Lyricycle
PATHWAYS
Friday, November 30, 2018
Tuesday, August 7, 2018
“There’s something lost, but something’s gained…”
It is
impossible to live without failing at something, unless you live so cautiously
that you might as well not have lived at all – in which case you fail by
default.
Interestingly,
in my day-to-day life I am not much of a risk-taker or improviser. I tend to
get riled if plans are upset; I like routine a lot of the time. To step outside
familiar parameters is to open the gate to improvisation, failure, loss.
J.K. Rowling at Harvard, 2008
One of the
things I both loved and feared about live performing was the possibility of surprise; it was a presence among us onstage, like an extra cast member. No matter how prepared I
was (and sometimes I wasn’t all that prepared), there was always an element of
chance – a musical blip, a wardrobe malfunction, a technical glitch. Or
something wonderful that electrified the
performance.
As Papageno in a Magical Magic Flute. |
The same
was true in athletic events. At the start of a long race there is no way I could
predict what would happen over the next fourteen or more hours. And I’ve had a
lot happen to me: a broken spoke in the pouring rain with 120
kilometres still to ride at Lake Placid; two flat tires followed by a water
shortage at the aid stations on a very hot day in Penticton, leading to
nauseating dehydration during the marathon. In both those cases I went on to finish
the race. Then there was a flareup of Morton’s neuroma out of the blue at 65k of the Comrades Marathon and
extreme vertigo coming out of the swim at Ironman Mont Tremblant. I dropped out of those races.
Standing at
the starting line is like standing in the wings of the theatre; everything
behind me disappears and all possibilities are before me. And both these are akin
to starting out to write something new: I am certain not to end up where I was
headed without course changes along the way. The published version of my memoir
was like the mythical Ship of Theseus, containing almost none of the parts it
had started out with.
After riding across the desert all night, sunrise outside Blythe CA. |
But three
things in my life that came to me by surprise – singing, endurance athletics, and writing –
invited me outside those parameters, where I have been given a chance to push
myself to places I would never have dreamed of going: Carnegie Hall; a dusty road in South
Africa, a mountain path in Iceland, a sunblasted highway in California; the pages of my published book.
If pressed for an analysis, I would say that I do these things to surprise myself.
When I started singing at age 16 and running at 33, I remember
being elated to discover that there were things I had never done before that I
could get better at. Each year I planned to do something more than I had the previous
year. Sometimes I failed in spectacular fashion, but often I succeeded.
A hot day at Ironman Canada |
Now, 33 years further on, I wonder if this is still true. I ran my
first 50k two years ago at age 65 and improved my time the following year. Can
I run farther this year than I did last year? How many more can I do? Or has
the ship sailed? Is the challenge between now and age 99 simply not to lose
what I have?
The answer is … it doesn’t matter. These days I find I am losing the need to create long-term goals to carry me forward. Once, goalsetting
was therapy for my tired mind as well as a generator of useful milestones.
Nowadays I focus more on simply seeing what happens. I enter maybe one or two trail races a year,
and these are low-key events where people run as much for the joy of being out
in the forest as to set a personal best or to clock more mileage into their
running logs.
It no longer matters to me if I go farther than I did yesterday. There is no endgame, there
are only the steps I take along the way.
Because I run to see what is possible; because I sang for
the physical pleasure of guiding music through my body; because I write to
enjoy the process of shaping words into communication; and because I am willing
to accept whatever challenges these pursuits throw at me along with what they
offer, I believe I’ve maximized my involvement in all of them.
By easing up on future goalsetting, I gain today. My reward for
enjoying the moment is ... the moment – nothing more or less.
Pioneering
astrophysicist Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin’s wrote two lines in her autobiography
that speak clearly to me:
I was not consciously
aiming at the point I finally reached. I simply went on plodding, rewarded by
the beauty of the scenery, toward an unexpected goal.
For what I have chosen to assume is the final third of my
life, I plan to keep my eyes open for those new and unexpected goals, and to
enjoy the scenery.
This is my last Lyricycle post. I’ve run out of things to
say here.
I’m not sure what I had planned for this blog when I began
writing it in 2008; I only know that I enjoyed writing it. The people who
visited unexpectedly touched me more than I can say: a writing colleague; a fellow cyclist
from the Race Across the West; friends I met in a sandstorm in Death Valley; a
volunteer from a trail race in Ontario.
My writing will have another home before too long, and I'll post a link here.
My writing will have another home before too long, and I'll post a link here.
Saturday, June 23, 2018
Two Solitudes
"I couldn't see
anybody, and I knew what the loneliness of the long-distance runner running
across country felt like, realising that as far as I was concerned this feeling
was the only honesty and realness there was in the world … no matter what
anybody else tried to tell me."
― Alan Sillitoe, The Loneliness of the Long Distance Runner
As the day warms, I am lacing up my shoes for a two-hour
run.
In an alternate universe,
a parallel me is starting to write a novel that has a theme of
belonging. In both realities, I am aware that I am the only resident.
A writer is often an outlier, socially speaking; an observer
and documenter rather than a participant. Even authors who excel at the social
aspect of their job (and there is one) will admit that when they are sitting
in front of a half-finished subplot wondering how they are ever going to get
untangled from it, there isn’t much advantage to being a pleasant dinner
companion or a social media maven.
I am a long distance runner who has never experienced
loneliness. Last summer when I was slogging up a mountain in Iceland, up to my
shins in slush with sleet whipping into my face, I didn’t look around for
someone to share the experience with. It was mine – for better or worse – and I
wanted it all to myself.
My memoir, Dr.
Bartolo’s Umbrella, was aimed at a particular target audience and within the
parameters I had set for myself it was more successful than I had ever dreamed it
would be. These were the parameters: I wanted whoever read it to enjoy it.
Word got back to me that many did.
But that is not why I wrote it. I wrote it because I loved
the simple individuality of the process.
To me, the purest joy and greatest challenge was the writing
itself:
to
write clearly but lyrically; to find new ways of saying things that have been
said a million million times; to put thoughts in order logically but
fantastically; to communicate symbolically and be believed viscerally.
To do this, I had to choose critically which advice I would accept
from teachers, editors, and peers, because every word in my book is in held in
place by my imagination and craft, not theirs. My Acknowledgements section is
as a full and as heartfelt as any author’s, but ultimately I was the one who
sat alone at my keyboard for years, conceiving, writing, revising. I do not
write by committee.
(I have yet to experience the traditional author’s nightmare
of having absolutely no one show up to one of my readings. This must be the literary
manifestation of loneliness.)
Nor do I run as part of a team. Unless I decide to join the
local Wednesday Afternoon Walking and Conversation Group – which I am not currently
contemplating – a major characteristic of running for me is that it is a
solitary, non-social activity.
So, if I cherish my solitude so much, why go into an
organized running event at all? That’s a question I’ve asked myself increasingly
in past years. For one thing, I like the challenge of an unfamiliar course planned
and laid out by someone else; these always seem to be a bit less forgiving than
the paths I choose for myself. But lately I’ve left behind races like Ironman and
big-city marathons in favour of low-profile trail races – same great distances and
support with much less noise.
For me, a running event is still an individual process that takes
place in the company of several hundred others who are also locked in private negotiation
with their own limitations and dreams. I am in company, but every step I take
is mine alone.
I have always found purity – a “realness” as Sillitoe writes – in the
fulfillment of a personal goal: in working to prepare for it; in stretching to
achieve it; in doing what I told myself I was going to do. Pushing myself to go
farther today than I did yesterday reminds me of the struggle to align words
and thoughts. When I edit my writing I want the revision to be an improvement
on what was on the page before; occasionally it is. Crossing a finish line is
akin to the feeling of polishing a sentence that finally says exactly what you
want it to – the certitude that there is no more work to be done.
Running and writing: two things that bring me joy.
Two things I do alone.
PS: This will be my penultimate post in Lyricycle. After ten
years, I find that my focus and direction have moved beyond the scope of this
blog. After all, there are only so many ways I can describe moving myself across the
planet under my own power (a phrase I imagine I’ve used about a dozen times in
the last decade). I am developing a new website, and I’ll leave a link to it on
this page when it is operational.
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