Rhinoceros Running

Happy Birthday to me!

My birthday passed on Sunday, and my instincts were to hide under my comforter here in Chicago. My weekend goal would have been to stay in the same pair of pajamas right through til Monday morning. In fact, although I made plans to travel to suburban Detroit, I woke up Saturday morning wondering how I could plausibly cancel and still keep my friendships intact. And there are a lot of people who I could have called, and said, I am toooooo depressed, I can’t do it, I can’t bring myself to leave the house. And virtually everyone but Carol would say, ok, yes, take care of yourself, like I have cancer. And what I really need is Carol, who is most honest with me, to tell me that’s unacceptable to her. So there was no way I was going to be able to get away with calling Carol and canceling, and besides that, I knew that if I could just get to the train station, and get to their house, I would feel about a thousand times better.

But I was wrong—I got to their house and felt a million times better. Four college-era friends and their five children proved to be food for my soul. P. and B., along with P. E. have all signed up for Wisconsin Ironman, so there was a lot of discussion about training and for this epic event.

[If you’ve never seen an Ironman event, and only heard the numbers (2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike ride, capped off with a 26.2 run) it sounds insane and very, very difficult to visualize. And in fact, if you’ve seen the event on television, it looks excruciating. They seem to pick the athletes who are pushing themselves to the edge of breakdown—I suppose that makes good, dramatic television, but it’s not at all representative of the vast majority of the athletes. I suppose it isn’t all that interesting to watch people just plug away for 12-13 hours, putting one foot in front of the over, over and, but here’s to the blessed souls that persevere for no other reason than their own sense of accomplishment, completion, endurance. The vast majority of us live outside the spotlight, where we complete our own Ironmans every day. Mothering young children is like a years-long Ironman. That’ll never be accurately televised, though. That would make an Ironman look like a walk in the park.]

So, back to a point I was kind of trying to make, and that is, having watched P. complete one Ironman, and talking to my friends who raise multiple children, nurture their marriages, work 40+ hours at demanding jobs, and wedge in training for Ironmans, yes, but also half-marathons, etc., life goes on, life is challenging, life isn’t easy for most people, life is busy, so suck it up, and make the most of it.

I’m not sure what I think life is supposed to be. Where does this debilitating depression come from? Do I think that life is easy, smooth, without disappointments for everyone else? Or . . . what exactly?

I don’t know. I don’t have any more answers than Saturday morning, before I got on the train, but I definitely feel a resurgence of enthusiasm to keep putting one foot in front of the other. It was just a simple weekend. We ate, we napped, I watched their children play in the snow (so much snow! This is a Midwestern childhood, our birthright is to have snow from which we make forts, and androgynous snow people, and snow angels, and snowballs to throw at one another), for hours they played in the snow, and remembered when there was nothing better than a day outside in it. I don’t want to do that anymore, but I certainly remember its allure. And to talk to their children, people who were once just an idea, a concept entirely unformed, but loved before they even know who they were or would be, is very exciting. Their oldest daughter can discuss books with me, and the youngest read to me, a process I find exhilarating. Remember learning to read? How exciting it was to have an adult listen to you while you showed off your new skills? And what’s remarkable to me is that this process of reading is real work. She selected a challenging book, and I could hear the way she sounded out words, and corrected herself. Remember that? Brain on! It seems that as adults, we sometimes lose that delight in our hard work—unless there’s a monetary reward. Watching adults set goals for themselves, like an Ironman, or something like just starting to run, is like learning to read, it’s just satisfying hard work that means the most to the individual. What are you doing that means nothing to anyone else, that has meaning only to yourself?