was hungover from 2 40s and a few shots of moonshine; this blog is about how kicked a lady in a face while I was demonstrating a headstand; it is about my 5th grade P.E. teacher who called a 9 year-old with a fragile psyche fat; it is about my mom's cornbread that had a little too much butter in it that had to be gentrified by using olive oil & basil leaves. 

Welcome to Gentrified Cornbread.

A Fat Boy's Guide to Running*

Recently, I ran my first 10K (6.2 miles) this past Saturday in Richmond, Virginia. This event is the annual Ukrop's Monument Avenue Race, with almost 25,000 participants on a gusty Saturday morning. With a posted time of 39:46, I was disappointed in my quest for a 37-minute PR. I failed to live up to the expectations of my CW Flash t-shirt; in all actuality should have not been worn unless I had a legit chance of running this race in the sub-35. Not 35 minutes but in 35 seconds. Or maybe 3.5 seconds,

Anywhoooooooooooooooo, I thought of something. A thought, plucked from the dusty cabinets of my corner office from a company that's owned by Delhaize. I wanted to jot it down on a notepad, but then again it would probably be good to finish this race first. But during that brief moment of inexplicable pain from my thighs and the pain from letting Wally West down, there was a theory. The Theory of Why?

This is the 1st race my uncle and I have completed together. According to him it'll be the last

Why am I running this race?
Why do I feel happy that my uncle is here in this self-elected suffering?
Why did that girl not to go to the middle school dance with me?

Enter: 5 Philosophies I have about Exercise. As a self-described extreme fitness-minimalist and semi-narcissist, I compiled my own list of reasons why running has stayed in my routine. Why did I list 5 reasons? Because I love the number 5 dammit. Now these aren't thee set of guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist, these are my guidelines for an extreme fitness-minimalist/semi-narcissist.


1. Food I don't want to imagine the amount of food I swallow on a daily basis. Yes, I said swallow. I don't chew. The food quantity may be high but so is the quality. Not a fan of salads, but I veggie boast all of my meals. Grilled cheese sandwich? Sprinkle some spinach leaves and sweet peppers in that thang with flax seed bread. Generic box-pasta dinner? Take all the veggies, yes all of them and throw it in. Minus the left foot.

Source: Tumblr

I do eat out 1-2 times a week because I am firm on the belief of "treating yo' self." I have no idea what a cheat meal is to be honest. Cooking in bulk for two or three days definitely turns me off from getting cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's. But I will consume cardboard pizza from Lil' Caesar's.

2. Schedule My daily agenda always incorporates exercise. Whether I'm sweating or not. I keep a general schedule of going to the gym or doing yoga or running because that's what I programmed myself to do. Do I want to exercise this much? Hell no. There's no specific routine I follow; I don't time myself on my runs or log how many sit-ups I do. On certain days, I will go to gym and hangout or just put on workout clothes but watch SportsCenter. And leave.

So this doesn't mean I'll peer review scientific journal articles on an elliptical. At the height of my workload in college (18 credits), I would spend no more than 45 minutes exercising. Most people halt their Pilates session due to cramming for an exam their undoubtedly going to fail or a hangover from one too many St. Ives at Snoop Lion's house. But that time was blocked out, due to my...

3. Emotions 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. I'm a fervent little shrew. If I'm not doing a violent movement or activity every day, I'm extremely irritable. Never been able to figure out why. If I don't release that energy onto a tangible structure then it is as though someone told the ill-est yo' momma' joke and it will pester me the whole day. It's only a brief amount of brief amount of agony.

Source: Tumblr

4. Breaks 30-minutes a day. 5-6 times a week. But not every week. I'll take a break due to food comas, exhaustion, laziness, revamping my entire existence, etc. It's important to know your limitations. You don't have to go Dwayne Johnson or Sarah Paulson's tempo. Take your time; reward yourself and your temple. It's the only one you have, normally.

5. Music I don't know how people get through a workout and not listen to Flava Flav blaring in your ear. Do they enjoy the potential cramps and shortness of breath and dizzy spells without a little Shakira to move their tailfeather? Or maybe Daft Punk isn't enough to help them to do that yoga? Perhaps Katy Perry doesn't have enough hot sauce in her veins (swag)?

I could go on all day, but music one of the biggest reasons I can get through 4 sets of push-up rows. How it can help me finish that last 400 meters. Or breakdance when hitting that downward dog. A personal preference that has been plenty essential to round out my philosophies.

As a recent fan of CW's The Flash, I decided to rock it with my ever-present zebra headband

No matter how terrible a race or how upset I am with myself for any reason or how much I don't want to do what I need to do, there's always one thing that is constant. One thing to look forward to. I may go about it an alternative way, but I am still able to reap the bounty.

Like a saying I overheard in a conversation outside a middle-Georgia Bar between two Donald Trump Supporters:

There's more than one way to skin a cat

--


*The reason for the title is because "technically" I am considered overweight for my age and height.

I recently ran my first half-marathon at Virginia Beach for the Shamrock Weekend.  At 7 in the morning, it felt like low 30s with the wind whipping at the heels. Rain was steady but consistent as I made my way over from the Farm Fresh Parking Lot to the Corral 3 starting line. The sun was rising but had yet to make an entrance. I trailed a group of people, assuming they were some of 7,000 people up in the morning to run in these dreary conditions. Here are my thoughts as I came upon 42^nd street.

Mile 1: Okay, phew we got this Jon. One foot in front of the other. One step, two step. Hey look, a non-African black person! He up here in the front, making these gainz. Damn that dude looks upset. Is he about to cry? I’m going to say “hello.” [I say “what’s up”] Oh he don’t see me? Wow, I thought we were in this together. He probably doesn’t season his food and follows Stacey Dash on Twitter.

Mile 2: Hmm, I wonder what mile I’m on? Probably 6. Ya’ boy is coasting, ya’ boy got that speed. That speed, I said I got, I got, I got-got-got that SPEED. Half-marathons are a joke, I could do this in my s(ch)leep. Oh there’s a “cheer station” lemme’ get some high-fives. [I extend my hand out to high-five the two dozens of people cheering on their loved ones.] Yes, high-fives for the win. I have been rejuvenated. Tavon is fake for not waking up at 4:30 in the morning to cheer me on for two hours in the cold rain. Probably should find a new favorite cousin.

Mile 3: Wait mile 3? Wait, hold up. I’ve been running for like 30 minutes. This can’t be right.

Mile 4: Wait that’s the 2:45 pacer passing me. Oh no. Oh god. What have I done. Oh that girl is cute. Imma’ look cool passing her. Wait, is it frowned upon to flirt with someone during a half-marathon? Maybe I’ll wait, only 7,000 people are running this race. I’m sure I’ll see her again.

Crossing the finish line on the Virginia Beach boardwalk. 

Mile 5: Okay about 8 miles to go. That’s 4 miles twice. 2 miles four times. That’s a mile, eight times. That’s running about 13 kilometers. Wait how many feet is that? Crap, Dr. Mutiti would have killed me if he knew I forgot about my unit conversions. Another cheer station! Sweet!

Mile 6.5: I hate everything that has ever lived. Who invented the high-five?

Mile 7: cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp cramp.

Mile 8: Oh yeah Dusty Baker and Glenn Burke started the high-five. Duh Jon.

Mile 9: [I start crying and singing internally] Rock it, don't stop it, [gasps for air] everybody get on the floor…crank the party up [wipes away eyes to frustration] we about to get it on…let me see you 1, 2 step, I love it when you 1, 2 step… [stuffs water, Gatorade, bananas, and Gu energy gel into face while temporarily and simultaneously choking/blinding myself]

Mile 10: I can’t believe I spent $123.46 on this race with a $10 parking fee. My money better be funded to cure AIDS that’s all I’m saying. Oh wait it’s going to Children’s Miracle Network. Never mind…

Mile 11: I definitely have totz mcgoatz more energy than I thought I did. Two miles? That’s almost nothing. I think it’s time to activate ‘twin turbos’ [I quicken my pace to a slow sprint]

Mile 12 &13: runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run : runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run runny run-run-run. IF Y’ALL DON’T GET OUT THE WAY, I NEED TO END THIS SELF-IMPOSED TORTURE.

Mile 13.1: I can’t feel my fingers, my thighs are in limbo, I’m wet from the rain and sweating, I don’t remember where I parked my car, it feels like 30 degrees out here, I’m not sure if I need to poop or pee or throw up first, but hey:

I get 6 beers, Brunswick stew, and a 90s R&B cover band is playing. Leh’ get it.

Later I saw that I finished 250 out of almost 7,000 people with a 1:35:28. Maybe I’ll get it another try later on? Try to get some 1:20 action? Ugh.

Runs From Trolls & Jim Crow

I was running, running, running,

Through the forest, forest, forest,

And it was pretty, pretty, pretty,

But then I saw Horace, Horace, Horace,

I love trail running. In college one of my preferred areas to frolic around in was Bartram Forest. It is a network riddled with trails right off US-441. Miles and miles of dirt, trees, rocks, and the occasional naked hippy*. One of those areas where somebody could fall asleep in and wake up unscathed.

Bartram Forest Entrance (GWS Gallery)

But my favorite reason to run out in nature is when I get into a certain elation. I catch a third wind**. For background, second wind is what most people feel at a certain point of distance running. When your body switches metabolic processes. This anaerobic metabolism becomes that best friend at a bar who you only call when you want to completely ruin your life for a couple of hours. But third wind. That’s when limbo presents itself to me. Time isn’t a priority nor is my body exhaustion an issue nor do I care where I am going nor do I realize where I am. Or who I am.

I just run.

Did I mention, mention, mention,

That I stole from Horace, Horace, Horace,

He was a troll, troll, troll,

Who’s face was bleh, bleh, bleh

Loblolly pines served as inebriated High Overseers. Always physically imposing but essentially inept. My agenda had been clear that cloudy morning. To take back a relic my possession from the nasty, horrid-looking, disease-ridden, no nipple-having, mud-troll.

Once I mustered up my will, I crept up to a seemingly-lifeless cobblestone bridge. Tiptoeing up to the unprotected item, I made an unnatural noise and lunged for it. Once it pleased my fingertips, I fell backward. The troll did not make one grunt, grumble, or mumble. 

Then I left.

These pines were often burn to reduce hazardous fuels

I wove in-between the burnt timber as though I was Thomas Saint. My toes provided traceable footprints, but it would take the troll a fortnight to catch me. That is if I were to stop moving. My bare feet trampled over stones, acorns, pine combs, red clay, smoldering ashes. The calluses on my feet were that thick to where I could have had a footbath at the crest of Orodruin. One foot, two foot, big toe, small toe. Rain drops falling off the tip of a leaf. Not on-beat but perpetual.

By the time the troll had consumed his late-morning brunch, I was already grabbing a pint at The Green Dragon Inn.

By the time the troll figured out his relic was not with him anymore, I was grabbing my fourth pint at The Green Dragon Inn. 

648 kilometers from where the troll got hit.  And he screamed out to the heavens, I mean he screamed to where all the creatures and critters who had functional eardrums. My  own ears caught his tone and along with the black muck in his pupils. It was as though he was sitting in the stool right next to me. Listen, he told me:

“You get back here you f*cking n*gger.”

My mind collapsed from my fugue state of strenuous activity. I fell through the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, and 4th stages of limbo. My wireless headphones were at 0%. Somebody woke me up.

There were three humans in the cab of a modded pick-up truck. The trail route in Bartram I normally take had been washed out, so my bare-feet had to hit the Vinson Highway pavement. Only for a few minutes. The action and reaction only took a few seconds. I didn’t yell back or throw a rock at their windshield. Maybe they were unaccompanied minors attempting a prank or maybe a white supremacist group or maybe some of my college associates. Maybe I could have even set myself up for an outdated slave joke since on occasion I run without Asics. But maybe is for the indecisive.

Whatever the maybe was, I didn’t have time for it. I had 5Ks to run.

I glanced back at that troll, troll, troll,

Who called me a derogatory term, term, term,

But I did not stop, stop, stop

Because I was not done running, running, running,

--

*A story for a different time.

**A third wind is a term I made up to refer to a euphoric feeling. In this state, I imagine a daydream sequence of me running in an imaginary environment. In for this fictional setting, I’m a hobbit running through The Shire.