Don't Bring Up the Past

Keeping things secret, enjoying the present, and shunning crew socks

Each week, a menu of sorts, around a revolving theme. This week: staying in the past and living in the present.

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Ingredient List

📖 : “If You Tell: A True Story of Murder, Family Secrets, and the Unbreakable Bond of Sisterhood” by Gregg Olsen // I don’t know how I found this book, I think I was browsing some bestseller lists and saw it had an absurd amount of reviews. I ended up reading it in two days because it’s probably the most bonkers book I’ve ever read. It’s basically “A Child Called It,” but if it were three children and if their mom was a psychopathic tormentor and a casual serial killer and their dad was a weak, zombie cuck who carried out her sick pleasures. Every page is more shocking than the last, somehow. Anyway, it was pretty good if you like reading about sadist moms, and how to plea down to 18 years in prison for killing a few people and abusing your kids over the course of two decades. The silver lining is that the daughters somehow escaped and ended up living normal, well-adjusted lives, so check yourself next time you think you had trauma as a kid.

📖 : This was a fascinating read. This in-depth piece (gift link, you’re welcome) from The New York Times showed that The Maldives and other seemingly at-risk atolls are actually quite stable and even growing. We were told they’d all be underwater by now on account of climate change and rising sea levels, or at least in the near future, but it shows the adaptability of nature and offers previously unknown insights into the way oceans and shorelines work. Anyway, this is great news and we should treat it as such.

This Past Week

Made it back from California without too much hassle, though I would not recommend taking an 8-year-old on a work trip, no matter how beautiful the place. Especially if he has a terrible cough and especially if you also have a cold and especially if it’s his first extended time away from both his brother and mother. Lessons learned. The rest of the Believe in the Run team stayed out in California for the Western States Endurance Run, the most iconic ultramarathon in the United States. Wish I was there, but also glad to be home.

One of my best friends, Mike, had a free weekend last minute, so he came up from Suffolk and we got to catch up and hang out. He also was the new target of bad jokes for my kids so that was a welcome relief. Then we played some disc golf at Druid Hill Park which is always a chill time.

Some other things I wrote this week:

• The Beauty of Bandit Running’s Unsponsored Project

• Best Running Sunglasses Right Now

• Asics Superblast 2: First Thoughts

I also interviewed fitness YouTuber and hybrid athlete Nick Bare for The Drop podcast, you can listen to that here or wherever you get your podcasts.

I also contribute to The Drop, a weekly email from Believe in the Run, where I round-up running news and stories in a generally sarcastic manner. You can subscribe here.

And now, onto the dinner service.

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Course 1

A Word of Gratitude: Fattened Calves

I know fashion is circular, that it all comes and goes and comes back again. That doesn’t mean I have to like it. As kids, we had to endure the embarrassment of our fathers, that generation who couldn’t let go of tube socks, with or without stripes, in every public situation, with any length of shorts. On the rare occasion where the socks came off, the impact of wearing a cotton over-layer for years was apparent– hairless and smooth legs to such an extent that a pool ball would be jealous.

We rebelled against such absurdities by wearing socks that went lower and lower until they finally arrived at their penultimate endpoint– no-show socks or none at all. We fought for years, even decades, to chop them down to the roots they came from, and we finally won. Socks had been defeated.

And then Gen Z ruined it all. 

As you probably know by now, crew socks are in. From Crocs to Birks, sneakers to sandals, it doesn’t matter– the sins of our fathers are now the flex of our children. Not only are they in, but the tables have turned to such a degree that no-show socks are a strict no-go. It’s “cover the calf” or nothing at all. A hill we died on, defiled and given over to the TikTok generation. How did this happen?

I’m not sure, but all I know is that it couldn’t come at a worse time. It’s summer, it’s hot, and I want to wear less clothes, not more. Crew socks have a place and time, for sure, and that place is on a camp counselor’s leg and that time is 1982. (I’ll give a pass to hikers or baseball players, where the crew sock takes on a utilitarian aspect.)

I’ll be honest, I recently tried wearing a pair of crew socks with some gorpcore Merrell hikers and what I thought was a fairly cool t-shirt and short setup. We were on a family trip to Florida. I went to one of the fantastic new bathrooms in the BWI airport (seriously you need to check them out), with great lighting, floor-to-ceiling stall doors, and full-length mirrors as you exit on your way back to the gate. As I was leaving, I caught myself in the mirror and the image I saw was not the image I had in my head. 

Instead of seeing a cool dad who was flowing with the times, growing older but staying in the cultural current, I just saw myself– a dad who was trying too hard. It’s hard to admit defeat, but I know my place when I’m told to sit down.

Since then, I’m back to wearing ankle socks. It’s the dead of summer and here in Baltimore we’re mired in high heat and humidity. I may look my age, but I gotta tell you: my ankles have never felt better.

And for that I am grateful.

Course 2

Appetizer: Wild Wineberries

Last week, an editor from Huckberry asked me to contribute to a roundup of the best swimming holes in America. I’m a fan of the site and a friend of his, so I sad yes, for sure. I wouldn’t say I’m an expert, but I’ve often made it a point to jump into any body of water I come across (as you may have read in Sticky Situations or Bridges, Spanning One to Another). As with good men, a good swimming hole is hard to find. 

Feeling inspired (and needing a few photos), I set out this past Saturday, family in tow, for my favorite local spot. I found this particular swimming hole a half decade ago while trail running through one of my favorite sections of forest in Baltimore County. Despite being remarkably close to I-95, the area is quiet and removed and almost feels like you’re deep in the Appalachia wilderness. Finding the swimming hole itself involves following one creek, crossing crossing another, and heading down an unmarked and unblazed trail to a tine of a fork that eventually dumps into the Gunpowder.

Spending an afternoon there requires a bit of planning and cooperation, as it’s a 1.5-mile hike into the swimming hole. We packed a couple deflated float tubes into a North Face duffel, as well as a power bank and pump to inflate them upon arrival. Snacks and sandwiches, water bottles, kid’s collapsible fishing rod, hammock, a soft cooler with some summer drinks. 

On the hike in, the path is clear but the overgrowth is thick on all sides. We saw a nice garter snake and my wife spotted a black rat snake hanging from some tree branches next to the trail. So far so good. We also noticed a few sparse wineberry bushes, which were just turning ripe. Plump, red, juicy berries, quite similar to raspberries in taste and texture. We only found a few of them, splitting them evenly between each the kids. Then we turned a corner and– boom!– a jackpot of wineberries. Huge bushes, full of ripe berries. We ate as many as we could and took a bunch more, a perfect summer treat. 

Soon after, we arrived at our destination. An enormous rounded rock ridge extends from the hillside into the middle of the creek, a perfect place to post up and large enough for a handful of people to share space. Cascading ripples and rapids come from above and funnel into one output, a forever faucet into the wide pool below. It’s not a particularly deep hole (only seven feet at its deepest point), but it’s the perfect depth for cooling off. Lush forest and silty sand surround all sides. 

A few people were already there. A man with a dog and a woman on a towel, sunbathing while reading a book. Several teenagers arrived at the same time we did and posted up on the far bank, passing a joint before jumping in. We probably could’ve done without the trap music, but, you know– teenagers. We were hot and sweaty and had a multitude of grassy scratches from picking berries. We jumped in and never felt better.

For nothing to do, there’s hours of entertainment. Nature provides as it always has. We climbed rocks to check out another great spot above, we floated on tubes, we ate snacks on logs, we scavenged for worms to throw on hooks and waited for the bobber to go down before catching the smallest sunnies I’ve ever seen in my life. My kids didn’t care– fish are fish.

After a few hours, we packed up and made the trek back to the truck, happy and tired. 

Last night, I thought about what I’d write. I thought how nobody knows about this place, but that I want people to know about it. I asked a friend about what I should do. He said it’s a hard decision because it’s a great place that people should know about, but also it’s rare to find such a secret swimming hole that isn’t deep into the Appalachians. He was right– these swimming holes don’t exist anymore; most spots have been outed somewhere on Reddit or a listicle or on localmagazine.com. But this one? It isn’t. I googled it and couldn’t find it anywhere. It’s still a locals-only place, found strictly by word of mouth or by getting lost on a trail run or hike. It’s still where teenagers carve their names in trees and skip rocks and parents take their toddlers to cool off and women read their favorite novel as the wind moves through the leaves and the water falls from one rock to another.

It feels like moving back in time, before pool parties or air conditioning or a movie theater on a hot Saturday afternoon. 

For now, it’s going to stay that way, stuck somewhere in the past. Not on a map, or Google, or on a top ten list written by some guy on Substack. 

It’s just on his Strava, lost in the feed but found if you really go searching for it. Because everyone needs to know I did that three-mile hike.

Course 3

The Main: The Counter at the Soda Jerk

For whatever reason, whenever I log onto Facebook, my feed is filled with 75% garbage ads, 10% Baltimore Orioles updates, and 5% historic photos of Baltimore or other places. I don’t know how I got here, but such is my lot in life. Even typing that out, it just sounds sad. However, seeing as I’m a huge fan of procrastination and a real sucker for a short dopamine hit, I inevitably find myself in the comment section. Why get a head-start on my Substack this week when I can read the writings of bots and boomers instead?

That’s a question for another time, but whenever I click into a comment section, I’m always curious to see if my opinion predictions will come true. For example, it’s fun to click on a “Pride Night” photo for a baseball game and see how long it takes before you get the “what about the night celebrating straight people?” Guys, that’s every other night of the season. And it’s good business for baseball owners to sell out a random Thursday night game in June. It’s not that deep.

But my favorite comment sections are the ones found below historic photos of places like Baltimore or New York City– an aerial view of Inner Harbor in the ‘50s, or snowfall in Times Square in the ‘80s. Without fail, the commentary is packed with people my parents’ age reminiscing about the good old days; hopping up to the soda fountain at the local drug store, window shopping downtown for new school clothes, or picking up a new pair of penny loafers for their bat mitzvah or first communion. Sounds idyllic, for sure (back before the city was ruined by squeegee kids and illegals and corruption!).

I’m not sure if getting older means that everyone gets a free bullshit badge with their AARP membership, or if the brain just naturally leaves out the accumulated hardships of our younger years, but it’s always laughable at how far off memory is from reality.

Because the good old days legitimately sucked.

Let’s skip over the first half of the 20th century that my great grandmother lived through. Born in 1902, she was a teenager during World War I, a newlywed during the Great Depression, and a young mother during World War II. But still, her life could’ve been so much worse– she never had to deal with the internet going down for two hours.

Moving onto the second half of the century, this tends to be the time period when people wax real nostalgic, because it was the American dream in vivid technicolor: a chicken in every pot, a car in every driveway, a Diazepam for every housewife. Also, serial killers ran wild, unencumbered by the lack of basic forensics. Widespread sexual abuse– behind every door from the church to the suburbs– laid the foundation for generations trauma. Got date raped? Good luck convincing an officer to take you seriously.

Car crashes were ghastly and numerous and deadly– 1956 had the same number of motor vehicle deaths as 2019, despite a far lower population (a 300% higher rate of deaths). Cigarettes were the apple of their time– a pack a day kept the doctor away, or at least until the emphysema said otherwise.

In cities like Baltimore and New York and Cleveland, chemical plants poured pollutants into local waterways as if the water itself needed waterboarded with paint thinner. The entire shoreline was a superfund site. And if the river caught on fire, well, free fireworks for everyone, you can cut that from the budget this year and pay for the mayor’s new beach house on the beautiful shores of Lake Erie. 

Oh, also, people really were into judging you, arresting you, and keeping you out of their spaces if your skin was a different color.

Worst of all– no air conditioning, anywhere. 

The point I’m trying to make, and the point I try to tell my dad over the sound of people yelling on Fox News is this: the past wasn’t that great. WE ARE LIVING IN THE GOOD OLD DAYS, RIGHT NOW.

Now, if I’m being completely honest, I think the ‘90s were the good old days and forever and always the best of days, and you probably won’t convince me otherwise. But statistically speaking, the best days are now. Or at the very least, were, until recently. I suspect the post-pandemic numbers may be a bit skewed, but in terms of general health and well-being and safety, there is little to be afraid of. 

Much of this is covered in books like Better Angels of Our Nature: Why Violence Has Declined by Harvard psychologist Steven Pinker or Abundance: The Future Is Better Than You Think, and I encourage you to read both. But the point is that– despite what the headlines want you to believe– we are living in a pretty great time.

Violent deaths are down. Wars exist but are scarce, even taking into account the Ukraine and Gaza. Medical advancements are still happening. Someday soon the lame will walk, the blind will see, and the mute will talk. Like, probably within the next 10 years. Car crashes have the potential to be almost nonexistent, if we let automation do its job. The climate is changing, yes, but for all the doomsayers out there, I have to say, I think you’re wrong– like your apocalypse counterparts on the right, almost every dire prediction about the end of the world over the past 100 years has fallen flat. I think we’re gonna make it. 

Sure, there are problems. There always have been and always will be. Tensions around the world are tightening on account of the ongoing web of geopolitical affairs. Overdose deaths are still skyrocketing, the unending afterbirth of the opiate epidemic. We all pretty much hate each other at this point; saying something blasphemous like “I don’t think ‘The Bear’ is that great of a show” could get you doxxed in some subreddits. 

But for the most part life is good. Like, exceptionally good, at least here in America. In our day to day existence, it’s hard to find anything that’s truly difficult, that requires mental or physical fortitude of any kind. Everything in our lives can be delivered to our doorstep in the matter of minutes or hours, at most. I remember the trials and tribulations of driving to a Blockbuster, with a hope riding shotgun and prayer riding in the backseat, only to find out that all the copies of my favorite movie(s) were already rented out. God forbid you had to find food after 11 p.m., it was diners or nothing at that time and the smoking section was the only section (I miss it, tbh).

We have it so good that we create problems out of thin air just so we have something to complain about. Like, if the Royal Farms rewards app doesn’t load fast enough at checkout, there’s a high possibility that will be the worst part of my day. That’s absolutely insane.

I have to check myself early and often for getting mad and stressed at the absolute most trivial stuff. A website not loading in time, too much pollen or too much rain on my windshield, my kids taking 15 minutes to put on a single shoe.

Again, this isn’t to say there aren’t real people with much realer problems right now. But collectively, as a whole, we are doing more than okay.

So here’s my declaration: I’m not joining the boomer mentality. The good old days weren’t then, they are now. And I’m going to do my best to live like it.

Now excuse me while I confront the package thief who just stole my “Life is Good” sticker that was no-knock placed on my front doorstep by the always unreliable Amazon delivery driver, i.e. the walking death rattle of customer service.

*sigh*

Why can’t things be like they were before?

Course 4

Dessert: Pumpkin Pie and Slurpees

There is no song in the world that evokes nostalgia for me like The Smashing Pumpkins’ “1979.” I suspect if you grew up in the nineties and were any part of the counterculture (whatever that means), then you know what I’m talking about. 

The moment I hear that simple guitar riff and steady snare hit, I’m instantly transported back to my youth. When the chorus comes in with splashy and dreamlike guitars, I’m done. Allow me to perish peacefully into the past.

How does a song do that? Surely, when Billy Corgan was writing it and James Iha was perfecting it, they had never intended to capture a certain feeling. They were just making music that they enjoyed. But the act of recording it during that certain time period somehow created an embrace that encased that moment in time. Like a large slice of synesthesia, I can see it and feel it all at the same time, as if it were in the next room, waiting for me to come in and be young again. It’s all there and it’s so close, but just out of reach. It actually hurts my heart. 

I’m not sure there’s another song that does it better and I can’t figure out why.

Perhaps it’s the music video, though I don’t remember watching it on repeat, especially since I could only watch MTV at my grandma’s house. Kids driving around at night, bored and looking to get into trouble. Going to a party, pranking the neighbors, trashing a pool, running from the cops. Yes, we did all those things, but we also did all those things while listening to Green Day and Rancid and Operation Ivy and those songs don’t carry the same feeling.

Maybe I just listened to it too much at the time and it became tied to everything. Or maybe it’s just magic, the byproduct of youthful creativity at its finest.

All I know is that it feels like freedom, like heartache, like dreams (siamese or otherwise), like boredom, like friendship, like laughing, like the windows down summer nights and the analog glow of interior car lights.

All I know is that I miss it all, but that I’m happy I experienced it while I could.

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