Josh Cox: The Library
(Part I) - “A Dream”
(Elite Athlete Blog Entry 10)
Posted July 5th, 2008 at 9:00 AM by Josh Cox
Section: News & Results, Elite Athlete Blogs, Josh Cox
Welcome to the official blog of U.S. marathon runner Josh Cox. Every other Wednesday visit http://joshcox.thefinalsprint.com for Cox’s latest blog entry and for more information, also please visit: www.joshcox.com
Not too long ago you had a dream - this dream as a matter of fact. Don’t feel bad, you just forgot, most do. How many of us remember our dreams? How many attempt to remember them – try to revive them – try to bring them back? We dream, but then we wake, reality sets in, and our dreams are forever lost. It’s understandable, we’re busy, we have things to do, obligations, you know. Sometimes we remember bits, pieces even, occasionally we think about dreams but most times they just slip and slide away, unless you’re in the habit of writing them down – as I am. I do this while I’m still dreaming, I know it sounds odd, but it’s for the best. Author George MacDonald described this moment in the first strides of Phantastes: “I awoke one morning with the usual perplexity of mind which accompanies the return to consciousness.”
It’s the moment when your dream still has a pulse but it’s faint and fading fast. This is when we must write – before the dream dies. If only more people remembered their dreams. Forgotten dreams, dreams forgotten. What could be more tragic?
Fortunately, I wrote your dream down – or, one could say, I’ve done my best to recapture what has been lost. I may ha
ve missed a detail or two but what follows is my best attempt to refresh your memory, I hope it resonates…
You were standing in t-shirt and jeans, alone in the corner of a colossal library - aisle after aisle, floor to ceiling, millions of shelves, billions of books.
This place is huge, you thought. How big is this place?
You felt a tap on your right shoulder, you turned, no one was there but your eye caught a silver plaque posted on the shelf:
FOR THOSE WHO DREAM:
THE LIBRARY IS 100 MILES LONG & 100 MILES WIDE
The ceiling is high too… I wonder how—
As the thought crossed your mind the following was etched across the plaque:
AND 1 MILE HIGH
The floor was a shiny, multi-grey marble.
Where am I?
Beneath your feet, atop the marble, a giant red star appeared. Inside the star were words in white, YOU ARE HERE. The back point of the star had a large letter “N” balancing on it’s top. You spun a few times – like when you were a kid – as you turned the star turned too, but the letter “N” remained by the wall.
Like a compass… That means I’m in the—
Words appeared inside the star, NORTHEAST CORNER OF THE LIBRARY
You scanned the room and looked to the south – so far, so vast, so many books. It was like looking through the wrong end of a super-powered telescope but the longer you stared the more detail you saw. Then, in an instant, your eyes went on high-speed super-zoom, zipping towards the southern end of the library. A towering wall of books, bindings, shelves, and a single leaning library ladder to the left, rows of western running aisles to the right. Your eyes reached the far wall. Leaning against the southern wall was another long, lengthy library ladder. You could see it all, books, titles, authors, and that man… a huge, hulking, Herculean black man, dressed in denim overalls. You weren’t alone.
The man rolled the ladder, looked over his shoulder and stopped. A young girl in a floor length red coat approached from the right. She stood a few feet away; they exchanged words. She pulled a small, perfume-like bottle from her coat, tossed it to the monstrous man and ran away. The man examined the bottle, nodded his head and climbed the ladder, several rungs at a time.
He must be close to seven feet tall, you thought.
Higher and higher and higher he climbed. Eventually, he grabbed two books; you were impressed with your superhero sight powers.
The man swiveled, stared, your eyes met, and he offered the most enigmatic smile.
Startled, your eyes retreated to their normal state. You tried looking again – even tried opening your eyes real big and saying things like, “go-super-sight-go!” but it was no use, no more super sight.
You examined a few books near the corner, Aaron, Aarons, you looked a little farther, Abbott, Abdal, - the letter A. Each book had the names written twice on the bindings, on perpendicular planes. They looked like biographies but you had never heard of these people.
You began moving westward, the red compass-star followed. The aisles at the center of the room had intermittent breaks for southern rows. You strolled by book after book, shelf after shelf. Then, in an instant, your super sight returned. Ahead, a solid glass, western wall. The view was beautiful, an orange setting sun and picturesque mountains, all under a blood red sky – it could have been a post card.
You heard a double cough to your left. No one was there but a book’s binding seemed to illuminate: The Runner’s Guide to the Meaning of Life by an author named Burfoot.
Ha! Runners? You thought. What do they know?
Oddly, the library floor turned to asphalt. You gave a half hop, put your head down, drove your arms, opened your stride, and starred to run. You tried outrunning the star; considering the jeans, you were moving pretty good, but the star, now flashing and pulsating light, kept pace.
You veered left down an aisle and slowed to a stop. You looked down at the star; the words appeared, YOU CAN DO BETTER - YOU CAN GIVE MORE. Then came the smiley face.
You smiled and walked down an aisle of books. Alphabetical, like the eastern wall, but different, you recognized a few authors - Potter, Plato, Pascal.
Ahead, you saw a book, halfway removed from the shelf, squirming. You stared and it stopped.
“I already saw you moving,” you said.
The book, as if conceding, continued to squirm, hopping almost, until falling to a perfect corner landing on the asphalt. It balanced on its corner, spun three times, fell on its back, spun three more times and returned upright to its corner.
On the cover was a man in shorts, holding shoes. You walked over and grabbed the book.
Once a Runner by John L. Parker, Jr.
The front and back covers opened, forcing your palms flat. The pages turned, flipped, and fanned from front to back - back to front. Faster and faster the pages turned. Your hair blew, you smiled; the pages turned, left - right, right - left, the pages flipped, flopped and, like a carnival wheel, slowed to a stop. You read the highlighted portion:
“It is simply that we can all be good boys and wear our letter sweaters around and get our little degrees and find some nice girl to settle, you know, down with… take up what a friend of ours calls the hearty challenges of lawn care… Or we can blaze! Become legends in our own time, strike fear in the heart of mediocre talent everywhere! We can scald dogs, put records out of reach! Make the stands gasp as we blow into an unearthly kick from three hundred yards out!”
You stopped, a sound – a pack of animals? The sound grew, to your left - towards the aisle.
You heard a bell, Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
Crossing the aisle, a pack of runners passed in a blur. Singlet, shorts, track spikes, and race numbers - they were flying. You didn’t know when it happened but the floor was now an all-weather track, white lines and all. The pack turned down the adjacent row. The shelf - your knot holed fence. You looked on, the pack passed, your eyes returned to the page:
“We can become God’s own messengers delivering the dreaded scrolls! We can race dark Satan himself till he wheezes fiery cinders down the back straightaway… They’ll speak our names in hushed tones; ‘those guys are animals’ they’ll say! We can lay it on the line, bust a gut, show them a clean pair of heels. We can sprint the turn on a spring breeze and feel the winter leave our feet! We can, by God, let our demons loose and just wail on!”
The book slammed shut, leapt from your palms and was sucked, vacuum like, back to its place on the shelf.
The runners turned the corner; your star was a hot, glowing, pulsating red. You were dressed like the runners, singlet, spikes, hip number and all. The pack approached and passed in a blaze or glory. You set out in chase. Faster, faster, faster, head down, arms pumping, knees driving, feet pounding, spikes grabbing – you were closing. 20 meters. Seconds passed, minutes passed, you had nearly joined the group.
If I can just get on the back of that train.
Power pervades the pack. Every runner, with every stride, unleashes a force, an electric energy that radiates and permeates the pack of running gladiators. Every exhale releases an airborne petrol - toxic to some, magical to others. In the right pack, each time the fuel is recycled it compounds, cumulates and propagates the magic, increasing its octane, strength, potency and power.
You hammered through the library, only 10 more meters and you were there. But then it came; you felt it, the first twinges of that damnable disease. Pain.
It can start anywhere: chest, back, legs, lungs, it doesn’t discriminate. It always starts small, a tiny cancer that attacks and conquers one cell, but one cell becomes two, two becomes four, four - eight, eight - sixteen and before you know it, an entire muscle group is waving the white flag. The cancer is unavoidable - all good runners know this, the best ones even welcome it – the trick is beating it, overpowering it, unleashing your mind’s cancer killers so they can chase, corner, and exterminate.
10 meters, so close but so far. You couldn’t keep this up much longer.
The cancer ran rampant; your legs were shutting down. Each step felt like you were stomping on a cyanide filled syringe; the poison injecting and coursing your veins. The pain spread, the poison pooled, your legs ached, your chest burned, your head grew numb. Stage 4. You were falling off. You stared at the shelves. 20 meters, 25, 30, things were unraveling, you were going the wrong way.
The thoughts bombarded, I can’t keep up. I’m not good enough. I don’t have what it takes.
Ahead, the pack approached a small, shirtless, olive skinned boy holding hammer and nails, standing still as a statue; he offered a slight glance to the passing pack then fixed his eyes on you.
I’m losing ground; I can’t do it, it’s too hard, you despised these thoughts.
Your eyes met the boy’s.
This is hard, you thought. If he only knew.
The boy’s lips didn’t move but you heard him speak – clear as day, I do know… Put it all on the line, run through the valley of the shadows, hunt down the beast and slay the dragon. Believe and all things are possible. Keep your eyes on the prize, run to win. Create it here first, he pointed to his head. Then here, as he waved his hammer and hand across the track. Believe. Just believe.
Then came the vision: a black flash, racing through a valley, darkness, death, a cave, a beast, a battle, a white flash. The valley again, a light shined though a narrow passageway between the cliffs ahead. Sounds from behind – a pack of unearthly beasts in pursuit on all fours, you raced towards the light, the mountains were moving together - the cleft was closing. The beasts pawed at your heels, the crag was nearly closed. You leapt, turned sideways, crossed through the crevasse and the mountains slammed shut. You reached the other side. Freedom. An aisle of books ahead, motion without effort, motion without pain, your comeback, you catching the pack, you running at the front, a black flash.
You were back in the library, the pack was 50 meters ahead but things were different. Then came the magic… from your head, to your fist, to your feet, in one striking blow, came a rush. The sweeping, mass assassination of pain - the cancer was destroyed. Venom vacated your legs, your stride opened up. Your legs were firing pistons, up, down, up, down – you were a machine, a high-speed metronome. 40 meters. Your arms were powerful oars, stroking, propelling you perfectly. 30 meters. With every strike you were eating up the gap. You were an animal, a savage, running fierce with wild reckless abandon, a hungry wolf, hunting your prey. 20 meters. Yet you were the image of perfect fluidity and beauty, poetry in motion. 10 meters. You closed on and passed the caboose; you jostled your way through the thick of the pack. Your elbow was smacked on its backswing - a runner’s hello. You looked over your shoulder.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” a runner said.
Then you saw it, a purple vapor exhale, first from one, then another and another.
“This is it,” someone said, “it’s starting everyone! Not too much longer now!”
You elbowed your way through the pack and reached the frontrunner. Shoulder to shoulder, neck and neck. There was no stopping you.
The bell: Ding! Ding! Ding!
Between breaths, someone from the pack managed the words, “bell lap” and “big kick.”
You kept running, aisle after aisle, row after row, turn after turn. The purple air permeated the pack; exhaled by one, sucked up by another, inhaled - exhaled – inhaled –exhaled. You and the frontrunner exchanged purple vapors, as each breath filled your lungs you were supernaturally strengthened. Faster, faster still, like supercharged stallions racing, running, weaving your way through the labyrinthine city of books. You passed an odd sight in the corner: A flock of sheep surrounded a decrepit living room. Busted lamps, tabloid covered end tables, cobwebbed covered couches filled with giant sacks of rocks, giant man-sized potatoes, and two human skeletons – each holding a TV remote, staring at a busted, big screen.
The pace increased. The pack clamored, “It’s happening! Get ready everyone!”
You exhaled; your breath was blue. A few strides later a blue cloud swirled around the pack like a twister. Faster and faster you ran, no fatigue, the blue cloud swirled; you could hardly feel the ground at all.
The pack raced along the western window – you were running so fast the aisles looked like rows of crops from a passing car. The pack moved faster still, so fast the books and walls became blurs.
The bell rang: Ding! Ding! Ding! You heard the words, “bell lap” and “big kick” again.
“I don’t understand,” you said. “I thought we were already running our final lap?”
Everyone smiled, no answers.
“How far are we racing?”
The leader turned, “That’s just it, we never know when it’s our last lap – none of us do – and that, my friend, is our secret.” A few strides of thoughtful silence, “If you run every lap like it’s your last, eventually you’ll be right.”
“But that’s no way to run a race.”
“The leader laughed, friend – free your mind. Who ever said anything about running?”
A stride later they were gone. You and your star slowed to a walk, the blue cloud floated away. Your shorts returned to jeans, your singlet back to a t-shirt; the floor had changed from the track to a dusty road.
You walked down the aisle; The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho fell into your hands. The pages flipped, flapped and stopped. You read a line, “To realize one’s destiny is a person’s only obligation.”
The pages flipped again, front to back, back to front, and slowed. You read an underlined passage:
“The boy didn’t know what a person’s “destiny” was. It’s what you have always wanted to accomplish. Everyone, when they are young, knows what their destiny is. At that point in their lives, everything is clear and everything is possible. They are not afraid to dream, and to yearn for everything they would like to see happen to them in their lives. But, as time passes, a mysterious force begins to convince them that it will be impossible for them to realize their destiny.”
The pages flipped again to an underlined paragraph:
“Everyone on earth has a treasure that awaits him. We… seldom say much about those treasures, because people no longer want to go in search of them. Later, we simply let life proceed, in its own direction, toward its own fate. But, unfortunately, very few follow the path laid out for them - the path to their Personal Legends, and to happiness. Most people see the world as a threatening place, and, because they do, the world turns out, indeed, to be a threatening place.”
The book grew piping hot. You dropped it, when the book hit the floor it splashed, as though the dirt was a pond. The ground grew hard, changed into green linoleum and the bookshelves morphed into bars. You walked down another aisle and saw two books walking towards you on their corners, penguin-like. Then, it seemed, the books saw you – they spun on their left corner and took off running the other way. You set off in chase and heard them laugh. You caught them easily; you placed the first under your arm and examined the binding of the next.
To be continued…
- Josh
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Written while listening to: Coldplay’s Viva La Vida, Weezers self titled album, The Chronicles of Narnia Prince Caspian soundtrack, Jakob Dylan’s Seeing Things, John Foreman’s Summer EP, and Al Green’s Lay it Down
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August 7th, 2008 at 4:56 pmJosh:
September 3rd, 2008 at 4:51 amI’m 57, so I hear the bell: Ding! Ding! Ding! “Only those who risk going to far will ever know how far they can go.” Been there, done that, still doing it. Go for it!!! Thanks for sharing.