Padre loves sleeping in his own bed. I don't blame him, it's really comfortable. So when he gets to leave on work trips, he rants about missing his bed and throws in some travel travails that border with the movie: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.
The one that made us laugh the most as we sat around the table and listened to his re-telling involved a young man in an airport. Each pocket he had was overflowing with some sort of contraption; An Airport Toy like an airplane. candy. He wore his hair long, somewhat skinny for the look of his age and it was apparent he was struggling with an infirmity.
The boy's family sat down and Padre witnessed the young man get irked about something he waned. "You can't have that." the adult with him calmly replied.
"I want it."
"No."
The adults tried to reason with him as much as possible. "But I'm angry." he countered. And then he became unglued.
And apparently he physically reasoned his way out of having to act civil because eventually he just bit the seat he was sitting in and had to be distracted with a chew toy that was made for someone his age and size.
In light of Padre's other predicaments on his tripl complicated layovers etc. etc. We all laughed at his story because deep down we could all relate.
So when I read an article in Outside magazine about Triathletes and Ironman Competitors that have gotten bored with how easy those were, signed up for what is called The Death Marathon, I had to read it. Because surely, these were the elite of the elite in self control and mastery and I wanted to know "what it took" to be them. And to rub in the feel of guilt of not even running a single marathon or summiting any peaks in the world.
Yet barely into the article, where the author pushing a wheelbarrow with manure in it back and forth, after diving in cold water for pennies he'd counted after a running up and down the same mountain, only to have a note at the bottom have him run back up the hill, lugging a bridge and a book to help him translate Greek, I was really befuddled with the stupidity of the whole thing.
I had to keep reading to find out what kind of person I needed to be to fall into a league with these amazing individuals who just wouldn't quit despite sleep deprivation, no food or drink, in Concentration Like Conditions despite the stupidity of it all. And want to pay for it. Becuase that had to be the mark of a true athlete/individual.
The author had rattled off the list of injuries he'd suffered BEFORE the marathan, the bad back he had, yet the training he did running up and down a mountain with a back pack on to get ready for the unknown tasks that the owner of the race would dole out on them.
Did I mention this was a race? With the owners yelling into their faces to quit and they wouldn't finish, the author explaining that his knees, now the size of cantaloups, were making it hard for him to even walk he kept going, telling himself he was NOT a quitter.
What idiot does this? I am asking reading quickly to find out the answer, yet in my mind I see myself. Doing dumb stuff and not quitting while I am ahead. Each time I read about the contestants reaching the summit of the peak only to be told to carry down loads of gravel to the bottom and then a sign telling them to turn around and fill in holes in the trail with the gravel on the way back up even though it is raining, I see myself trying to make it to the Dr.'s office, drop the script off at the Store, turn around 30 minutes later and go pick it up. Why didn't I just ask for help? Get a ride. Have someone else to the leg work?
Add trying to do the other million and one things I "think" I gotta do, and I feel like the guy with cantaloup knees. Finally, I read the epiphany the author has when he realizes he's gotta stop. And the drill sargent owners are clapping the "quitters" on the back like they are heros for admitting that their egos really were the only thing they were fighting out there. Congratulating them on knowing when to stop because that is the true mark of a winner of a Death Marathoner. I think. The guy who won did look pretty stellar.
The author realizes that it is his own race that he is running. He's gotta take into consideration what he's doing to his body. The aftermath. Listen to what his body is telling him; stop.
I sit there and let my hypocrisy sink in. Initially, jealous at their abilities, I realize I am playing the same game. Fighting the same battle and making choices today, that will affect all my tomorrows.
A few minutes before I was thinking, this idiot paid money to go to this and spent 6 weeks in Physical Therapy afterward and added to his impressive list of injuries. Which were quite remarkable. But how stupid! Now I am reviewing all the moments I have pushed myself too hard. Granted it is on a smaller level. Much, much, much, smaller level. But still. How stupid?
Earlier in the week I'd read a Walt Whitman quote to the effect that those who are able to learn what to leave alone, are rich.
My pride plays a big part in me not being able to leave something alone. Take the simple task of shoveling the sidewalk. Simple thing for most Death Camp attendees, but not what I 'should' be doing. But I don't want to be told what I 'can't' do, especially by my body. So I do it. Along with the other thins I ought to just "leave alone."
Exercising self restraint can come in all shapes and sizes. You don't have to be on the verge of Mt. Everest facing a drastic change in weather while running out of oxygen, to make life altering choices and find out about yourself.
Albeit Outside magazine isn't going to be interested in how I braved the brutal Idaho sub temps to get the drive shoveled the other day, or how I opted to lay down and do nothing in order to let my body heal today. But I have found I haven't had to go further than a bed at home or in the hospital, to face my own Mt. Everests.
Sometimes I think it would be easier to be able to run up a hill to vent the anger than to deny my pride the pleasure of escaping the menial, unglorified task of outwardly doing nothing.
Just deep breathing.
Telling my mind to stop thinking and just float while
my body wages war on itself. Reminding myself over and over to just stop doing those "other things" for a time.
Stop reading and studying.
Put the pen down, regardless if those thoughts or ideas never get written. Just sit with myself and the moment for the sake of all the tomorrows, instead of today.
It isn't easy to gauge. And I find myself feeling the words of the boy at the airport, stuck in a body that couldn't communicate or do what he wanted it to do, uttering: "But I'm angry."
I might need a chew toy before this is over.
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