The dojo is dead, long live the dojo!
I poured nearly 13 years worth of sweat, a little blood, a few tears, and gallons of paint at Zorinsky from 2001-2012. And more than 20,000 miles of running. I tended it, promoted it, cared for it, loved it. Held races, time trials, coaching and training sessions. Extolled its excellence. Hiked it at night, biked it when injured. Admired its natural beauty and abundant wildlife. The Real Friends and Real Runners. Ah, the memories I made that I’ll always have and hold.
But not all will be fond. There was the constant “stank eye”, the lies and whispers and finger pointers. And the occasional bird being flipped. The rude and crude, the self righteous. The zealot hiding behind trees with camera in hand hoping for some indiscretion-and when not forthcoming fabricating it just the same. The indignant and belligerent. And hundreds of spandex clad Lance Armstrong wannabes. The Nut Jobs.
I’ve been contacted by several that would have me come out and mark my measured points once again. But no, I think not. I’m done with my former dojo and have moved on to more serene digs. Wide open spaces, friendly farmer faces, peaceful easy paces. Shady lanes and weather vanes easing all pains.
This might be the very first piece of running art of my collection. Given to me by Tommy Anglin in 1979 for helping with some remodel work on his barn. Like me, a little tattered around the edges but in it for the long run. The message as timeless today as it was then.
And in hopes of inspiring another athlete, I gifted this piece to the son of my Complaint Department Chair. It hung in my son’s room for over a decade, I hope Noah now dreams the dream of greatness.
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