When one cannot change their failure, when one must accept that there is no "making up for it," at least for a long while, what happens?
Like many millennials, I made (almost) every new MCU film during the 2010's appointment viewing. It goes without saying that many of the films not only left a lasting impression on us, they became fodder for memes and one-liners. One that, after this past weekend, has stuck in my mind is Thanos in Avengers: Endgame.
"You could not live with your own failure. Where did that bring you? Back to me."
Why has this suddenly become relevant for me?
***
As a sucker for alliteration, I like to say my life revolves around the three F's--family, fantasy, and fitness. Family and fantasy are obvious in their value, but fitness is a bit more nuanced than just "I like to be strong, fast, and healthy." As a kid who grew up severely overweight for most of my life, fitness has always felt like something I wanted to have but was just beyond my reach (actually quite beyond my reach). Gradually, especially since the pandemic, fitness has come more and more in my grasp. Consistency with training, eating right, and sleeping well has gotten me to a spot where I have tremendous fitness.
But that feeling of being the fat kid, the one who can't run at any speed for longer than a minute or two, is never far from my mind. I could run a two-hour marathon, and I'd still at spots feel like the chunky kid.
In that regard, fitness for me isn't just making my body healthy, it's almost a therapeutic healing process. In fantasy, we might think of this as "the inner cave." It's funny because this metaphor is used quite frequently in running, as discussions of going to the "pain cave" or "retreating within yourself" during hard workouts and races are ubiquitous. Fitness has taken on an outsized meaning for me because it's an almost spiritual thing; I owe it to myself to see how much I can make of the body I'm given after close to three decades of not just taking it for granted but treating it poorly.
On a daily basis, this doesn't look like anything too crazy. 4-5 runs, 3-4 weightlifting sessions, maybe challenging myself to set a 10k or half-marathon PR once every three months. But every so often, 1-2x a year, I push myself in a race so audacious it's going to knock me out for close to a week. I frankly probably put too much stock in these singular performances, but they also provide me a great litmus test for my fitness and a chance to do something daring.
Enter World's Toughest Mudder.
***
World's Toughest Mudder's premise is simple--for 24 hours, complete a 5-mile trail loop with 20+ obstacles as many times as possible. Some people will show up, do a lap, sit in the "pit" area where athletes can fuel or rest for 20 hours, and do one more lap. Some will push literally all 24 hours to achieve a mileage goal; the current record, hit three times in the 16-year history, is 115 miles, or 23 laps. My PR going into this past weekend's event was 11 laps, or 55 miles, in 20 hours (you can technically be considered if you finish a lap at a certain time before 24 hours; what this time is varies year to year).
I love this race because it's not just a "who's the fastest" race, it's not just a "who's the strongest" race, and it's not even a "who's the toughest" race. It's a blend of all these factors, requiring holistic athleticism that doesn't overly skewer in one direction or another. Forced to pick, the runner will generally do better than the weightlifter, but the runner still needs some strength if he or she wants to do as well as possible. It makes me a well-rounded athlete, which has benefits in my daily life and longevity, and it gives me something ridiculous yet rewarding to look forward to.
My goal this year was 75 miles, and for the first seven hours, I was well on track to do that. I was at 30 miles, feeling good, and moving well. These races are often as much about mental equilibrium as physical endurance, and my headspace was pretty good. There's always moments where you yell at yourself, but generally, I kept things even-keeled.
And then I cut my big toe, a blood blister formed, and by the time I finished my seventh lap for 35 miles, the goal of 75 was dead.
In the moment, I was relatively accepting. But the longer that time has gone on, the more frustrated I've become with how this race ended. If I had lost because my training hadn't gotten me far enough--training that I had pushed as much as I could--I could live with that. But I lost because of something that was half a freak accident, half a recurring thing that I should have known better. I alternate between wanting a mulligan, saying I'll never do it again, and just being bummed out.
So now what?
***
Now I find myself in the innermost cave that so many protagonists in fantasy find themselves in. I feel like Samwise cast aside by Frodo due to Gollum's deception; I feel like Luke Skywalker after losing his hand; I feel like all of Rand's friends after his darkest act in trying to kill one of the Forsaken (you know what I mean if you've read the books). One of the things that makes this so tough is that triumph isn't just a matter of getting back up and doing this again. There are real opportunity costs to doing this again with my family and my fantasy career, and even if I signed up for this tomorrow, redemption is a full year away; it's not like this race comes once a month.
In the stories, usually, redemption is found (that's why they are stories, after all). But I think the good stories, I'm coming to realize, are the ones where redemption isn't just difficult, it may not even feel worthwhile to the protagonist. I could get even more nuanced with this and ask if it doesn't feel worthwhile for genuine reasons or emotional reasons, but the point is, being deep in the cave makes me realize just how terrible and crappy a feeling failure of this magnitude is.
I don't know if this failure will bring me back to this race. There are practical and philosophical considerations that will dictate that.
But where will this pull me back to? Where do I feel the tug toward?
Ironically, something that I mentioned in passing earlier in this post, deliberately understated to reflect my mindset leading up to this race.
"On a daily basis, this doesn't look like anything too crazy. 4-5 runs, 3-4 weightlifting sessions, maybe challenging myself to set a 10k or half-marathon PR once every three months. But every so often, 1-2x a year, I push myself in a race so audacious it's going to knock me out for close to a week. I frankly probably put too much stock in these singular performances, but they also provide me a great litmus test for my fitness and a chance to do something daring."
The daily habit that I had so ingrained before this race now feels like the true blessing, the only real thing I could say beforehand I knew I'd walk away with. I've been reading the accounts of other runners, and the most accomplished ones all come back to the same point. Race day might be where the attention and spotlight comes, but the daily workouts are their "true" race days, the one where the reward is most earned.
As I think about how this ties into fantasy, I think about my admitted envy of other successful authors. They have the spotlight, the book tours, that sort of thing. But if we convert the prior paragraph to fantasy, I already have the best gift of all--the chance to write fantasy on a daily basis, the chance to enjoy the daily practice, and the chance to live the life I always dreamed of to the fullest. Even if the biggest spotlight I ever get is a few hundred readers, scattered across the world, reading my work, I still get to live the daily routine.
And maybe that's the way out of the cave.
Not by finding redemption in the singular moment of triumph.
But by finding redemption in the daily habits that allow for the possibility of the singular moment of triumph.
Admittedly, with a still-injured toe and a still-recovering body, that idea sounds nice, probably is right, but doesn't quite lift the disappointment that hit.
But at the very least, I think it's something I will throw myself into, and if nothing else, it's the next best step while living with failure.