Running is passive, almost Camus -ishly existentially absurd. Jake watched his body lose weight, and with curious eyes Jake sensed the muscles between his ribs strengthen again, like armor. In his mirror the wild animal smiled back as the old man scrutinized the bearded body that had tightened once again, almost ludicrously, into what appears to be an efficient wrestling machine.
FIRST PERIOD
When the match began Jake immediately shot a single leg attack. A simple hand fake to the right ear, attack the left leg. It was not to take the young blond challenger down as much as to waken every fiber into the hyper awareness of combat. This was it, the finals of the tournament and Jake needed to sense through the skin and sinew how much the youth believed in himself; was he aggressive and prone to over commitment? In the intensity of man to man combat you sense his cunning, calculate his will, and smell his essence or his fear. This information is instinctual knowledge communicated by touch. You’ve got to know where he’s coming from to head him off at the pass. A match starts inches apart… and quickly gets a lot closer; flaring sinew, grab hold, release, give space take space, all in the whirling psychic chess game , moves and counter moves, calculated as much by the will and soul as the intellect.
Wrestling is not a spectator sport; most of what’s happening is invisible, or barely visible, as if the combatants are in a dimension similar to that inhabited by warring angles in an upward abyss.
The young opponent countered Jakes single leg attach by hooking an arm and dropping his weight. The mat was red and they parted momentarily. Jake attacked again, a high thigh double leg but with startling speed the youth snapped both hands under Jakes chin, pried, somehow willing his body weight into his yellow wrestling shoes. Jake’s grip on the thighs strain and slip, the moment thins and Jake begins to hear the cheers and sighs of the crowd. Heart pounding, breath labored, the match has just begun.
Running is cheered on by the genetic memory, joyously coded “The Primal Run”. Mankind exists because it can escape; “flight”. However, on the “fight” side of that coin is preservation by making a stand; plus it’s fun, like putting a candle out with your fingers, like swallowing fear and making it energy. Fight is a laugh with consequences, with elements of “to the death”.
Bouncing back Jake searches the young eyes for the hint of self-doubt to drive his wedge of dominance into. Your opponents doubt can leak and become your confidence. The young eyes are steady, he is bouncing on the red mat; shining sinew and sweat. They engage in the subtle game of hand fighting and reality thickens again. Swirling wrists and slipping grips accelerate an epic flow of dominance gained and dashed; split seconds of spinning wrists, instinctual pawn pushing, intensity that no spectator could see. The young hands are fast and accurate so Jake drags his opponent by to break the hypnotic moment.
The Gabrialino Indians that ran through Grand Canyon knew running was a means to ‘being there’. When running the mind and spirit can smile as old friends, one not out-balancing the other. Sense everything; smells, sights, sounds. Sensing your guts are internal emotional train stations, pounding heart in rhythm with breath, every breath a catalyst for the tightening in the system. Every step kisses the ground like a barefoot Indian. Running, dancing, mixing the chemistry of ‘being there’.
In the final moments of the first period Jake knew he was losing the single leg attack. He thought “screw it” and pumped all the energy he had into a body lock. It was not classic, not like the Persians taught us 4000 year ago, too high on the chest for a clean throw but he managed to squeeze and bully the challenger to the mat for a score.
Hallucinating white spots Jake walked to his corner. One minute to get the heart rate back down, cool the body temperature, and gather back the almost vicious desire for victory; a Nietzsche space beyond good and evil, a hyper dimension that two men agree to inhabit, like stepping onto a soft red plane of existence, the mat, or a cage where time is compressed, where six minutes borders eternity, like going on a twenty year space journey only to return to earth six minutes later searching your pockets for identification. “Who was that guy and why would you do that?” Jakes bloodshot eyeballs almost hurt as they pulsated from the pounding blood. “Fifteen seconds.” The referee shouts as he calls them back to the center of the mat. In that instant Jake turns his head to see the open double doors of the gymnasium where a sun struck green grass day is smiling at him and he can almost taste the cold beer at the nearby beer garden. Then wham he’s called back in the center of the mat, back in the intensity, back to the proverbial “Gymnasium”. It smells of the tears, mortal fears, and the flavor of all past victory and defeat.
SECOND PERIOD
The young guy is standing in the middle of the mat bouncing with anticipation.
Run and don’t eat, that’s how to “make weight”. The enlightenment from depravity takes away the hunger, as if your spirit is actually electricity in a vacuum, as your body shrinks the spirit brightens toward release.
Jake was pushed back by the challenges swift attack that captured a leg, he had no choice but to turn and make a diving retreat toward the edge of the mat. In doing so the blond attacker lost his grasp and Jakes heel grazed the challengers chin. Immediately he attacked again regaining his grip on the leg and trapping Jake close to the edge of the red mat.
The mat or rugs or fine dirt or a grass field is the universal space for primal cunning and high speed physical chess. It is universal and unchanged in essence since men quit fighting to the death and opted for unequivocal dominance. An honorable agreement to go into a battle that is as much will, soul and spirit as physical. In that arena the mat is the only reality of the moment, passing beyond the edge of the mat is a shocking rebirth into the world of humanity.
Jake had no choice but to force back toward the center. Escaping off the edge is not in the rules. Not only did Jakes’ attempted counter attack fail, but the challenger was so strong that he crunched down and caught Jake on his back, that vulnerable wrestling position synonymous with death. Stuck there on his shoulder and head. The challenger has one arm across his ribcage and the other trapping Jakes elevated arm and shoulder. Arching on his head to avoid the checkmate of being pinned, Jake’s eyes scanned from the timer who is standing to shortly end the period, to the overhead lights, to the open gym door and the grass beyond, and beer garden dreaming. Jake is truly saved by the bell.
Running has most of its creative component experienced in the labyrinth of the mind. Wrestling on the other hand realizes a good deal of its creativity in a physical world. Wrestling necessitates “being there”; focusing all on the moment and dealing with rapid fire events in linear time. Running on the other hand realizes a rather egoless opening up to “it all”. Running has less spiritual angst than the gymnasium. The paradox being that you need to run to wrestle well. All the power in the world is useless without cardiovascular endurance.
THIRD PERIOD
Pulled from the beer garden dream of the doorway, Jake walks to the center of the mat, not revealing the gut feeling that defeat is clawing on his back like a demon.
The challenger is strong, quick and surged with the symbolic sent of the kill. Jakes senses it, like watching your son rise above your expectations; not envious but rather curious. His mind no longer expects to win, “but damn I want to score with creative string!” When the challenger again got his leg the whirling mind of the old boy created a trap. He dove for the edge again knowing that this time the young challenger would hold tight to his ankle. Just at the edge, with the challenger clutching the foot to his chest and pulling back toward the center of the mat, the old man almost stood on his head as he snaked back and grabbed his attackers ankle! Then with no more strength than drawing a bow, Jake pushed him off balance by forcing against his chest with the trapped foot and pulling up the ankle. For a very long moment Jake stood on the challenger’s chest and bore his eyes into the blond head. Lightning melted reality. The beard was gone, the blond head was gone, an
d a youthful energy was forced to the horizon of incredulity. For three seconds, or was it thirty minutes, the old man held the sceptre.
Running is like rain in the ocean.
For an instant, before the young man’s reality surged back, the old champion had succeeded in “being there”.
The air cleared of oos and ahhhs, the young man’s arm was raised in victory and with a rather liberated smile Jake walked for the last time from the red mat to the colors of the open door.
THE END
IT WAS THE STAR
Hole in the sky to pure energy
And I followed it with the wind in my sails
It looked down upon me, yet
Across dark water we were eye to eye
It was the reason
So pure and unchanging
A piece of a friend
To follow
I loved it from my screaming throat
With the wind across the water, in our sails
About my body
Everything passing by us boat my boat
Just aiming for the light
And the gusts of wind would heel us
Ocean kiss you on the ribs
Smile at the familiar sound
Then the rush and the beauty and the glide
With the tiller
Weather helm thank you, lean back
Keep me right on the light
Ah hole in the sky gave meaning to the darkness all around
JEALOUS ANGELS
The faded print rug could tell as well
Candle light body firm with energy
Fingers, theirs hers mine ours
The fingers rode the wave
Our thought swallowing personal thought
Deeply ours
Kissing fingers swallow energy
Which has a voice that screams ‘last forever!”
Lightning bolts bursting to escape the bodies
Dreams resurrected
Like the ocean open and seemingly endless
A “we” dissolving into undistinguishable parts
Observing from the ceiling, jealous angles
We all drank from ancient bone china tea cups
Delicious! Rings through the room
Acapella
About the author:
This day of writing I am 69 year old, I’ve been surfing, Wind surfing and kite surfing for 60 of those 69 years. I grew up in Waikiki in the 50’s, did high school and university in California, joined the Maui National Guard in ’68. I moved back to California in 1980, travelled the planet as a competitor and journalist for Wind Surf Magazine… and now I live in Perth Western Australia, amazingly blessed by the love of my life, my wife Donna and my children.
I only feel old when I look in the mirror or after some particularly fierce wipe out from surfing or kite surfing.
I surf Indonesia as often as I can, don’t train wrestling anymore, but dream about it.
Aloha,
John G
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