The first day of Spring was ushered in by tornadoes. Days before I was in a plane flying over a lightning storm under a full moon. The clouds rolled and swelled like an angry sea at sunset, but as it got dark, pops of light peppered the darkness below and the full moon hung like a bare bulb lighting the way. Once home, on the first day of Spring, a storm spawned a tornado mere miles from my house. The clouds were thick enough the sun could not be seen, but thin enough they glowed a yellow haze as the rain blew sideways leaving dusty water spots on cars when it dried.
I fought in my second tournament of the year. A weird energy buzzed in the arena. It wasn’t like the first tournament of the year and there were about the same amount of competitors, but many were elite, best in two states, and schools with reputations to be reckoned with. There was a friendly prelaminar tournament of which the competitors voted on who should earn a prize. I was voted for and earned a small glass snail. I was filled with a tickled element of pride, humility, and gratitude. It touched me more than if I earned the trophy objectively.
Then the tournament shifted to the more serious event. Some of my school members found themselves facing the best fighters in the nation. I was lucky and competed against some less experienced fighters and I led my pool. However, my teammates were battered, and one even conceded from the tournament due to injury. They fought valiantly and even in loss they showed pride in their resolve. Even when the odds were against them, they dug deep, tightened their grip, grit their teeth and battled like prey knowing it would be devoured, but wanted the predator to feel like it lost.
I ended up 6th in the tournament, the highest of my school there. But even in success, there was a jealousy, a lack of vindication as I wanted to test myself against the ones who fought my team.
Slightly battered and exhausted, I had a day off but exercised two days after. Then, I flew to Kansas for my grandmother’s 96th birthday. It was very calm and relaxing, uneventful. Which in a way is what I needed to rest my mind. I kept thinking how lucky my grandmother was for making it so long and still being lucid and mobile. We all could be so lucky to even make it 20 year less than that. My children and my host found ways to keep occupied. I saw family I hadn’t seen in years, since before the pandemic, since before my father died. My kids acted exquisite even when our flight was delayed and rested for an hour on the runway. I couldn’t have scripted them to be better behaved.
Then I ran my first obstacle race of the year. I met with a group of people from my boot-camp and completely underestimated the obstacles. The first mile was only one big puddle I had to crawl through and I ran ahead of my group thinking it would be like the obstacle courses I was used to. But the second obstacle was a ditch full of mud and humps you had to crawl over. It was obvious there was no way I could have done it alone.
And the rest of the race was the same. Most of the obstacles were next to impossible to do alone. I had to wait for the rest of my group so we could help each other over walls of mud and wood. My mindset changed from trying to challenge myself, to helping those who needed help in the challenge.
There was a cargo net climb that must’ve been 30 feet high. It wasn’t the climbing as much as the heights that caused some to skip the obstacle. Even with pep talks and encouragement it wasn’t enough for some and they went around. One woman did the climb and she cried the whole time. I saw her go up and over, fear in her wet eyes as her limbs trembled every time she let go. She was also 4 months postpartum.
I thought about my challenges, my desire to improve myself, to push myself faster and farther. But her challenge was different, it was fear. What is harder to overcome? Is it setting time goals? Weight goals? Distance goals? Or is it harder to face death, or the thought of death, or what your brain has evolved to convince you you will die?
When I was flying in the plane over the lightning storm, half of my brain was telling me we were all going to die, and the other half was telling me flying is the safest way to fly and planes don’t crash from lightning. I had no control over the plane, or the storm, or the wind. I do have control over running a race, or not, climbing a rope, running or walking and going around a 30 foot A frame if I don’t want to climb it. For me the climb was not a challenge, mentally or physically, but for some, conquering the obstacle was more of an accomplishment than finishing the run. I also thought of my grandmother. What were her thoughts on death? She even mentioned once she wasn’t sure if she’d make it to 96, and she did. None of us would be surprised if she made it to 97.
The next few days the bruises changed color on my knees, the sunburn on my forehead began to peel, the soreness in my muscles throbbed and ebbed. I only worked out once just to keep limber and mobile, because the next weekend was the first Spartan race: the 10k Super twice as long as the mud run and I had to do it alone.
I was worried and nervous. My workout routine had been inconsistent for 2 weeks. I had traveled and fought, didn’t eat exactly well and wasn’t sure how my body would react to three weekends in a row of body and mental strain as well as inconsistency. Not sure why I was nervous. I wanted to do my best, to beat my old time, to finish without injury. I wasn’t nervous about finishing. Virtually everyone finishes. You could walk the course, skirt around the obstacles, stop for a picnic and still get your metal and t-shirt. But for me there was some weird prospect of failure.
I ate well in the morning, left with plenty of time, took electrolytes and drank water. My right foot had been bothering me. I had rolled it out and took an ankle sleeve just in case. There was a mixture of emotions waiting at the start. A mixture of fear, nerves, sadness. I was reminded of the last time I ran races in 2017, the reasons why, the place I was in at that time. The last time I ran the Super in 2017, there was a chance my daughter would die shortly after birth, she was the reason my life changed that year. That year my dad was dying slowly and a little over a year after that last Beast he would be gone.
And standing on the start line, I reflected on where I am now: divorced, losing my dream house, facing the reality I won’t be seeing my children everyday anymore; all my dreams washing away like the mud I would soon be covered in.
And that tale, dear reader, is a tale for another day...
Comments