Way of the Peaceful Warrior (21 page)

Socrates handed me a pair of running shorts and told me to change into them. When I returned, he was in trunks, too, and had spread a white sheet on the carpet. “What are you going to do if a customer comes?” He pointed to his overalls hanging by the door. “Now, do exactly as I do.” He began by rubbing a sweet scented oil over his left foot. I copied every step, as he squeezed, pressed, and dug very deeply into the bottom, top, sides, and between the toes, stretching, pressing and pulling.
 

“Massage the bones, not just the flesh and muscle--deeper,” he said. Half an hour later, we were through with the left foot. We repeated the same process with the right foot. This process went on for hours, covering every part of the body. I learned things about my muscles I'd never known before. I could feel where they were attached; I could feel the shape of the bones. It was amazing that I, an athlete, was so unfamiliar with my body.
 

Socrates had quickly slipped into his overalls a few times when the bell clanged, but otherwise, we were undisturbed. When I donned my clothes five hours later, it felt as if I had also donned a new body. Returning from a customer, Soc said, “You've cleaned many old fears from your body. Take the time to repeat this process at least once a week for the next six months. Pay attention to your legs; work on the site of your injury every day for two weeks.”
 

“More homework,” I thought. The sky began to grow light. I yawned. Time to go home. As I was walking out the door, Socrates told me to be at the base of the fire trails at 1 P.M. sharp, that afternoon.
 

I arrived early at the trails. I stretched and warmed up lazily; my body felt very loose and light after the “bone massage,” but with only a few hours sleep I was still tired. A light drizzle had begun; I didn't feel like running anywhere, with anyone. Then I heard a rustling in the bushes nearby. I stood quietly and watched, expecting to see a deer emerge from the thicket. Out of the foliage stepped Joy, looking like an elf princess, wearing dark green shorts and a lime T-shirt emblazoned with the words, “Happiness is a full tank.” A gift from Socrates, no doubt.
 

“Joy, before we run, let's sit down and talk; there's so much want to tell you.” She smiled and sped away.
 

As I pursued her up around the first curve, almost slipping on the wet clay earth, I felt the weakness in my legs after yesterday's exercise. I was soon winded and my right leg throbbed, but I didn't complain. I was thankful that she kept her pace slower than yesterday's.
 

We approached the end of the lower trail without talking. My breathing was labored, and I had no energy left. I started to turn around when she said, “Upsy daisy,”
and started up the connector. “No!” my mind screamed. “Definitely not” said my weary muscles. Then I looked at Joy, bounding lightly up the hill as if it were level.
 

With a rebel yell, I took the hill. I looked like a drunken gorilla, hunched over, grunting, panting, blindly clambering up, two steps forward, sliding one step back.
 

At the top, it levelled off. Joy was standing there, smelling the wet pine needles, looking as peaceful and content as Bambi. My lungs were begging for more air. “I have an idea,” I panted. “Let's walk the rest of the way, no, let's crawl--it gives us more time to talk. How does that sound, pretty good?”
 

“Let's go,” she said merrily.
 

My chagrin turned to anger. I'd run her to the ends of the earth! I stepped into a puddle, slipped through the mud, and ran into a small tree branch, nearly knocking myself over the side of the hill.
 

“Goddamn-it-shit-son-of-a-bitch!” My words emerged a hoarse whisper. I had no energy left to talk.
 

I struggled over a small hill that seemed like the Colorado Rockies and saw Joy squatting, playing with some wild rabbits as they hopped across the trail. When I stumbled up to her, the rabbits leaped into the bushes. Joy looked up at me, smiling, and said, “Oh, there you are.” By some heroic effort, I leaned forward and managed to accelerate past her, but she just shot ahead and disappeared  again.
 

We had climbed eleven hundred feet. I was now high above the Bay and could see the University below me. I was, however, in no condition or state of mind to appreciate the view. I felt very close to passing out. I had a vision of me buried on the hill, under the wet earth, with a marker: “Here lies Dan. Nice guy, good try.”
 

The rain had increased, but I ran on as if in a trance, leaning forward, stumbling, pulling one leg forward after the other. My shoes felt like iron boots. Then I rounded a corner and saw a final hill that looked nearly vertical. Again my mind refused; my body stopped, but up there, at the top of the hill, stood Joy, with her hands on her hips as if challenging me. Somehow I managed to tip forward and start my legs moving again. I plodded, I pushed, I strained and groaned up the last endless steps until I ran right into her.
 

“Whoa, boy, whoa,” she laughed. “You're finished, all done.”
 

Between gasps, as I leaned against her, I wheezed, “You--can--say--that--again.”
 

We walked back down the hill, giving me welcome time to recover and talk. “Joy, it seems like pushing this hard this fast isn't natural. I wasn't properly prepared to run this far; I don't think it's very good for the body.”
 

“You're right,” she said. “This wasn't a test of your body, but of your spirit--a test to see if you would go on--not just with the hill, but with your training. If you had stopped, it would have been the end. But you passed, Danny, you passed with flying colors.”
 

The wind began to blow, and the rain poured, drenching us. Then Joy stopped, and took my head in her hands. Water dripped from our sopping hair and ran down our cheeks. I reached around her waist, and was drawn into her shining eyes, and we kissed.
 

I was filled with a new energy. I laughed at the way we both looked, like sponges that needed to be wrong out, and said, “I'll race you to the bottom!” I took off and got a good head start. “What the hell,” I figured. “I can roll down these damn trails!” She won, of course.
 

Later that afternoon, dry and warm, I stretched lazily in the gym with Sid, Gary, Scott, and Herb. The warmth of the gym was a pleasurable shelter from the pounding rain outside. In spite of my grueling run, I still had a reserve of energy.
 

But by the time I stepped into the office that evening and took off my shoes, the reservoir had evaporated. I wanted to flop my aching body down on the couch and take a nap for ten or twelve hours. Resisting the urge, I settled as gracefully as I could manage and faced Socrates.
 

I was amused to see that he'd rearranged the decor. Pictures of golfers, skiers, tennis players, and gymnasts were up on the wall; on his desk sat a baseball mitt and a football. Socrates even wore a sweatshirt that said, “Ohio State Coaching Staff.” It seemed that we'd entered the sports phase of my training.
 

While Soc made us some of his special wake-up tea he called “Thundering Tarnation,” I told him about my gymnastics progress. He listened, nodding with clear approval. And his following words intrigued me.
 

“Gymnastics can be even more than you've yet comprehended. To help you understand this, you need to see precisely why you enjoy your acrobatic art.”
 

“Can you explain that?”
 

He reached into his desk and took out three lethal-looking daggers. “Never mind, Soc,” I said, “I don't really need an explanation.”
 

“Stand up,” he ordered. When I did, he casually threw a knife, underhand, straight toward my chest.
 

I leaped aside, falling onto the couch as the knife dropped soundlessly to the carpet. I lay there, shocked, my heart beating overtime.
 

“Good,” he said. “You overreacted a bit, but good. Now stand up and catch the next one.”
 

Just then, the kettle started whistling; a reprieve. “Well,” I said, rubbing my sweaty palms together, “tea time.”
 

“It will keep,” he said. “Watch me closely.” Soc tossed a glittering blade straight into the air. I watched it spin and drop. As it fell, he matched the speed of the blade with the downward motion of his hand and grasped the handle between his thumb and fingers, like a pincer, gripping firmly.
 

“Now you try. Notice how I caught it so that even if I happened  to grab the blade, it wouldn't slice me.” He tossed another knife toward me. More relaxed, I stepped out of the way and made only a feeble attempt at catching it.
 

“If you drop the next one, I'm going to start throwing overhand,” he promised.
 

This time my eyes were glued to the handle; as it came near, I reached out. “Hey, I did it!”
 

“Aren't sports wonderful?” he said. For awhile we became totally immersed in throwing and catching. Then he paused.
 

“You know, Soc, I've had that feeling many times, especially during competitions. Often I'm concentrating so hard, I can't even hear the applause.”
 

“Yes, that is the experience of satori.
 

The right use of gymnastic to focus your full attention and feeling on your actions; then you will achieve satori. Gymnastics draws you into the moment of truth, when your life is on the line, like a dueling samurai. It demands your full attention: satori or die!”
 

“Like in the middle of a double somersault.”
 

“Yes, that's why gymnastics is a warrior's art, a way to train the emotions as well as the body; a doorway to satori.”
 

I sighed. “It seems like such a distant possibility, Socrates.”
 

“When you ran up the hill after Joy,” he grinned, “you didn't look wistfully at the top of the mountain, you looked directly in front of you and took one step at a time. That's how it works.”
 

“The House Rules, right?” He smiled in answer.
 

I yawned, and stretched. Socrates advised, “You'd better get some sleep. You're beginning special training tomorrow morning at the Berkeley High School track.”
 

When my alarm rang at 6:15 I had to drag myself out of bed, submerge my head in cold water, do some deep breathing by the open window, then scream into my pillow to wake up.
 

I was alert by the time I hit the streets. I jogged slowly, crossing Shattuck, and cut down Allston Way past the Berkeley YMCA, the post office, then across Milvia, onto the high school grounds where Soc was awaiting me.
 

I soon discovered that he had a regular program planned for me. It started with a half hour in that unbearable crouching position he'd shown me in the gas station. Then we worked with some basic principles of the martial arts. “The true martial arts teach harmony, or nonresistance--the way of the trees bending in the wind, for example. This attitude is far more important than physical technique.”
 

Using the principles of Aikido, Socrates was able to throw me without any apparent effort, no matter how I tried to push him. His actions were the proof of his words. Soon it was time to go. “See you tomorrow, same time, same place. Stay home tonight and practice your exercises. Remember, make your breathing so slow that it wouldn't disturb a feather in front of your nose.” He moved off as if on roller skates, and I ran toward my apartment, so relaxed that I felt like the wind was blowing me home.
 

In the gym that day, I did my best to apply what I'd learned, “letting movements happen” instead of trying to do them. My giant swings on the high bar seemed to go around by themselves; I swung, hopped, and somersaulted to handstand after handstand on the parallel bars; my circles, scissors, and pommel work on the horse felt as if I were supported by strings from the ceiling, weightless. And, finally, my tumbling legs were returning!
 

Soc and I met just after sunrise every morning, I would stride along, and Soc would run leaping like a gazelle. Each day I grew more relaxed and my reflexes became lightning quick.
 

One day, when we were in the middle of our warm-up run, he suddenly stopped, looking paler than I'd ever seen him before. “I'd better sit down,” he said. “Socrates---can I do anything”
 

“Yep,” it seemed difficult for him to talk. “Just keep running, Dan. I'll just sit quietly.” I did as he asked, but kept my eyes on his still figure, sitting with eyes closed looking proud and straight, but older somehow.
 

As we'd agreed weeks before, I didn't come to see him in the evening at the station, but I called to see how he was. I was relieved when Socrates answered.
 

“How's it going, Coach?” I asked,
 

“In the pink,” he said, “but I've hired an assistant to take over for a few weeks.”
 

“OK, Soc, take care of yourself.”
 

The next day I saw my assistant coach run onto the track and literally jumped for Joy. I held her gently, hugging her and whispering in her ear; she threw me just as gently, head over heels onto the lawn. If that wasn't mortifying enough, she beat me kicking field goals, then batted the balls I pitched fifty yards over my head. Whatever we did, no matter what game, she played flawlessly, making me, a world champion, blush with shame--and anger.
 

I doubled the number of exercises Socrates had given me. I trained with a greater concentration than ever before. I awoke at 4:00 A.M., practiced t'ai chi until dawn, and ran into the hills before meeting Joy each day. I said nothing about my extra training.
 

I carried her image with me into my classes and into the gym. I wanted to see her, to hold her; but first I had to catch her. For the present, the most I could hope for was to beat her at her own games.