Bravo

This time of year, albeit exceptionally cold this go-round, gives us a chance to stretch it out some. The old long, steady distance session. On Sunday's at the PowerBarn, our indoor training facility, we do this while watching movies. This is nothing new, we used the same format at least a dozen years ago as we diligently trained for Ironman races while watching Seahawk games on tiny tubed TVs with rabbit ears. If you want a first hand idea of just how long the NFL drags out their commercial cash-cows, ride a game and see (feel) for yourself.

Today, even as the temps were forecasted to reach a 'bearable' 40 degrees or so, I dutifully opened the Barn as one of our regulars was wanting to get in some work. He texted me as I drove to the facility apologizing for the emergency that was canceling his ride. Advanced demographic research indicates that 98.8% of the time that means some type of Honey-do chore, forgotten or recently assigned. And that is fine. I understand. It is why I remain a bachelor.

But now I have another dilemma. If I am going to be the only rider, should I cancel and take a day? After all I am house/dog sitting two clients at once, and have a ton to do, plus yesterday's high-intensity session at the club left me wrecked and deep in atrial fibrillation. It IS Sunday after all.

I cannot take the wimpy way. I suit up and start the movie, cold and lonely. It is a post-apocalyptic survivalist piece called, oddly enough, The Survivalist. Normally the genre we appreciate and prefer contains raw intensity, non-stop action, many things exploding, generous guilt-free sex and several high-speed chases. Guns, tanks, subs, fighter jets, knives, grenades and lots of blood helps too. There should be dialogue just enough to exchange guttural utterances or a judicial pledge of eternal love.

The Survivalist had its moments, however. I appreciate the nuance of filmmaking enough to follow, mostly, what a director, writer, actor or best boy is trying to do or say, but I was tested as much by this dark story as I was by the cadence and power settings I was struggling to keep. After the twenty minute opening sequence, devoid of any dialogue, I almost shouted my appreciation for The Road, asking for a more authentic depiction of doom, desolation and depravity. Nobody does that like Cormac McCarthy.

I ride it out, hoping that there will be a twist, some cinematic saving grace by either writer or director. There are three characters and I really cannot relate to any of them, making it a chore for me to root for a specific outcome. It is just bleakness. Still I watch, eyes glues to our new 60 inch smart TV, as I feel my power begin its gradual descent.

I know that the total running time, including credit roll, is 104 minutes. I need this to end so I can get back to work, feeding hungry dogs and making the rounds. I also have to author this piece, a time-consuming labor of love.

It ends. I am disappointed with the ending. I also remember thinking that I was also disappointed with several editing decisions. I cannot recall if there was a soundtrack or score, so there most likely wasn't, an possible attempt to use the stark sounds of rain and pain as ambient noise irritants (to augment the many visual metaphors).

38.87 miles. And a few ghastly images that I'll deal with later. Maybe we should go back to football. But then we, I alone today, would miss the artistry and courage (and cost and time) it takes to bring an idea into the reality of a motion picture or video. And I appreciate that.

After all it is something I do.

And I think this is one way that we improve; watching, assessing, rating, enjoying and sometimes even just surviving the work, the art, the effort, the incredible victory of completion that making something out of nothing provides.

Bravo.