The Resilience of the Moon

A green glow from my watch reveals yet another combination of digits I am discouraged to see: 3:37 AM. Insomnia bites again; that nagging summer nuisance, persistent as a fly thirsting for glistening sweat that beads through the crimson skin of an exhausted body. Summer always brings about the worst of it. The stubborn spell of nearly sleepless nights is likely indicative that I’m overtraining... again.  

I lazily fight my awakened state, as I did at 12:13, 1:04, 1:56, and 2:42, readjusting my tired body onto my left side, then twisting over to my right, and seconds later flopping frustratingly onto my back. I’m still uncomfortable, still sleepless.

But a subtle tapping outside spurs my alertness.

Inconsistent and ceaseless, it sounds like a light rainstorm, the type of weather pattern I had wished for as plumes of dust rose from the narrow trail ahead of me yesterday evening as I weaved down the single track behind my dad. I was enthused to accompany him and two other mountain bikers on the ride for one sole reason: smoking them on the uphill. I daydreamed about their astonished babbling after they caught their breath at the hub of the mountain, ogling at me, the youthful specimen of elite athleticism. In this fantasy they would slap my dad on the shoulder, joking about the the questionable inheritance of his genes, and encouraging me to resurrect my past in competitive mountain biking.

In any case, reality yanked my feet back on the ground and I found that I was literally and figuratively dusted by the group on the technical downhill trail rendering me no chance at all to impress them with my leg strength on the uphill. My dad defended my pride by declaring that after eight years of mountain bike dormancy, I didn’t have my confidence up yet on the technical sections and that we would split off to the more familiar single track and let the other two romp down the mountain without us.

Meh, it never hurts to daydream. 
But, damn, I wish I could fall back asleep so that I could have real dreams.

Tap, tapity, tap, tap…

I don’t smell rain, and the beam of moonshine cast upon my bed further baffles me. It glares strong enough to illuminate my pen and paper. I strain for an explanation and the only one that comes to mind is that fragments of a meteor shower are scattering haplessly over earth… I once again have to tame my imagination.

I give into my sleepless state and rise from my bed, stumbling on achy legs to my windowsill to greet the full moon. After disengaging the screen from my window, I extend my arm out to catch several cold droplets. A deep breath wakens me to the subtle scent of fresh rainfall. Although delighted, I remain perplexed by the moon’s presence. Like his counterpart, the sun, he usually flees when the rain arrives. Yet tonight, I am charmed by their cooperation: the rain enlivens me with inspiration to write, and the moon shares his luminescence to guide my pen along a thin blue line of the paper.

Tapity, tap, tap…

I euphorically return to my bed, adjusting to the moonlight like a lazy dog would adjust to a warm ray of sunlight cast through the window on a chilly autumn evening. Submerging my body within the frame of the moon’s beam, I stare up into the boldest celestial body of the night sky. I watch as he gently deflects the clouds, which curve submissively around him as they would a mountaintop on a foggy morning. Nothing can steal his thunder tonight. Oh, how I envy his resilience.

As I peacefully drift back to relaxation, I tell myself the same thing I tell myself everyday: that I will let my body recover tomorrow. Paradoxically, recovery is always for tomorrow, and tomorrow is never today, so I continually push my limits day by day until I find my orbit again: the one among the stars that guides me to the moon.

           Being lost in space isn’t easy, it isn’t comfortable, and it sure the hell isn’t secure. It’s laborious, unbalanced, and obscure. For five months I was lost in the ill-represented space of an injured runner. Now that I’m back to running, I’m scared shitless of getting hurt again. My mileage is one third of my goal mileage for an ideal summer, so in desperation of feeling complete I juggle a multitude of substitutes including biking, elliptical, core workouts, Foundation, and power walking, which I strenuously pursue. I’m eager to reach a more stable and comfortable mileage so that I can invest all of my energy into running and take recovery more seriously. Fortunately I’m beginning to realize that I can’t keep aiming at the moon, but rather I must hop from star to star until I find my orbit again.

Currently obsessed with: Make it Up by Joe Purdy