“One final paragraph of advice: do not burn yourselves out.
Be as I am – a reluctant enthusiast… a part-time crusader,
a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves
for pleasure and adventure.’

— edward paul abbey

—

That’s me. I pretend to be an ultrarunner. I have a singlet I haven’t washed in 30 years, the latest trendy “transcend distance” shoes, two running caps that had seen better days 10 years ago. Still, I am a reluctant enthusiast.

I can go for about 10 miles before the question starts to pop up in the part of my head not trying desperately to figure out who sings that Madison Cunningham song (hint: it’s Madison Cunningham): Why am I doing this?

Over the past few days, I’ve fallen into the two-a-day trap, the perfect excuse to cut the morning run short with the promise of trying again later. Which is always a great theory as long as later never comes. At which point, you’re just tired.

Save part of your time for pleasure and adventure, Mr. Abbey said. But I thought this WAS my pleasure and adventure. I slowly, steadily feel myself beginning to burn out. But didn’t Mr. Young say that’s better than fading away? Rock and roll will never die. I’m not sure that’s the case with me.

Is it possible to run without an AI coach? I suspect it’s easier than running without a pre-run chocolate doughnut (don’t tell Mo.) I find myself missing that virtual kick in the butt, the need to run longer than I want to because a ruthless cyber overlord will frown otherwise. I am a reluctant enthusiast.

So here I am, no schedule, no plan, no guardrails. Just a sneaking suspicion that tomorrow I’ll wake up too early and run too much, because that’s what I always do. Nobody said running was supposed to make sense. Field testing seems to confirm it.

One final paragraph of advice: Don’t work for someone you despise with every fiber of your being. Work for the good guys instead, even if it’s only as a part-time crusader. We need more monkey wrench gangs in the world.

Or not. Life is like a trail run whose little ribbons marking the course were stolen long ago by the anarchists. We’re all left to find a path as best we can as things fall apart.

And so I’ll go out again tomorrow, hoping I don’t miss the right turn onto the Ruidoso trail and the warning signs of heat stroke. I’ll worry about the runaway train of AI and an increasingly authoritarian government and the insanity that will prevail as the two are increasingly intertwined. And now the guy in charge of destroying the planet wants an AI Force modeled after the Space Force? How could we let that happen? Is there nothing else to slap a gold coating on?

“The duty of a patriot is to protect his country from its government,” Mr. Abbey said. Do something. Anything. Hello, it’s me.

But I’m just a tired old man, and I have no fight left in me. Someone else can save the world. I’m just worried about my singlet hanging on for another decade of no washing before we call it quits. Another 10 miles. Maybe I’ll bring Madison Cunningham along, something to fill the void.

I’m going to miss Coach Daniels.

But I’m going to miss democracy even more.