PARASOL PUBS
Falling Down The Mountain
In which I f_cked around and found out
Between 2008 and 2017 I ran marathons, two per year, each one quicker than the one before. And then I quit.
My retirement from competitive running was related to a merging of my post-divorce, empty nest, mid-life crisis, and lifelong addiction issues. (This story, however, is about dumb decisions made stone-cold sober.)
Ego played a starring role in my abandonment of the sport. In racing, every year past forty the chance of continued measurable improvement dwindled.
My AA sponsor once suggested I was “an egomaniac with no self-esteem.” (Who else could wake up dope sick with zero recollection of the previous day, yet look down her nose at an acquaintance’s five-hour marathon brag.)
My struggle to recover was ugly and scary. It took time to find my footing.
In the early stages, my brain was so scrambled I couldn’t read a book or write a coherent sentence. I slept only in sweaty 10-minute stretches. I was afraid of everyone.
I could “run,” if one is generous enough to call a 12-minute-mile slog that.
My grandparents’ land in Kaufman, Texas was inhabited by a herd of cattle, three horses, and, for a few weeks, one…
