“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.

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. 

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.

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.