Hushed whispers in the dark. Pale figures illuminated only by the faint white glow of a string on camp lights hung from a 10x10 folding canopy. Slurred syllables, heavy eyes, drunk laughs, and casual conversations that turned serious.
The mild chant of a one eyed Viking shaman hummed in the shadows, who under the soft lights appeared to glow himself. A curious bearded scholar with an old soul sat enthralled by the spectacle. Magic stones and cards sat on the table before us, and our battered bodies were healing from a day of fighting. Now we rested, meditated, and drank heavily. It was like a plastic Valhalla.
And of course the question came up: “Why are you doing it?”
But there was a seriousness to it. Not the typical and rhetorical “Why?” most people ask when I tell them I’m running a 100 mile race. There was sincerity this time, a pure curiosity. It reflected my own desire to answer the question. An introspection, as if my answer would guide them as well and lead them to some enlightenment.
I tried to answer. I reviewed all the things I’ve done, trained for, accomplished. Slurring and stumbling through my words trying to explain. Eventually I said out loud “I don’t know when it will be enough.”
And the bearded scholar answered, looking at me with his bloodshot eyes: “When will you be enough?”
A stunned silence followed. I didn’t know how to answer because I had never explored the question. The one eyed Viking shaman nodded his head as if silently agreeing with the question. Not contemplating it for himself but acknowledging this was the right question to ask.
Then, in unison, a heavy cloak of sleep fell upon us. We agreed without a word it was time for bed. We stumbled in the dark to our tents walking over a sea of sleeping bags and snoring bodies. The question still hovering in my mind as if following me, haunting me, refusing to leave until I answered. It still haunts me.
* * * * *
The week following my cold rainy marathon was Thanksgiving Break. I did as little as possible. I didn’t work out, I probably drank every day. The only travel I did was a few hours away to spend Thanksgiving at a cousin’s with Family, including my 96 year old grandmother who I took my kids to see the previous March when we flew over a thunderstorm.
We didn’t stay the night at my cousin’s, but drove early in the morning and drove back the same night. Continuing with the overarching theme of the year, that night we drove through a pretty heavy rain storm, this after a misty day with my son throwing everything he could into an outdoor camp fire.
The last time I visited that cousin for Thanksgiving was a month before my dad died. My son was younger, but still threw everything he could into the same fire ring. Returning there years later held a strange realization. The weather was similar and there were some of the same people. It was like a haunted deja vu or an incomplete dream.
In the blur of the final weeks of school before Christmas Break, I picked up my routine again. The weather was forgiving so I wasn’t freezing in the mornings and was able to pick up where I left off after a week of rest.
Rereading my blogs, I laughed at the beginning of my journey, how easy it would seem now. 5k races, 10K races, minimal travel. A thin 3 weeks in a row of events and distances I now run 2-3 times a week, comparing who I was a year ago.
I feel like most people would’ve stopped at a full marathon and felt some sense of accomplishment. But for me dear reader, it was not over…is not over.
The first week of Christmas Break, I made a trip to Arkansas to visit another cousin and see my struggling Uncle. It was the longest road trip I made alone. Longer than anyone this year, longer than anyone before. In the silence of the car ride, despite the music I was able to meditate, reflect, and introspect.
I spent the first night at my cousin’s and the next morning it was another few hours to see my Uncle.
The August before we got some bad news about him. I felt like I had just seen him because he was at my grandmother’s in March. He seemed fine, drinking beer with me in the driveway. But now, he clings to life, slowly losing out to microscopic cells eating him away the same way as my dad.
When I got to his house, he was napping and my aunt had to wake him. His now small frame glided slowly through his house. We caught up and talked for an hour or so and at the end of our visit he needed to rest again. The drive took longer than the time I spent with him.
There was a lingering and realistic feeling, that would be the last time I would see him. Most of us don’t get the luxury of saying goodbye to someone for the last time and knowing it. When my dad went home on hospice, many people came by to say goodbye to him for the last time. The last time I spoke to him was over the phone, but I was with him when he passed.
My journey out of my valley continues. As I’ve said, the ghosts who follow me laugh at my pain and the souls of ones I love wait eagerly to join them.
After I saw my Uncle, a Biblical Winter Storm froze me in at my cousin’s in Arkansas. We stayed in and kept warm, drank most of the beer in the house and I went to bed early. The next day I made the long trip home, passing feet of snow on the highways, overturned semis and other abandoned cars. I even saw a house on fire. It was like I survived an apocalypse.
The following week was Christmas. Everything was subdued, quiet. The volume turned down. Any and all actions abated or were followed by a lingering softness.
School started again and at the end of January was another tournament. It was local so I didn’t have to travel far. It was held at an indoor soccer field which was rented out for the weekend. The turf was much more forgiving than the gymnasium courts we were used to, and the space was large enough we could have a tournament side and room for people to pitch tents and stay the night indoors.
I won 3rd overall Champion.
There was a strange sense of calm after winning. There was little elation like I felt at the Oklahoma tournament where I won 2 gold medals. I felt satisfied. For once in my fighting career there was no question of my accomplishment. I felt like I did my best, I felt like the judging was fair. I don’t feel like any of my fights were contested. It was as true as it could have been. And because of that, the moment I won 3rd, I felt like I had nothing left to prove.
It was there dear reader, the critical question was asked. At night in drunken whispers, next to a musing one eyed Viking and a scholar, feeling content with myself yet still evaluating my decisions, a question was asked that cut me deeper than any sword could…When will I be enough?
The path diverges. The quest for answers continues. And that, dear reader, is a story for another day.
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