You don’t understand. I had to walk. I couldn’t feel my toes. Except for a lightening pain on every step, the current ricocheting from my metatarsals to my knees.

It’s only 2 miles in! How on earth are you going to get to 13? Point 1! Walking is surrendering. You never surrender!

Nope. I surrender. It hurts. The rolling hills of Syracuse country side is picturesque but it is painful to bike and more painful to slog on failing legs. If you could call the two potato sacks under me still legs.

Walking hurt too, but at least I could wheeze in peace. And maintain some sort of positive velocity.

The large 3 written with bright orange duct tape taunts me.

It’s hot, especially in the sun. The last 5 hours had replaced morning sunrise with oppressive afternoon summer.

An army of superheroes handed out rations to brace against the elements; including sunscreen, ice, cold sponges.

Too bad they could do nothing for the forces of distance, friction, and gravity that laid before me.

And possible death.

I recount my tale to amazement and praise. Coworkers admiration, friend’s sincere gaze

They could never imagine themselves on the course, swimming a mile or running uncoerced

But I didn’t win. I didn’t survive.

I gave up with 11 blistering miles yet to go.

I could find nothing. No reason to run. No reason to compete. No reason to be there.

The thing about my life is, I live in a constant state of frantic, somewhere between the pace of a dying hamster and a furious typewriter clacking away in circles.

But I have all the ambition of a honey badger. Or a bull moose.

The only thing that keeps me from the succumbing to the vortex of self-doubt and anxiety

is the 3 times a week I shut everything out, focus on myself and the practice before me.

I pushed that limit to the extreme, hoping to find some answer in the weekly prayers, but even the Herculean effort that was the tri I found no satisfaction.

It was all pain, hopelessness, and futility, miles before I had finished and weeks, if not months before I had started.

Fuck it.

Peace was found in the moment. Not with a moment.

I breathed deeply. Winced at the hurt, and turned to enjoy the sunlight.

Looked around, rolling hills, dotted with houses, swarmed with big mighty trees. Swaths of neat clearings; grass and farmland.

See. It’s not better out there. It’s not fun. It’s a battle through and through. But at least you chose that fight. The daunting dragon. And out there, it’s all allies. Everyone’s fighting the same goddamn dragon. We’re on the same side, if occasionally begrudgingly.

Here, everyone’s fighting a million battles, and we never know who to trust, and we’re fucking killing ourselves for it!

Goddamnnit I’ll take dying on Everest over dying from snow any fucking day, 27’s the lucky birthday.

There isn’t anything on those race tracks but pain and betrayal by yourself or by your mind.

But at least when I give up on race, I can walk it off. Pick it up later. Rinse and repeat.

Failure is fine just go at it again.

Somewhere, all the shedding revealed iron. Not quickly, not poised, I picked up my feet. Jogged the last 6 miles to a well deserved finish and accomplishment.

 

It’s bad out there. It’s horrible and it’s unending and it’s relentless. I’m just trying my best, holding everyone I know as close as possible, tightly hugging just to try to press the parts of myself together and maybe, if I’m lucky and persistent, keep someone else whole, if just for one more day.

Cuz history says tomorrow will be better, if we just huddle a little closer, around the ember that lights the night.

And I’ll keep sparking reactions, because I’m as relentless as the asphalt, and so is everyone around me.

We’ll shoulder on, miles more.

Check out anyone on the wayside be it flats, or tires, or cramps.

There’s was surrender. Failure. The walk.

But I put it behind me with every second fought.

I can’t is an excuse

Because I can and I will

If I fail, I will again.

I. Will. Again.

Next time though, I’m bringing Vaseline.

And a bucket.