I'm infallible

I'm infallible because I'm me.

"Amit, sometimes in life when you do something very very stupid, there is no point in beating yourself up over it.  Just admit that you did something stupid. And since you're an accounting student, open up a ledger account in your life book and name it  'stupidity account'.  Write down those moments in there and move on" :
(My Dads advise to me. )

I hate it when I'm wrong at anything.  I hate it when I make a mistake.  I hate it when I do some something completely stupid.

Now, that isn't a quality necessarily unique to me. Everyone hates such.

The big flaw in my character is that I hate to admit that I am wrong. I hate to admit that I ever make a mistake.   I hate to admit that I'm as fallible as the next person.

I believe that I'm the guy who is always right and the mistake is always attributed to someone or something else.

How can I be wrong ? I'm the guy who is almost enlightened.  Running made me so. It has brought me into a space where I'm calm and composed and completely  "aware".  

I'm always in the moment.

I can never make idiotic mistakes like most "normal" people do.

Sometimes even when circumstances conspire in such a way that the only conclusion that may be drawn is that I am, on occasion, a complete idiot, I know in my heart,  that I'm not really at fault.  The fault lies somewhere else.  On someone or something else.

Last evening, I had my dear friends Rajiv and family over for dinner.   During our conversation, I realised that my watch wasn't recording my heart rate.  
As the conversation proceeded to demonitization, I forgot about the dysfunctional heart-rate feature on the watch.

Earlier today, I had to be on a 10:45 am flight to Coimbatore.  My routine is that my wife, Neepa , always comes to drop me off when it's an early morning flight.

At 9:15 am as we walked towards our drive way, I saw that my driver, Khwaja, had come to work 15 minutes earlier than usual  and so I told Neepa that Khwaja will drive me to the airport.

On getting into the car, I told Khwaja, "Khwaja , drop me to the airport, jet airways".

After that, I first checked Twitter to see what Obama had said last-night in his year-end press conference and then I remembered the "heart rate" disfunction in the watch and started fiddling with the watch.

We reached the airport at 9:35 am and I noticed that there was a reasonably long line at the entrance gate where they check the tickets and the identity card.

There were about 8 people in front of me but the line went reasonably fast.   I was one person away from being checked when I realised that I was at the wrong terminal of the wrong fxxxxing airport !

This was the old airport.  I needed to be at the new T2 terminal!

Me! The frequent world flier ! The platinum card holder ! Me ! I was at the wrong fxxxung terminal!  In my own city ! Who the fxxxx can I punch? Who is to blame for something so idiotic ?

I ran out of the terminal, one hand holding the overnight check-in bag. The other hand holding the lap-top bag and the print out of the ticket and my wallet and my drivers license.

Frantically I called up Khwaja. "Khwaja ! Come back ! You've dropped me to the wrong airport ! You fool !!"

I hung up and waited for my heart rate to settle.   I decide not to tell my wife about this.   I knew she will tell me that I didn't pay attention to where I was being driven to.  I knew she will tell me that I was on the phone.

But I felt it was her fault.  These are details SHE needs to remember and if SHE had come to drop me as planned, this would not have happened.  Neepa !!!

After 5 mins , Khwaja calls me " Amitbhai, the security is not letting me enter the drop off area ! They say I can't come.  Because there is nobody in the car to drop. They won't allow a passenger -less car in the drop off area "

"where are you Khwaja ?, I shouted.

"I'm at the right turn... after the straight ...where I dropped you ."

"What right turn ?"

"the right turn ...after the straight "

"what right turn..... what straight ?"

"the right turn .... after the straight "

"ok I don't understand a word of what you're saying. ....come back to the security roadblock , I'm coming there "

I sprint like a madman for 500 meters, the handle of the new overnight check-in hand bag which I'm holding in my left hand  breaks.

I realise I'm still holding my wallet , print out of ticket , drivers license , and laptop bag in my right hand.

I need to be "mindful" I think. I need to be "aware".  I shouldn't drop anything,  I tell myself.

I reach the security point. No Khwaja.  I call him.

 "Khwaja where are you ? "

"I'm at the right turn...after the straight, where I left you"

"Fxxx Khwaja ".

I sprint.... Another 500 meters.  I reach the main road (eastern express highway ).

I call him again .....

"Khwaja I'm on the fxxxing highway now , outside the airport. Beyond the Sahara star 5 star hotel, where are you ?"

" I'm at the right turn ....after the straight...... but I will come to the highway"

I wait for him.

Should I tell neepa ? I wonder...

Perhaps She needs to check the flight schedule for next Coimbatore flight ?
I might need to buy a new ticket.

I call her : " neepa ! I got off at the wrong airport "

"What ? You were on twitter ! You didn't tell Khwaja where to drive you.  How can you be so stupid? "

"Neepa I was checking  my heart rate......"

"you will miss your flight.  Where are you and where is Khwaja ?"

"he's at the right turn... after the straight.... .....Neepa, I'm disoriented. Which way is the T2 terminal , Towards the right on the highway or towards the left ?"

"To the right ! Amit ! You don't know where T2 is ? You don't pay any attention ? You were on your phone. Where is Khwaja  "

"He is at the right turn ....after the straight....₹&&;:/()&&@₹;  .....Neepa I'm taking an auto rickshaw  "

So I flag down an auto-rickshaw and tell him take me to T2.

Neepa calls me back: "you think an auto is allowed onto the T2  access road ?"

"Neepa ! How the fxxxx do I know? .  I've never been there in an auto.  I don't know. Can you call Khwaja and have him follow me ?
In case they don't allow an auto inside the access road approach to the T2"

The auto goes forward at a glacial pace.  We take a right turn under an overpass.  The auto driver bears left to go straight.  I tell him we have to take a complete "U" turn to go toward the T2.  
He says no.  We have to go straight.

I tell him "No. you take U turn. I'll tell you how to go "

"no sir.  You have to go straight "

"no, you take u turn. "

All the time I'm thinking.  This is neepa's fault. She needed to drop me to airport.   I'm not supposed to deal with this crap.

Fxxxxxz Khwaja, I search for my car.  I look outside and behind the auto to find him. He's nowhere in sight.  Fxxx Khwaja  !

The auto driver takes a U turn.  500 m later he says the access road is shut for auto rickshaws .  Only cars are allowed in !

"Why the fxxxx didn't you tell me that before ?", I scream.

"I told you, let's go Straight . You said take U turn. It's your fault "

"But you didn't tell me access road is closed for an auto ! "

"I told you, let's go straight "

But YOU didn't tell me access road is closed for an Auto ! "

"But I told YOU, let's go straight "

I call Khwaja.

" Khwaja where the fxxxx are you ?"

"I'm coming to access road ", he says.

I tell the driver. Ok drop me at the access road entrance.

He drops me there.

The meter says ₹30/-   I give him a ₹100/-

He just looks at me.
"aren't you going to give me anything back ?" I ask him.

"No", he says and smiles and  looks at me as if I'm an alien life form

I see Khwaja drive up.

I run towards my car.

One hand holding the overnight check in bag with broken handle and the other hand holding my laptop and the other stuff.

I get into my car.  We zoom towards the T2.

I get out of the car and run towards the entrance.

I reach the jet airways check-in counter.  

Thankfully, I have a business class ticket.

But there are 2 people ahead of me in the line. I call out and say, "excuse me, I'm sorry but I'm late for my flight "

They let me through.

I call up Neepa. I tell her it's her fault that she didn't come to drop me to the airport.

I can hear Namrata laughing in the background .  

Neepa shouts at me and says that it's not her fault.

She shouts, " Accept that it's your own mistake.  You didn't pay attention. You were on your stupid phone "

I can hear the laughter at the other end of the phone.

Neepa says they are visualising me running on the Tarmac trying to flag down the plane.

I realise that they are laughing their butts off at my cost.

Neepa reminds me, "why weren't you  "mindful" and "aware" and "in-the-moment" ?"

She continues with complete sadistic satisfaction , "Own up. Only you are responsible for this.  You were on your phone "

"Neepa ! It isn't my fault", I said with a smile, " It's this crap Garmin watch with the heart-rate disfunction...  "

The journey

I read a beautiful poem last night on Maria Popovas' brilliant website: "Brainpickings".

The poem called "The Journey" is written by David Whyte and is about ending relationships.

The poem and what Maria wrote about the poem on her website was on my mind earlier today when I finished my first and last long run in preparation for the mumbai marathon.

I had a terrible run and realised that I'm in terrible shape and might not manage a sub 5:00 time at the mumbai marathon and consequently not qualify for Comrades 2017.

As I struggled through the excruciatingly hard run, I thought about my relationship with running.   I started running when I was 38.  I am now 50.  It's been quite an awesome journey.   But as I struggled today with what used to be a simple 30k, I wondered how long this fat, old, un-athletic body of mine can continue on.

The desire to run the 89km Comrades is strong and ever present but the toll that the pounding takes on my body is cumulative and journey is getting harder each year.

As the dark night sky broke into a dark blue and then an orange glow, I searched inside myself to find an answer.   How long can this journey be sustained ? And if this journey and relationship with Comrades is to end, what then lies in the future?

The truth is that I don't know if this was just a single very very bad run or a harbinger of the ashes to follow.  I simply don't know.

Although the poem, "The journey" is about the harrowing experience of leaving a relationship and the accompanying pain it did fortunately end with faith in what the future may hold even without the relationship.

"THE JOURNEY"

Above the mountains the geese turn into the light again Painting their black silhouettes on an open sky.

Sometimes everything
has to be inscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you.

Sometimes it takes
a great sky to find that first, bright and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart.

Sometimes with
the bones of the black sticks left when the fire
has gone out

someone has written something new in the ashes of your life.

You are not leaving.
Even as the light fades quickly now,
you are arriving."

So I would like to think that , even as the strength fades quickly now, I'm not leaving.  I have faith that no matter what happens in the future with running Comrades, I will always find pleasure .  Perhaps of a different kind.  A different freedom. A different light .

Who knows, Perhaps I too am just arriving !

Galileo and running shorts

In praise of Galileo and running shorts.

They welcome you according to your clothes.  They see you off according to your wits : Old Chinese saying.

It is really unfortunate that our clothes symbolise to a certain extent who we are perceived to be or who we wish to be perceived as.

I think our clothes should be fashioned to allow us to do in comfort that which we wish to do.

It is obvious that we must run in shorts as opposed to a long robe.
Shorts are designed for running.  Long robes are designed for other things.  A Religious leader, who is meant to guide some of us in our heavenly quest,  will rarely be seen in shorts.

So Running shorts, are by nature short,  so that they don't impede our stride length.  They are airy and well ventilated so that there is no heat buildup.  They are made of soft fabric so there is no chafing. There is a inner lining to stop our personal properties from spilling out and about.

Besides these, as I recently discovered, there can be several other good uses for running shorts.

This came to mind because I was recently reading a book by Dava Sobel titled "Galileo's Daughter".  
It gives a modern take on the history of science.  It tells the story of Galileo the man, the father, and one of the worlds greatest scientists.

Galileo, in his earlier years (1589) procured a teaching post at the University of Pisa but constantly got himself into trouble by his refusal to wear the regulation academic regalia.  ( a long black toga)

All of us know the legend of Galileo throwing cannonballs of different size from atop the leaning tower of Pisa  to demonstrate that objects of different weights don't fall down at different speeds.  

The author Dava Sobel sympathises with Galileo's distaste for the official long black toga that he had to wear.  The author explains how it would have hindered young Galileo's progress up the spiral staircase of the 8 storied tower as he carried up the cannon balls.

Sobel writes, " Galileo deemed official doctoral dress a pretentious nuisance, and he derided the toga in a three hundred line verse spoof that enjoyed wide readership in that college town."

Clothing gets in the way of men's and women's frank appraisal of each other's attributes, argued Galileo, "while professional uniforms hid the true merits of character under a cloak of social standing.  

Worse, the dignity of the professor's gown barred him from the brothel, denying him the evil pleasures of whoring while resigning him to the equally sinful solace of his own hands.  

The gown even impeded walking, to say nothing of working"

I had always associated Galileo with someone who with his telescope had first discovered the marvels of the celestial bodies.

I now discovered that Galileo had an eye for all sorts of bodies.  

I was fascinated that he lamented that his official dress came in the way of "the pleasures of whoring" and that he had other  "use of his own hands" besides focusing his telescope.

I realised that seeking "Heavenly Truths"  does not stop one from seeking "Earthly Answers".

We are then finally all humans.  Some of us holding a telescope pointing towards the stars.  Some of us wearing running shorts hoping to reach the finish line.  We all have our own unique tools which bring us joy.

So from a purely pleasure seeking point of view , it is unfortunate that Galileo was a scientist and not a runner .

Cause if he had been a runner, a good pair of running shorts would have sufficed for all his earthly needs...

The bulbul story

The Bulbul story ... continued. 

Earlier today, in the afternoon, as Aryan and I sat in his room studying chemistry.  I saw my beloved bulbul spending some quality time with his mate.  

They were both sitting quietly , doing "Nothing".   There was no hurried rush to find food, or the constant flurry of activity with which they normally surround themselves.  They were, to use Aryan's words, simply chilling.  

This crazy bulbul, for the last 6 months, has been a constant source of pain and frustration for me.  

He has woken me up almost every morning with his pecking at his own reflection on my reflective glass window.   

Sometimes, even his mate would accompany him.        He would not only peck at his own reflection but would also hurl himself at the window in a way that his wings would hit his reflected enemy.   The amount of ruckus he's made early in the morning has made me want to kill him on more than one occasion.  

And he has done this pecking, like clockwork, every morning and then in the afternoons. 

I know this because in morning he would wake me up and later in many of the afternoon when I came home from office to study with Aryan, we would watch him from Aryans room (while we sat studying) pecking away at my window.  ( I can see  the outside of my rooms' window from Aryan's window)

Last week, after coming to my wits end, I finally went to a web site and figured out the way to stop the bulbul from pecking at his own reflection.    I put up a cloth outside the window and covered the glass ! 

Since then, the bulbul has stopped coming to peck at his own reflection.  

Today as I saw the bulbul and his mate relaxing in the afternoon, I  thought of the sheer amount of time and energy that the bulbul had spent in fighting his own reflection.  I know for a fact that there was no other bulbul trying to steal his mate or enter his territory.   But he was completely convinced of this and had spent so many hours fighting this completely imaginary fear.  

The amount of damage he must have done to his brains and skull as his beak banged away at the reflective glass must have been tremendous.   

The time he spent fighting his own reflection could have been spent on finding food or building or guarding his nest or simply hanging around with his mate doing nothing or perhaps even doing something constructive.   (Doing the right 'nothing' sometimes and doing right 'something' sometimes is the cornerstone of every good relationship, be it amongst bulbuls or humans) 

And so I now wonder.  What are the things that I worry about ? Which imaginary enemy am I pecking away at ? How much energy of mine is getting wasted on fighting a fear which really isn't there and is but a fragment of my imagination. 

I watched the whole futility of the bulbuls fight with his own reflection. 

He never saw it. I saw it clearly.   

This whole episode reminded me of the movie "Men in Black".  

In the movie "K"(tommy lee jones) opens a locker at a train station.  The small locker is inhabited by tiny alien creatures (C 18 Locker aliens) who think that the locker is the whole Universe and who looked upon K as the "the keeper of light " since he had left his watch (the light giver) inside the locker.  This watch illuminated the locker with its fluorescence.   

To the small aliens, inhabiting the locker, it was the entire Universe and all their problems were real and the size of locker was the sum total of their Universe 

In the last scene of the movie, K and J ( Will Smith) open another door and then they find that they themselves were inside a similar small locker which they had thought was the Universe.  They were in a small locker themselves.  The world outside was huge and there were gigantic aliens walking around. 

I saw the bulbul who in his understanding of the universe was fighting with his real enemy. His problem was real to him. His enemy was real to him.   But his position and the futility of his fight was completely apparent to me.  He was only fighting himself. 

But I realise that I too am a bulbul. 

I too am fighting imaginary fears and enemies.  I too am banging my head against imaginary problems.   

This world and its problems are part of my tiny locker.  

I too am doing so many idiotic things And banging my head against so many imaginary problems. 

I just hope that in the days to come Someone puts a cloth on my reflective glass and makes my imaginary fears go away.  And then, perhaps, I too can end up sitting with my mate, every lazy afternoon, in the shade of a lovely tree doing the right "Nothing" or perhaps doing the right "Something". 

Registering for Comrades 2017

Registering for Comrades 2017 : Are you going about it slowly ? 

Great poetry crystallises our thoughts in a way prose rarely can.  

It helps us answer questions in a way prose rarely can. 

I love Mary Oliver's poetry, especially the ones about love ! 

Earlier today, someone called me on phone and discussed her desire to run Comrades.   

She hadn't registered yet she said, and was taking this decision very very seriously. 

She felt that this race is so big, so difficult, so momentous that she needed to go about the registration process after a great deal of deliberation.  

Such deep thinking and evaluation takes time, she said.   One must arrive at the decision slowly, she felt. 

She asked me how I had arrived at this decision to run Comrades in 2009.  After all, at that time, there had been not a single person from India who had run this race. I was to be the first and there was no guidance and no path for me to follow.  

"Did you take slow deliberate thoughtful steps?", she asked. 

I recited Mary Oliver's poem about Love to her as an answer.  

The poem is titled : I DID THINK, LET’S GO ABOUT THIS SLOWLY. 

"I did think, let’s go about this slowly.
This is important. This should take
some really deep thought. We should take
small thoughtful steps. 

But, bless us, We Didn't ."

That's how one registers for comrades, I told her.  Don't think.  Just fall in love.  

I hope she registers for Comrades 2017. 

The staircase

Our house has a big main central staircase.  

From our hall, the staircase with 12 steps takes us up to a landing.   The Landing has two doors. One opens into my dads room and the other into my gym.  The staircase then turns and continues upwards for another 5 steps. This second landing leads to a long corridor which connects our library, my son Aryan's (aged 15) room,  my daughter Namrata's (aged 20) room and my room (quite old)   

My room is at the far end of the corridor, So every time I go back and forth from my room, I pass all the other bedrooms on the way.  

Last night , I was going up the staircase after dinner with aryan in tow.    He was just a step behind me and keeping pace.   Although I was climbing up at a brisk pace,  I wondered if I was slowing him down and so at the first landing, outside my dad's room, I paused to see if he wanted to run up past me.    I stopped and gave him some space. 

And suddenly, I missed my father a lot. 

In the later years of his life, my father used to climb up the staircase one step at a time.   He wasn't in pain or discomfort.   It was simply old age.   His feet had lost their ability to sense touch and so he used the strength of his knees and calves to climb up while being unable to sense the staircase with his feet. 

So after dinner, very often, when he and I were going upstairs to our respective rooms, I used to either go ahead of him or if he started up the stairs first, I'd wait for him to reach his room.   

I didn't want to rush him by being right behind him. 

So last night , I paused at the landing and gave Aryan some space to carry on. 

Aryan seemed completely unaware even of the fact that I gave him space.    So I continued up and he followed me.   

And I wonder when the day will come when I do slow him down.   I'm sure the day will come but yesterday wasn't that day. 

My dad stayed with me long enough to ensure that I became independent and settled in life.  I hope I can do the same for my children. 

The Comrades marathon registrations opened up on the 1st of September and I intend to register for the 88k Up run which will take place in 2017.    I hope that I can follow that with Down run in 2018 and then the Up in 2019 and then the Down run in 2020 and then Up run in 2021 and hopefully that will bring me to 10 Comrades finishes.   At which point I might as well run my 11th Comrades with a green number bib. 

As Aryan grows stronger with each passing day my prayer is that I can stay abreast with my boy on the staircase, at least until 2022.    

And then, although I hope I keep running, I won't mind if he starts racing up the staircase past me. 

Are you a maniac ?

Are you a maniac ?

I have heard many runners say that running is their religion.  I agree.  It is our calling.  It is our happy thought of the day.   It is what we most look forward to each day and each moment.

Every morning some people answer the call of the Adhan, some answer the call of the Church bells and some that of the Barechu.  

I too answer the call each morning. It is a voice which calls me to run .  

Running is my religion and I love my religion.   And sometimes I wonder if I've become a religious fanatic.

I looked up the meaning of the word fanatic.

"fanatic".
noun
1.
a person filled with excessive and single-minded zeal, especially for an extreme religious or political cause.
"religious fanatics"
synonyms: zealot,
extremist, militant,
dogmatist, radical,
diehard,
maniac, crank,
wackadoo,
wackadoodle

So I wonder,  "Am i maniac ? ".

The answer does seem a bit discouraging.

It is said that Religious zealots don't know when to back off.
I agree but only partly.

It's not that they don't know when to back off.  It so happens that they can't help themselves even when they know that they need to back off.

I started training for the Delhi Half marathon earlier this month.  I hope that a strong performance there will help me with a strong run in the Mumbai Marathon which will subsequently be my launch pad to start training for Comrades.

I've been training very hard.  The 4 weeks took a toll and I needed to back off training today.  I needed either a complete rest day or an easy run.
But I decided to keep to the schedule and do my 1000x7 repeats.

The first 3 reps went reasonably well but at 400 meters into the 4th repeat, I felt heaviness creep into my legs and upper body.

I soldiered on and finished the repeat.  The 5th repeat felt much harder, the 6th more so and the 7th excruciatingly so.  
Every moment after the 4th repeat, I felt that I should quit. I knew that I should call it a day.  I knew I needed to rest. I knew it wasn't a great idea to push.  I knew that I could burn myself by pushing. I knew that I could jeopardise my training in the days to come.   I knew it was ok to cut short the repeats and go home and take a nap but YET,  I soldiered on.

Theoretically I just know that one must not push speed when one isn't 100% fit.
I know that It is ok to take a day off.  And yet when it came to application of that theory, I came up short.  

Sometimes I feel that my salvation lies only in completing my training as planned.  It is as if, I'm a true believer if and only if, I finish my training as planned.

The holy land lies beyond the closed gates and the only way to enter them is to be baptised with fire.   It seems it is very hard to back off from running.  

I think a non-runner or a non fanatic will not understand this urge to run.

One needs to be a maniac to truly understand this.

This desire to reach "the shining city on the hill" has come down through the ages.  

The Towers of Trebizond is a book about a group of people, "travelling from Istanbul to legendary Trebizond on a convoluted mission to spread the work of Christianity".  

It is also a "bracing meditation on the perils of love, doubt, faith, and spirituality in the modern world"

The first page of the book contains the "dialogues of mortality".

I felt that these dialogues completely explain our passion for running.

Running haunts us much in the way that the "shining city on the hill" has haunted generations.

Our unquenchable desire to keep running is much like that of these men wishing to reach their cherished city.

Running is our shining city on the hill.  It haunts our every waking moment.  It haunts our dreams. It haunts us now and it forever will.   Running is the fire to which we are attracted to, much like the helpless moths.  

Not many will understand our passion.  "We are men seeking after the Gods.  We are Gods seeking after men"

The dialogues:

"The sheening of that strange bright city on the hill, barred by its high gates...Barred from all, Phrastes?"

"From all, Eroton, who do not desire to enter it more strongly than they desire all other cities."

"Then it is barred indeed, and most men must let it go."

"Those who have once desired it cannot let it go, for its light flickers always on the roads they tread, to plague them like marsh fires.  

Even though they flee from it, it may drag them towards it as a magnet drags steel, and, though they may never enter its gates, its light will burn them as with fire, for that is its nature."

"Who then were the builders of this dangerous city?"

"Gods and men, Eroton; men seeking after gods, and gods who seek after men.   Does it not appear to you that such a fabric, part artifact and part deifact, reared out of divine intimations and demands, and out of the mortal longings and imaginings that climb to meet these, must perpetually haunt the minds of men, wielding over them a strange wild power, intermittent indeed, but without end? So, anyhow, it has always proved."

I read this passage and I know that it gives voice to my passion for running.

Yes I'm a maniac.

Question is. Are you ?

The Golden Thread

The Golden Thread

On May 29, 2016, as I crossed the finish line of Comrades 2016, I felt a wave of relief and some amount of pride. 

However one of the first thoughts to enter my mind that very moment was about Comrades 2017. 

As I walked into the finish area and was garlanded with my medal, I thought: "If I come to comrades 2017 with the same amount of fitness that I did this year.. I won't finish. I better start training harder"

In hindsight that was so ridiculous.  I mean I had just spent a year dreaming about finishing 2016 and the minute I finished 2016, I was thinking about 2017.  

I came home after Comrades and rested for a month but all the time was spent time thinking about 2017.  I was waiting to start training again. 

I've been cross training during that month but I've been trying to get ready for Comrades as fast as possible. I push myself in the gym and on the spin cycle and am impatient but the results are slow in coming.    After 30 mins on the spin cycle I get off and walk for the next 30 mins with wobbly legs and I wonder..."When will the strength come. I can't wait." 

I do some dead lifts and wonder, "When will the benefits kick in, I can't wait"

I cannot wait to lose the weight I've gained in the last month and wonder when will I lose it. 

I started running a few days ago and cannot wait to reach a stage when I can do some speed and hill repeats and not feel buggered as I do right now. 

When will Jan come so that I can run SCMM & qualify for Comrades 2017 ?

When will I finish all the long runs for Comrades 2017 ? 

I also want to quickly get over with the aches and pains which are sure to come along the way.  I also want to get over with all the early waking up and eating right which has to be done. 

I want to quickly get to the part where I am super fit and ready. 

I want to quickly get to Durban and to the expo. 

I cannot wait for the year to go by so that I can stand again on the start line of Comrades 2017.    

I seem to have no patience for the process by which one goes through life.  

My eagerness to quickly breeze through the days and fast forward to June 4, 2017 made me think of a story that I had read.  

The author of the story, "The Magic Thread" is Unknow but it was retold by William J. Bennet : 

 "Once there was a widow who had a son called Peter. He was a strong, able boy, but he did not enjoy going to school and he was forever daydreaming.

"Peter, what are you dreaming about this time?" his teacher would say to him.

"I'm thinking about what I'll be when I grow up," Peter replied.

"Be patient. There's plenty of time for that. Being grown up isn't all fun, you know," his teacher said.

But Peter found it hard to enjoy whatever he was doing at the moment, and was always hankering after the next thing. In winter he longed for it to be summer again, and in summer he looked forward to the skating, sledging, and warm fires of winter. At school he would long for the day to be over so that he could go home, and on Sunday nights he would sigh, "If only the holidays would come." What he enjoyed most was playing with his friend Liese. She was as good a companion as any boy, and no matter how impatient Peter was, she never took offense. "When I grow up, I shall marry Liese," Peter said to himself.

Often he wandered through the forest, dreaming of the future. Sometimes he lay down on the soft forest floor in the warm sun, his hands behind his head, staring up at the sky through the distant treetops. One hot afternoon as he began to grow sleepy, he heard someone calling his name. He opened his eyes and sat up. Standing before him was an old woman. In her hand she held a silver ball, from which dangled a silken golden thread.

"See what I have got here, Peter," she said, offering the ball to him.

"What is it?" he asked curiously, touching the fine golden thread.

"This is your life thread," the old woman replied. "Do not touch it and time will pass normally. But if you wish time to pass more quickly, you have only to pull the thread a little way and an hour will pass like a second. But I warn you, once the thread has been pulled out, it cannot be pushed back in again. It will disappear like a puff of smoke. The ball is for you. But if you accept my gift you must tell no one, or on that very day you shall die. Now, say, do you want it?"

Peter seized the gift from her joyfully. It was just what he wanted. He examined the silver ball. It was light and solid, made of a single piece. The only flaw in it was the tiny hole from which the bright thread hung. He put the ball in his pocket and ran home. There, making sure that his mother was out, he examined it again. The thread seemed to be creeping very slowly out of the ball, so slowly that it was scarcely noticeable to the naked eye. He longed to give it a quick tug, but dared not do so. Not yet.

The following day at school, Peter sat daydreaming about what he would do with his magic thread. The teacher scolded him for not concentrating on his work. If only, he thought, it was time to go home. Then he felt the silver ball in his pocket. If he pulled out a tiny bit of thread, the day would be over. Very carefully he took hold of it and tugged. Suddenly the teacher was telling everyone to pack up their books and to leave the classroom in an orderly fashion. Peter was overjoyed. He ran all the way home. How easy life would be now! All his troubles were over. From that day forth he began to pull the thread, just a little, every day.

One day, however, it occurred to him that it was stupid to pull the thread just a little each day. If he gave it a harder tug, school would be over altogether. Then he could start learning a trade and marry Liese. So that night he gave the thread a hard tug, and in the morning he awoke to find himself apprenticed to a carpenter in town. He loved his new life, clambering about on roofs and scaffolding, lifting and hammering great beams into place that still smelled of the forest. But sometimes, when payday seemed too far off, he gave the thread a little tug and suddenly the week was drawing to a close and it was Friday night and he had money in his pocket.

Liese had also come to town and was living with her aunt, who taught her housekeeping. Peter began to grow impatient for the day when they would be married. It was hard to live so near and yet so far from her. He asked her when they could be married.

"In another year," she said. "Then I will have learned how to be a capable wife."

Peter fingered the silver ball in his pocket.

"Well, the time will pass quickly enough," he said, knowingly.

That night Peter could not sleep. He tossed and turned restlessly. He took the magic ball from under his pillow. For a moment he hesitated; then his impatience got the better of him, and he tugged at the golden thread. In the morning he awoke to find that the year was over and that Liese had at last agreed to marry him. Now Peter felt truly happy.

But before their wedding could take place, Peter received an official-looking letter. He opened it in trepidation and read that he was expected to report at the army barracks the following week for two years' military service. He showed the letter to Liese in despair.

"Well," she said, "there is nothing for it, we shall just have to wait. But the time will pass quickly, you'll see. There are so many things to do in preparation for our life together."

Peter smiled bravely, knowing that two years would seem a lifetime to him.

Once Peter had settled into life at the barracks, however, he began to feel that it wasn't so bad after all. He quite enjoyed being with all the other young men, and their duties were not very arduous at first. He remembered the old woman's warning to use the thread wisely and for a while refrained from pulling it. But in time he grew restless again. Army life bored him with its routine duties and harsh discipline. He began pulling the thread to make the week go faster so that it would be Sunday again, or to speed up the time until he was due for leave. And so the two years passed almost as if they had been a dream.

Back home, Peter determined not to pull the thread again until it was absolutely necessary. After all, this was the best time of his life, as everyone told him. He did not want it to be over too quickly. He did, however, give the thread one or two very small tugs, just to speed along the day of his marriage. He longed to tell Liese his secret, but he knew that if he did he would die.

On the day of his wedding, everyone, including Peter, was happy. He could hardly wait to show Liese the house he had built for her. At the wedding feast he glanced over at his mother. He noticed for the first time how gray her hair had grown recently. She seemed to be aging so quickly. Peter felt a pang of guilt that he had pulled the thread so often. Henceforward he would be much more sparing with it and only use it when it was strictly necessary.

A few months later Liese announced that she was going to have a child. Peter was overjoyed and could hardly wait. When the child was born, he felt that he could never want for anything again. But whenever the child was ill or cried through the sleepless night, he gave the thread a little tug, just so that the baby might be well and happy again.

Times were hard. Business was bad and a government had come to power that squeezed the people dry with taxes and would tolerate no opposition. Anyone who became known as a troublemaker was thrown into prison without trial and rumor was enough to condemn a man. Peter had always been known as one who spoke his mind, and very soon he was arrested and cast into jail. Luckily he had his magic ball with him and he tugged very hard at the thread. The prison walls dissolved before him and his enemies were scattered in the huge explosion that burst forth like thunder. It was the war that had been threatening, but it was over as quickly as a summer storm, leaving behind it an exhausted peace. Peter found himself back home with his family. But now he was a middle-aged man.

For a time things went well and Peter lived in relative contentment. One day he looked at his magic ball and saw to his surprise that the thread had turned from gold to silver. He looked in the mirror. His hair was starting to turn gray and his face was lined where before there had not been a wrinkle to be seen. He suddenly felt afraid and determined to use the thread even more carefully than before. Liese bore him more children and he seemed happy as the head of his growing household. His stately manner often made people think of him as some sort of benevolent ruler. He had an air of authority as if he held the fate of others in his hands. He kept his magic ball in a well-hidden place, safe from the curious eyes of his children, knowing that if anyone were to discover it, it would be fatal.

As the number of his children grew, so his house became more overcrowded. He would have to extend it, but for that he needed money. He had other worries too. His mother was looking older and more tired every day. It was of no use to pull the magic thread because that would only hasten her approaching death. All too soon she died, and as Peter stood at her graveside, he wondered how it was that life passed so quickly, even without pulling the magic thread.

One night as he lay in bed, kept awake by his worries, he thought how much easier life would be if all his children were grown up and launched upon their careers in life. He gave the thread a mighty tug, and the following day he awoke to find that his children had all left home for jobs in different parts of the country, and that he and his wife were alone. His hair was almost white now and often his back and limbs ached as he climbed the ladder or lifted a heavy beam into place. Liese too was getting old and she was often ill. He couldn't bear to see her suffer, so that more and more he resorted to pulling at the magic thread. But as soon as one trouble was solved, another seemed to grow in its place. Perhaps life would be easier if he retired, Peter thought. Then he would no longer have to clamber about on drafty, half-completed buildings and he could look after Liese when she was ill. The trouble was that he didn't have enough money to live on. He picked up his magic ball and looked at it. To his dismay he saw that the thread was no longer silver but gray and lusterless. He decided to go for a walk in the forest to think things over.

It was a long time since he had been in that part of the forest. The small saplings had all grown into tall fir trees, and it was hard to find the path he had once known. Eventually he came to a bench in a clearing. He sat down to rest and fell into a light doze. He was woken by someone calling his name, "Peter! Peter!"

He looked up and saw the old woman he had met so many years ago when she had given him the magic silver ball with its golden thread. She looked just as she had on that day, not a day older. She smiled at him.

"So, Peter, have you had a good life?" she asked.

"I'm not sure," Peter said. "Your magic ball is a wonderful thing. I have never had to suffer or wait for anything in my life. And yet it has all passed so quickly. I feel that I have had no time to take in what has happened to me, neither the good things nor the bad. Now there is so little time left. I dare not pull the thread again for it will only bring me to my death. I do not think your gift has brought me luck."

"How ungrateful you are!" the old woman said. "In what way would you have wished things to be different?"

"Perhaps if you had given me a different ball, one where I could have pushed the thread back in as well as pulling it out. Then I could have relived the things that went badly."

The old woman laughed. "You ask a great deal! Do you think that God allows us to live our lives twice over? But I can grant you one final wish, you foolish, demanding man."

"What is that?" Peter asked.

"Choose," the old woman said. Peter thought hard.

At length he said, "I should like to live my life again as if for the first time, but without your magic ball. Then I will experience the bad things as well as the good without cutting them short, and at least my life will not pass as swiftly and meaninglessly as a daydream."

"So be it," said the old woman. "Give me back my ball."

She stretched out her hand and Peter placed the silver ball in it. Then he sat back and closed his eyes with exhaustion.

When he awoke he was in his own bed. His youthful mother was bending over him, shaking him gently.

"Wake up, Peter. You will be late for school. You were sleeping like the dead!"

He looked up at her in surprise and relief.

"I've had a terrible dream, Mother. I dreamed that I was old and sick and that my life had passed like the blinking of an eye with nothing to show for it. Not even any memories."

His mother laughed and shook her head.

"That will never happen," she said. "Memories are the one thing we all have, even when we are old. Now hurry and get dressed. Liese is waiting for you and you will be late for school."

As Peter walked to school with Liese, he noticed what a bright summer morning it was, the kind of morning when it felt good to be alive. Soon he would see his friends and classmates, and even the prospect of lessons didn't seem so bad. In fact he could hardly wait."

Next week I turn 50.  

Most of my life thread has already been pulled out. 

Why in the world am I wishing for another year to go quickly ?  

Why in the world should I want Comrades 2017 to come quickly ??  

Should I not wake up every day and squeeze the most out of it ?  

Must I not enjoy every training session to its full without the urgency to get to June 2017?  Must I not enjoy every rest day ?

The aches and pains are sure to follow. But should they also not be welcomed?  After all, some day when the thread runs out, they too will stop.  

Why not relish the good and the not-so-good that the year will bring forth ?

My Golden Thread was always rationed & its best that comes out of the ball at its predetermined speed.  

My days are and always were limited. It would be silly for me to rush through them. 

Trying to run fast during Comrades is a smart idea.  Trying to rush through my remaining days is silly.