a poem is not a whore

On slow running and slow reading

In advance of my 40th birthday a few years ago, I decided to train for a half-marathon. As I spoke with established runners, researched my training plan, and queried staff experts at the running-shoe shop, I heard repeated comments about“building the base.” As in, “Be sure you take time to build your base”. Or, “Building your base is usually the toughest part for new runners”. Or “Once you’ve built your base, adding miles is easy.”

Got it, I thought. Okay. The base. The base is it. Let’s go.

Only…what does that mean, exactly? How do I build this elusive “base”? Is there some kind of secret strategy? Will I know if I’m doing it wrong? If I just go out and run for a while, will that do it? Can I mess this up?

As it turns out “building the base” is simply runner-speak for gaining the stamina to run at your standard pace for 3-5 miles without much strain or effort. So, at some level, yes, you can just run and run and eventually you will achieve this “base”. In that sense, it’s tough to mess it up. Yet, in another sense, as I discovered, having someone spell out the process with a bit more detail is pretty helpful for anyone who is decidedly not yet in “base-level” form.

A few weeks into my training the person who cracked this open for me was my friend Kellie’s husband, Dan. It’s a bit of an understatement to say Dan is in good shape. As a retired Air Force Colonel who stands at 6’5” and still maintains his daily military-level fitness regimen (and haircut) well into his 50s, Dan is a bit like Captain America come to life. Still, he expressed a surprising level of interest and encouragement for my middle-aged, slow-mile aspirations.

What Dan clarified for me is that “building the base” is as much about building a mindset and momentum as it is about hitting physical milestones. As such, he noted that to effectively “build the base” for a long race, the critical piece was to complete all of the miles noted on your training schedule each day, but to do so in a way that keeps you motivated as you build strength. If you walk some of the distance, fine. If you run it slow, no problem. If one day you have a head cold or an aching knee and you stumble weakly through every step, so be it. Just stick to the plan and get all of the miles done. That’s the key to building a solid base.

This seems simple enough, but somehow having Captain America permit me to take it slow helped me immensely. It meant I repeated a few weeks of early training before that true “base” came to life, but it took a lot of the stress out of trying something new. It took me out of a performance mode of trying to grind it out, demonstrate my competence, hit the target in a “no pain, no gain” kind of way. Instead, it reinforced the idea that it was wholly adequate to start where I was, to trust that as I yielded to the process it would take me where I wanted to go. Even more, by moving at a pace and growth curve that felt honest and unforced, what it mostly taught me was how to enjoy running.

---

In a curious way, I credit poetry with planting the seed to try distance running. This wasn’t conscious, of course. It’s not like there is a great wide world of well-chiseled poets encouraging more cardio or anything like that. At least not any of which I am aware. Ha!

But in retrospect I realize it was poetry that gave me the much-needed category of leaning into a domain of intimidation by starting where I was, being honest about my ignorance, asking many questions, taking it slow, trusting the enrichment would come through a process.

In my grad program, I was a Master of Arts (MA) in English, which did not make me immediately eligible to take any writing workshops or craft-focused courses offered in the more selective, portfolio-based Master of Fine Arts (MFA) program. Yet early in my review of the course catalog, I realized this simply wouldn’t do.

By jumping through several hoops, submitting a few more-or-less made-up writing samples, and getting all manner of requisite signatures, I finally secured permission to take up to four MFA workshops toward my degree, beginning with one on poetic forms taught by the wonderful Sally Keith.

On the first day of class all we did was review the syllabus, but I remember calling my best friend in tears from the courtyard during our 10-minute break, because I was at once so intimidated and scared to try this new thing (as an overt imposter, no less!) and yet so completely enamored and magnetically drawn by the prospect that someone would actually teach me this syllabus - all these things I’d wanted to know for so long! It is a tender thing to try and grow.

My friend, as usual, talked me off the ledge and back into the classroom, and thus began my early tutelage in the art of slow and unimpressive (but gratifying) skill acquisition.

By mercy, the process was almost immediately aided by a conversation I overheard among two fellow students as we bumbled back towards our seats with fresh coffees off the break. “I mean, I just have to remind myself a poem is not a whore, ya know?” One said to the other. “I mean, it’s not going to just give itself to you at first pass, right? You have to put in some effort.”

Smiling, I quietly adopted this as my new approach.

In the years since that class, I still often think about this passing bit of wisdom when I encounter a new or complicated poem. “A poem is not a whore,” I think to myself. Slow down. Read it again. Read it out loud. Try listening to it instead. Read some commentary. Give it some time. Come back to it later. Get to know it first before you decide what you think of it. “It’s not going to give it to you at first pass.”

And for me, this strange, seemingly irreverent paradigm has only grown in significance. Because it turns out, much like running, every new poem - especially longer or more challenging works - requires some base-building before it yields its pleasure or value. Also, like running, that is kind of the point. If you need to walk, walk. If you need to reread, reread. So what? Who cares? Are we really impressed by anything anyone does after 40 unless it’s simply worthy and good? More and more I find the benefit of any of my disciplines is less about advancement or recognition of any kind, but rather about humbly cultivating the routines and skill needed to enjoy the good gifts of life with greater ease, like a long poem, or a long run.