Highly committed runners have much higher levels of narcissism than less committed ones. That's what I learned from Jason Karp who wrote The Inner Runner. He is right that running can sometimes be an experience of egoism.
Am I narcissistic? Well, I don't know. It's hard to say but there's a good chance that I am.
If there is one thing I know about my addiction with runner's narcissism more than a VO2 max number, it is that I joined Strava soon after my friend's recommendation and run with this digital app eagerly. Why am I drawn to this new toy? Most runners would agree with me that running lifts our spirits. Even more so, when we can upload a run on social media, being recognized by dopamine rush of receiving "likes."
Hold your horses - there is a lot more. Instead of "like" (as what you find in Facebook), Strava's currency of approval is called "kudo" - a surefire way to give us feelings of grandiosity. Not only does running give pleasure in the moment but also reward after an upload, which down the road will itself lead to enviable kudos.
Miles after miles, kudos after kudos, we all narcissists should love it. At least to me.
Saturday, September 22, 2018
Sunday, September 2, 2018
Bryson
I can't imagine an author who writes better memoir than Bill Bryson.
I learnt so many and laughed so much when I read his story of being a newspaper boy at the age of eleven. That's tough, think about it, to deliver the afternoon papers six days a week, and then get up on Sundays before dawn and deliver the Sunday papers too. The reason, Bill Bryson writes, is to allow the regular morning paperboys enjoy a day off each week.
All this was fine - or at least fine enough - so long as Bill Bryson didn't mix up the route. Anyway, that isn't the worst. Paperboys were supposed to collect the subscription money. That, by itself, wasn't too risky when they were delivering papers to rich people. The real danger came from thousands of dogs in 1950s, inhabiting every property - big dogs, grumpy dogs, stupid dogs, tiny nippy irritating little dogs, dogs that wanted to smell you, dogs that barked at everything that moved. And then there was Dewey, a black Labrador which eventually bit him hard. That was a big bite that never earned Bill Bryson an apology. To that end, he decided to stick a secret booger in that family's paper every day.
Whatever topic Bryson writes, he recounts his story in such a funny and detailed manner that is going to give you behind-the-scenes fact of a crazy kid. And he has a perfect memory, say, to recollect how his father spent at least thirty minutes to prepare the legendary snacks at night. That means Ritz crackers, a large jar of mustard, wheat germ, radishes, ten Hydrox cookies, an enormous bowl of chocolate ice cream, several slices of luncheon meat, freshly washed lettuce, Cheez Whiz, peanut butter, peanut brittle, a hard-boiled egg or two, a small bowl of nuts, watermelon in season, possibly a banana. The list is comprehensive. It really is.
Why Bryson can remember so many details is a bit of puzzle. I now know that I'd better jot down everything in case I'm going to follow the footsteps of Bill Bryson. And so here it goes - for the ingredients my daughter and her buddy used for homemade slime today - baking soda, school glue, cornstarch, contact lens solution, watercolour paint.
I learnt so many and laughed so much when I read his story of being a newspaper boy at the age of eleven. That's tough, think about it, to deliver the afternoon papers six days a week, and then get up on Sundays before dawn and deliver the Sunday papers too. The reason, Bill Bryson writes, is to allow the regular morning paperboys enjoy a day off each week.
All this was fine - or at least fine enough - so long as Bill Bryson didn't mix up the route. Anyway, that isn't the worst. Paperboys were supposed to collect the subscription money. That, by itself, wasn't too risky when they were delivering papers to rich people. The real danger came from thousands of dogs in 1950s, inhabiting every property - big dogs, grumpy dogs, stupid dogs, tiny nippy irritating little dogs, dogs that wanted to smell you, dogs that barked at everything that moved. And then there was Dewey, a black Labrador which eventually bit him hard. That was a big bite that never earned Bill Bryson an apology. To that end, he decided to stick a secret booger in that family's paper every day.
Whatever topic Bryson writes, he recounts his story in such a funny and detailed manner that is going to give you behind-the-scenes fact of a crazy kid. And he has a perfect memory, say, to recollect how his father spent at least thirty minutes to prepare the legendary snacks at night. That means Ritz crackers, a large jar of mustard, wheat germ, radishes, ten Hydrox cookies, an enormous bowl of chocolate ice cream, several slices of luncheon meat, freshly washed lettuce, Cheez Whiz, peanut butter, peanut brittle, a hard-boiled egg or two, a small bowl of nuts, watermelon in season, possibly a banana. The list is comprehensive. It really is.
Why Bryson can remember so many details is a bit of puzzle. I now know that I'd better jot down everything in case I'm going to follow the footsteps of Bill Bryson. And so here it goes - for the ingredients my daughter and her buddy used for homemade slime today - baking soda, school glue, cornstarch, contact lens solution, watercolour paint.
Saturday, September 1, 2018
Thief
Every once in a while, I borrowed books with not-so-childish topics and read together with my daughter. Bereavement, refugees, divorce, whatever.
I know: that makes me sound like such a defensive pessimist. Or Charlie Brown. But hear me out.
The truth is, there are good lessons to learn from those tender story books written for children. My pick tonight is a story of daddy struggling with depression: The Colour Thief. One day, a thief stole all colours away. One by one, the colours were gone: the sky turned grey, the clouds frowned, the sun was sulking, or so it seemed. And on that sobering note, if the dad went out, the lamp posts would laugh at him or the streets would call him names.
Page by page, we saw the colours disappearing into dark shadows. An abyss. We got chance to talk about how depression can change us, and how we can change the depression. Fortunately, we're learning the life lessons from a picture book, and not from our real life.
Page by page, we saw the colours disappearing into dark shadows. An abyss. We got chance to talk about how depression can change us, and how we can change the depression. Fortunately, we're learning the life lessons from a picture book, and not from our real life.
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
Tunnel
At first glance it may seem that summer vacation trip means idle repose, but in truth time is never enough. And more so if your destination has bountiful attractions.
During my Norwegian trip, I had trouble even finding time to download my photographs, much less get enough time for replying emails. None of this is surprising, given the country's magic with so many never-to-be-missed experiences. Devoted as I am to the stamina of runners, I wasn't running that often in Norway. I didn't even fill my suitcase with running shoes.
Granted, this wasn't an excuse not to run, I told myself before dinner today. It was then I found the unique experience of running in Norway. Along a spectacular running route on the seaside, I came to the entrance of a tunnel with a warning sign of "no cyclists allowed." I had no idea what to expect inside the tunnel. If that's not the 24.5-kilometre-long Lærdal Tunnel (the longest road tunnel), I figured, it should be okay. Road tunnel conditions are generally good in Norway. I also heard about the dedicated air treatment plant removing dust and nitrogen dioxide. I ran into the tunnel without hesitation. With each step I was taking charge of the situation. Except, of course, it was nothing like that.
After a few minutes, vehicles rushed by, the whooshing sound of which being amplified inside the tunnel. There was a momentary sense of suspense as I could not even hear my panting because of those noises. Traffic wasn't heavy but the acoustic effect was enough to make me feel like Nemo tumbling inside a washing machine. I picked up my pace, trying to recover from the panic. Under these circumstances I decided the best course of action was to come out of the tunnel as quickly as possible. Mustering my remaining strength, I heaved my body forward at full throttle. As I glanced around the tunnel, I spied nothing but SOS call boxes at regular intervals. The greatest myth of tunnel is that it cuts short your travel time. In fact, time moves more slowly because of monotony - five times more slowly if you run, seven times more slowly in case you aren't sure the length of the tunnel. And the tunnel seemed to go on forever, man. There time didn't move forward at all. It just hung. So I had stacks of time to wonder how much the tunnel was shorter than Lærdal Tunnel. Maybe not much. Well, I never found out the answer; I decided to return after 10 minutes or so.
Upon completion of my run, my running apps recorded an average pace at 1.5 minutes per kilometres. Whew. I quickly discovered that such unbelievable record happened because the GPS wrongly tracked my distance, as if I was running up the mountain and not through a tunnel.
I blushed and chuckled at my embarrassing PB.
During my Norwegian trip, I had trouble even finding time to download my photographs, much less get enough time for replying emails. None of this is surprising, given the country's magic with so many never-to-be-missed experiences. Devoted as I am to the stamina of runners, I wasn't running that often in Norway. I didn't even fill my suitcase with running shoes.
Granted, this wasn't an excuse not to run, I told myself before dinner today. It was then I found the unique experience of running in Norway. Along a spectacular running route on the seaside, I came to the entrance of a tunnel with a warning sign of "no cyclists allowed." I had no idea what to expect inside the tunnel. If that's not the 24.5-kilometre-long Lærdal Tunnel (the longest road tunnel), I figured, it should be okay. Road tunnel conditions are generally good in Norway. I also heard about the dedicated air treatment plant removing dust and nitrogen dioxide. I ran into the tunnel without hesitation. With each step I was taking charge of the situation. Except, of course, it was nothing like that.
After a few minutes, vehicles rushed by, the whooshing sound of which being amplified inside the tunnel. There was a momentary sense of suspense as I could not even hear my panting because of those noises. Traffic wasn't heavy but the acoustic effect was enough to make me feel like Nemo tumbling inside a washing machine. I picked up my pace, trying to recover from the panic. Under these circumstances I decided the best course of action was to come out of the tunnel as quickly as possible. Mustering my remaining strength, I heaved my body forward at full throttle. As I glanced around the tunnel, I spied nothing but SOS call boxes at regular intervals. The greatest myth of tunnel is that it cuts short your travel time. In fact, time moves more slowly because of monotony - five times more slowly if you run, seven times more slowly in case you aren't sure the length of the tunnel. And the tunnel seemed to go on forever, man. There time didn't move forward at all. It just hung. So I had stacks of time to wonder how much the tunnel was shorter than Lærdal Tunnel. Maybe not much. Well, I never found out the answer; I decided to return after 10 minutes or so.
Upon completion of my run, my running apps recorded an average pace at 1.5 minutes per kilometres. Whew. I quickly discovered that such unbelievable record happened because the GPS wrongly tracked my distance, as if I was running up the mountain and not through a tunnel.
I blushed and chuckled at my embarrassing PB.
Thursday, August 9, 2018
Mountain
An important rule of travel, according to the longtime Lonely Planet editor Don George, is this: if you don't pack your sense of humour with your sunscreen, sooner or later you'll get burned.
Put most simply, anything unexpected can happen in your journey. That's just the way of the road. If you want to help yourself - and perhaps more importantly your children - seek the fun and not-so-funny encounters on the road, you should remember your metaphorical protective screen.
We have the recent opportunity to bring our daughter to Norway, an outdoorsy country. One of our adventures was riding mountain bikes at the top of Mount Fløyen. Whew! That's quite a daunting task for us, the first-timers.
I reminded myself, after my recent reading of The Yes Brain Child, we're supposed to neither bubble-wrap our children nor minimize their feelings. The sweet spot or Goldilocks balance might not be easy to find, but my bottom line is that it's impossible to "spoil" my daughter by giving her lots of love. I wanted her to assert herself and face the challenge of the bumpy (half gravel, half paved) mountain track, and then discover how strong and capable she really is. My job and that of my wife, however, remained to walk with her through the difficult moments. The truth was, we literally walked when she thought she could not handle the slope. With time, she was hopping back on the hard-tailed bike with more courage and composure, and finished the trail with an "I did it!"
Put most simply, anything unexpected can happen in your journey. That's just the way of the road. If you want to help yourself - and perhaps more importantly your children - seek the fun and not-so-funny encounters on the road, you should remember your metaphorical protective screen.
We have the recent opportunity to bring our daughter to Norway, an outdoorsy country. One of our adventures was riding mountain bikes at the top of Mount Fløyen. Whew! That's quite a daunting task for us, the first-timers.
I reminded myself, after my recent reading of The Yes Brain Child, we're supposed to neither bubble-wrap our children nor minimize their feelings. The sweet spot or Goldilocks balance might not be easy to find, but my bottom line is that it's impossible to "spoil" my daughter by giving her lots of love. I wanted her to assert herself and face the challenge of the bumpy (half gravel, half paved) mountain track, and then discover how strong and capable she really is. My job and that of my wife, however, remained to walk with her through the difficult moments. The truth was, we literally walked when she thought she could not handle the slope. With time, she was hopping back on the hard-tailed bike with more courage and composure, and finished the trail with an "I did it!"
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
Bergen
For lovers of statistics, Bergen is one of the wettest parts of northern Europe, receiving a rainfall of 80 inches every year.
That's quite a lot to put up with. The thing was, I'd just travelled from Oslo, which gets only an average of 30 inches of rain annually. Before I came to Norway, luckily, I had taught myself a local mantra of Norwegian folks: Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær (it rhymes, I was told). In short, there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.
It makes sense, doesn't it, that we'd want to control only what is within our control? That's also the essence of having a mature prefrontal cortex in our brain, capable of flexibility and adaptability.
That's quite a lot to put up with. The thing was, I'd just travelled from Oslo, which gets only an average of 30 inches of rain annually. Before I came to Norway, luckily, I had taught myself a local mantra of Norwegian folks: Det finnes ikke dårlig vær, bare dårlige klær (it rhymes, I was told). In short, there's no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothing.
It makes sense, doesn't it, that we'd want to control only what is within our control? That's also the essence of having a mature prefrontal cortex in our brain, capable of flexibility and adaptability.
Norway
What's the best book to spend time on during our travel? My tip: pick a travel guidebook and turn to the last few pages. That's where they have resources like suggested reading. Choices include travelogue or literature from the country you're travelling to.
That's how I came up with the idea of borrowing a short novel Out Stealing Horses, written by a gifted Norwegian author Per Petterson.
At first glance it may seem that Trond Sander, the main character of the story, is doomed after losing his wife and sister in the course of one month - one from cancer and another a traffic accident - but in truth the old man is working out his way at the age of sixty-seven: to lay his hands on the house and do most of the work himself, makes his own dinner and overestimates his appetite, thus allowing extra portion to his only companion dog Lyra.
This is heartbreaking by my standards, far too tough. I didn't cry. Instead, I told myself how lucky I'm every morning I woke up with my wife and daughter next to me in this captivating Nordic country. And who would not?
That's how I came up with the idea of borrowing a short novel Out Stealing Horses, written by a gifted Norwegian author Per Petterson.
At first glance it may seem that Trond Sander, the main character of the story, is doomed after losing his wife and sister in the course of one month - one from cancer and another a traffic accident - but in truth the old man is working out his way at the age of sixty-seven: to lay his hands on the house and do most of the work himself, makes his own dinner and overestimates his appetite, thus allowing extra portion to his only companion dog Lyra.
This is heartbreaking by my standards, far too tough. I didn't cry. Instead, I told myself how lucky I'm every morning I woke up with my wife and daughter next to me in this captivating Nordic country. And who would not?
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