Travels and Travails

My most casual blag blather. 

Recently, I've engaged myself in a competition, though the only participant is myself - a trial of restraint, abstinence if you will. The adventure has several stages that I imagine may be generalized to many such odysseys, mental or physical in nature.  Though I have never run, nor even trained, for a marathon, I almost imagine the event in states.

In the first state, the runner trains. The length of this particular stage, existent or not, may significantly alter the difficulty of the others.  Enough training, and the actual trial, the marathon itself, might be softened, or annulled entirely.  For a marathon, the difficulty is exponentially more difficult without training, and, quite possibly, more unpleasant.

The second state I'm going to skip straight to the race itself. Since this is my metaphor, I can do what I want, right? While the first state is somewhat superfluous, I maintain it for explanation's sake. The next few stages all interact with the race entire.  

The race soon begins.  Spandex outfitted racers breathe in the crisp morning air and exhale in tiny clouds.  The sun glances through the trees, splitting dew into rainbows and slanting between buildings to strike the asphalt beneath your shoes. Every fiber of your being is enhanced, stretching, and goosebumps of excitement raise on your skin. In the great distance, a man with a showy pistol: a tip of the hat to traditional races, it fires no actual bullets. Still, as he raises it over his head, a shiver extends over your body, and the training sets in. It is time.

*BOOM*

Bear with me, I'm imagining this on the fly, and enjoying myself immensely in the invention. As the race begins, every muscle in your body rejoices. This is that for which you prepared, this is the glory of toil. You surge forward, perhaps with restraint, understanding the taxing nature of the trial, or perhaps knowing your full strength.  You are young, you are untethered, you are wild and free.

In the second stage of the race, several miles have passed, and the pace becomes steady, directed.  If your training was limited, perhaps already you face the punishment of short breath, lactic acid biting at your muscles with each stamping step.  Either way, the race has many miles remaining, and determination and love binds you, points you at the finish line. You race on.

These next stages, as perhaps all stages, possess aethereal boundaries.  Eventually, however, the body delves into its adrenaline and endorphin reserves, bearing off exhaustion in mental and physical faculties.  Some time, and distance, remains in the race, and each plodding pace is mechanical, exemplary of the love and dedication to the journey.  Still, it is the end of the race that drives you here, the expectation that only a couple peaks and valleys remain along the circuitous route.

Some of these states overlap, some might be spectral, or nonexistent for certain individuals, but certain aspects of these will apply in alternative adventures or instances in life perhaps.  The next stage is that last leg, the final stretch before the end. Every last reserve of energy kicks in, that idiomatic second wind, and perhaps a recursive joy from the race's beginning returns once more. There is joy, there is exhaustion, there is hope.

The last stage is the finish, the completion of the race and its aftermath. This stage I know exists, in some form or another.  There is, at least as far as I know, always an end in some capacity.  

How does this relate to me? I consider my particular trial not dissimilar to a mental marathon.  Let's evaluate my psyche, Cupid. The first stage is interesting, as my preparation was all incidental. This event was unplanned, and any training was likely a failed attempt to accomplish what I formally attempt now.  So, I don't consider myself adequately trained, though perhaps I cannot expect that any training would have been sufficient.

The second stage has past, and the nature of the beast produced interesting, and maybe minimal, quantities of joy. I almost imagine I skipped straight into the third stage, understanding the race's immense distance and dreading the difficult passage. In the third stage, I believe I may be stuck for much time. The eternity before me, only steps behind me, acid seeps into my mentality and burns at my muscles. I expect a false step might tumble me from the race.

The fourth stage is long ahead of me. I wonder if I might discover another stage as I continue my path.  Perhaps my biggest trial is that I chose too many tasks, too many trials at once.  I am not only running the marathon, but trying to learn to juggle, and learn Hebrew at the same time.  The flaming pins rotate clockwise, the letters jumble sinistral, my legs grumble forward. 

And the only thing that endures throughout all the stages is the hope. It twinkles like the stars, but always there, always bright, always guiding me in my chosen direction.  Isn't that what always drives us anyway?