Run Until Your Mind Gets Right
Vol. 2, Issue 4
Up until I got sober I thought I was athletic. I worked out fairly regularly and I was a decent media league softball player. I could even do an incredibly graceful cartwheel. The expectation that this baseline would help me transition from half-drunk layabout to possible Olympic athlete was a bit of an overshot, but I'll chalk that up to the delusional thoughts I had throughout most of my 30's and 40's.
Still, when I got sober–like, newly two-weeks sober–I half-expected to revert back to an unstoppable teenager, able to do one hundred thousand burpees in a row and toss monster truck tires across a lake. Unencumbered by all the unhealthy garbage, who knows what feats of strength I'd be able to perform. The possibilities were endless. Yet, just like when I was drunk and not very self-aware, this was not reality, and I was just a super-ordinary 42-year-old man who had the lung capacity of a pack-a-day smoker and the core strength of a baby walrus.
My fitness goal-setting was still very addict-y. In the first few months I wanted to join a tennis league, play golf once a week, run a 5K, 10k, and box in a gym regularly. I also wanted to be able to bench press 225 pounds more than eight times and learn archery, ready-set-go.
These are all reasonable, attainable goals, but they require a discipline and a humility that I had not yet possessed. Still, I went after it. I started taking tennis lessons twice a month and got decent enough to be labeled a 3.0-3.5 player. I began to use a boxing trainer once per week, who happened to be a homeless guy I met in my AA meeting. (I know I'm burying the lede here with the "homeless boxing trainer" but we'll have to save that story for another monologue. He had trench foot and was stabbed 14 times, but was an amazing trainer.) I was working out in a crappy gym four-to-five times a week and slowly adding more and more plates to my bench press, steadily on my way back and beyond.
Another AA friend invited me to his martial arts class and that seemed like the logical next step. I showed up early on a Saturday morning for my first class–it was some discipline of kung-fu that I don't remember–so the teacher (sifu) recognized it was my first class and had me work out with the five-year-olds. I did this willingly, as clearly they knew more than I did; so I had no problem learning proper punches and stances from them. Sifu Paula was impressed and came over and said, "Most men struggle to take instruction from a child. This is very admirable and impressive." (She didn't say it in any sort of enchanted kung-fu voice so if it's written that way, it's by accident and because I'm a dramatic dill-hole. I think she told me she was born in Massachusetts.) Her subtle vote of confidence was enough for me to advance myself to a weekday class–she said these were more challenging and taught by Sifu Roger, the guy who owned the gym–but clearly I was humble and enlightened and ready to reach the next level.
From the moment I walked into that Wednesday morning class it was clear I was out of my depth. It was all men, mostly bigger, more athletic men than me, who were casually doing splits and kicking heavy bags with intimidating thuds. They were all dressed in what appeared to be flow-y black ninja gear, some with very triumphant-looking belt colors. I was wearing gray sweatpants from Ross and a Temple of the Dog t-shirt.
The warmups were exhausting, all sorts of crazy spider-style pushups and spinning around on our elbows and opening up our hip bones and other physically impossible contortions. Somehow I got through and was even barking my exhales and keeping my wrists solid on the punches in no time. I was hooked. Before the class was even over, I accelerated my ambitions from "getting through this without passing out" to wondering how quickly I'd get a double black belt in Shaolin Kung Fu.
At the end of the class everyone gathered around the heavy bag, sweaty and high off their own exertion, to do what I guess was a final ceremonial exercise of this particular class where each member throws their body against it while Sifu Roger swings it back and forth. Once you make contact with it you wrap your legs around the heavy bag and hold yourself up with your core. If you start to drop, the rest of the class was there to help you, to encourage you, to not let you fall. I was ready for this, god was I ready, despite my physical limitations and zero training. I was ready to be cleansed of all my leftover alcoholism and drug-addled mind...to finally be free and welcomed into this new brotherhood.
Friends, I would love to say that this moment was one that led me to some rarefied pedestal and that I have since achieved a double black-belt and am blessed with supreme, unflagging confidence with which I walk through this world head-high and invincible, but I cannot.
Instead, here's what happened: I flung my whole body against the swinging heavy bag, looking like a dead crab getting tossed back into the sea, and as my crotch hit the bag with such pathetic clumsy force, I farted.
I farted so loudly that I startled myself and fell off the bag.
Not enough to hit the floor, mind you, because all the bigger, more athletic men, dressed in flow-y black ninja gear caught me before that could occur which, in hindsight, would have allowed me to keep some dignity. But no, no, there I went, hoisted back up on to the slippery bag by all these strange ninjas as I guiltily looked up at them from a sad baptismal pose, my leg muscles dead from both exhaustion and shame. I swung there for a brief moment until the sifu mercifully told them to let me down.
When my friend from AA asked me how it went I just told him, "It's not for me," and we moved on.
Maybe someday I'll go back again, but not today, not this year, perhaps once everyone in that class has died.
– AJD
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In this week's feature, I did a q-and-a with a person whose journey from drunken madman to sober person happened because he devoted his newfound clean-living time to long-distance running. He doesn't just do brisk jogs, either: hardcore trail marathons which he actually wins sometimes and without farting on people. His name is Steve Wilson, and this dude is someone I’d stay up with until 4 a.m. totally cross-eyed but now...he’s changed: You can see his physical and emotional transformation. The man just floats now.
He recently just finished his first NYC Marathon. He didn’t win this race, but give him time. His path from sobriety to superhuman specimen has completely inspired me and I hope it helps those who don't want to do 12-step or rehab find another way out.
People Will Know When You're Truly Different
By The Small Bow
Awestruck by the Progress
Here’s my interview with Steve Wilson, about his unique journey to the other side of those dark and drunken nights.
So what were your last days drinking like?
During my last months of living in New York, November to December 2014, I would go on these very long walks along the water. Just trying to calm myself and find any kind of clarity in my thoughts. I remember wondering how many people jumped into the Hudson and did not fight it. Just brutal bone-cutting thoughts. Whatever bits of light and inner dialog I would pull from these walks I would immediately erase with a night of hard drinking. Or two. I remember listening to Warren Zevon’s cover of “Back in the High Life Again” and uncontrollably crying. I knew I had reached the end of my drinking, I just didn’t have any idea how to do it. My only instinct was to get out of the city. Down in the basement of my friend's bar I spray-painted “Wilson Lives” as a “Kilroy was here” kind of joke to myself. But there was also hope there.
A week later I was in a rental car with some changes of clothes and guitars, headed south. I looked in the rear view at the city as the sun went down and let out a scream. And then I drove myself down the east coast to Florida over the span of two days on pure adrenaline.
The first thing I did when I got to my hometown was buy a pair of running shoes.
So you get to Florida, you just start running? Were you a runner in high school or anything like that?
I attempted maybe two runs in the first eight months. The thought of doing it everyday was too daunting and I was too much of a shell. I hadn’t run before at all. In fact you could probably count on two hands how many times I worked out between the ages of 15 to 34. I am a prolific reader so I had read about running just how I devoured a lot of self-helpy books and books on Buddhism.
My first year and a half to two years of sobriety were anxiety-ridden and I fell off a few times–a wedding, a music festival, a too-soon return to New York.
One day, after a little bit of sober time, I tried to run–like, really tried to run. I would go all out, but I was heavier at the time and I would run out of steam about three-quarters of a mile in. But I would get out there and try the next day and the next until I could finally do two. Once I attempted trail running the world opened up. It nourished me. I could attempt my two miles everyday and then go die on a log and listen and observe. I’d watch animals go about their days, watch seasons change. That one little nature break gave me an energy boost and then I’d run some more. I fell in love with the process.
After some trial and error and injury I learned to slow down. To put just enough stress on the body then recover. While I was doing this every day I found the dialogue with myself I’d been looking for. Looking into my past, I unearthed little traumas, polished them, and let them go. I also realized how lucky I was and the lack of real trauma in my past. I had so many kind friends and family–it was like my safety nets had safety nets, so to squander such good fortune would be foolish.
And you just progressed from there? Just kept running one little mile at a time?
Yes. And for the first year, I didn’t post about it on social media or talk too much about it. I didn’t want it to be another thing I said I would do and wouldn’t be able to follow through on. When I was drinking that would always happen–big ideas and no follow-through. That would bother me so much when I did that.
My friend Caitlyn in New York is my running guru and she was one of the only people I knew who ran. I would be stumbling home after closing a bar and would bump into her, her husband and friends going out early for a run. She suggested I sign up for a race. I eventually picked a trail marathon called the Swamp Forest Trail. It was very ambitious, but I liked the idea of starting big. At first, I ran the marathon distance alone just to see if I could. When I finally ran the Swamp Forest Trail marathon, the technical trails had people falling all over the place. I fell twice, but I finished third. After that, I proceeded to run a half marathon, 12k, 10k, and then a 5k. So I did it in reverse order. That felt like the right way for me to do it.
Wait–your first race was a marathon? In the goddamn woods! How long had you been training by that point?
Hahaha! Yeah man can’t stop crazy. Like a year in. I did two in the woods, actually!
Some would say the one I did solo doesn’t count, but the body remembers. Hobbling around the next few days told me it was real enough. It was three months later when I joined others to do the official trail marathon. Once I started doing shorter distances I ran those faster. Training alone makes you weird.
And you did not treatment correct? No rehab, AA, NA–just ran and ran? And now you’re clean?
I didn’t do any in- or outpatient therapy or AA. I had a false impression that it was really religious. Plus, I’m pretty shy. But I can see now how it would have helped a lot of the growing pains along the road to recovery. To be very honest I was thrilled to find your website last week. It’s more my speed. And, nope, no other substances or medications. I don’t rule out weed down the line but whenever I’m around it I don’t partake. The last few years I’ve become very protective of my brain chemistry.
What books have you read that have helped in your transformation?
There’s a beautiful little self-published book called “Butterflies on a Sea Wind” by Anne Rudloe. She was a renowned Marine biologist in Florida and had a marine lab with her husband Jack. Her book pairs her love of the outdoors and love of science with Zen meditation. It’s a very good daily reader book and I occasionally give it to friends if I think it will help. Of course there’s also Old Alan Watts and Ram Das speeches. Plus Thich Nhat Hanh books are constant companions. I also do yoga and meditate once per day.
So what’s the best day you’ve had running?
My best race was called the Flash 12k. It was about an hour outside of my town on the Gulf Coast and I dragged my dad to it. He walks with a cane and he made the walk to be there at the start/finish. I dedicated it to him at the start and proceeded to run the eight fastest consecutive miles I've ever run and made first in my age group. I gave him my medal at the end of that one.
How has all this changed you as a person?
I’m calmer. It allows me time to process people and things going on in my life. I’ve been around to help as extended family gets older having observed how scary that can be. I am able to listen to people in a way that would've never been possible before. I go through my daily running catharsis ritual and find my heart bigger at the end of it.
And when I do run with other people I try to make it a celebration. I’m a firm believer of running with anybody at any pace. It's the only sport where nobody boos. In sobriety I eventually settled on the saying “When you’re better, people will know when they see you.” There’s no timeline for that and you can’t declare it. People will know when you’re truly different.
Illustration by Edith Zimmerman
