I recently participated in an event that challenged every aspect of endurance: mentally, physically, emotionally, etc. I was one member on a team of six and, between us, we ran almost two hundred total miles, taking turns running legs ranging anywhere from about 2.5 miles to 11.1 miles in length. Individually, we each ran roughly 30 miles and some change in under 48 hours.
The event as a whole is a massive undertaking for everyone involved, costing a lot of time, money, and willingness to sacrifice sleep on the altar of pain and suffering. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was incredibly difficult in every way.
Now, why would we do such a thing to ourselves? The event was entirely voluntary. We didn’t have to do it, so why did we?
If you were to ask me that question during each leg, you would get a different response each time. On leg one, I would say, “God, I love running! Who wouldn’t want to do this?” On leg two, I would say, “This is just so great! I feel invincible!” On leg three, I would say, “Oh my god…I’m only halfway done?” On leg four, I would say, “I don’t know if I can do this…and I still have to run two more times.” On leg five, I would say, “I hate everything. Life is pain. There is no joy in the world.” On leg six, I would say, “Can’t breathe. No speak. Might die.”
This devolution is inevitable and unpleasant. What’s more, I was aware it would happen. I’d run a similar event prior and experienced the same range of emotion. I knew what I was getting into, and yet, I still got into it. Eagerly, even.
So why would I put myself through such physical and psychological torment, particularly when I remembered just how brutally challenging the previous one had been? I willingly participated in suffering…and still came back for more again and again. I understand how crazy that sounds.
After we finished, as we returned from the site of the race, I reflected on everything and noticed something. There were few times in my life when I appreciated everything as much as at that moment. I thought back on the pain and suffering of the race and realized I wouldn’t trade the hardship for anything. I have nothing but fond memories of the suffering.
I said to my physicality, “I demanded more of you than you thought you could give, and yet you gave.” All the joylessness of waking up at 5:30am to run my next leg after fewer than two hours of restless sleep (and after having already run about twenty miles) feels entirely worth it. At the time, I cursed the day I was born, but after, I felt nothing but gratitude for the day of my birth.
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En route home from this event, my team and I stopped at a Denny’s for breakfast. A few tables away, I saw an elderly couple eating breakfast and drinking their coffee. The way the waitress interacted with them told me they were regulars.
I occasionally glanced over at this couple throughout my meal. The woman appeared to be in relatively good health, but the man was not. He reminded me of my grandpa during the last few years of his life. Tremors shook his hands and head and he couldn’t walk without the assistance of others and crutches.
Seeing this, two things happened within me: first, I felt great sorrow at this man’s suffering (and by extension, the hardship his wife had to endure). It brought up the same feelings I had the last time I saw my grandpa. Second, I was filled a deeply profound awareness of the temporal nature of all things.
At this time in my life, my body is basically on my side. Physically speaking, I’m quite healthy and in far better shape than most in this country. I’m physically strong in the sense that I can run great distances without destroying myself entirely and my recovery time is really fast. And this isn’t an accident. It didn’t happen because I’m lucky enough to be skinny. This happened because I’ve spent years training my body how to run.
But one day, my body is going to turn on me. I won’t always be able to run several consecutive six minute miles. I won’t always be able to put in over fifty weekly miles. I won’t always be physically strong. Getting sick is a telling glimpse into that inevitable future.
Knowing this can lead to despair. Like, what’s the point of being strong now? We all die eventually anyway, so what does it matter how healthy or in shape you are? Human physicality eventually turns on itself no matter whom you happen to be.
But this revelation of my finite existence wasn’t negative or sad to me in any way. It was inspiring. I’m strong now and I have to enjoy it. I can run now and I have to enjoy it. I can move freely and without pain or restriction now and I have to enjoy it. I owe it to my future self to use the hell out of the good physical condition I currently enjoy. Anything less is unacceptable.
Let’s take another look at the devolution I experienced during the race: leg one = excitement, leg two = invincibility, leg three = awareness of magnitude, leg four = uncertainty, leg five = utter despair, and leg six = complete surrender to pain and resolve.
What I’ve learned is really quite simple. I won’t regret suffering; I will regret comfort. At no point in my existence have I looked back on a time when I was completely comfortable and thought, “That was so good. I’m really glad I did that.” The only things I look back on with pride and satisfaction are the times when I suffered…and persevered.
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Suffering is the worst feeling. I won’t sugarcoat it. It doesn’t get more unpleasant than suffering. So we’re faced with an incredibly important choice. Do we want to suffer now and remember it fondly? Or do we want to live comfortably now and regret it to our dying breath?
I wonder if that old man looked at me and remembered a time when he was young and could move without great difficulty, when standing was no more remarkable than vanilla ice cream, when he could live entirely independently from anyone else. And I wonder if he wished he’d done more while he had the chance.
Or did he look at me and fondly recall the good old days when he lived life to the fullest? Did he suffer and persevere? Is he proud of how he lived? I couldn’t possibly tell you.
What I can tell you is this: I don’t want to be sitting at a table in Denny’s when I’m old and in failing health, glancing at a table of my juniors, feeling only envy for their youth and regretting I didn’t do more with mine.