Chapter Seven: At A Siding

This is fucking weird.

When future generations ask, “How did civilization collapse?” I will paraphrase Hemmingway by saying, “Two ways. Foolishly at first, and then idiotically.”

What started with exceptionalism, denial, and petty bickering quickly devolved into toilet paper hoarding, more denial, profiteering, and finger-pointing. After the governors closed non-essential businesses, we did what has sadly become expected in our country — we became tribalistic during a time that demanded pluralism. Suddenly we had our factions: lives vs. livelihoods.

“E Pluribus Unum” is surely an ironic motto to inscribe on the currency of this Utopia gone bust, for every grotesquely rich American represents property, privileges, and pleasures that have been denied the many. An even more instructive motto […] might be: Grab much too much, or you’ll get nothing at all.

Kurt Vonnegut (God Bless You, Mr Rosewater)

We saw mass graves; armed protests and masked counter-protests; politicians suggesting that the older generations sacrifice themselves for the good of the economy; rent strikes; conspiracy theories about 1) public health officials being in cahoots with vaccine producers and/or China, 2) state governments lying about death tolls in order to stoke the flames of fear or to scam the federal government, and 3) governors using the pandemic to institute a de facto state of martial law for nefarious reasons yet unknown; people murdering people over their right to shop without wearing a mask; record unemployment; and, of course, roughly 80,000 Americans dead over two months. Ashes to ashes, we all fall down.

The idiom “off the rails” naturally evokes images of a derailed train, but when a train derails, its path of destruction is reasonably predictable. Our current situation is not predictable at all. We don’t know which direction our disaster will go, or whether it will slow or accelerate. This is less a train run off the rails, and more a rocket sled. 

A friend of mine recently resigned to the belief that nothing matters anymore, and I would be lying if I said there were not times that I agreed.  

In an age where we can exclusively watch the news with which we agree, isolation has fortified all of our bubbles. Unknowns are known, facts are lies, community is dead, and the America that my parents and grandparents believed in likely never existed at all. Eat at Arby’s.

All of this is to say, maybe my half marathon being canceled is not that big of a deal, and neither is the fact that my gym, yoga studio, and tennis club are all closed.

While one may encounter many defeats, one must not be defeated.

Maya Angelou

On February 29th, I went for a 10-mile run. At this point, not only was I confident that I could finish a 13.1 miles race, but I was also starting to think that I could do it in under two hours. On Mondays, I was practicing yoga, Tuesdays were for speed work, Wednesdays were a rest day, Thursdays were tempo runs, Fridays I cross-trained, Saturdays were for long slow runs, and on the seventh day I played tennis. I went into March with a renewed zeal and a full head of steam, but a chainsaw suddenly and mercilessly severed that head.

With my yoga studio being closed, in-person classes became zoom classes. This works for a workout, but it does not have the same calming effect a traditional class has, because I can hear my neighbors yelling and playing loud music. With my gym being closed, cross-training became tedious, prison-style workouts. My days had the sickening monotony of a suburban subdivision. 

Meanwhile, the media (both traditional and social) had convinced me that supporting local restaurants was my civic duty, while I conveniently forgot that most restaurants serve salads. The only way I acquiesced to the nagging voice in the back of my head telling me to eat “healthy” was by drawing a line in the sand at red meat. No burgers, but Cuban sandwiches and fried chicken were still fair game. Never again will I underestimate the power of a good rationalization.

Most damaging of all was the fact that I was no longer training for something specific. From the onset, I believed that there would not be any races in 2020. Why would I go out and run in the snow or freezing rain if I was not training for something? When I consulted the “Tom Iftner Manual for Living with Defeat,” I could only find the first edition. So in mid-March, I gave up. I traded in my running shoes for a cocktail shaker and intended to wait out the pandemic reading about iconic or controversial sports figures­­¹ and rocking a buzz.

To recap: decreased exercise, increased alcohol consumption, and semi-weekly “bar food” indulgences. One does not need a medical degree to know what was coming. I had put on the “quarantine fifteen.”

I had noticed that my shirts were a bit tighter – not to the point of having to purchase new clothes, but undeniably snug. It was not until a coworker gasped and said, “You got fat” that I realized just how much I had let myself go. Though, for the record, I do feel that “fat” might be overstating things a bit. “Doughy” would be a more appropriate descriptor. Nevertheless, he was right(ish), and I knew (once again) that I had to make a change.

It was evident that I had lost ground. After one particularly disheartening workout, I had expressed my displeasure with myself via text, using words like livid, complacent, and “ducking” (obviously unintentionally), so we set up a virtual run. My friend dubbed it: Uncle Momar’s Race for the Cure. It was a 10k set to be run on May 16th.

[Since writing the bulk of this chapter, Uncle Momar’s Race for the Cure has been run. I won on a technicality, which as we all know is the best way to win, when my rival failed to follow the only rule — run 10 kilometers — and stopped after only 9.86 kilometers. The rematch of the century is set for June 6th.]

Additionally, I had another friend who had curated a ragtag team of Phish fans and set up themed virtual runs. We had an April Fools, 4/20, and Cinco De Mayo 5ks. Unfortunately, I was unable to finish the 4/20 5k because something was off. My pace was terrible, and my knee felt “wonky.” I shut it down after a mile and a half. Queue the aforementioned “Ducking livid” rant. Despite my poor showing and frustration, I was able to take away something positive from this experience, and that was the knowledge that community is not dead.

Now that I had something for which to train and accountability partners, things were looking up, but it was still mid-spring, and my gym was still closed. My workout regimen was at the mercy of the Tempestates. There is some satisfaction to be found running in drizzle or the snow, but freezing rain is miserable, and it stymied my efforts more than once, but I adapted, and I persevered.

This brings me back to my occasional dalliances with nihilism. If nothing matters, why am I doing this? Giving up would be easier, understandable, and, frankly, on-brand.

It could be a futile act of rebellion against the absurdity of our current situation. It could be my lizard brain desperate to survive. Or maybe I’m just a cockeyed optimist. As plausible as two of these possibilities are, I think the most likely reason is this: I am doing this because it matters to me, and that is good enough.

After I published the chapter in which I discuss my struggles with depression, several people reached out asking for advice. The advice that I give (aside from seeking help from a mental health professional) is largely applicable to our current situation — the sense that nothing matters is temporary, and don’t think you have to go it alone. 

Stay healthy, be kind, don’t eat at Arby’s, and please – wear a ducking mask. 

¹ I highly recommend Snake: The Legendary Life of Ken Stabler [Mike Freeman] and Off Base: Confessions of a Thief [Rickey Henderson and John Shea.]