I was
tired, I didn’t want to race. Ever again. I didn’t want to run. Ever again. I
fell into bed. A warm bed with clean sheets. Clean sheets and a pillow. Not
sleeping in the back end of the truck. Curled up with Zumi and Sadie. Snuggled.
With Mary Ann. Tired. Too tired.
Clean. I
was clean. I had real food. My teeth were brushed. I even got to floss. I was
clean. I was in a real bed. I was snuggled. I didn’t have to face heat or cold.
Wind or rain. Hours of being dirty. Days of eating aid station food.
I was
tired. It felt good to snuggle. Good to rest. Good to sleep. And be clean.
What was
next? Another race? Maybe. Maybe not. I was tired. Too fucking tired.
Comfortable.
How horrible, to be comfortable and out of the elements.
I need to
recover. Get some sleep. Gain a couple of pounds. I was at the lowest weight I
had been since I was in my early 30’s and suffering from depression. Not
dangerously thin but on the edge. Hungry. Wanted real food. Clean sheets.
Brushed teeth. Not too hot. Not too cold. No chafing. With a real bathroom and
a toilet that flushes. Soft toilet paper.
Comfortable. Safe. Fed. Clean.
Is
this how it ends? I just decide that comfort is more important than adventure?
Usually, the memory of the fun, exciting aspects of a big race outweighs the memory of the pain and discomfort. Or the lure of accomplishing a major goal outweighs the pain of a DNF. But this year, I just keep thinking about clean sheets. Clean teeth. Real food.
Is this how it ends?
What a dilemma for you. I don't think your thoughts are a function of aging. Perhaps they are a function of having accomplished far more than you ever dreamed you could.
ReplyDeleteMaybe but it feels more like I am wilting and wasting away. I am afraid that aging, like a rising flood, will wash everything away if I don't keep piling up the sand bags.
ReplyDelete