Reflections on my first marathon

Running in the shadow of the Washington Monument

When you tell people you're a runner, they usually ask two questions. They'll probably ask what your mile PR is. And they'll probably ask whether you've run a marathon. Not your time, mind you: Just whether you've run one. For since Pheidippides, the ancient Greek courier, enshrined the distance in myth with his valiant (and life-giving) feat, the marathon has firmly ensconced itself in the public consciousness as the official "holy crap, you actually run that?" distance. It's short enough that a decently in shape person can earn the achievement of having done one, and for the average person to have an understanding of the length (unlike the seemingly unreal distances ultramarathoners undertake), but long enough for people still to be somewhat agape that you would bother to try one yourself.

Well, my mile PR of 4:32 is pretty pathetic, all things considered. It sounds impressive to non-runners, but any runner this side of Frank Shorter knows it's not that big of a deal. I'm just not "fast," and I don't think I ever will be. So that leaves the marathon. And until today, all I could say was, "no, not yet, but I'm planning on it." We often hear that it's the thought that counts, but thoughts don't run marathons. And so last March, before I had even run my first half-marathon, I made the somewhat rash decision to enter my first marathon: the Marine Corps Marathon (MCM) of Washington, D.C., on October 22. After a debut half-marathon that didn't go exactly as I wanted, I almost changed my mind, and tried to register for the half-marathon component that I thought the MCM had. But I decided to stick with it even when I found out that there was no such race, only a 10k, and I've run enough of those in my life. So a marathon it was.

The road to my marathon was long and difficult. As I said, my debut half-marathon hadn't gone exactly as I had hoped. So, first, I had to pick myself up off the ground after that race mentally, and then physically, which I hoped a full two weeks of no running would do. On May 22, two weeks after my first half and exactly five months before I would toe the line of my first marathon, I began training for it. The unusually acute returning pain of that first run back caused me to write in my running log for that day that "I spent most of this run thinking about how strange it is that, exactly 5 months from today, I will have needed to transform my pathetic body into that of a marathoner. And, somehow, I'll do it." A few weeks later, I confronted the next challenge in my training: a two-week trip to Greece, during which I would serve as chaperone to a couple dozen teenage boys from my high school. Being realistic, I acknowledged that I wouldn't be able to do much intense training or high mileage during my trip abroad. But I also didn't want to have to start my training completely over when I came back to America, which meant that I would have to take no more than two successive days off on the journey. Thanks to a keen eye for down time, a treadmill on a cruise ship, and the same relentless discipline that has kept me running every mile I've run since graduating, I managed to miss only one day while I was there: the last day of the trip, which I had planned to take off anyway. I did miss an additional successive day thanks to having to fly back to America, but that was it.

Upon returning to America, I faced another challenge. But this one I imposed upon myself. A marathon would be twice as long as I had ever raced before. So I decided I would run more than I ever had before as well, including at least one week in excess of 100 miles. The prospect of this frightened me somewhat, however. The closest I had ever come to this was a week in college at 99.1 miles, when I had the relaxed life of a student instead of the 9-5 obligations of a real adult. And even then, the effort nearly destroyed my body. Coming even close to that distance in my post-collegiate running career had had similar effects. But I wanted to try anyway; the lingering existential splinter of not getting to 100 in college was an additional motivator. So, in the last full week of August, right around when my summer mileage peak would have been in college, I ran my first 100-mile week (it actually ended up being 105), capped off with what was then my longest run, at 22.22 miles. Two weeks later, I ran my second 100-mile week; two weeks after that, I ran a 93-mile week. I was subsisting on a steady diet of marathon pace runs, tempos, fartleks, and long runs. And I felt far better than I expected to. I even felt like my lungs had expanded. In this manner did I inaugurate a new era of training.

It was hardly all triumph and ease, though. There were many mornings I reacted to my pre-work alarms with disgust, simply wishing to go back to bed. And yes, on a few occasions, I did do exactly that. And on some occasions when I pushed through anyway, I probably should have just gone back to bed, given the way my body felt. I also had to deal with one inopportune ankle rolling, which prevented me from running what would have been the peak workout of my pre-taper marathon training and kept me from reaching 380 miles in a single month for the first time since college. Finally, in the midst of all this, I had to balance my work and life responsibilities, the latter of which included, for the first time, a stint as a cross country coach. (I coached a local grade school's team from the end of August through mid-October, two practices a week plus meets.) It was a busy fall.

But soon enough, the weekend of the marathon arrived. And it brought with it my parents and oldest sister, who had kindly made the drive out to watch my marathon debut. I was happy to see them, but also grateful for the leeway they gave me while I was there to maintain certain aspects of my routine to ensure marathon success. I was also grateful for the ride and company they gave me during the pre-race marathon expo for packet pick-up. (It was out at a hotel I would have had trouble reaching without a car.) That day, I tried to eat as much as I could (within reason), while also frontloading my input so that I wouldn't have too many bowel issues morning of. I slept plenty the night before the night before, but only fitfully the night before, as I expected; this did not worry me, as I am a perhaps irrational adherent of the "it's only the night before the night before that counts" school of race sleeping.

There was a lot of anxiety-inducing mystery about the dawn of my first marathon. But one thing I was sure about was my morning routine, which I record here mostly for the benefit of my future self: I woke up at 4:35 (with an anticipated marathon start time of about 7:55). As quickly as I could, I took care of the bathroom stuff, then ate a light breakfast of a banana, peach Greek yogurt mixed with oatmeal, and 40 fluid ounces of water. After this point, the mystery began to set in. My sister Katie, in town for my marathon, picked me up at my place at 5:45, then drove me to Eastern Market Metro station, which would take me to the Metro station open closest to the start line of the race. When I arrived there, though, the station was still closed, so I had to wait for it to open (which it did a little after 6). I then had to wait for the first train, and then wait on that train for longer than I expected, which began to worry me, for two reasons: I thought I wouldn't get through security in time (they advised 90 minutes), and I really, REALLY had to take a leak. The crowd leaving the Pentagon Metro station didn't make things any better, although I was able to think clearly when I got out of the station and found a hidden place to Austin Powers. 

The greatest urination scene in cinematic history 

After that, I just sort of moved with the crowd in the pre-dawn light, feeling a bit like I was in a disaster movie or something.* The walk from the Pentagon Metro station was longer than I expected, and I considered starting to run if I didn't get near the starting line area by within 50 minutes of my expected start time, though I arrived there soon enough. I got through security fine. But the other side of security was not the starting line, as I had hoped, but a mass of large tents, with runners milling about every which way. I was already at 50 minutes to go before the start, and didn't feel like figuring all that out, so I began a warm-up with my clear plastic pick-up bag still in hand out to find my place in the starting chute, just so that I knew where it was and could be there without any issue starting. I found it about .75 miles into a warm-up, so I ran back toward the camp a bit (to 1.25 miles, halfway between the two distinct pre-marathon warm-up lengths recommended by two previous coaches I had asked about this) then headed back toward the closest bathroom to it that I could find for my final pre-race relief.** Satisfied, I emerged and began a warm-up on a stretch of road right next to my starting chute, experiencing periodic bouts of butterflies and ducking over to hidden recesses for leak-taking throughout. Soon enough, though, it was time for my first marathon to begin. Lacking time to figure out the post-race pick-up bag system, I chucked my bag full of not very important clothes (I learned my lesson from the Flying Pig, at which I lost a shirt from a race I had come in 2nd) into a place I hope to find them later and went to the 2:30-2:59 section of the starting chute, where I had confidence that I belonged. The start was delayed for ten minutes, giving me more time to think about what I was about to do, which I didn't want or need. But I got it.

I was nervous for many reasons in the moments before the MCM's giant howitzer went off. But my most pressing concern was the start itself. It seemed that the starting line was divided in two, on opposite sides of the median of what is usually a highway. I was very worried that I was on the wrong side of this median, that all the runners I wanted to be near were there, and that I would lose track of them from the start of the race. It didn't help matters much that the paths remained separate for the first half mile or so of the race. I was relieved when finally they merged, and I could focus on my race. The foremost thought in my mind at the beginning was what my old Coach Dehring told me (and basically what my old Coach White had also told me): DON'T START FAST. I found myself constantly checking my watch to make sure I wasn't going too fast throughout the first half of the race, even when I felt like I could be going much faster. The first few miles of the race, run through Rosslyn and Arlington, were uphill, which helped me hold back a little, but the temptation always presented itself. Still, I think I did a good job of restraining myself miles 1-6, even as other runners went past me (some casually chatting as they went, though a Brit I ran alongside across the Key Bridge didn't say much***): 6:03, 5:54, 5:53, 5:48, 5:55, 5:46. I felt calm and strong throughout this early, hilly part of the race, spending most of my time focusing on restraint and not effort.

Coming from behind

I carried on in this same fashion for the next portion of the race. I was taking advantage of every water station on the course, though carefully ensuring it was water that I saw; at one point, I grabbed a Gatorade by mistake, but had the presence of mind to look at the cup, dropping it and swapping it for water when I saw yellow inside. Half of this portion of the race was the same out-and-back toward Rock Creek Park that I had run a few weeks earlier in the Navy/Air Force Half Marathon, so I knew what to expect. At 7 miles in, I decided to deploy the first of three Cliff Gel cube packets I had prepared for the race, strategically consuming them just before a water station so that I could wash it all down. This caused a momentary discomfort in my side, but after that, nothing, which was a relief. After the turnaround, I ended up in a pack for about 800 meters of the race (a fact I announced to my competitors, to little response). This pack was going slightly too slow for my liking, though, so I moved out of it along with another runner. This brought me to the first truly spectator-heavy part of the race, under the Arlington Bridge, where I saw all of my family members and got a momentary burst of adrenaline from all the applause. After that, though, the race became dramatically lonelier. And just before we got to Hain's Point, I got my first real scare of the race, when suddenly my right hamstring (or was it my left? I honestly can't remember now) suddenly tightened up. I was worried that this was going to turn into some kind of race-ending pain. But it wasn't affecting my gait, and wasn't any worse than other pains I've persevered through before, so I ignored it and kept going. Eventually, it transferred to the other hamstring, then went away entirely, thank God. Going around Hain's Point, though I was motivated by the fallen soldier portraits positioned along the MCM's famous Blue Mile (which itself was unexpectedly full of spectators).  I tried to be very conscious of my time when I hit 13.1, although by this point my GPS and the course markers had diverged by about .11 miles, so it was best used for pacing anyway. I do know that, starting at 13.1, I began to stop telling myself mentally to hold back, and to let myself speed up. But here were my splits 7 through 13:

5:49, 5:53, 5:49, 5:48, 5:45, 5:46, 5:48

When I escaped Hain's Point, I began to feel the best I did throughout the whole race. This portion of the race was mostly on the familiar and spectator-filled territory of the National Mall.**** There was a turnaround in front of the Arlington Bridge that confused me slightly, but I figured it out, and used the nearby water station to ingest my second set of Cliff Gel tables of the race, right around mile 15. As I said, this began my best stretch of the race. I passed at least three people on the by now very stretched out race as I went by the Washington Monument, around the Mall, in front of the Capitol building, and then toward the 14th Street Bridge. I felt strong and confident, buoyed on both by cheers from my family and by dozens of anonymous spectators rooting for "Wild Bill." It seemed people were even recognizing that I looked good and strong, which is certainly how I felt, even if at one point I asked some random guy walking around the Mall if I were still on the course (I was, thank God). I continued feeling this way, and surprising myself, all the way up to the 14th Street Bridge, where I passed what ended up being the last person I would pass all race, and beginning the final segment of solitude for this surprisingly lonely event. Here were my splits for miles 14-21, undoubtedly the most impressive portion of the race for me:

5:41, 5:44, 5:41, 5:44, 5:43, 5:40, 5:41, 5:45

Feeling strong

The hardest part of the race for me was the last 10k, which shouldn't be a surprise. It didn't help much that I had to run it entirely alone, and that it began with a seemingly endless and endlessly uphill segment crossing a bridge. I was grateful, during this trying period, to receive a water bottle from someone who just happened to be on the bridge at that time. Even though I also took advantage of a water station about a mile away (at which someone was also offering whiskey, which I declined), I really, REALLY needed water right then and there. So thank you, kind stranger. Mile 22 was on the other side of the bridge; at the water station closest to it, I ingested my last gel packets, which would have to last me for the rest of the race, as I was pretty confident they would. The next few miles of the race were a somewhat disorienting back and forth through Crystal City; at one point, the race took me through a hotel parking lot, which confused me. It was at this time that the race truly begin to weigh on me, perhaps more mentally than physically, as I was still notching off decent splits. It is perhaps no coincidence that this should happen right around the point of what had been, up to that time, my longest-ever run. But having already come so far, I had no intention of letting up, much less giving up. So I persisted through Crystal City, then into a portion of the race that navigated somewhat haphazardly through what seemed like active construction sites. As I got near the Pentagon again, I realized I had only 1.5 miles or so left. 

And thank God. Because right about then, I think I finally began to hit the infamous Wall. For those who don't know, the "Wall" is that point which runners confront in a marathon when their bodies finally start to give up on them, when moving your legs feels like trudging through a vat of molasses, when lungs collapse, when cramps attack, when your mouth becomes arid, and when only a sunk costs-induced delirium can get you to the finish. I had managed to avoid it all this time, and I don't think I was truly slamming up against the Wall now, but I was certainly growing tired. Fortunately, this came late in the race, after I had already covered so much ground. A few miles earlier (I think around 18), someone had told me I was "almost there!" I wasted precious breaths shouting back "Don't say that!" But at mile 25 or so, when I found myself back on a highway and I heard someone say I was almost there, I didn't just decline to shout back because I was running out of breath. At this point, it was true. I only had to keep things together for a mile more. Soon enough, I could see where I would go to finish; soon enough, I made that turn; soon enough, I could see the finish. Going up the last hill, I passed one of the wounded warrior cyclists, then used whatever energy I had left to get to that finishing chute. I didn't have much of a sprint in me at that time, but I didn't need one: I saw on the clock that I was well below my goal of 2:35. I ended up crossing the line in 2:34:29, in15th place, 4th among 20-24-year-olds. But, more important, I had finished. Final splits were: 5:53, 5:43, 5:40, 5:53, 6:02, and 3:30 (for the .55 miles my Garmin said I ran after completing my 26th mile).

The final stretch 

I walked through the post-finish chute in something of a daze. The whole area was lined with Marines, all of whom kept congratulating me and handing me post-race goodies (including a finisher medal), and all of whom kept telling me good job. I was a little disoriented, but I did manage to reply to at least one of them that he was the real hero, which I really meant. I escaped the finishing chute with a suitable amount of recovery swag, got some pictures with someone, then began ambling my way over to a place where spectators could find the runner they had supported. Turns out I didn't need to go over there after all, because my family found me well before I reached that place. They hugged me, sweat and all, congratulated me, and stood with me under a shady tree as I tried to return to reality. 

Still in my post-marathon daze

Eventually, despite my lactic-acid-addled legs, we all walked together from the finish area to the Rosslyn Metro station, where I, in a well-earned first, sat down on the famously long escalator, and where we took the train back to Eastern Market. My family then returned me to my apartment, prepared for the long drive back to Ohio, and then set out on it as I bid them adieu. For the remainder of the day, I did very little (understandably), stretching, eating, and laying about, marinating in the glory and the pain of my accomplishment (most of the latter of which seemed to be in my quads).

It's a long escalator, and I was tired 

So there you have it. The next time someone asks me if I've run a marathon, I can definitively say yes. And not only that. I can also say that I ran an incredibly smart race, only increasing my pace throughout, negative splitting for my halves (1:17:30/1:17:00), only passing people, distributing my energy almost perfectly, and running alone for large portions of the thing, including the entire final 10k. 

Pictured: A smart race

I can also say that I ran an incredibly fun race, which the MCM definitely was: The spectators were great; the scenery was incomparable; the aid stations were well-placed; and my family got to see me several times. The Wild Bill singlet I rocked was a crowd favorite, even though only one non-family spectator knew exactly who he was (I heard him say "Wild Bill! Go Hillsdale!" as I ran by); I think a lot of people assumed he was some kind of Pre-type figure they didn't know about (which he basically is).

I have few criticisms for myself, really: Basically, I need to run the tangents better, because I added about 400 meters more onto this course than it was actually supposed to be. And I need to get faster. But that's not something to dwell on for my first marathon. I may not have a great mile time, or great speed. But I think I learned today definitively that endurance and strength I have in abundance, which means that the marathon might be the right distance for me. Today was a good start. But something tells me this won't be the last time I run a marathon. And something else tells me that this won't be the fastest time I run a marathon in, either. For now, though, I can remain tremendously happy with this accomplishment. Yes, random small-talk maker, I have run a marathon.

Now please don't ask me about my mile time.

*See, e.g.: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IJ8kTwoTu8o&t=2s

**Which happened to be during the National Anthem. Sad!
***During the race, I wondered if I would be near him the near the end, so that I could say a version to this Royal Navy midshipman what American John Paul Jones said to the British during the War of 1812: "I have not yet begun to run!" 

****At one point during this segment of the race, a Spanish-speaking spectator even cheered me on.

'Blade Runner 2049' is up to the impossible task of following 'Blade Runner'

Will we get a sequel to this with an old Ryan Gosling in our 2049?

How do you follow up a movie like Blade Runner?

Ridley Scott's 1982 film, starring Harrison Ford as a burned-out cop (a blade runner) in a dystopian future Los Angeles tasked with hunting a group of rogue synthetic humans (known as replicants), was and remains such a singular, self-contained work. Between a production design that mixes the "used future" aesthetic of such movies as Star Wars and Scott's own Alien with the light-and-shadow dynamic of film noir, an involving soundscape that seamlessly combines a moody, synth-based score by Vangelis with in-movie audio, and a screenplay that explores themes--the meaning of humanity, the role of technology--that have only become more relevant over time...

...between all of this, Blade Runner earned a status and legacy that transcended its initial lukewarm reception and placed it among the most influential films of all time, not just of the sci-fi genre. Thus, it's not simply necessary to ask how one follows up Blade Runner, but also, why? What is left of what the original created to explore?

These were the difficult questions set before director Denis Villeneuve, staying in sci-fi after 2016's excellent Arrival, as well as screenwriters Hampton Fancher (who co-wrote the original screenplay) and Michael Green, and, for that matter, composers Hans Zimmer and Benjamin Walfisch, taking over soundtrack duties from Vangelis. And Blade Runner 2049 is their formidable answer. Returning to the world of the original Blade Runner 30 years after the events of the first film, Blade Runner 2049 justifies its existence by expanding its palette--perhaps a little too much.

Blade Runner 2049 centers on K (Ryan Gosling), an unambiguous replicant, unlike Harrison Ford's ambiguously human (?) Rick Deckard from the first movie. Like Deckard, though, K is a blade runner, a cop trained to hunt rogue replicants. One such "retirement" (the Blade Runner universe's term for executing a replicant) leaves him an intriguing clue that sets him on an investigation deep into his world, its past, and, ultimately, himself. Gosling is excellent in this role, just sympathetic and relateable enough to earn viewer investment, but also quiet and dutiful enough to remind us that he is not fully human and lacks true free will.

"Real human being/and a real hero..."

Through K's eyes, we see how dramatically the world of Blade Runner has expanded. The original film took place almost entirely within the claustrophobic, gloomy confines of its dark, neon-lit future Los Angeles. We spend plenty of time in that environment, dutifully recreated, in Blade Runner 2049. But from the opening scene to the final reel, Villeneuve (with help from cinematographer Roger Deakins) fills the screen with new ways of looking at what we think we have already seen, new angles and cuts, and new places. We see vast tracts of synthetic farmland, miles of garbage heaps, the orange, irradiated ruins of Las Vegas, the darkness of the ocean, and, in a striking Blade Runner first, the pure whiteness of snow. And it's all set to a soundtrack by Zimmer and Walfischer that draws from its predecessor while creating something new and suitably atmospheric in its own right. All of these places exist as worlds unto themselves without ever seeming out of place in the Blade Runner universe, filling in gaps implied or left by the first movie.

Modern sequels often receive criticism for hewing too closely to their predecessors. And while Blade Runner 2049 does depend heavily on its predecessor, often visually quoting or referring back to scenes, sounds, themes, and characters from it (yes, Harrison Ford returns as Deckard), this sequel defeats that critique. And it does so largely on the strength of its world-building and a faithfulness to the thematic spirit of the original that does not simply consist of (ahem) replication.

Harrison Ford, continuing his farewell tour of his most famous movie roles. 

Yet there is one defect in Blade Runner 2049: It is, in some senses, too much. The worldbuilding is great, and contributes to the film's immersive atmosphere, but can feel a bit sprawling at times. There are many talented actors in the film, in addition to Gosling and Ford, including Robin Wright, Jared Leto, and Dave Bautista. But some of them get lost in the extensive proceedings. Jared Leto's enigmatic tycoon Niander Wallace, in particular, seems like a rushed attempt to construct a profound-sounding, sinister villain. His more straightforward but equally devious analogue in Blade Runner, Eldon Tyrell, is far more compelling. And his replicant enforcer, Luv (Sylvia Hoeks) is a much more intriguing and dynamic antagonist. Despite this large and talented cast, moreover, no character, hero or villain, so engages the viewer, or raises such philosophically intriguing questions, as Rutger Hauer's Roy Batty, the replicant who wanted nothing more than to defy the death sentence foisted upon him by his creator, does in Blade Runner.

Pictured: Roy Batty (Rutger Hauer), aka Sir Not-Appearing-In-This-Film

Finally, consider its sheer length: At 163 minutes, it is nearly an hour longer than any cut of Blade Runner. Most of this additional runtime allows the story to proceed at a more relaxed, organic pace. But some of it feels like catering to a certain self-indulgence, perhaps in the belief that that was part of what made Blade Runner so special. Maybe it was, in part. But creative freedom is a tool, and, like any part of the creative process, derives its utility from how it is used. One gets the sense, from the sheer much-ness of Blade Runner 2049, that it is the product of years, if not decades, of pent-up ideas by its creators, who threw as much into the movie as they could think of.

But too much of a good thing is an easily forgivable defect. Blade Runner 2049 may be long, and it may be overstuffed. Yet by the end--and, especially, at the end, a series of scenes that certainly equals its predecessor's denouement--of its runtime, one is left not impatient for all that has occurred, but impassioned for more. Based on how this movie is doing commercially--and how it was constructed artistically--that is not likely to happen. Nor should it. For we can be happy enough to have a sequel that feels both worthy enough of the original to feel like it takes place in the same world and carries forward the same spirit and themes, and distinct enough to justify its existence. And just as the replicants of the Blade Runner universe would be happy to have their existences justified, so should we be happy that Blade Runner 2049 justified its own.

'Blade Runner' wasn't the only great sci-fi movie to come out in 1982

One of only several great movies of 1982

This weekend sees the release of Blade Runner 2049, the long-awaited (and long-delayed sequel) to 1982's Blade Runner. That Ridley Scott film, starring Harrison Ford as Rick Deckard, a burned out detective in a near-future corporatist dystopian Los Angeles charged with hunting down some escaped synthetic humanoids, wasn't a huge hit at the time. But its reputation has grown over the years, and it is now widely recognized as a visual masterpiece, influencing countless subsequent media both in and outside of the sci-fi genre.

But Blade Runner wasn't the only sci-fi/fantasy film to come out in 1982. For some reason, and despite lacking a Star Wars movie, 1982 hosted a near-embarrassment of riches for the genre, with the films released succeeding critically and commercially in establishing both genres. As a result, all of these films have been returned to, in some fashion, either given long-delayed sequels, prequels, or rebooted (whether openly or not). And all of the attempts to recapture the magic of 1982 simply have not measured up. Below I recall five of my favorites, and examine why their imitators fell short.

Yes, those are Montalban's real muscles

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. This is by far my favorite on the list, and one of my favorite movies of all time. Directed by Nicholas Meyer, and starring the original series cast plus original series villain Khan (Ricardo Montalban, reprising his role), the genetic superman bent on revenge, "TWOK" wraps a surprisingly profound meditation on aging, loss, and death up in a rousing sci-fi adventure. Aided by a great score by the late James Horner (his first major film work), unexpectedly mature performances by William Shatner (as Kirk) and Leonard Nimoy (as Spock), and, of course, by Montalban's dynamic Khan, TWOK revitalized a franchise that had seemingly been heading into senescence. Please, PLEASE watch it as soon as you can, but not before watching the original series episode "Space Seed" that functions as its prequel. Both are worth your time. And then, while you're at it, watch Skyfall, the 2012 James Bond movie that is a stealth remake of TWOK.

In 2013, J.J. Abrams (whom I have defended before) directed Star Trek Into Darkness, which ended up being a not-so-stealth remake of TWOK. As a summer blockbuster, STID, was better and smarter than average. If I had not been so fond of TWOK, or perhaps had never seen it, then I probably would have enjoyed STID, maybe even loved it. But TWOK ruined it for me. STID plays coy with its reveal, but then tries basically to be the same movie as TWOK once it reveals its villain as Khan (played by Benedict Cumberbatch) (with annoyingly knowing winks and nods to fans about it). But since it takes place in alternative Star Trek continuity, Kirk and Khan's history gets stripped of its context and meaning, leaving behind all the pathos and thematic weight of TWOK in the process. A much better movie would have involved the villain being Khan's second-in-command, whose goal is to resurrect his leader, a goal Kirk and co. must thwart. The only defense of J.J. that I can offer here is that he never really liked Star Trek much, and so relied on the screenplay given him (from which he still executed a good movie) that he did not fully comprehend or significantly attempt to alter. Khan is an iconic villain, but you can't just steal him from a better movie and expect him to work the same magic.

Thief. Warrior. Barbarian. King. Bodybuilder, 

Conan the Barbarian. Despite having an absurd title, a then-novice actor (Arnold Schwarzenegger, then basically unknown), and a fantasy setting derived from a pulp book series of already decades old by the time the movie came out, Conan the Barbarian just works. (Also, I know this is a fantasy film, but I like it so much I'm going to break my rule. Plus, when Oliver Stone [!] wrote an early draft of the screenplay, he set it in a post-apocalyptic reprimitivized Earth, so maybe it is actually sci-fi.) I've already sung its praises before (in hoping that it gets a sequel), so allow me to quote myself:

Don’t let the title fool you: Conan the Barbarian is a great movie that deserves a proper sequel. Combining images and themes from disparate times and places, it creates a fantastic world, vaguely familiar yet appropriately alien for an era before recorded history, with a vast untold history and mythology. 

Much like 1977’s Star Wars, Conan put its own spin on ancient storytelling archetypes: the hero’s journey, trusted companions, noble sacrifice, few against many. As Thulsa Doom, Darth Vader himself (James Earl Jones) is one of its best assets: a sort of primeval Jim Jones, who orders followers to kill their parents (and themselves) at his whim to prove the “power of the flesh” over steel. It all unfolds amidst a mélange of practical effects and fascinating ideas from writer-director Millius (a fascinating man himself), set to a rousingly old-fashioned score by the late Basil Poledouris.

I don't have much to add to this. I do have something to say, however, about subsequent entries in the Conan franchise. First, there is Conan the Destroyer, which I have seen. This movie bizarrely abandons the mythic, just-short-of-bombastic trappings of the first film, adding Wilt Chamberlain (?) as a villain and dramatically upping the comedy and slapstick. Conan (and Conan) deserved better. The recent attempted reboot, starring Jason Mamoa, I have only seen a portion of; that was enough. Drenching the proceedings in CGI and forced darkness, this new Conan coasted on well-worn clichés rather than drawing from the epic tradition of human storytelling, as did the original Conan. The creators of the property were probably hoping that "brand recognition" would allow them to get away with creative laziness, but audiences and critics alike rejected the attempt, and squandered the legacy of the original Conan in the process.

When will we get a Freddy vs. Jason-style It vs. The Thing? 

The Thing. The Thing is a disgusting movie. I mean this as a compliment for it is disgusting in the best possible way. This sci-fi horror film, directed by John Carpenter, is about an Arctic research crew who have to contend with a fearsome alien that can infect any living thing and assume its shape. Kurt Russell is the lead, but Keith David and Wilford Brimley, among others, also contribute to the frightening, paranoia-drenched, claustrophobic experience. And oh yeah, it's gross. It was the 80s, so Carpenter and his crew didn't have access to CGI. You'd think that might be limiting, but you'd be wrong. Using nothing but good old-fashioned practical effects and animatronics, The Thing produces scene after scene of nightmare fuel; in one memorable instance, an actor reacts to one of the titular creature's transformations by saying "you've gotta be fucking kidding me." See The Thing, and you'll not only agree that this is one of the most honest horror movie reactions in film history, but you'll also find yourself mouthing the words in agreement. The Thing also inspired this hilarious video, which is another point in its favor.

Which brings me to the 2011 prequel, also called The Thing. Making a prequel is always a risky bet, and this was a bet that failed--or so I'm told; I have not bothered to see this movie. The only thing that needs to be said about it, in my view, is that it replaces the 80s-style gore-and-guts practicality of the original with the sterile unrealism of CGI. Practical effects can be bad; see, e.g., Plan 9 From Outer Space (and, for that matter, CGI can be good; see, e.g., The Force Awakens or Mad Max: Fury Road, both of which used more CGI than you might think). But, at their best, practical effects do not impede creativity, but facilitate it. When you can't just turn to a computer to render something for you, you have to think pretty hard about how to make it in the real world; as a result of actually existing, in some form, that created thing can then have more of a realistic bearing in the world itself, and therefore in the film. CGI, on the other hand, at its worst, liberates the imagination, but in a way that makes the deceptions on the screen obvious, and distracts from the intended effect. What I've seen of The Thing remake suggests the latter in abundance.

E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial: These days, especially with Stranger Things and It, nostalgia for a certain sense of the 80s--technology-free, biking from house to house, hanging out with your neighbors and communicating with him via walkie-talkie, walking around your small hometown, creating an entire world beyond the stifling presence of adults--is all the rage in our pop culture. This is due, in large part, to Steven Spielberg, especially but not limited to E.T. I hardly need to summarize its plot, which just about everyone knows at this point (kindly alien suddenly enters the life of a young, fatherless boy, changing everything), or point out the contrast with the vision of alien life presented by Carpenter in The Thing (consonant with Spielberg's earlier Close Encounters of the Third Kind, but clashing dramatically with his later War of the Worlds). E.T. was a box office and critical smash, cementing Spielberg as a legend, and crystallizing for those who saw it at the time and those who see it afterward the sort of gauzy 80s nostalgia so in vogue today, a kind of double recollection, one real, and one fake (with the two of them intermixing).

This is the one area in which our pop culture seems (so far) capable of competently and consistently drawing from its predecessor. Stranger Things (which I shall review soon on this blog), J.J. Abrams' Super 8, It, and other media have all profitably mined this vein of 80s nostalgia. In all cases, though, one wonders why this era seems to have such a powerful pull, whether it is truly worthy of the constant revisitation our current culture creators seem intent on giving it, or whether they are only doing so because of the fondness they hold for it as an accident of their birth, and, finally, whether the insistence upon returning to and homaging can instead lead to redundancy (as in the case of the competently made and enjoyable Super 8; sorry J.J.) and creative inhibition.

I already sang the praises of Blade Runner above, but I'll happily sing them again. Combining a moody, evocative, synthesizer-based soundtrack by Vangelis with images so unique in their presentation that we had to coin a new term ("tech noir") to describe them, and reinforcing all of that with heady meditations on what it means to be human, Blade Runner is simply incredible (but be sure to watch The Final Cut; there are many versions floating around out there).

As I wrote above, Blade Runner is getting a sequel this weekend, after 35 years. We don't know yet whether it lives up to the original, although early signs are good. But whatever happens, we will always have 1982. It was not a year of special significance; the significance of the year in film is in the lack thereof. These were just the kinds of movies being made in the early 80s. Today, we have made many attempts to try to recapture the magic--with much more mixed success. Something tells me there won't be many people trying to recapture the magic of 2017 in 2052.

It's been 10 years since my first* cross-country race

At the start of my first cross-country race. I'm the one on the far left, in the shadow of that tall kid.

10 years ago today, an awkward, skinny, 14-year-old kid with ridiculous hair put on his running shorts backwards and headed to the starting line of his first high school cross country race, the Brian Plasman Invitational at Fairfield's Harbin Park. Despite a few summer months of training, and some other running experience, he didn't really know what he was doing. So he was a bit surprised, a half-mile or so into the two-mile freshman race, to find himself locked in a battle of wills for first place. But he turned his surprise into determination, hung with the other runner vying for victory, and, in the final stretch, out-kicked his competitor and won his first high school cross country race. (Somewhere, there is a picture of the moment I crossed the line, but I cannot find it.)

In the middle of my first race (I'm on the left). 

If you haven't figured it out by now, yes, I was that kid. And today is the tenth anniversary of that race, which I consider the official start of my running career. Memory can be an arbitrary thing; we can recall, years after the fact, useless random information or pointless details about our lives, while our best moments become only foggy recollections. But I'll always remember August 25, 2007, the day I became a runner.

Team prayer before the race. I'm the guy kneeling down to tie his shoes, of course.

I have a lot of reasons to remember a day like that. Starting my running career off with a win was certainly nice. But I think it's more important for the pattern it set. Because, for the subsequent decade of my life, running has been my life; I've been living the life between runs that inspired the name of this blog. I lived it at St. Xavier High School, working my way up from novice freshman to confused sophomore to confident upperclassmen, with some of my best friends and favorite coaches by my side. I was fortunate enough to live it at Hillsdale College, running with, against, and coached by others who also lived lives between runs, and being humbled by the sheer array of talent I had to face. And I do it as a college graduate, content, for the most part, to run all my miles in solitude, to serve as the only teammate and coach that I have. I did many other things during these years, but I was almost always also running, or thinking about running.

And I've done a lot of running in these past ten years. According to my currently (and likely perpetually) incomplete running2win running log, I have run about 20,000 miles (a figure that does not include any running I did before June 2009--or not yet, anyway**). I've also run 92 races (again, not counting pre-June 2009), at the following distances: 400 meters, 800 meters, 1500 meters, 1600 meters, 1 mile, 3000 meters, 3200 meters, 4000 meters, 5k (by far the most represented distance), 4 miles, 8k, 5 miles, 10k, and, last May, 13.1 miles. I have run in four countries (USA, Jamaica, Italy, and Greece), and 12 states (Ohio, South Carolina, Kentucky, Illinois, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin, West Virginia, North Carolina, California, Virginia, Maryland, and Washington, D.C., with races in Ohio, Kentucky, Michigan, Indiana, Wisconsin, North Carolina, and Washington, D.C.). The ~20,000 miles I've run would have taken me across the United States a bit less than 8 times, though I'm still 4,000 miles short of making the full ~24,000-mile circumference of the Earth.

It's basically impossible for me, at this point, to recount all of my memories from a decade of running, though some races (high school XC District championships 2009, college conference championships 2013) stand out. But I can begin to list some of the things I love so much about it. The smell and feel of being at a cross country course in the fall. The pre-race jitters. The thrill of actually winning a race. The feeling you get after a race or a workout. The way cold winter air makes your lungs hurt. When it's raining so much outside that you stop caring how wet or muddy you're getting. The guilt-free excuse excessive running provides to eat as much as you want and still be skinny. The cheerful camaraderie of runs with others. The bracing solitude of runs alone. Charlie horses. Ice baths. Post-race Gatorade. A successfully-executed race-ending kick. I could go on forever.

Pictured: Me, really enjoying running. 

But it would be dishonest to deny that running always goes well, for me or for anyone else. For every race I've run well, there is at least one that I've blown, or at least not done what I wanted to do. For every workout that I meet my standards, there is at least one (or more) in which I fall short. For every period where I feel indestructible and practically immortal, there has been a period when injury, exhaustion, or a mental funk has laid me low. Running is not always pleasant, and anyone who tells you otherwise is either lying or doesn't do it enough.

Indeed, at many times throughout my now decade-long running career, it's been rough enough for me that I've thought about hanging up my shoes for good. (I have literally bled for the sport.) It happened in high school, when it seemed like my early promise was fading away. It happened in college, when it seemed like I just couldn't figure out how to fit running into my life. And it's happened in my post-collegiate running life, when injury, disappointment, or sheer exhaustion have made me wonder if my lone wolf runner lifestyle is really worth the effort I put into it. In my darkest moments, sometimes I've wondered whether I should just move on, make running a casual hobby, something I do every once in a while when I feel like it, instead of trying to maintain the same level of commitment to it that I've had for all of these years. In these moments, the simple yet piercing question presents itself: Why?

Me, bleeding for the sport.

The biting nature of that simple question has forced me to come up with an answer several times; see here and here, for example. As with many questions of this nature, I may never get a true answer. I can always point to tertiary benefits: staying in shape (though I could capture most of the fitness benefits of cardio at about a third of the running I do), relief of boredom, etc. But the best I've come up with so far is something like this. By now, running is so thoroughly a part of my life that I don't think I could stop even if I tried (and I actually have!). Beyond that, though, there's a part of me that never wants to stop. A part of me that sees all of the disappointments, all of the times I've fallen short, and takes them only as further motivation. Because of that, so long as I never get exactly what I want out of running--and believe me, I still haven't--I will never want to stop. And I think that's because I will never truly be happy with myself until I've seen how good I can be. I am fortunate enough to have this gift, and I would not be using it rightly if I did not test its true extent, all the while honing these virtues--discipline, self-reliance, persistence--that make me not only a better runner but also a better person. Plus, the way I see it, I have at least another solid decade of running at my physical peak in me before time finally starts catching up. That's plenty of time left to see what I am capable of.

Starting the last lap of my last college race. I could have stopped here forever, but I didn't.

So what's next for me? I have no idea what the next 10 years of running will bring. But I can tell you about the next 10 weeks. Right now, I am in the midst of running my first-ever 100-mile week, a feat I came within less than a mile of achieving in college, a falling-short that has bothered me ever since. It is going well, though we'll see how I feel after my 22-mile run on Sunday. And why am I being even more of a masochist than usual? Because on October 22, I will run my first marathon: the Marine Corps Marathon of Washington, D.C. It should be...interesting.

Oh, one more thing. On September 10, a couple of Washington, D.C. grade school kids will line up at the start of their first race of the cross-country season; for some of them, their first race ever. They may or may not know what they're doing; they may or may not win. Regardless, starting next Wednesday, I will be there for them as their coach. Running has given me a lot over the years, and it's time I started giving back. And so, in 10 years, I have moved from runner to coach. I'm excited to see what the next decade of running brings. But whatever happens, I'll always remember that it all started with a skinny, awkward, 14-year-old kid with ridiculous hair at Harbin Park.

Even though I have come a long way since then. Now, my beard is ridiculous instead of my hair.

*Okay,  I ran cross country as an 8th grader, but I was playing football at the same time, so I don't really count it. High school XC was my real first.
**Because I have a dangerous, almost debilitating obsession with the past, I'm currently engaged in an extended project to update my running log for as much of the running I have ever done as possible.

RIP Red Hot, 2001-2017 (My car, 2010-2017)

I'm in love with my car. 

If you spend a lot of time driving growing up, then you never forget your first car. The car in which you learned that everyone else on the road is a bad driver--except for you, of course. The car that gave you the freedom of the open road. And the car in which you maybe learned the consequences of that freedom, improperly exercised: speeding tickets, car accidents, breakdowns because of bad maintenance (you can't ignore those flashing indicators forever). Although America's car culture has waned in recent years, and some would like to get rid of human-driven cars, America is still the most car-centric country in the world. And for many teenagers, a license and a car open up an entire world.

And so I could not help but to feel sad yesterday, when an era ended at the Butler household, as my first car made its last journey from our driveway on a flatbed truck to be donated. Red Hot, as so christened by my sister Annie, had served our family well for the past 10 years. She drove the 2002 Red Ford Escape from 2007 to 2010, after the unfortunate demise of another vehicle. And starting in February 2010, about a month after I finally got my license (on New Year's Eve 2009), Red Hot was mine.

Mine, all mine. 

It's weird, what you remember about something. I can remember the first time I drove Red Hot to my high school. It was a typical gross Cincinnati February day, cold enough to be unpleasant but not cold enough actually to snow, so we got rain instead. The song "Crimson and Clover" by Tommy James and the Shondells (whose frontman is a Dayton, Ohio native), played on the radio. I can remember when Red Hot's odometer hit 100,000, in the spring of my senior year of high school. I can remember most (though not all) of the incredible assortment of passengers who, at one point or another, occupied my car with me at the wheel. I can remember getting lost in various places throughout the state of Ohio, and having to intuit my way back in an age before smartphones (or before I had a smartphone, anyway). I can remember summer evenings on highways with the windows cracked and the radio playing "Hotel California" (sans colitas) or "Running On Empty," and nights with the eerie backing of Pink Floyd, "In the Air Tonight," or Coast to Coast AM. It's possible I'll have similar experiences again in a different vehicle, perhaps, but never the same ones.

Red Hot's final odometer read out under our ownership.

Like Han Solo's Millennium Falcon, Red Hot developed many quirks over the years. The AC was never great, but, eventually, it stopped working altogether (which is why I would have my windows open on highways on summer evenings), though the heat functioned fine. This served me well in Michigan, where Red Hot lived out most of the prime of his life. But the heat was never powerful enough to melt the arctic runoff ice off the windshield very quickly, especially in the middle of a Michigan winter. The CD player could hold multiple disks at the same time, but only worked when it felt like it, and there was no way to predict when it would. The options were usually burned years prior, by friends or family members, though one CD with the "Chariots of Fire" theme on it made for some fun serenades of runners. The interior upholstery of Red Hot began falling apart early; I kept it up with as much duct tape as needed. The brakes also weren't the greatest. They never hurt anyone, but using another car's brakes always surprised me; I realized that some brakes didn't require a life-or-death push. But, as with many things, the quirks soon became part of the car's appeal.

Nostalgia is a tricky thing, though. It's worth remembering that there is always good with the bad. Red Hot is no exception. He suffered two accidents, one of which was my fault, and the other of which I watched happen helplessly from outside of my car. Fortunately, he survived both. He also survived many random maintenance issues: a brake broken by winter weather, a battery killed from being too wet, stopping the car in the middle of a drive to school. And perhaps because he was red, and because I was a young adult male, Red Hot also attracted the attention of northwestern Ohio's finest on a couple of occasions on my way to and from college, the first of which was occurred while I was distracted and jamming out to "Kashmir" by Led Zeppelin. I don't blame Red Hot for any of this, of course. For until we have self-driving cars, and unless we are caught in situations in which weather or physics deprive us of control, what we do with our cars merely reflects what we do with ourselves. That is always the essence of driving, the first real power-trip any of us have. At 16, the state deems us fit to control a machine that hurtles along the roads with thousands of pounds of momentum, alongside other machines moving in the same or different directions. It is an awesome power, and with awesome power comes awesome responsibility.

A selfie, taken in Red Hot on May 29, 2017, at the end of my last-ever time driving him.

I drove Red Hot in high school, went a few weeks in college without him and found it impossible. From then on, though I never took Red Hot on a true road trip, he dutifully ferried me back and forth between Hillsdale and Michigan on multiple occasions, the last of which was May 2015, a few days after I graduated. Alas, when I moved, car-less, to D.C. to become an urban coastal millennial, Red Hot's utility to the Butler family rapidly faded. With his capacious trunk space, he was great to have on hand for moving furniture, mulch, and dogs. And when all seven Butlers were home for special occasions--the holidays, a wedding, a funeral--he helped to ease tensions by allowing everyone to get around as needed. I was particularly pleased to return home and always find him there, waiting for me.

Red Hot, waiting patiently in our driveway, on his last day with the Butlers. 

The simple fact that he was there was comforting to me, a reminder that I could come home at any time and it would be like I had never left. This sense of returning was especially acute on the two occasions that I drove Red Hot to my high school as a college graduate: first, for my 5-year high school reunion (which probably wasn't long enough to be significant, if I could still drive my high school car to it); and again, for the last time, in May of 2017, to visit a high school teacher in the classroom just before his retirement. But most of the time, when my parents' now empty nest was at its emptiest, and there were no children around to drive him, Red Hot sat in the driveway unused, collecting rust and dust.

It is a struggle to pick just one experience to define my time with Red Hot, so I'll go with one of the more recent ones. On January 2, 2017, I started Red Hot just as "Champagne Supernova" by Oasis, one of my favorite songs, came on the radio. I was heading to downtown Loveland, for lunch with a friend. As I made the short drive, I rocked out to the song, turning up the volume at the moments when I knew the song kicked into its highest gear. I pulled into my parking spot at The Works, a fine brick-oven pizza restaurant in downtown Loveland, the moment the song ended, giving me a memorable experience and revealing to me how long it takes to drive to downtown Loveland. And on the way back, a few minutes before I returned home, "Time To Pretend" by MGMT, a song I richly associate with my high school years, came on the radio. I was hoping for as neat a return home as I'd enjoyed on the way out. As I approached my driveway, though, it didn't seem that I would get it. But when you have a car, you can just keep driving until the song is over. And so I did.

Red Hot's final moments in our driveway. 

These and many other memories and experiences and feelings mark my time with Red Hot, and have given him a steadfast place in my memory (and contributed to a love of driving that will make me resist self-driving cars when the government makes them mandatory sometime around 2050). But these objects for which we are nostalgic are not always themselves the real cause of the nostalgia. It's more the experiences they enabled, and the people we shared them with. That is what we're fond of. And that is why I will miss Red Hot.

'Dunkirk' thrillingly captures the reality of war

See this movie. 

The first words in Christopher Nolan's Dunkirk are spoken by a young British soldier (Fionn Whitehead) who has just barely escaped the enemy gunfire that had picked off a group of his fellow soldiers one by one. Yet as the young Brit, desperate to escape the bit of French territory just across the channel from England into which invading German forces have corralled the Allies, stumbles into an Allied encampment, he is fired on once again and nearly killed. He speaks the words that save his life: "I'm English."

This concise, thrilling, and brutal opening scene is basically Dunkirk in miniature. It has the tension, the action, the true-to-life depiction of war, the desperate quest for survival, and, most important, the understated yet surely present undercurrent of English patriotism. All of these qualities appear, in one form or another, in varying combinations, for the rest of the film. Together, they make it a highlight of Nolan's impressive oeuvre (he of Inception, and The Dark Knight fame), and one of the best World War II films ever made. There are many ways to make a World War II movie, and Hollywood has basically done them all. There's the "elite squad on a mission" template (Dirty Dozen, Inglorious Basterds, A Bridge Too Far). There's the "disparate platoon on a journey" model (Band of Brothers, Saving Private Ryan, Fury). There's the "Great Man" type (Patton, Emperor), that views the war through the eyes of a single important figure.There are other kinds, but these are the mainstays. And again, we've seen plenty of all of them.

What we haven't seen is a movie like Dunkirk. Several qualities distinguish Dunkirk immediately. There are, for example, no Americans (we weren't in the war yet, although we are alluded to when one character reads Winston Churchill's famous post-Dunkirk speech). Nor are there ever any scenes of commanding officers pointing at maps or discussing strategy in a room; the closest we get is Kenneth Branagh as an officer who, trapped like everyone else on the beach, is in just as much danger as they (and one could argue his role is even slightly extraneous to the film). Even more striking, however, is that there are no Germans. Yes, the soldiers trapped on Dunkirk's beach and sailing in its waters are bombed by, torpedoed by, and shot at by Germans, but never do we see on screen a single German face.

Pictured: definitely not a German face

And unlike virtually every movie listed above, there are very few stars in Dunkirk. World War II movies often can't resist stuffing their cast to the gills with famous actors, almost/often to the point of distraction (see, for example, the cast of A Bridge Too Far). This isn't to say Dunkirk is completely devoid of stars--we have Kenneth Branagh, recent Academy Award winner Mark Rylance, Nolan regulars Tom Hardy (yet again obscuring his face for most of the film as a pilot) and Cillian Murphy, Harry Styles (of One Direction), and Michael Caine (er, his voice). Nor is it devoid of acting talent: In his film debut, Fionn Whitehead, the closest Dunkirk has to a main character, is a highly relatable and engaging locus of sympathy; Mark Rylance embodies the stiff upper lip as the civilian Brit sailing across the channel (often steering with a Union Jack visible behind him), and the rest of the actors involved do some of their best work.

"When Hitler is ashes...then you have my permission to die."

But Dunkirk has a more collective focus; names are given only sparingly and indirectly. It cuts between three temporally and spatially distinct yet occasionally intersecting narratives: on land (the soldiers stuck on the beach), sea (an English civilian piloting his private ship across the channel to Dunkirk), and air (English pilots trying to keep their countryman safe from German planes). Some critics have questioned the necessity of this nonlinear timeline, but the scope it provides is immense, and the payoff it delivers upon climax is justly rewarding (even more so with the backing of an 80s Vangelis-style backing by Hans Zimmer). Nolan manages to convey the drama of the entire incident, in all its facets, while also giving us people whose lives and fates concern us. He has delivered on his promise to make Dunkirk an "intimate epic."

Nolan makes us care about these characters by showing how difficult mere survival is in such a situation. The British in Dunkirk have to survive sinking ships, German bombs and torpedoes, aerial dogfights, ocean water caught on fire from spilled oil, and much, much more (which Nolan illustrates with practical effects, bucking Hollywood's CGI laziness). So many moments of danger in the film rely on split-second decisions, happenstance, and fortune that we never truly know what is going to happen to any one of the characters on screen. They fight not only the enemy, but, in many cases, sheer helplessness. What can a soldier with a single rifle do against an attacking plane? What can you do if your boat is full but you see comrades treading water? It is the focus on sheer survival, and the moments of high tension (again aided by Nolan regular Hans Zimmer's score and its Shephard tones), that make Dunkirk one of the best on-screen portrayals of the pure lived reality of war that I have seen (and this 97-year-old British Dunkirk veteran agrees with me!).

Yet some have criticized Dunkirk, primarily for being boring or somehow hollow. The action depicted on screen never adds up to anything substantial, they claim, and it's difficult to connect to a cast intentionally made into more of a collective. Yet such critics totally miss the point of Dunkirk. By honing in on the more common experiences of war, Dunkirk steers away from Saving Private Ryan-style sentimentality and captures the lived reality of the conflict for the overwhelming majority of its participants, the desperate (and overwhelmingly young*) soldiers content only to survive to the next battle. Other World War II movies may have elite squads, conveniently-assembled platoons, or singular Great Men, but Dunkirk alone of World War II movies I've seen successfully conveys how an entire nation felt at war.

We see this in one of the last exchanges of the film, as--spoiler alert for a historical event that happened more than 70 years ago--two characters return to England and pass by an old man. He congratulates them for what they have done.

"We just survived," one of them scoffs. "That's good enough," the old man says in reply. As, indeed, it was. As for Dunkirk itself, it's more than good enough. See it for yourself, on the biggest screen possible, and find out why. *It seemed in appropriate for me to mention in the body of my review, but this movie, above all, made me think about how I would have fared in a situation like this. The actors playing most of the soldiers are all right around my age, as would the soldiers on the beach all those years ago. Would I have been a coward? A hero? Would I have survived? How fortunate was I to have been born in one of the only times and places in the vast stream of human history in which I am exempt from what otherwise would have been my duty as an able-bodied young adult male in virtually any other time and place? Why am I asking you these questions?

Nobody liked me when I was 23 (just kidding?)

This is the age that I am now. 

One of the things I've been thinking about the most since graduating college is what temporal templates I should now measure my life by. Before I graduated college, the academic calendar supplied my temporal templates: Fall was always a time of beginnings; winter was a period of intermediary struggle; spring was the final stretch; and summer was a chance to recharge.

As a post-school adult, though, I am a bit more temporally uncertain. (You might say I've become unstuck in time.) Neither the academic calendar nor the seasons make perfect guides. Not being a student, I have no reason to follow the academic calendar, aside from habit and the aspects of our culture that are still determined by academia, such as college football schedules. Yet the former of these forces suffices to make the actual beginning of the calendar year still seem more like a halfway point than a starting point. Of course, I could pick any random date in a year, or any temporal template (the fiscal year? the liturgical calendar?) and structure my year around it and it would be an entirely defensible choice. But I like to make my life decisions as pregnant with potential (or imaginary) meaning as possible (which is why I toyed with establishing a "theme" for last year). So that simply will not do.

To resolve this dilemma, I am going to try taking a page from my sister Annie's book and make my birthday (which is today) the keystone of my new temporal template. This is arguably just as arbitrary a decision as any other, of course; it's just the day I happened to be born. But I'll give it a try, especially since it's conveniently about halfway through the year anyway. And going from birthday to birthday, 23 has been quite the year:

-In July 2016, I visited the George Washington Masonic Memorial in Alexandria, an ornate building full of secrets.

Illuminati confirmed? 

I also went to the Republican National Convention in Cleveland (making Lake Erie my first Great Lake of the year), by far the craziest political experience I have ever had.

At the closing of the RNC.

I also used the excuse to cross two items off of my Cleveland bucket list: I went to the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, and visited the campus of St. Ignatius High School, the rival of Cincinnati St. Xavier.

Having my revenge upon St. Ignatius. 

I ended the day with a long, relaxing, evening drive across the state of Ohio that was beautiful for reasons I can't quite explain.

Later, as part of a family vacation to the town along Lake Michigan (my second Great Lake of the year), I reunited with an old friend to film a performance of the interrogation scene from The Dark Knight. 




-In August, my workplace completed its long-awaited move to a new building. I also visited the Scottish Rite Freemasonry House of the Temple in Washington, D.C., also an ornate building full of secrets.

Illuminati confirmed again?

-In September, I won a race (the  Army/Navy 5-miler in D.C.) for the first time in years.

-In October, I conquered years of fear and watched The Exorcist, in the city in which it is set.

-In November, I became a man of my word and returned after three years to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for a glorious weekend of post-election escape in one of the most beautiful places in the country (making Lake Superior my third Great Lake of the year). 

Sunset on Lake Superior.

-Later that same month, I came in 2nd place at the Cincinnati Thanksgiving Day Race, my highest-ever placing. I also enjoyed the company of friends and family, of course.

Post-race revelry. 

-In January 2017, I left D.C. for Inauguration weekend with some coworkers to relax at a cabin in the Appalachian mountains.

Our cabin in the woods. 

-In February, I met with a source at the Watergate parking garage, and filmed a reenactment of the scenes that took place there in All the President's Men (I will release it soon).

Watergate.

-In May, I completed my first half-marathon, placing 4th in the Cincinnati Flying Pig.

Taken during my first half-marathon by Mark Motz.

-Later that same month, my sister Annie got married, and I was a groomsman in the wedding.

The Butler family, assembled for the wedding of Annie (center). 

-In June, I helped chaperone a 12-day trip of students from my high school to Greece (about which more soon).

One of many (approximately 1,000) pictures from my Greece trip. This one is from Santorini.

-Just after I returned, I moved into a new apartment in D.C., three blocks away from my old one.

-On July 6, I marked two years at my current job and workplace.

-From January to the present, I have been growing a beard for the first time in my life. I have never looked like this before; in its own way, the beard is a temporal template, as without it, I would look pretty much exactly as I have since I turned 21. For now, it stays.

Taken January 2nd, the last time I shaved.

Taken yesterday.

So that was 23. Who knows what 24 will bring. I do know this, though: People will like me when I'm 24. I think.