I can’t even count the number of finish lines I’ve cried at, and not because I was relieved or proud. The sense of accomplishment that was supposed to come along with athletic wins was never really there for me, not in the years I was a runner, not really in the years I was a cyclist or a triathlete. No matter how hard I pushed myself—even if I ended up in the med tent— it was never hard, never fast and never good enough.
I’ve been thinking a lot about this lately, in part because I have the silence and the space to think about it. For once I’m not really so upset that I have an issue with my hamstring (my “tendonipathy”, a.k.a. pain in the ass)—in a way, it actually makes me laugh to think that I injured myself in quarantine by both running and sitting too much, too soon. Instead, I’m filled with a strange kind of peace that my evenings will be spent doing a variety of hip-bridges and stretching, and that the electro-therapy pads Rich bought will not go to waste, but will course electrical currents through the back side of my leg into visible flinches, getting the blood to flow and to do its thing.
Every day since the shutdown occurred in March, I have woken to the silent sound of my own prayers of gratitude. For small things, mostly: the sound of the birds outside the window, the softness of the sheets beneath my palms, the luxury of morning coffee that steams as the dawn alights and Rich and I go to the bike shop to ride the bikes indoors.
I was never grateful for any of these kinds of things, and never noticed them, before. Instead I was always focused on what I was not. I wanted so badly to be an athlete that every opportunity—every glimpse—of whatever weakness, I pointed to, highlighted as if to call out to the world that I was a fraud.
I’ll never forget the day when I realized that running-competitively—was over for me. It was as though I’d literally lost a limb or an eye, some vital part of my body. I’d injured my Achilles tendon, something it took years to truly heal. When I wrote about the experience before, my work focused on the physical pain of that injury, but far beyond that was the awful truth that I couldn’t avoid myself anymore by running miles and miles. The emotions and thoughts that I was unable to express as a child and, later, unable to cope with as a young adult, were placed at bay by the sheer physical demands of what I was doing every single day.
I still remember crying—to the point of screaming—at a coach. I’m sure he thought I was crazy. In the moment, I was. In hindsight, I recognize the sound— it’s what you do when you believe you have lost absolutely everything. It didn’t matter that I was in an MFA program, and that I was working on becoming a writer, which had been my goal since I was a child. The running took over, and made it possible to live life feeling absolutely nothing but the immediate, physical discomfort of training. Years later, I replaced running with the triathlon, and later with endurance cycling.
After all of this—when my body finally broke—I had nothing left to look at but myself. It reminds me a bit of what’s happening now, only this unexpected thing has started to happen: I might not be a great athlete or even a mediocre one. In the absence of all that busy-ness, though I have been forced to come to terms with what and who I am. And for once, I don’t mind what I see or feel.
In fact, I’m struck mostly by what I am. Since the lockdown happened, I’ve revisited the writers I love, the essays, books, stories and interviews I grew up with. I have read and watched them all again, finding new joy in these voices. I’ve also discovered new ones, and in so doing, have opened up my previously closed lines of communication to family, friends and even strangers (new friends) who happen to read this crazy blog.
When I wrote to my pen pal and mentioned that I felt blessed to be running again as a somewhat daily practice (until the pain-in-the-ass-syndrome happened) she laughed that I was OK with running “slow.” “You really don’t mind going at whatever pace?” She asked me in her last letter. Nope, I really don’t! Running slower lets me see more, and so I cherish it and look forward to doing it again when my hamstring heals.
Until very recently, I’ve been scared to head outside on the bike for fear of being hit by a reckless or angry driver, and finding myself in the hospital. But, riding outside doesn’t have to be off the menu: I’ve realized that I can make adjustments to the time I ride and the routes I take and to re-discover the parts of cycling I always loved. Not the QOMs or the ridiculous competition per se, but the hawks that circle overhead and the crunch and crinkle of gravel beneath your wheel, the quality of light and how the trees and plants are so green here now, because of all the recent moisture.
I have also discovered I want to become a better storyteller— to connect with the people whose stories I tell more deeply. To connect with my colleagues—both at the college and in the community—on a more meaningful level, I have signed up for a practice called “Soul-Based Coaching” that will enable me to learn how to better hold space for those people who feel compelled to tell me their stories. If I continue with the training, I may be able to utilize what I know about narrative and metaphor to help people to realize their own goals and dreams for their future through a metaphorical and narrative exploration of their lives.
This, from a person who believed I was “nothing more” than a long-distance runner.
These days, I realize the truth that we have the potential to create so many wonderful things in this world. As we age, we evolve to become more of one and less of the other, but we are never always and ever one “thing.” We are energy, we are light, we are human beings, vibrant and alive, and we are meant to shine brightly in our own unique ways.
My contribution to the world might not be a fast finish time, a TT won, or some single event. It might not even be a book or a story (although I’m not giving up on that quite yet.) My role as a storyteller might exist in a new modality that I had never considered before because I was too busy hiding from myself to notice that I, like all of us, have unique talents.
This might not be the brightest moment, but they say the darkest moment happens right before dawn. The frigid mountain air on my fingers at 4 a.m. in Diamond Valley for a long-past 200-mile ride was certainly cold and miserable. The dawn, as it rose over the Carson Valley and I was ascending Kingsbury Grade on my bike— that is what that cliched statement means.
It’s cold and lonely and even very painful at some point in everyone’s journey. Hope—gratitude and prayer—happen. I choose to believe this moment is one in which we can give ourselves the space to truly listen and to truly look at who we are, and to accept the growth we are meant to do so that each of us can, in own ways, shine.