Cycling, Rapidly, Cycling

Surely, there are many ways in which risk-taking behavior related to hypomania could manifest itself. A patient could have been reared in a strict family setting during formative years (nurture?), and/or needed to exercise absolute control of both bipolar states due to the nature of employment. Specific to hypomania, and based on such environmental factors, the manifestation could appear controlling, or controlled itself.

Rather than “running credit cards to the limit,” “engaging in risky sexual behavior,” et al, pushing physically to endurance limits, could be a potential sign of a patient’s hypomanic state. While I have developed this theory on-the-fly, it is likely the subject of doctoral theses defended.

I am writing this, head propped back on my Aeron (a small self indulgence—we all have them—my idea of an object of beauty (I did not get a bag, car, or what-not)), eyes closed as I do. Edits will likely abound, but the moment this is, and seize it I must.

stuck in traffic, not quite rush hour, after all, it is close to holidays and working stiffs that we all are, except the lucky few who need to burn the vacation time they have accrued rather than loose it (never mind, that the paternalistic enterprise sees it fit to institute a " vacation bank,” to “donate time to fellow employees who may need it." As thoughtful a gesture as this is, the root may be less altruistic—you feel encouraged; you can guiltlessly work yourself to oblivion™, not take the time off, and donate the balance to some worthy cause. How is that for slogan of the day? I need to trademark it.

So traffic, yes. Turn the curve of the off ramp and think, “there is my trail. I must go run”. I exit the highway, I turn to the park. All this unplanned until 50 seconds back.

When I arrive, it is dusky. I peel off work togs, put on exercise ones. It becomes duskier as I strap my Polar to my chest (courtesy link to dispel some of the mystery of my writing). “Wait. I forgot. I have new shoes: brand new Pumas Even better!

I decide not to stretch (oopsie!), to compensate for growing duskiness, absorbing nightfall. I strap my ‘Pod to my arm (today, I want a director, a guide, someone to keep pace with). I begin. But alas, what is this? My shoelace undone! Thirty seconds into a run, full bore (wait, you shall see, for there is more). I tie. Done. Go.

Four hours earlier, I am yawn-yawn at my place of employ, now this. Full bore. I mean, four-foot-stride-run-like-a-Texas-dust-devil full bore. This is not leisurely. This is brutally, but not really, since I am doing it for fun, for need. I need to do it. I have to.

With upbringing in which a patient exercises control, and later in life, work environs that demand utmost control, for to flinch could mean death, or to reveal, guaranteed loss of employment…

As you can see, flinch quite often, I do, but controlled, concealed—I hope. My main hypomanic risk-taking manifestation is this push-to-the-limit-thing—well, driving insanely fast at times and small other things like that aside. No shopping sprees, hyper-sexuality, credit unruly. Just this. This silly little thing that actually may be good for me, non?

[...A minute thirty into the run, my 'Pod acts up. think "roadie tripping on the main amp's power cord at a death metal concert:" silence; then, uncontrolled anger, followed by expletives. many; I throw them out there. oh! right..."there is no one here but me. deer? I saw them last time. Raccoons?"

So I manage to fix this technical issue on the run. and I bound, and leap, my arms, breast high, my hands not fisted, half-open, grabbing-like, the air in front, as if I were pulling myself up a rope; then...not again! I must...] be delirious: my shoelace unknotted. So I stop the watch, tie the culprit up, get back on track.

the dark gets darker, night's door closes on me, and I on this trail, perhaps minutes before the park closes (dusk, it says: "park closes at dusk." A winter thing (Winter Solstice in two days)). Dark as it is, I see.

I see ahead. I am in tunnel vision mode. Totally absorbed, unconsciously running (quite interesting, come to think about it). Luckily, I know this two mile trail. Except of course, pebbles move, mud, yes, delightful mud grows like a canker on the trail.

The canopy changes now from deciduous—oaks mainly—to a small patch of pines, and then the open before the next stretch. I can see. I can see for a minute or two. I can see that there is mud ahead, and no way around it. But I do not care. How could I? Why should I? It is not the mud per-se, it is not the upcoming new-shoe-baptism-by-mud. “How deep is it?” “What does it hide?” “Will I twist an ankle?”

The tunnel blinders come off when my shoelace becomes loose yet again. My feet tell me they are wet with the squishy-squishy voice. They are far from happy. It is 43 Fahrenheit. I am not equipped for this run. All I have is two layers of t-shirts, and shorts (Brrr!)

Now the uphill. I keep the banshee-like running up. I look at the Polar’s screen, which intriguingly has no backlight, and accidentally turn the stopwatch off. Frustration. Expletives. Numerous. 8:08 it reads before it resets.
Start it again. Run.

but perhaps that is why the patient fears it, fears "losing" self to it. The patient could be frightened to "falling prey" to the greatness that this driving force could push to achieve, and become "worried as much as elevated." A feeling such that the patient could not break free, a “Mein Kampf.”

Much, much darker now, as I enter the forest again. But I look back because, in front of me, I can almost see a shadow. Is there a moon? No, only clouds. I am now almost there, to the trailhead. Lungs a bit challenged, for the air is cold and the earth uphill. I look back again; eerie glow. Moon? (Hmmm...)

The trail turns its final bend. "Shadow?" "Again?" As my body motions, my brain theorizes: "there is a moon indeed, and it is behind the clouds." I drop the thought at the 300 yard marker.

There. Done. I add the time to the 8:08. Two miles, cross country, in the dark: 14:49. No physical damage.