1988 brought to close my high school career; a career that didn't pay much and left me strangely dissatisfied. Little did I know that this was an introduction to an adult life of not being paid and constant feelings slight dissatisfaction.

Carroll College is a small, liberal arts school tucked away in the quiet town of Waukesha, Wisconsin. This is the institution where I would fuck off and get trashed a whole lot attend school for 2 semesters.

I signed up as a theater arts major, no doubt still riding high from my captivating high school performances at Western Springs Theater as "elf 2" and "dead guy", and quickly discovered the meaning of the words FUCKING HARD. So many technical classes were there: Lighting design, sound design, set design, and then there were the other various hours of French, English, bla bla bla. I managed to tame my wild schedule by getting myself cast in any and every show that was up. At one point, I was in the mainstage production of "Little Shop of Horrors" (as the dentist) and in 3 one acts. Dummy.

I began to crash, hard. Managing time was not a forte of mine. Hell, it wasn't even a three-te, but I was learning one thing: School was not for me.

This here thing happened about 3 or 4 weeks ago, and it's pretty fucking nifty:

I awoke remembering only part of the dream: A lone massage table, opened and dressed in the middle of my parents’ bare garage. That was all.

It was 7:00 in the morning, a Thursday, waking up for my 8 mile run made exponentially harder because of massage class the night before. Ironically, I don’t sleep well after massage class. You’d think rubbing and being rubbed for near 4 hours would be the recipe for the sleep of the dead, but for some reason, I wrestled each Wednesday night to surrender to just a few hours of rest.
I strapped on my shoes, downed a half-bagel, and headed outside into the swelling North Hollywood morning - my route on Thursdays, a bikepath that cuts straight through North Hollywood into Burbank; an in and out run of 8 miles that greeted me with a regular morning crew of walkers, fellow runners, and cyclists.
For the first half of the run, that image of the empty garage kept creeping back to me: A massage table, dressed, in the middle of the garage where I grew up. That’s all I could recollect. Then, at mile 4, my turn-around point, more details of the dream began to flow:
I remembered seeing myself walking towards the table, a client draped, face-down, upon it. I slowly approached and gently undraped his back. Oiling my hands, I began to effleurage, my hands feeling full and warm on his body. My fingers traced each and every muscle, instinctively going to the places in need of the most attention and applying gentle, loving touch, and as I massaged my client, I noticed tension releasing from my own body.
As I finished his back, speaking softly, I asked him to roll over, and as he did, I realized that it was ME. I sat at the head of the table and head-cradled the me on the massage table, shutting my eyes, giving attention only to the present moment. As I opened my eyes, I looked down at the table, and the client had become me, at 5 years old.
The dream transitioned, and I found myself standing beside 5 year old me, holding hands. It felt natural, beautiful, right. And then 5 year old me wrapped his arms about my waist.
The next thing that I knew, I was now on the table, the 5 year old me head-cradling me now. I felt a calm wash over me. The 5 year old me leaned over and kissed my forehead, placing his hand on my chest, saying the only words I’d hear the entire dream:
“I’m still in here.”

As I continued to run and the details of the dream came back to me, a huge release hit: I was unearthing something vitally important to me – myself, my true self, something so easily lost, and yet so easy to tap back into. Tears of joy, pain, fear, and love streamed down my cheeks as I strode effortlessly towards home in the glowing, Thursday morning sun.

It's this simple, kids:

I am going to run 100 consecutive miles.

Someday. Not tomorrow, not even this year, but mark my words, these legs will pump out 100 miles without so much as a few minutes of sleep. It's something that in the past months I've decided that I must do.

I'm signed up for and running a 25k mountain race on August 27th (only 15.7 miles, but in the Santa Monica Mountains, so plenty of elevation changes and hazardous trails), but I see a 50k in my near, near future. From there, it's only another 20 miles to a 50 mile ultra-marathon, and well hell, while you're there, might as well tack on another 50 for an even 100...

I know it sounds crazy, but it's something, one of the few things I've ever considered, that I have to do. Of course, talk to me when I have blisters the size of half-dollars on my heels at mile 56 and my legs are as blown out as Ron Jeremy at a hooker convention.

I have been a bad, bad boy. Away for too long, neglecting my delicious blog. For shame, Russ. For....shame.

I've been all right, I s'pose. Well, that's not entirely true. About 4 weeks ago, I noticed my left hand trembling ever-so-slightly. Fans will recall that my left hand was the numb and tingly one when I was hospitalized. So I ask my doc, "Hey, what's up with this?" and he gave me a look like, "Oh shit." Needless to say, crap about lept from my anus into my pants. He had me set up an appointment for an EMG test, where they shoot electric currents through your nerves to test their health and stability. So Monday, I donned the gown and got shocked for about 10 minutes. Actually, it was pretty farkin cool! My hand lept all around with each shock like a frog on a hot plate. The doctor looked like Richard Belzer, without the funky complexion.

Richard Belzer would still be quite unattractive even with clear skin, by the way.

The results: No nerve damage! I celebrated with a small jig, ripped the green tent from my torso, got dressed and walked on air to my car. Then I started thinking, "Hey, dumbass, you still don't know what's wrong with you." So I go back in 3 weeks to my doctor and he prescribes.....something....else.

Massage class is winding to a close, which is a massive relief: Gaining my Sundays will be a treat, but I'm reeeeeeallllly gonna miss everyone. We've created some wonderful bonds, the lot of us, and we've changed as living creatures before each others' eyes. I forcast a lot of blubbering like a little baby on my part the last day. What a surprise, eh?

I feel as though the journey's only just begun.