An Ode to Discomfort

Life does not provide a final finish line. There is no end to discomfort until the cessation of life itself. If a cool breeze braces your cheeks at the end of a competition, you should still anticipate the turbulent storm that is bound to follow.

I think most adults believe the act of growing up deserves them a lifetime of ease and painless sustenance. In the west particularly, adults tend to shun struggle, believing the rest of their years should be lived without pain. They “deserve” comfort, they seem to tell themselves. It’s somehow a reward for “struggling through youth.” So, they seek air conditioning, the drive-through, the chair, booze, television, gluttony, and phones. They adult bicycle collects dust if its owner fears the dirt outside. It is those who embrace the chaos outside who last the longest.

I try to avoid comfort as though it’s a disease I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. I aim to thrive in chaos and live well in the maelstrom. Pain is a necessary part of living and the precursor to growth. Without pain there is no life.

How have I embraced pain lately?

Somehow I managed to bike ten miles home immediately after breaking my collarbone and hitting my head hard enough to not know what year it was.

I bike commuted 20 miles to work in sub-zero temperatures winter mornings over the past few years, while gusts of wind sometimes rocked me with sleet. I learned to change tires on the side of the road while my fingers numbed.

Tolerating pain helped me train for a marathon while my right arm was still broken and unable to swing naturally in stride.

I finished a long run after my face was stabbed by a tree branch (and drove myself to a nearby Urgent Care to have my face stitched afterwards). I laughed as the nurse stitched me up. I now embrace this scar, whereas many would be “distraught by the imperfection.”

It’s why my old teammates at the University of Texas called me “The Manimal.” They knew I can absorb higher loads of pain than most.

My tolerance for pain helped me learn to run after 36 years of just swimming and lifting, and it’s how I ran my first marathon at age 37. To get back in the pool and beat people my age at swim meets seemed too easy. I wanted more discomfort.

When a car hit me in 2021 and tore up my right foot, I shrugged it off and decided that I’d eventually return stronger than ever. I’d run faster than ever as a final revenge to that shitty driver.

I don’t believe a pain-free day will arrive, nor should it, and I try to embrace pain’s inevitable return. I can’t rest on my laurels.

Discomfort keeps me honest. It keeps me strong, alive, and fiery. It is the best friend I’ve ever had.

A Last Time for Everything

As the first gray hairs settle in just above my ears and my ankle heals, it dawns on me that I may be approaching the midpoint of my lifespan. Who’s to say with certainty? We have no control over the future, but if considering the median age of a male life, I’m nearing the midway marker.

The car hit last year struck me more mentally than physically (and that’s saying something because it struck me with pretty good force). By this I mean it spurred a number of realizations about mortality. The chief realization among them that is on my mind today is that there will be a last time for everything.

I was fairly certain upon feeling my foot bend the wrong direction against the road that I had ran for the last time. That was it, and suddenly it was gone like the rabbit in a magic show’s disappearing act. I was lucky enough that it wasn’t the case. Nonetheless, that day will eventually arrive, and I must accept this.

If that day did mark my final run, I did not get to wish my running days goodbye. There would be no “festive final run” or “emotional farewell to the act.” It’s simply there one day and gone the next. I suspect that most final acts end the same way and that most of us in the west do not realize this.

One day, there will be a last hike. There will be a last dream, a last bike ride, and a last beach trip. There will be a last glass of wine, a last kiss, and a last act of love. There will be a last dessert and a last witnessed sunrise. There will be a last hug. Mothers will see their babies become adults for the last time. Fathers will play catch with their kids for the last time. I will see a last colored hair fall from my face and see this city for the last time. I will write a final blog and a final story. I will read a final book. I will share a final joke. And of course, there will be a last breath of oxygen.

I suspect these moments happen, they pass, and we often take them for granted. We don’t expect the end of any to be near, but each day likely presents the final time we will ever do, or feel, or think something. Every day is in some way a final act.

In the daily rush that modern culture attempts to sweep me into I find that the act of “hurrying to what’s next” makes these final acts even less apparent. They are hidden by the greatest magician of them all: industry. In the chase for something better, for fewer problems, and for perhaps a glimpse at immortality, we lose something important today and are unaware that we ever lost it.

I don’t think this to put myself in a gloomy or nihilistic mood, but to note that it’s worthwhile to pause and appreciate what I have, and what I’m doing, at this moment. And to appreciate what I’ve done and where I’ve been.

The Weekly Plunder: Week 3 - Walk

I think one often needs an ink-jet black night sky to gain a sense of truth in a world obsessed with manipulation and distraction. It is that dark and infinite expanse’s clusters of stars, nebulae, and galaxies that help us realize the insignificance of our problems. Our gadgets and occupations deceive us into thinking that we are the centrifugal force of existence, when we are just dust in the wind.

In our purest form, perhaps we are one with the earth. The New Mexico Pueblo natives build their Adobe homes from clay, from layers residing beneath the visible crust. Clay for a roof and clay for a floor. As above, so below. And they believe that’s where we came from, and what we’re made of: the same place we return when we die. Similarly, the early Northern explorers noted when crossing Alaska that the Yup’ik natives seemingly emerged from the terrain, a part of it. Surprised that any life could exist in such a frigid landscape, nonetheless human life, they were in awe.

What I’m doing: For the first time in over a month I am walking without much pain. It is the first time since those toddler years that I have essentially re-learned walking from scratch, bit by bit, as muscles and ligaments repair themselves. Every day I am able to use more portions of the foot with my steps, and every day I adapt to a more efficient form of movement. I am walking again. Running is around the corner.

What I’m watching: Creepshow, Seasons 1-2. A throwback to the classic comic series. The first episode is based on one of my favorite, and most disturbing, Stephen King stories. By the way, happy belated bday Stephen!

What I’m listening to: Megadeth. I’m seeing them live tomorrow. First show I’ve been to in years. Glad Dave Mustaine is still around. Here’s an old one I dig: Addicted to Chaos

What I’m reading: Patagonia magazine, stories of nature and survival. Incredible where some people have been, what they’ve seen, and what they’ve survived. Show me a fisherman and I see a conqueror. Show me a businessman or a corporate VP and I see a fraud! Sad what convenience and consumerism have turned us into. I feel that my swim with sharks in 2020 was only my beginning.

What I’m thinking: Do not fear age, anonymous reader, any more than the fall and winter seasons. There is beauty in decay; blueberry bushes drop their fruit in fall for us to eat their fruit, while their leaves turn from green to a beautifully stark crimson. There is beauty in age, and there is beauty in decay. Conversely, there is often ugliness in the fight against time: if you don’t believe me, look at the odd surgically pulled faces of the robots formerly known as (insert Hollywood celeb).