Friday, November 19, 2004
Potent Joy
A few weeks ago, a few of us completed a half marathon. It was as all other races have been; a mixture of "why in the hell do I do this?" and "I'm sooooo GLAD I do this!" Everyone finished, got their free snacks after and rode home with that wonderful feeling of sore and tired muscles coupled with a great sense of accomplishment.
At the start of it, I had cramps. In the middle of it, there was a deafening silence of stomping feet and asthmatic breathing. Toward the end, my illiotibial band ceased in its begging me to stop and became numb.
After I crossed the line, there was a sense of true and unadulterated accomplishment. It was the purest minute I've had in a long time. That feeling of deep, earned, and serendipitous joy. That was precisely the moment, more than any other, when the race took on its metaphorical meaning (of course there's a metaphor). This is the stuff of life.
The need for stretching, for preparing and self care so that none of the muscles will be torn into pieces. The walking through the hydration stations so you don't choke on what is trying to nurture you. The intense need for friends to accompany us through the journey.
Really, the cycle of pain and joy, and sometimes both mixed together--these are the things of my life.
I've always loved to sweat. I'm strange that way. It is so natural and earthy and proves through my senses that I'm working hard (or living in Texas). In this particular instance it was the former. Often my sweat reminds me of my tears. Is that so strange?
Perhaps it's the hard work and the pain that motivates me to keep training. All I know is that it's worth it. Even if the joy is only potent for a minute, the remnants are bound to last a lifetime.
At the start of it, I had cramps. In the middle of it, there was a deafening silence of stomping feet and asthmatic breathing. Toward the end, my illiotibial band ceased in its begging me to stop and became numb.
After I crossed the line, there was a sense of true and unadulterated accomplishment. It was the purest minute I've had in a long time. That feeling of deep, earned, and serendipitous joy. That was precisely the moment, more than any other, when the race took on its metaphorical meaning (of course there's a metaphor). This is the stuff of life.
The need for stretching, for preparing and self care so that none of the muscles will be torn into pieces. The walking through the hydration stations so you don't choke on what is trying to nurture you. The intense need for friends to accompany us through the journey.
Really, the cycle of pain and joy, and sometimes both mixed together--these are the things of my life.
I've always loved to sweat. I'm strange that way. It is so natural and earthy and proves through my senses that I'm working hard (or living in Texas). In this particular instance it was the former. Often my sweat reminds me of my tears. Is that so strange?
Perhaps it's the hard work and the pain that motivates me to keep training. All I know is that it's worth it. Even if the joy is only potent for a minute, the remnants are bound to last a lifetime.
