Running as metaphor

I did the weekly Parkrun today and I think I had my best time so far. I’ve written before of the stress of running a 5K--the fear during the last third that I’m not going to make it to the finish line. The final stretch to the finish is really tough because I want to walk the whole time, but I push and push to cross without walking even as my lungs are burning. I realised today the stress of the race is all about managing the tension between the competitive urge when among other runners and the discipline to respect your limits. When I’m in a pack of 100 runners, I want to pass as many of them as I can--or prevent them from passing me. But if I go out too fast, I won’t finish without walking. I have to be cognisant of my pace as a lone runner AND I want to use the competition to force me to pick up my pace. A race requires disciplining your mind (faster! faster!) so that you don’t exceed your physical limits.

I apply every running insight to my life and here’s what I’ve come up with. I am mostly looking for jobs in London, where I’m competing against people from all over the UK and all over Europe. London also attracts the best and the brightest from all over the world. I’ve met Canadians, Indians and Australians so far that work in London (and Belgians, French, Irish...). So it isn’t surprising that I’m struggling as I try to enter a new field. I’m also 54 competing against people in their 20s and 30s. It may be that I haven’t found the balance yet between being in a competitive field and recognising my own limits. Maybe respecting "my pace" means looking in Belfast, not London, and finding another way to apply my skill set. I have applied for the occasional job in Belfast, but have only a string of rejections to show for it (ditto London).

Today’s highlight was attending a BBC 3 concert of classical music at the Portico in Portaferry. This photo is taken from the internet; the Portico is the yellow building in the middle.

The concert featured a pianist and soprano, both very talented. However there’s a limit to how much German I want to hear sung in soprano voice (Shubert, Strauss were the main composers featured). What cracks me up about highbrow culture is the writing. Art galleries are great for this, too. Here’s an excerpt from today’s program notes for the Debussy pieces:
“Beau Soir (Beautiful Evening) was composed when Debussy was no older than 16 but is already a characteristically evocative exercise in limpid colour and liquid melody. Mandoline sets Paul Verlaine’s symbolist poetry with pastoral ebullience and brisk youthful brio.”

While the notes described what each song was about, I could not relate the notes to the music at all. I can’t even get my head around German Romanticism. The real highlight of the day was walking along Strangford Lough after the concert. It was a beautiful day and I enjoyed looking at the boats on the water. Unfortunately, I didn’t take my camera.
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