With apologies to Bob Weir, Jerry Garcia, Phil Lesh, and Robert Hunter; “What a long strange trip its been.”
Over the years I’ve drawn innumerable parallels between the culinary arts and running and racing. Here’s another.
I was a flame. An ignition point that consumed the old. The glossy, the shiny, the supposed beautiful. What emerged is what we have today. Something deeper, richer, recognizable and retaining its essence, but just as surely transformed into something more and better. I admit that it might not be as pretty and palatable to many, but those folks have no part in this tale.
Running is sport. Since the dawn of man. The fastest got the prize, feeding themselves or their family to the exclusion of those that lagged. And speed won over brawn, catch me if you can neanderthal, nanny nanny boo boo. If Right Makes Might, Light and Lithe is next.
Oh so pretty! But the Real Beauty lies beneath the veneer.
The early years, or the first introduction to Real Heat.
The Real Talent only emerges after Charring. Those that can’t handle the transformation end up in the compost heap.
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