Running shoes, rhetoric, hyperbole and the dog with the human head

The ninth mile

On Flat Road, in Malvern Pennsylvania, at the far end of a half-mile long cornfield, nestled between the last ear and the local granite quarry, is the Union Hall graveyard. Surrounded by a four-foot stone wall, with one three-foot wide entryway, this small cemetery is the final resting place of several congregants of the first Amish meetinghouse settled in the United States, some of whom may have been laid to rest before the colonies declared their independence. With the exception of the wall that runs along Flat Road, the cemetery is immediately engulfed by thick northeastern underbrush and briars. At night, especially in the dead of winter, it’s a creepy place.

Legend holds that a creature patrols the graveyard. It is a bastard, described best as a dog with a human head. Imagine the body of a rust colored pit-bull, proudly carrying eight pounds of rugby ball-shaped evil on its shoulders, with one pound of face having been beaten into the head with a flail and mace. Those who witness the beast are known to die in the following 24 hours.

I’ve never see the monster but I’d be lying if I said I don’t get a little nervous every time I drive by. I was introduced to the legend during the ninth mile of a ten mile run, as a high school freshman, as I ran by the cemetery for the first time. It was September 1976 and my shaman was the senior captain of the cross country team.

I was thirteen. Rhetoric and hyperbole hadn’t been born yet.

Old School, New School

Our cross-country coach was old school. He trained kamikazes; placing such a ruthless priority on mental toughness, self reliance and a commitment to the team that, if you were afraid to walk onto the school’s football field and punch an offensive lineman square in the face, you didn’t deserve a place on his team. The disparity between a 5' 10" distance runner and 6' 3" football player was a pock-marked wall for the weak to hide behind.

Rhetoric and hyperbole hadn’t been born yet.

Seasons bleed, cultures scream

Cross-country season bleeds almost seamlessly into winter track. Distance runners bleed less seamlessly  —  transitioning from the bucolic to the deafening and claustrophobic.

In the 1970s, in southeastern Pennsylvania, high school indoor track meets were held on Saturdays, in regional college field houses. Thirty tribes, each with forty athletes, jammed their culture, pride, fear, talent and volume into a shoe box.

Hollinger Field House

West Chester University owns a particularly weird field house. Like most college field houses, it is designed to serve many masters  —  basketball, wrestling, tennis, track & field. The architecture is odd. It is almost an aircraft hangar. The confines are extremely tight with the building’s outside walls towering within eighteen inches of the outside lane of the three lane track. The edge of a basketball court, which is the building’s centerpiece, is inches inside the track’s first lane. The track, itself, is unusual  —  146 yards, 12 laps to the mile. From the center of the court to the apex of the roof, it is probably sixty feet  —  an open mouth waiting for a jet engine.

That jet engine is a high school winter track meet.

Getting jumped in

My shaman prepared me for another legend  —  a twelve-feet high, fifteen-feet wide and 40 yards long Thunderdome.

Every runner gets jumped in like a Crip,  beaten and eaten whole, fighting for survival in the belly of a beast. Punches are thrown, elbows fly, teeth get knocked out. If I owned a pair of brass knuckles, the shaman recommended that I bring them. A switchblade would be good, a two-foot length of chain would be better. A flail and mace best.

I was terrified. The fate of those swallowed by the beast was left to my imagination.

The Beast

The most curious aspect of the Hollinger Field House track is a tunnel that consumes an entire turn of the track  —  approximately 40 yards. The tunnel runs underneath the grandstand. The sixty-foot ceiling drops down to fifteen. With, the exception of the fifty meter dash, every track race enters the tunnel at least once. During your race, when you enter the tunnel, the jet engine convulses into silence. When you leave the tunnel, the engine sucks you back into its fan blades.

As a miler, I was scheduled to run through the tunnel twelve times. And, while I had plenty of opportunity to stand in discreet alcoves inside the tunnel during other races, and watch other runner’s get jumped in, the choice never entered my mind. I waited.

Within thirty seconds of reacting to the starter’s gun, after being chewed up and spit out, I found out that my shaman was an asshole.

Rhetoric and hyperbole had been born.

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Newsletter: Sugary candy for the soul

I don’t teach, preach or sell hard. I do send out silly ten second stories about people, places and things.

• November 2022
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• October 2022
  • Oct 3, 2022 A brother helping me remain in light Oct 3, 2022
• September 2022
  • Sep 1, 2022 Ten things to never say to a new car salesperson Sep 1, 2022
• August 2022
  • Aug 1, 2022 The question of an evolving identity made whole by street artists and vandals Aug 1, 2022
• July 2022
  • Jul 4, 2022 The warmth of knowing my baseball glove is in the sweater drawer Jul 4, 2022
• June 2022
  • Jun 2, 2022 Sonny Rollins standing on the bridge in Giverny Jun 2, 2022
• May 2022
  • May 1, 2022 Sitting in front of forever May 1, 2022
• April 2022
  • Apr 2, 2022 A temple, a church, a synagogue or an artist’s studio? Apr 2, 2022
• March 2022
  • Mar 2, 2022 Foghorn Leghorn inside the flower garden of the mind Mar 2, 2022
• February 2022
  • Feb 6, 2022 My first cup of Tibetan butter tea Feb 6, 2022
• January 2022
  • Jan 4, 2022 Dancing is better with a corn dog in each hand Jan 4, 2022
• December 2021
  • Dec 1, 2021 Even Edgar Degas made mistakes Dec 1, 2021
• November 2021
  • Nov 2, 2021 Running shoes, rhetoric, hyperbole and the dog with the human head Nov 2, 2021
• October 2021
  • Oct 2, 2021 Still life painting at 36 Via Fondazza Oct 2, 2021
• September 2021
  • Sep 19, 2021 True creative genius Sep 19, 2021
• August 2021
  • Aug 17, 2021 "Sometimes you need to just lay on the sidewalk and bleed for a little bit" Aug 17, 2021
• July 2021
  • Jul 12, 2021 Dozens of worn-out couches in a true art house Jul 12, 2021
• June 2021
  • Jun 14, 2021 Daft Punk Frida Jun 14, 2021
• May 2021
  • May 17, 2021 Eating cake in a cemetery May 17, 2021
• April 2021
  • Apr 8, 2021 Mindfulness, meditation, a drum circle and the yellow doves of Mount Airy Apr 8, 2021
• March 2021
  • Mar 9, 2021 That diner in Brighton Mar 9, 2021
• February 2021
  • Feb 17, 2021 Tibet via North Philadelphia Feb 17, 2021
• January 2021
  • Jan 11, 2021 Bukowski is family Jan 11, 2021
• December 2020
  • Dec 23, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation, parking meters, poems, love notes and library books Dec 23, 2020
• November 2020
  • Nov 16, 2020 Six tongues and the sugar face Nov 16, 2020
• October 2020
  • Oct 20, 2020 Tequila, cops and grace Oct 20, 2020
• September 2020
  • Sep 25, 2020 Feeling the machinery Sep 25, 2020
• August 2020
  • Aug 17, 2020 The futile fury of a final letter Aug 17, 2020
• July 2020
  • Jul 4, 2020 It all begins with the word Jul 4, 2020
• June 2020
  • Jun 19, 2020 Hate in the abstract. Love in the specific. Jun 19, 2020
• May 2020
  • May 19, 2020 Dirty hands drawing a circle May 19, 2020
• April 2020
  • Apr 19, 2020 A singularity built from many pieces Apr 19, 2020
  • Apr 14, 2020 Resurgent feelings and the Bowery's Blitzkrieg Bopper Apr 14, 2020
  • Apr 5, 2020 Channeling my inner Iggy for the third time Apr 5, 2020
• March 2020
  • Mar 24, 2020 A golden eagle's echo will carry forever Mar 24, 2020
• February 2020
  • Feb 21, 2020 Seven crappy poems Feb 21, 2020
  • Feb 11, 2020 Words from the white space Feb 11, 2020
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• January 2020
  • Jan 30, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation and the Yah-Yah contraption figure Jan 30, 2020
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  • Jan 16, 2020 Mindfulness, meditation, nevermindishness and nothingness Jan 16, 2020
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• December 2019
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  • Dec 5, 2019 Sunday dinner at the DiGiulios Dec 5, 2019
• November 2019
  • Nov 26, 2019 One man's silly secret to writing an online dating profile Nov 26, 2019
  • Nov 20, 2019 Burning man at Burning Man Nov 20, 2019
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  • Nov 14, 2019 Every scar is cool Nov 14, 2019
  • Nov 12, 2019 Daily affirmations and anonymous encouragement taped to the back of a stop sign Nov 12, 2019
  • Nov 10, 2019 Willem de Kooning’s women have jacked-up teeth Nov 10, 2019
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  • Nov 4, 2019 Art + money + object = fetish Nov 4, 2019
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• October 2019
  • Oct 31, 2019 Cyclops @ night Oct 31, 2019
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  • Oct 27, 2019 A singular reason to hate social media Oct 27, 2019
  • Oct 25, 2019 Mindfulness, meditation, chance and The Village Vanguard Oct 25, 2019
  • Oct 23, 2019 Umbilical Oct 23, 2019
  • Oct 21, 2019 The curve of a single elegant line Oct 21, 2019
  • Oct 19, 2019 Five Boro Flamingo Oct 19, 2019
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  • Oct 15, 2019 A python named Tom and a Toyota test drive Oct 15, 2019
  • Oct 13, 2019 Sweetie pie and the sugary fire Oct 13, 2019
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• September 2019
  • Sep 28, 2019 What to expect from the dealer trade vehicle evaluation Sep 28, 2019
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• August 2019
  • Aug 24, 2019 Thirty years away from the Blues Aug 24, 2019
• July 2019
  • Jul 22, 2019 Ten hours in Madrid Jul 22, 2019
  • Jul 11, 2019 When life slows down to let you take a look Jul 11, 2019
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• June 2019
  • Jun 27, 2019 Scribbleheads Jun 27, 2019
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• May 2019
  • May 31, 2019 The accidental copywriter May 31, 2019
  • May 28, 2019 Five 70s albums every Millennial should listen to this weekend May 28, 2019
  • May 15, 2019 Five secrets to writing a moving love letter May 15, 2019