Muddled

I’m often confronted by friends or acquaintances who don’t understand how anyone could ever ENJOY running, and I more or less fail every time I try to explain why I do. I wrote my memory of a 10K in an attempt to remedy this failure…

Pain shot through my legs as I forged onward down the path. I could feel my lungs gasping for oxygen as my chest heaved in and out. Every stride felt impossible. Every breath burned more intensely than the last. Every inch of my body screamed to let up, to slow down. It told me that I could not continue, that I could not achieve what I had set out to accomplish.

As I rounded a turn I caught a glimpse of the runner ahead of me. The visual stimulus was enough motivation to deny the pain and push harder. After what seemed an eternity, I caught up. Back and forth we battled, taking turns pushing the pace. I focused all of my energy into beating him, but the real fight was being waged deep within.

The grassy meadow soon gave way to a hilled forest. Isolated in the heart of the woods, my mind began its betrayal. It joined the ranks of the enemy as doubts crept in from all angles. “You can’t keep this up,” it whispered. “It’s only a matter of time before you give out.” It searched for some reason or excuse to use as a crutch, and at that point there were a multitude of things to choose from. I hadn’t raced in years, my recurrent tendonitis was flaring up, my asthma, my back condition—each seemed a perfectly justifiable reason to slow down and give up. But no temptation is stronger than the sweet siren of tomorrow. There would always be another race, another day, another opportunity.

I gave in to those traitorous thoughts, and almost instantly the excruciating exhaustion began to subside. My pace slowed, and a great relief flooded over me as I settled in for a coast to the finish.

As the distance between the other runner and I grew larger, I knew that my pain’s respite would not be without cost. Countless hours of training flashed before my eyes. I could see every street, building, bridge, and path I had encountered on my runs. I remembered all of my goals, the promises I had made to myself, the sting of every failure, and the rush of every triumph along the way. I fell farther and farther behind, slipping into a complacent jog. But as the physical ache eased, I felt the first pangs of what was waiting to take its place—the gutting grief of a dream lost.

My lungs cried out and my legs felt like anchors, but one stride at a time I began to accelerate. I was physically and mentally drained, but it didn’t matter. From that point on I was racing on heart alone.

Following Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia and recovery from a bout of Typhoid Fever, my friends decided it was time to return to Beijing, but I set off alone. Not even a 104-degree fever would stand in my way after waiting the whole year to visit Taiwan. After only three days in Taipei, I was convinced to cancel my travel plans for Japan and spend the remaining week of my break exploring the beautiful island nation. Having filled my days with endless site seeing, I felt that I had barely scratched the city’s surface and still wanted to travel to the Eastern and Southern coasts.  I resolved to take the train to Hualien for a few nights and hike the Taroko Gorge. By the weekend, I planned to return to Taipei and meet up with two Taipei locals I met surfing in Yilan the day before.

Strapped with three bags in rush-hour traffic, I made my way by taxi from my hostel to Taipei Main Station. Upon exiting, I immediately noticed my wallet was missing. Sprinting after the taxi, my bag ripped and change scattered everywhere. Abandoning the coins, I eventually chased down the taxi to a stoplight. Opening the door, the driver said there was nothing left in the car and suggested my wallet dropped on the ground when I got out of the cab. As I scanned in vain for the missing wallet, the light turned green and the cab sped away.

Sweeping the concrete with my hands, I collected whatever coins I could recover. A sickening feeling hit me. This loose change was all I had. With neither cash nor debit card, I was homeless and alone in a foreign country.

After canceling my debit card by phone, I contacted my family, but due to the time difference, the soonest any money could be wired and received from Chicago would be at least 24 hours. Standing out in the beating summer sun, I experienced a whole spectrum of emotions. Where would I sleep? What would I eat or drink? All I knew was that I needed to get myself together and relax. There was nothing I could do at the moment, and I was too shaken and upset to think clearly. Using my last cents to buy a giant water bottle, I sat down in the park to read.

Hours passed, and thoughts that began in frantic desperation slowly organized and eventually evolved into a completely crazy, yet plausible plan. In my yearlong experience studying in Beijing I had become an avid fan of KTV—Chinese Karaoke—and knew quite a few Mandopop hits by heart. Throwing off all shame, I found an empty spot near a fountain in the park, placed my hat in front of my feet and began to sing Taiwanese superstar Jay Chou’s early hit 龙卷风—Tornado.

Before long, a small crowd began to gather—most likely only to gawk at the homeless American singing on the street. I moved on to another Jay Chou single and decided to switch to singer Wang Leehom to get my first fifty Yuan. Beyond belief, three songs later my hat was soon half full of coins.