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Mother FUCK not scaring the living hell out of yourself as you careen down a hillside at top speed.
Mother FUCK not stomping your feet like you own the very earth that gives way before your stride.
Mother FUCK not feeling your body beg and plead for you to stop with the pain.
Mother FUCK not letting a roar loose from your lungs as you achieve your objective.
I've found what's been missing from my life. For the past 10 years I've been lost and wandering and never feeling whole. It's been calling to me from beyond the horizon and now I feel I've passed over the crest and seen the sun shining. And it's the most beautiful thing I've ever forgotten.
There's something that I've been feeling. Like there's more I could be doing. I've tried busying myself with work, school, drinking, video games, pretty much anything I could get my hands on. Even working out. But even as my body grew and healed, and even as my mind continued to evolve, I wasn't happy. It still felt like I was going to just be out walking one day and then my head would explode, littering the pavement and pedestrians with just a thick layer of...I don't know. Melancholy I guess.
I've been missing genuine, heartbreaking, blood boiling competition.
There's something about it that's so addictive. I don't hate the guy next to me or across from me, or the old lady twenty feet back. I love these people.
There's an edge to the crowd, as fine as any razor, and as thick as any railroad tie. Anticipation, excitement, worry, fear, exhilaration. We bounce around and waver and stretch as one. We don't hate one another, but we're sure as fuck going to set ourselves apart. And at the end, we're going to feel that surge of triumph and bliss that only comes from subduing one's own body.
The people make it, and that's why I'm sad about the timing of our departure, and the separation of Luis and I in our heats. There's a certain satisfaction of completing something by yourself. When I was pole vaulting or swimming, everything I did relied on me. My success and failure was a direct correlation between how hard I could push myself. But in a group, football, relays, paintball, anything, that feeling is multiplied exponentially. It's no longer how hard you can push yourself, or what your body can do.
It's how hard you can scream at the mother fucker behind you, and how fast you can get their ass in gear and on the same level. Or how they're going to pull you through it, step by step, telling you to pick your fucking knees up and stop bitching about the mud.
And at the end of the course, you've got people to shake hands, to hug, and to share a victory beer with. This is still possible by yourself, but with people you know and you trust to kick you right where you need kicked...
It's been three days since I climbed out of the mud and gave that glorious banana lady a hug.
And I haven't stopped smiling. I've been bouncing in my shoes each day. I am so fucking ready to do more.
That's why, within the next year, I'll be doing a 12 mile run with obstacles designed by British Special Forces with a team of hard knock mother fuckers who know how it's done. I'm going to sweat, bleed, puke, dig mud from my tear ducts and know that at the end of the day, there's really not much else I'd rather be doing that feeling that tight bond of camaraderie that I've missed for so long.
Props to the two stowaways that came out with me:
The trip wouldn't have been near as fun without you two, but dammit Luis, stop being a glass cannon.
And since this is my god damn blog, here's my mother fucking cute ass viking descended warrior puppy:
