Matthew Gallaway

Donald Trump's First 100 Years in Office: An Assessment

1. I had been praying for fog and one morning last week my prayers were answered. It rolled up the Hudson from the Atlantic Ocean, covering the river with a blanket of silver mist.   2. All of the flowering trees were silent movie stars. 3. The George Washington Bridge hovered serene and ambivalent while the nightmarish apartments towers to the south were almost completely camouflaged. Here, in the fog, it was possible to believe that only beautiful things marked this landscape.  4. I needed to run up the hill but my legs were tired. Maybe, I thought, life would be easier with wings. 5. The park was not as foggy as the riverbank, but at least it was quiet and empty (of people, especially the kind who ride bikes and drive cars and wrap me in dog leashes when I'm running). 6. So far, the spring had been cool and rainy. Having suffered in the past, the plants were grateful for this good fortune and leery of the future. "We're dreading the summer," said the heather, and I told them how much I could relate. 7. These flowers were all very curious about the state of the world. "Have you heard of Donald Trump?" I asked, and not a single one of them said yes. There was still hope. 8. The red azaleas, less naive, had formed some sort of coalition. They asked if I would join and I said I would consider it, and then I told them a story. Once when I was living in DC, a friend of mine went on a job interview where he was asked about "coalition building." In an attempt to lighten the mood, he said that he believed the coalition building was very interesting and attracted a lot of tourists. Despite offering this objectively perfect answer, he didn't get the job. (At least the azaleas laughed.)9. The pink azaleas, located closer to the entrance of the park, wanted to know why everyone was talking about Donald Trump's first 100 years in office. 10. I knew it had been a long time, but 100 years? I wasn't sure -- I had been avoiding the news -- but I supposed anything was possible.11. Maybe we could last another 100 years, I thought, before I ran back into the fog.

What the Mountains Are Silent About (Notes on Running and Hyacinthus)

1. I had been dreading this week for months because it was the hardest week of my marathon-training program. Then, because of the passage of time and my ongoing position in the same, it arrived. On Sunday, filled with as much dread (or possibly more) than I had anticipated, I jogged to a track about a mile from my house, which (the track, not my house) is on top of a sewage-treatment plant in Harlem. Here, in theory, I was going to run eight 800-meter (two-lap) intervals at a sub-3:00 minute pace (aka Yasso repeats), with a lap of recovery in between. This track, which is actually very nice, isn't pictured because I wasn't running with my camera; maybe another time! Instead, to distract you from the tedium of running, I've inserted pictures of Fort Tryon Park, which is miraculously in bloom and completely free of dread.      2. I ran the first interval and felt okay, except for the fact that I had seven more to do. I was annoyed at the people walking laps around the track who insisted on hugging the inner lane, a violation of track etiquette, which dictates that you walk or jog slowly in the middle or outer lanes to leave room for faster runners. I didn't say anything, though, because I didn't want to seem like a "white shithead" in a non-white neighborhood. Sometimes it's better to weave than to make a fuss. 3. I stayed quiet until the second lap of my seventh interval (how did I even get there), when a soccer player moved off the field and was juggling a ball in the inner lane as I turned the corner and was flying directly at him on the straightaway. Unable to bear it, I yelled "TRACK," which I had forgotten was what runners yell at people who are clogging the lanes. Sometimes your mind forgets and your mouth remembers, is what I learned. The word had the desired effect: the soccer player moved out of the way and, after finishing this lap, I made it through my eighth interval. Like most hard workouts, it felt pretty horrible and pretty good at the same time. 4. I had new things to worry about, namely the end of the week, when I was scheduled to run 10 miles at "pace" (or the speed at which you want to race your marathon, or somewhat faster), followed the next day by 20 miles, with the final five again at something close to pace. The idea is to train your legs to keep going even though you want to die. 5. I always do my pace runs on the treadmill (with an incline of 1.0), because I think it's a good way to increase your speed in a very measured fashion, as opposed to outdoors, where there are too many distractions, at least in the city, which mean that you have to speed up and slow down, which defeats the purpose of this kind of workout. 6. Long treadmill runs are painful for obvious reasons, but I always try to convince myself that it will be a good way to catch up on my podcasts. This week, for example, I finished "S-Town" (or "Shit Town"), which like millions of others I mostly enjoyed and definitely recommend. The short version is that it's a profile of a fifty-something year-old man who lives in a small town in Alabama, where he makes his living repairing very ornate clocks. He lives with his aging mother in an old house on a big piece of land, where he obsessively gardens and takes care of stray dogs and develops one-sided crushes on a series of local men who tend to be younger and poorer (and straighter) than him. The guy is a real "character" and in his southern drawl will go on and on about the evils of climate change and big corporations as well as the small-mindedness of some of his "shit town" neighbors. It's funny and sad; like I said, I 100-percent recommend listening to it. 7. Although the main guy doesn't exactly identify as "gay" or "queer," he's fairly open about being nonheterosexual, which makes him more interesting and, in some ways, tragic. The reporter who tells the story and conducts the interviews admirably tries to explore this dynamic by seeking out and interviewing some other men with whom the main guy had at least quasi-romantic relationships. To devote an entire seven-episode podcast to exploring the idiosyncratic life of one such man in a reasonably sensitive and not-too voyeuristic manner (although some have disagreed) is pretty amazing if you consider that gay people in our society/culture are as a rule marginalized and underrepresented in almost very venue (except for the fashion and real estate sections of the NYT). 8. My only (very small) complaint about this reporter is that he seemed very naive about what it means to be gay, like he just couldn't wrap his head around the idea that a man growing up in the seventies and eighties in a very small and very conservative town, despite being friendly and smart and very interesting, might have a hard time "finding love" or be afflicted with a serious amount of self-hatred, which may or may not account for some of his highly acerbic nature when we meet him. 9. There's also an assumption at work here -- and one shared by sooooooooo many straight people I've met -- which is that gay people, if given the chance, will want to act just like straight people. (Speaking in very general and probably stereotypical terms.) My point is that, if you're going to report on gay people (which: awesome), maybe try to be a little bit more aware of and sensitive to the history out of which people/cultures arise so that you can have a better understanding of why they maybe act/speak the way they do, even if it's different than the way you might think is ideal. It doesn't mean that parts of a life aren't tragic, but the reasons might be slightly different than what you assume them to be.10. The increasingly gay garden at least was benefiting from all the rain in ways that were not very tragic.   11. I made it through the treadmill workout. For my twenty-mile run, I was less worried about the distance than my fear that it was going to be cold, rainy, and windy for the entire run. All week I kept checking the weather. I knew I was doomed. 12. Friday morning I woke up at 5:30 and was relieved not to hear any rain; maybe, I thought, rushing around and confusing the cats, I would hit a rain-free window. 13. I was out the door at 5:50 and by 5:52 it started sprinkling. By 6:04 it was pouring, which is how it stayed for the next two-plus hours. Sometimes, no matter how much you dread something, it happens anyway.  14. On the plus side, my legs felt pretty good and I was able to pick up the pace for the last five miles, despite running through what felt like a "micro-hurricane" along the banks of the Hudson. It's an "interesting" sensation when your legs become numb with fatigue but they keep turning over. (The hope is that you can maintain this feeling without "hitting the wall," of course, or "bonking.") And then I was home, where I enjoyed the smell (and sight) of our hyacinths, which unlike certain other people, I didn't feel compelled to nibble. (Although I understand the impulse.)15. I thought about Hyacinthus, the mythological Greek killed by a discus redirected at him by Zephyrus (god of the western wind), who was angry that the young man had chosen his rival Apollo (god of many things, and father of Orpheus). The blood from the dying Hyacinthus ran into the ground and turned the flowers red.  16. Our hyacinths are white, though, which just goes to show that tragedy can sometimes be recorded and eclipsed.

 


 

Denial Is the Source of All Happiness (March of the Camellias)

1. The park was covered in flowers, many of which -- like the rest of us -- had suffered through some very cold weeks and months and were now making up for lost time.  2. As much as I enjoyed this scene, I acknowledged some regret about missing the "super bloom" out west, where miles of desert and mountain are now covered in undulating, phantasmagoric rivers of color as the landscape recovers from years of drought. I now regretted clicking though to the article, which like so much of the internet came with a dose of relative dissatisfaction and shortfall. I closed this "mental tab" and reminded myself to "live in the moment," but not before I remembered that the article had also mentioned the hordes of tourists who had descended on the super bloom, which helped to assuage my #FOMO.  3. It was better to be here, alone with the plants, the morning light, the chirping birds, and my neurotic thoughts. 4. I felt more than some gratitude for/astonishment at the scene in front of me. I was in running shorts for the first time this year (except for that freakishly hot weekend in February), and was still feeling good about putting my cold-weather gear into the deepest part of my closet, where I will pretend it doesn't exist for the next six months or so. Maybe my former therapist was right: denial is the source of all happiness. 5. I startled a flock of daffodils, which took off through the leaves with a flapping of bright yellow. 6. One thing I've developed lately as a result of running so much is greater empathy for women who get catcalled. For some reason, a certain number of men (and guess what: it's always men) feel compelled to say dumb shit when I pass them. Sometimes it's fairly innocuous (but still distracting when I'm mentally juggling a lot and trying not to trip or run into anyone/anything), like "way to go, bud," or "keep on truckin'" but sometimes it's more mean-spirited, like the other day when I passed this guy, walking next to his five-year old kid, and he shouted "RUN . . . RUN!" as if the implicit mockworthiness of running needs to be sarcastically noted as loudly as possible while you walk your son to school. I've trained myself never to respond and don't care THAT much -- and don't want to equate it in any real way with catcalls, because it's not like I feel physically threatened/sexually harassed -- but PSA: men, you seriously need to STFU when you're on a city sidewalk because you're breaking a code of urban living, which is keep your mouth shut because nobody wants to hear it. People run, get over it. If you want to scream at runners, go to the marathon.  7. Back home, others expressed impatience with the term catcall, which I had to agree was a fair point, because 1) it makes the action seem slightly benign and/or comical, and 2) it's offensive to actual cats. I resolved henceforth to use the word "harass."8. In less contentious news, our cold-hardy camellia was in bloom, which is always a highlight of the spring garden. 9. We had waited a long time for this. 10. And now that it was here, nothing could be better.

Dread Is an Important Part of Marathon Training, But So Is Chocolate Milk

1. I had arrived at the most punishing four-week phase of my marathon training. The bad news was that I needed to run 10 and 20 miles on consecutive days, with speed and hill workouts interspersed throughout the weeks. The good news was that Stephen, who had become involved in the nutritional side of my training, insisted that I drink chocolate milk, which apparently science has shown builds muscles in this very limited context. 2. What I've learned about marathons is that there's a much larger degree of unpredictability than in a half-marathon. When you're training for a half, you can do a training run of 13.1 miles and feel pretty confident that you'll be able to do the same (or better) in a race of the same distance; with a marathon, however, it's counterproductive to run the full 26.2 at any point before the actual race -- it's too punishing on your muscles, no matter how much chocolate milk you drink -- so you just have to trust that whatever plan you're following is going to pay off on race day. 3. You do get acclimated to longer distances, though. I probably would have shuddered a year ago at the thought of running ten or twelve miles, whereas in my current condition, these distances are actually a relief (if I'm not going too fast). 4. Dread is an important part of training. Now that I've finished my most recent 20-miler, which I had been dreading since the previous one, I can now focus on dreading the 8 x 800 workout slated for next Sunday. These workouts are called "Yasso 800s," named after the guy who figured out that if you plan to run a 3-hour marathon, you should be able to run ten 800s at a 3-minute pace (with a three-minute resting lap between each interval). (Or if you want to run a four-hour marathon, the same rule applies but with four-minute 800s.) Thankfully my workout plan peaks at eight Yassos, which I know from having already done seven is hard enough, chocolate milk notwithstanding. Eventually the dread will end; I'll probably miss it, to be honest.5. There are some amusing things that can happen on a twenty-mile run. Yesterday, for example, I passed a pair of what I assume were "army reserve" people or whatever it is that requires you to hike up and down the riverbank in camouflage with a backpack. Anyway, about three seconds after I passed these two guys (and they were men, as far as I could tell), one of them said "see you later" to his friend and I heard his running footsteps behind me. As if he was going to pass me while carrying a backpack! These military types have no humility, I thought, as I quickly dusted him, even though I was supposed to be running pretty slowly, like 7:45 miles. I felt a little embarrassed by my competitive instinct, but then again, I reconsidered, he started it. 6. Yesterday, for the first time, I also tried one of these carb/protein/caffeine/chocolate "fueling gels" designed to keep you from "hitting the wall." That's another difference between a half-marathon and a full, apparently. When I ran the half, I didn't even bother with water, because I find the stations too distracting, like you have to weave in and grab a tiny cup like you're at the dentist or something, and half the time you end up dropping it and then you feel bad for littering. But every article I've read says a "fueling strategy" is a "must" for a marathon, so I'm trying it out. I also know from the first two marathons I did in my twenties that hitting the wall is excruciating -- like seriously the worst feeling -- so if I need to eat some chocolate-flavored goo along the way, count me in! I ate one yesterday around mile 16 and was hoping for a Popeye-level burst of speed, which didn't happen, but I finished pretty strong, so on the whole I think it's a good idea. The manufacturers of these things recommend that you eat one every half mile, but like most "manufacturer's recommendations," this strategy, I'm pretty sure, would make you sick and angry and poor if you actually followed it. 7. It's sort of like the wash-rinse-repeat advice you always see on the back of shampoo containers, when it should really say: "This chemical sludge is useless and you never need to buy it again, much less pour it over your head. Save your money for the overpriced but delicious organic chocolate milk that comes in glass bottles."  8. Undeterred by the torrential rain and the bitter cold, buds began to swell on our camellia. 9. Today was supposed to be warm and clear, but that forecast turned out to be only fifty-percent correct. Lately I've noticed that the forecast will include an expected range -- today was a low of 44 with a high of 57 -- but when I go out for my run at 7:15, the actual temp will be lower than the given range. Today was 40, for example, which meant cold-weather gear again. I saw many desperate souls in shorts and t-shirts on my run; I understood why they had made a bad choice, but was relieved not to have done it myself. (I say this more frequently as I approach fifty than I did when I was approaching thirty, by the way; I can only imagine the confidence I'll have in twenty more years.) 10. I mean, it was still beautiful -- especially in the park -- but I wish the weather channel/web site wouldn't get my hopes up like that all the time with their optimistic/inaccurate temperature ranges. 11. Flowers -- irises and others that weren't irises -- were peeking out through the heather and evergreens all over the landscape. They didn't mind the cold. 12. The daffodils were gossiping about each other and getting their feelings hurt and/or validated. 13. With three miles down, I only had two to go. Today was an easy day. 14. I stopped for a few seconds under the weeping cherry, which made me feel a little dizzy, but also like I was almost flying.

 

A Runner's View of a Writer's World and a Writer's View of a Runner's World

1. The snow was finally gone, but the mist lingered. It was thirty-five degrees out instead of twenty-five, which I tried to tell myself was some form of progress. Sort of like how the Republican health care bill fell apart, even though our system is still a mess. (To go for the most obvious political comparison.)2. Following my half-marathon in New Orleans, I had decided to keep training -- this time for a full marathon, assuming I could stay injury-free -- which meant I was very aware of the weather. And my body.  3. But to be aware of the weather, as with so many other things, seemed to bring little but disappointment. Why did the weather hate me? Why didn't I live in Northern California, where the temperature was always perfect for running?  Why did my left calf hurt?4. A week earlier, I had slipped on a patch of ice on an overpass crossing the highway. It felt like an icy hand had emerged from the ground to pull my feet out from under me, meaning I could barely brace myself as I dropped to the pavement. Fortunately nothing was broken, but I can still feel the ache in my left wrist. Fortunately, I'm not using my wrist to run. 5. I've learned that distance running in the city can be precarious in ways I hadn't expected until recently. Uneven sidewalks, potholes, curbs, dog leashes (and the careless humans holding them), roots, branches, loops of plastic that attack your feet, and now patches of ice: all of these things and more can literally trip you up and leave you with skinned knees and palms and worse.  6. It's true that running inside is always an option, because thankfully I've never tripped on a treadmill. The only problem is that I've come to the conclusion that treadmill running (at a 1.0 incline, which supposedly mimics outdoor running best) is psychologically and possibly physically harder than running outdoors. The miles just go by a lot slower, even when you're listening to a good podcast. Or a bad one. 7. Or maybe it's possible that I've gotten slower in the months since New Orleans. Maybe it's time to start measuring my age in days and weeks instead of years. "A few weeks ago I was so much faster than I am now." Or: "You can train all you want, but you can never be as fast as you were a few weeks ago, when you were so much younger than you are now." Fortunately, this isn't the kind of thing anyone says on the running blogs and websites I've been reading.  8. Runners tend to be optimistic, which I think is why I like being around them. (I mean, as much as I like being around any "community" of people.) I never have any doubts that my running friends are rooting for me, just as I am rooting for them. 9. Being friends with runners is completely different than being friends with writers and artists, who when they learn about the success of one of their peers say something like "wow, great" and when they learn about the failure of one of their peers say "that's a shame" except that the true meaning of these phrases is actually the reverse. This is true even at "the lowest levels" of art and writing, where really nothing is at stake. (Which these days is pretty much all levels of art and writing.) As Morrissey said with such characteristic insight and precision: "We hate it when our friends become successful."   10. Recreational runners, by contrast, will say "wow, that's great" or "damn, that's too bad" and mean it 100 percent. 11. I've noticed that gardeners and pet lovers are like runners in this regard, too. We all genuinely want each other's plants and animals to be happy and healthy.12. The world, it seemed, was divided into two factions: those who love hellebores and those who love misery. 13. And some of us who, after all these weeks, still can't decide where we belong.