It was Valentine’s Day 2006. I had moved to LA six months prior and was still very new to the city and my new life here. To those who do not have a significant other, Valentine’s Day is just another day. This particular “just another day” was a Tuesday, not that that’s relevant to the story except to reiterate how ordinary the day began.
I had plans for my ordinary Tuesday. I would go to work, and then after work, I would meet an acquaintance of mine to watch shows at the IO West improv theater in Hollywood. My friend called me that afternoon and informed he would not be available to go to the shows that night. “No problem,” I told him. “We’ll find another time.” With my evening suddenly free I decided to do what many people do on an ordinary Tuesday night. I decided to do laundry. I packed up a bag of clothes, grabbed a handful of dryer sheets, and set off for the Laundromat down the street. Trips to my Laundromat were a cultural experience. I was usually the only gringo in the joint. Spanish speaking kids played hide-and-seek in the maze of washers and dryers while I watched the telenovelas on the television. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak Spanish. I could tell what was going on. She was mad at him. He was helplessly in love with her. She had to choose between the sultry man in the black cowboy hat or the charming man in the white cowboy hat. Lots of drama. I finished my washing and drying and folding and headed to my car when I noticed a dog running down the middle of the road. It was a busy street and I immediately thought to myself, “Stupid dog. Get out of the--” I turned my back to unlock the trunk when I heard a thump. Then whimpers. My shoulders dropped. My heart sank. I let my clothes fall. I heard a second thump and whimpering ceased. I stood there frozen. I couldn’t look. I welled-up with both pity and anger. Pity because of the poor dog. Anger because I had to witness it. Stupid dog. I closed the trunk and got in my car and drove home. I was unpacking my laundry, my mind in a death-pondering stupor, when my roommate entered my bedroom and made me an offer. It is important to know that I was renting a bedroom in a small condo from a young married couple. So my roommate wasn’t just a dude, he was the “Mister” of the household. “If I gave you $20 do you think you could disappear for the evening?” The Mister dangled a twenty-dollar bill in front of me. I snatched it before I fully realized what was happening. Then it hit me. It’s Valentine’s Day. I see. “What time?” I asked. “Midnight,” he said. I left my laundry where it was, grabbed my jacket and ball cap and was out the door. The next thing I knew I was driving and trying to figure out what I was going to do for the next five hours? There's Barnes and Noble, but I was just there the other day. I managed to kill almost an hour parking my car, walking around the block, changing my mind about where I wanted to park my car, then moving my car closer to the movie theater. I decided on a movie, but it didn't start for another hour. So, I ended up “that guy,” the lonely guy sitting by himself at a bar on Valentine’s Day. If this were a movie, I would have met another lonely soul. I would have told her about the dog outside the Laundromat. She would have said something profound about death that would have revealed her complicated past. We would have connected and shared an evening, then gone on our separate melancholy ways. But this was not a movie. It was just me, beer, and men in tights skating in circles as fast as the can. The Olympic Winter Games were on the television. Two pints later I had just enough cash left in my pocket to buy a movie ticket. I stumbled down the sidewalk to the AMC and purchased a ticket for one to see “Hoodwinked” an animated tale with a twist about Little Red Riding Hood. It was myself and three sets of couples spread out in an otherwise empty theater. I go to a lot of movies by myself. I don’t mind it at all. But the nature of this night made me self-conscious. I pulled my ball cap down to hide my face. It was during the previews that another couple entered the theater. They giggled their way up the stairs, entered my row, and slid past me and choosing seats just a few down from me. I glanced over and noticed that despite the ample seating available in the theater they opted to share the same chair. She sat on his lap. To each his own, I thought. It soon became apparent that the couple was completely plastered. They weren’t obnoxious or annoying, per se. They simply thought everything was SO funny. Not like cute giggly funny, but side-splitting I'm going to pee my pants funny. While the sober ones in the theater chuckled during the movie this couple was in hysterics, complete with hand clapping and foot stomping. At times they pleaded for the comedy to stop and I wondered if we were watching the same movie. A tiny bit of me wanted to be annoyed at how distracting they were being, but more than that I was envious. They had each other and they were having the time of their life. The movie ended and I headed home. When I arrived, it was twenty minutes to midnight, so I sat in my car and waited. I wasn’t about to return early. When the clock struck 12, I got out of the car and walked back to the condo. I ran into the Missus outside with the dog. She said, “Oh my god, he paid you?! I’m so embarrassed.” I laughed it off and thought to myself, “I wonder how much I could get for their anniversary?” Back inside the condo, I passed the Mister sitting in his boxers at his computer. “Thanks again!” He shouted. “No problem!” I said as I entered my bedroom to finish putting away my freshly laundered clothes. That’s my Valentine’s Day story. I realize that it is a bit anti-climatic and lacking the romantic feel-good tropes of a traditional Valentine’s Day story. But as the weeks, months, and years pass I often think back to that night, where in the span of just a few hours my life collided with death, loneliness, joy, and, yes…love. I have long pondered a word that adequately describes the whole of what I experienced that night. I couldn’t find one, so I created one: odditious. It means, “to rendezvous with the mysteries of life.” And let me tell you, my friend, Valentine’s Day 2006 was a very odditious night.
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After I crossed the finish line, I was immediately greeted by a small army of race volunteers. A finisher’s medal was placed around my neck and someone asked, “Are you okay?” My answer would determine where I would end up: on a stretcher in the medical tent or a seat in the recovery tent. I said I was fine. They draped a towel over my shoulders and then a young man grabbed my arm and led me to the recovery tent. I took a seat at a table and the volunteer asked if I wanted some pizza. “Sure," I mumbled. In truth, I didn’t know what I wanted. The young man returned with a slice of cold pizza. I took one bite and thought I would vomit.
I was feeling nauseous. I looked over at the port-a-potties and thought maybe I should just throw up and get it over with. But that would involve walking and I didn’t have the energy for that. I pulled the towel tight around my body and laid my head on the table. I slipped into a slumber that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite awake. After about 20 minutes I recognized the voice of my friend Heather who had just finished, “Nathan, are you okay?” I opened my eyes and looked at her. “Let’s get our picture taken.” She suggested. I stood up, put a smile on my face and got my finisher photo. My legs were incredibly sore. Movement was slow and deliberate, but I was feeling better. The nausea had dissipated. I made my way out of the recovery tent and found my support crew at Endurance Sports Travel. I dropped off my gear and picked up a bag of clean, dry, warm clothes. I changed and resurrected, a new man. I connected with my other friends from the Disney Triathlon team. We did a roll-call: who’s in and who’s still out on the course? Where did you last see them? How did they look? Local restaurants were serving meals to athletes, so we took a table at a Mexican/Italian restaurant and waited for a couple of friends to finish. I ordered the lasagna. When my food came, I ate about a third of the dish and couldn’t eat anymore. When you burn close to 10,000 calories on a liquid diet, the body is not ready to accept a heavy meal. Three stairs led down to the dining area. When we finished eating, I hobbled over to the stairs and paused. Climbing three stairs or summiting Mount Everest, it was all the same to my weary legs. The hostess took pity on me and offered her hand. I took it and she helped up the stairs. I would have married her on the spot. That was the kindest thing anyone could have done for me at that moment. Once everyone in our crew was accounted for, we loaded into a van and headed back to the resort. I took a hot shower and let the ocean, the grime, and the sweat wash off my body. I crawled into bed just before midnight. I was so tired I thought I would sleep for the next 15 hours. I woke up at 3 am with a hunger so ravenous it was borderline painful. I found a Cliff Bar and consumed it in two bites. I woke up again 3 hours later with the same ferocious appetite. Breakfast was served at 7 am. I was up and waiting outside the dining room at 6:45 am. I wasn’t alone. The caloric deprivation of the all-day race makes the body crave fuel. There was a small crowd of athletes waiting for the doors to open. Food was more important than sleep. I spent the next three days on the island moving from one beach chair to the next. My friends and I went out for dinner each night; we swapped stories and sang karaoke. After nine months of being focused, it was nice to finally allow myself to be unfocused. It’s been three years and one month since I crossed the finish line. It’s only now that I have distance from the training, from the race, from the lifestyle of Ironman that I see how important that day was to me. I’ve been in LA for eleven years. Like so many, I arrived with a head full of dreams and ideas for what I wanted my life to be. After a decade of NOs, I learned that a portion of my aspiration was dependent on other people’s YESes. Every artist in LA faces this struggle. As the years marched on the assault of the NOs takes a toll. You begin to take it personally. Ironman was something I could do that no one could say NO to. I didn’t need anyone’s permission, affirmation, or connection to get my butt out of bed in the morning and train. I didn’t need anyone to discover me or introduce me to the finish line. I could get there myself. It was up to me. My question was: do I have the commitment, endurance, and focus to do something, which for me, was quite extraordinary? Training and finishing the Ironman was my way of telling myself YES. On the days when I’m discouraged, when the self-doubt whispers bitter denials in my ear, I remember that voice I heard one night years ago. “You are an Ironman.” I arrived on the island of Cozumel Wednesday night, the day before Thanksgiving, four days before the race. The days leading up to the race were spent working out - short workouts to acclimate to the climate and keep the legs engaged – attending pre-race meetings, obsessively taking an inventory of my gear, and waiting. There was concern up to the day before the race that the swim portion would be canceled due to dangerous ocean currents. The swim course started from the Chankanaab pier and headed north making a rectangular path before returning to the pier from the south. The concern was for athlete safety, but also the possibility that many athletes, having to swim against the current for a significant portion of the course, would not make it out of the water by the swim cut-off time thus ending their day before they touched their bike. The race officials announced the evening before the race that the swim course would be moved and become a point-to-point course, starting 2 miles north of the pier and heading south along the coast. I was relieved to hear that the swim would commence. I didn’t come to bike and run. I came to swim, bike, and run. The night before the race I felt like there was a Tesla coil of nervous energy in the pit of my stomach firing an anxious bolts at irregular intervals. Though I knew it was important to get some sleep, there was not much sleep to be had. My mind flickered with a kaleidoscope of questions. Something will go wrong, what will it be? Was I prepared? Did I train enough? Would my day end in agony with me crawling across the finish line? I closed my eyes and drifted off to some quasi-slumber, waking every hour to check the time. The alarm went off at 4 am. I didn’t need it. I was up and ready to go. I arrived at the race start, dropped off my gear, and pumped the tires on my bike. Music played through transition area, but it wasn’t the typical “get pumped up” pop songs that you hear at most races. Those beats were saved for the finish line. At the starting line, dramatic movie scores filled the air while the orange sun rose above the blue horizon. The voice of Ironman greeted the athletes over the loudspeaker, giving instructions and countdown to the start. The tone, intentionally set from the beginning, was that this day was going to be epic. With my swim cap and goggles in hand and wearing only my tri-shorts I climbed into the bus that would take me to the swim start. I’ve never been packed so tightly on a bus with so many strangers wearing so little clothing. The cannon went off at 7:00 am for the pro athletes. Then the rest of the field, approximately 2,000 “age-groupers,” took our place in the water. The announcement came: one minute. The anticipation hit a fever pitch, and a roar erupted from the athletes in the water. I think it was one part exuberance, one part nervousness, and one part holy s***. At 7:10 am the cannon went boom. The swim is the first of the three disciplines. In some ways it’s the easiest; it is the start of the race, and if your training went well you’re at peak fitness and the most rested you’ll be the entire day. But the swim brings its unique set of challenges. Cozumel was an open water ocean swim. Unlike swimming in a pool you have the variables of currents and waves, ocean life swimming next to you, and the task of sighting to stay on course. Most difficult though is the mass start, 2,000 other swimmers with their 4,000 arms and 4,000 feet flailing and kicking next to you in the water. It’s a swarm of humanity, and it’s chaos. I knew I would get kicked and pushed and swam over if I wasn’t careful. For the most part, it's not malicious, but when you take a foot to the face it tends to put a person in an off mood. The key was to protect myself, guard my head, and stay calm. Eventually, the field spread out and though I was never without company, space opened and I was able to settle into a steady stroke. The water in Cozumel is pristine and warm. It’s quite beautiful. During the entire swim I could see to the ocean floor. Watching schools of fish weave through the coral made for a good distraction while I glided through the water as best I could. I can thank the shortened swim course for my arrival at the first transition about 15 minutes sooner than planned. I pulled myself out of the water and except for a couple of minor jellyfish stings I was in one piece. I ran like a drunken man to the transition tent (when you suddenly go vertical after swimming horizontally in choppy water for an hour, your sense of balance is a little off). I entered the transition tent, put on my cycling gear, and lathered up on sunblock. Nine minutes later I was exiting the transition area on my bike. The bike course consisted of three loops around the island. It was flat as a pancake and the 12 mile stretch along the east side of the island was right along the coast which offered dramatic views of crashing waves and the expansive blue sea. It all sounds good on paper, but in reality, the course exposed every weakness I had on the bike. I don’t have big powerful legs that can push and pull a high wattage over long periods of time. My lean frame is better suited for climbing not grinding. It would be a long day on the bike. I’d been warned about the crosswinds on the east side of the island, but on this day the winds had shifted and became a brutal headwind. The wall of moving air hit when the road turned north, its invisible force pushing against me for a stretch of about 10 miles. On the first loop, the sustained winds were about 20 mph, by the third loop, after the air had warmed, the sustained winds were touching 30 mph. There was nothing I could do about the wind except put my head down and pedal through it. I did math in my head to keep my mind distracted. The wind was only one of the challenges faced on the bike. An early rain gave way to a hot and humid sun. The sunblock I applied in transition was washed away, I realized about halfway through the bike that my skin was burning. I stopped at an aid station and asked for sunscreen. The teen volunteer applied the pasty lotion to my shoulders and neck and face. I looked like a character from the movie Apocalypto, but least I was protected. Around mile 70 I reached the special needs station where I stopped for my bag. In an Ironman race every athlete has the option to leave a “special needs” bag on the course, which is available to them on the bike and the run. Stopping at the special needs station was part of my race plan. In my special needs bag, I had a spare tube for my bike, a second bottle of nutrition, and a Snickers and Payday. The candy bars were more for my mental health than my physical wellbeing. The Snickers was completely melted and inedible. The Payday, however… let’s just say I’ve never tasted salty caramel goodness so glorious in all my life. I was back on my bike with my spirits boosted when I took a sip from my bottle and I knew immediately that something was wrong. My bottle, which I had measured out the exact number of calories I would need, was spoiled. It was later that I would realize the nutrition I used had a small amount of dairy (protein) in the mix and the heat and humidity turned the mixed sour. I still had 40 miles on the bike and marathon to run; I had to figure something out. There was nutrition on the course, but I had never trained with the brands of food and energy drinks they provided. I didn’t know what was in it or what how much I would need. I was mid-day the sun was high, and it was getting hot. I had no choice but to take what was available to me. I kept thinking, as your stomach goes, so goes your race. I was praying that my body would accept the food. Fortunately, it did. With each loop around the island we passed through the heart of Cozumel. Locals were alongside the road for hours cheering us on. The children built makeshift noisemakers using plastic bottles and rocks. I couldn’t help but think the bicycles many of us athletes were riding probably cost more than their families make in several months time. I was so grateful for the local support. I needed it. On the first loop, I was all smiles and thumbs-up. The second time around a nod of the head and a slight wave was all I could muster. The third time around my legs were screaming. My skin was burnt. My hands were numb. My shoulders ached. My butt, well… I think you can image how that felt. I had been on my bike for nearly 7 hours. It was 30-45 minutes longer than I anticipated. I was at the mercy of the wind and the wind won the day. But as I have learned, if you keep going, you will eventually arrive. And arrive I did. The bike finish was a beautiful site to behold. I handed my bike to a volunteer and entered the transition tent. I was never so thrilled to running a marathon in my life because it meant I was done with the bike. The run start and finish were at the center of town where the mass of spectators was gathered. The roar of the crowd, the steady clank of cowbells, and the fact that two of the three events were now behind me led to a burst of inspiration and renewed strength. It was hard not to get caught up in the moment. It was thrilling. But the moment would not last. The first downpour came around mile three and with it the crowds of supporters retreated from the streets for the dry cover of restaurants and shops. The rain turned out to be a blessing and a curse. The blessing was that it brought relief from the heat of the day. The curse was that I would run the next 23 miles soaking wet from my head to my feet. It was just after the first rain that my angel came along side me. I call him my angel because I have no idea who he was. He was older than me, maybe in his 50s. We didn’t talk to each other, and the only words I heard from him were in Spanish. We paced each other running shoulder to shoulder for miles. Early, when the heat was still an issue, he grabbed a wet sponge and handed it to me. A kind gesture that saved me the hustle of finding relief for myself. As the miles passed I felt gratitude and loyalty to this man. His presence encouraged me. I was determined not let him down. I would do my part hold the pace. The run course consisted of 3 out-and-back loops, which on the one hand was repetitive and somewhat boring, but on the other hand it allowed me to see the other athletes on the course. It gave me a chance to check-in with my friends and get a quick update on how their race was going. It was on the second loop heading away from the city that I passed through an aid station. When I looked back, my angel was gone. I slowed a bit and looked around, but he was nowhere to be found. Our unspoken but understood agreement was that we would pace each other and help each other, but we would not wait for the other. I kept going. The run was my strongest of the three disciplines. For the first 13 miles I maintained a steady pace. But as the miles wore on, as the sun set and the darkness rose, my body grew weak and my mental strength began to crack. Around mile 15, I had a most delightful surprise. My angel returned. I looked to my left and there he was. I smiled and nodded. He nodded back to me and we forged ahead together once again. His timing was good. I needed his help. My legs were crumbling beneath me. His steady pace pulled me along. We trotted back to the city and I made my turn to begin my third and final lap. My angel did not follow me. He continued into the finishing chute. It turns out my angel was pretty fast. He was a full lap ahead of me. His race was nearly complete. We bid each other good luck and went our separate ways. Turning my back on the finish and heading out of town for my final lap was the hardest thing I would do that day. I wanted to be done. Mentally, physically, emotionally I was finished. But the race was not 131 miles it is 140 miles and I still had nine miles to go. Storytellers have a phrase for the moment in a narrative when all hope is lost, when the hero enters the darkest cave and experiences the lowest of lows. The moment is called “the dark night of the soul” and I had just entered it. Pain is not the word to describe what I was experiencing. Yes, I was in pain, but it was more than that. Broken is a better word. An iron blanket of weariness wrapped my being and grew heavier and heavier. My feet were swollen and hips were screaming. Every stride sent an ache-filled throb through my legs. Every step was accompanied with a mental plea to stop. I had to make a deal with myself; when I reached an aid station, which was about every mile, I would allow myself to walk from the first table to the last table then I must start running again. I kept my deal. I walked through the aid station sipping on some Gatorade or Pepsi. At the last table I tossed the cup and started running again. One foot in front of the other, that is how I covered miles 17-23. There was a bend in the road at mile 24. The lights of the city came into view and a wave of pulsing music echoed from the finish line. There was literally a light at the end of my dark night of the soul. I pressed forward without stopping. With each step I came closer and closer to my destination. A final burst of energy rose from some reserve hidden deep in my bones. Spectators, awaiting their loved one’s arrival, lined the streets. They promised me the finish was just a bit further and that “I could do it.” Soon I could hear the voice of Ironman calling the names of finishers. I entered the final chute. A blue carpet laid the path. There was a sharp 90-degree turn to the left and then I saw it: the finish line a hundred yards ahead of me. I rushed forward. The lights were bright. Heaven opened and I heard the voice of God say, “Nathan Davis, you are an Ironman.” For the record, this will be the only time I post a picture of me with my shirt off on this website. :)
Three years ago, on December 1, 2013, in Cozumel, Mexico, I finished an Ironman triathlon. An Ironman is an endurance contest that consists of a 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, 26.2-mile run. I’ve told people about the experience, usually in short anecdotes, but I’ve never told the entire story from the beginning. The experience had a profound effect on me that is becoming clearer the more distance I get from the race. My first encounter with Ironman came nearly twenty years ago when I was in High School. A motivational speaker gave a talk at a leadership conference. He told his Ironman story. Everyone in the room sat enraptured by his dramatic retelling: His troubled childhood and the salvation the sport of swimming gave him. His decision to attempt an Ironman. The epic early morning training sessions. The shin splits he developed that his doctor warned might cause his bones to snap when transitioning from the bike to the run. The agony of the elements: the heat, the wind, the rain. The blisters on his feet that fused his socks to his skin. And finally, being carried away on a stretcher at the finish line. Oh, the pain. Oh, the suffering. I heard the story and walked away with absolute certainty that Ironman was something out of the realm of my possibility. It was a lofty accomplishment for real athletes. Ten years later I found myself living in California and working at Disney when a co-worker mentioned over lunch that the company had a triathlon team and they were in need of swimmers for a relay. Early in my youth, I was a member of the YMCA swim team, so I said, “Sure I’ll do it. I think I remember how to swim.” At the time I was in the worst shape of my life. I hadn’t exercised in years and in the transition to life in California I put on twenty pounds, which was a lot for someone with a small frame like me. At the first swim practice, they split the groups into advanced, intermediate, and beginners. I was in the lane next to the beginners, in the beginner-beginners lane. I could barely swim two lengths of the pool. I forgot how exhausting swimming could be. But I showed up every week. I swam a little further each time. And eventually, the form came back to me. I also started running. That summer of 2008 my longest run was four miles, but the combination of swimming and running introduced fitness back into my life and I dropped over twenty pounds. I went to the Nautica Malibu Triathlon and I did the swim portion of the race, which was a 0.5-mile ocean swim. I handed the timing chip off to the biker and then took my place as a spectator. I watched thousands of triathletes finish the race. The energy was contagious. And the look on their faces when they finished the race… I wanted that. I decided that the following year I would do the entire race. So I did. During the off-season I bought a secondhand bike and the next summer I added cycling to my routine. Throughout the week I would swim or bike or run. On Saturdays, I’d drive to Malibu and put it all together. In September of 2009, I finished my first triathlon: 0.5-swim, 18-mile bike, and a 4-mile run. After that race, I thought, what’s next? A relationship I was in at the time was ending. It was heartbreaking and I desperately needed a healthy outlet to focus my energy. I found it in triathlon. I signed up for the Vineman Ironman 70.3 race. This was a big leap from the sprint triathlon I had completed - an Ironman 70.3 race consists of a 1.2-mile swim, a 56-mile bike, and 13.1-mile run - so I hired a triathlon coach to help me prepare and dedicated six months to training. I was nervous the day of the race. All of these distances were intimidating and to do them back-to-back-to-back seemed ridiculous, but my coach told me to trust my training. I had no other choice but to. He was right. All of my training came together that day. It was hard, to be sure, but I felt strong and I finished the race in a respectable 6 hours. Something else happened on that hot July day in 2010, the impenetrable wall of impossibility that surrounded the 140.6 mile Ironman race began to crack. I thought a sprint triathlon would be difficult, then I did it. I thought an Ironman 70.3 race was almost impossible, but I just finished one. I started to see that maybe, just maybe, that which feels so impossible may not be all that impossible after all. Three years later, I would prove it. My first triathlon, 2009.
Jesus was once asked, “Who is my neighbor?” The question came after a discussion about the greatest commandments, in which Jesus iterated the golden rule “Love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus responded to the question by telling a story (he did that a lot, I think that’s why I’m drawn to him). It is a story we’ve all heard. It is the story of The Good Samaritan. It goes like this: a man falls into the hands of robbers and is left stripped of his clothes and badly beaten. Two local travelers, from the majority religious class, come across the ailing man but pass on the other side of the road. A third traveler, a foreigner from a minority religious group, took pity on the man, bandaged his wounds, and saw that he was cared for. After telling the story, Jesus asked the teacher of the law who of the three travelers was the neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers. The teacher of the law responded, “The one who had mercy.”
I love America and I’ve been very fortunate to live in different parts of this wonderfully diverse country. For the first 21 years of my life, I lived in the rural Midwest. I then spent four years in New England splitting my time between New Hampshire and Boston. I eventually landed in Los Angeles, my home for the past eleven years. I have lived in red counties and blue counties. I’ve lived in small towns and big cities. The events of the past week have so many people talking about the divide: the divide between religious conservatives vs. progressive liberals, the divide between rural America and urban America, the divide between the working class and the elite class. The divide between white Americans and everybody else. I have friends and family, whom I love dearly, on both sides of the divide. Some are thrilled with the outcome of the election. Some are very very worried. This election has challenged me to think about this “greatest commandment” about loving one’s neighbor. It’s not easy when it feels like there is so much at stake. It is not easy when my neighbor does not think like me, speak like me, act like me, or love like me. The temptation is to stay on the other side of the road, to stay on my side of the divide. We justify our position by claiming our convictions. But here is what I’m learning: Conviction without mercy is simply ideology. And ideology is the most dangerous threat to our world for it keeps us from seeing our neighbors in need. Unity will not come from one person at the top. It will only come when we learn to love our neighbor. And if we can’t learn to love our neighbor, the least we can do is show them a little mercy. It is fall festival season in small towns across America. This weekend my hometown, Kewanee, IL, is celebrating its claim as Hog Capital of the World with three days of flea markets, pork chops, carnivals, and parades. Other small towns will be sweeping streets to prepare for their pumpkin/cranberry/shrimp/barbeque/cheese/*INSERT EDIBLE OBJECT* festivals. But food festivals aren’t the only parties in town. This weekend, the town of Willow Creek, California will celebrate Bigfoot Days. I’ve had Bigfoot on my mind after hearing about the festival on the radio this week. My interest was piqued so much that last night I watched one of my favorite childhood movies, Harry and the Hendersons, about a family that takes Bigfoot, affectionately named Harry, into their home after accidently striking it with their car while on a camping trip. Calamity ensues and in the end we learn that Bigfoot is not so scary after all. In fact, he’s a vegetarian! Stories of the “wild man” originated in aboriginal and native folklores and have persisted over time with sightings of Bigfoot purported in every continental US state. Other cultures tell a similar tale. There is the Canadian Sasquatch, Nepal’s Yeti, Australia’s Yowie, China’s Yeren, Mongolia’s Almas, and Indonesia’s Orang Pendek. The one consistent fact about Bigfoot is that there is no empirical scientific evidence the creature exists. I prefer it that way. Stories of Bigfoot exist not because there are yet-to-be-discovered hairy bipedal nocturnal humanoids with an affinity for woman and candy bars roaming the earth. Bigfoot exists, and will always exist, because we need to believe there are still mysteries to encounter. We need the unknown. Science says, “Show us a body.” I say, “Why ruin it with a body.” I find it fascinating that the word “empirical”, which has come to mean “supported by scientific research,” is actually rooted in a word that carried the opposite meaning. The word “empirical” is derived from the Latin empiricus, which is a transliteration of the Greek empiricos meaning experience or observation. Centuries ago it referred to a practitioner, usually a physician, who worked from experience, rather than formal training or scientific theory. The word came to mean “quack, imposter, or charlatan.” (Click here to learn more) My experience is that the world is a more interesting place when we make room for Bigfoots. Bigfoot teaches us to stay curious, to chase the unknown, to believe in the possibility of the impossible. That may make me an empirical quack. I’m okay with that. I love watching the Tour de France. I look forward to it every July and I try to watch every stage. For most people cycling is a niche sport. Those who are into it are really into it and those who are not are oblivious. If you asked TC Mits (the common man in the street) to name three great cyclists they would probably say Lance Armstrong and then maybe, if they are attune to personal feuds that make headlines, utter “Landis?”
I started watching the Tour several years ago while training for a triathlon. I found watching other cyclists suffer helped the time pass while pushing pedals on my bike trainer. At first, I didn’t understand the race. How can the guy in the yellow jersey finish minutes behind the stage winner and still be winning the race? What’s the deal with points and the green jersey and the polka jersey? Why do so many look content to ride in a group? It’s a race, "Go for it!” Over the years, I learned to appreciate the sport; to recognize the calculated strategy and see the race within the race. Here’s what I’ve learned: You don’t have to win every race to win the race There are some who are out to win the day. There are others who are out to win the race. Some days you’ll watch as others get all the attention. That’s okay. You’ll arrive in Paris before they do. Know your job Most teams have one leader. Everyone else on the team is there to support the leader. The support riders are called domestiques, which literally means ‘servant’ riders. They are there to protect the leader, pace the leader, and fuel the leader. On long hot days one rider will ride back to the team car, which trails the race. He’ll pack his bike and stuff his jersey with as many water bottles as he can, then hustle back up to where the race is happening and deliver the bottles to his teammates. That is his only job for the day. It's an important job. If you’re a domestique, do your job well. One day you may to tapped to be the leader. Stick together There is a reason cyclists ride in a peloton. By sticking together - and working together - they conserve energy. Painful is the path of a rider caught-out alone. They rarely finish first. Look up One of the things I love about the Tour de France is... France. I love watching the French countryside pass by with its lush pastures, medieval villages, and rugged mountain ranges. I wonder how often the riders are struck by the beauty of the land or ponder the rich history of the people who’ve lived there over the centuries. I doubt they think about it. How often are we so focused on the race that we fail to see the wonder of it all? I love mysteries. I was listening to Radiolab (a favorite podcast of mine) and they were discussing the three great mysteries, questions, that from the perspective of science, we simply do not have the answers. They are:
When I ponder the mysteries of life I don’t think about my biological origins. (That may be a good thing.) To me, life’s mysteries are experiences, not so much questions. And I’ve been pondering a few of them lately. Laughter. Everyone laughs. Babies laugh and so do people born blind and deaf. It is a curious thing. Fundamentally, I believe people laugh at the recognition of something truthful: I’ve noticed that, too. I’ve thought that, too. I’ve felt that way, too. Laughter is the way we say, “Yes, life is like that.” Laughter brings people together. I think when Jesus said, “blessed are the peacemakers” he meant “blessed are those who laugh.” For it is hard to hate your enemy when you laugh with him. It is hard to hate yourself when you can laugh at yourself. Song. Composed or improvised, born from an instrument or the bird outside, music has the ability to hold you in a moment. It can stir revolution or motivate compassion. It can take you back. It can inspire you forward. It is organized sound and silence that exists in time; yet its existence can transcend time. And perhaps what is most intriguing is how subjective it is. A song changes one person’s life while another falls asleep. Love. It brings so much delight and so much pain. We slave over the words, yet so much of the language of love is wrapped in a moment, a touch, a glace. It makes us do the most irrational things but holds the title “the greatest of these”. The more we try to define it, the more ambiguous it becomes. As one of my favorite songs from The Mountain Goats goes, “Some things you do money and some you do for love, love, love.” These represent a few concise contemplations. I, for one, am grateful for life’s mysteries. How boring it would be to be the master all-knowing when you can be the student ever learning meeting each day with curiosity. This weekend I returned to a place I haven't been in a while, but my time here change me. I spent 4-and-a-half years in New England, split between Southern New Hampshire and Boston. I moved to New England straight out of college with clear eyes and an optimistic soul. I left four years older, a little wiser, and with a new sense of purpose.
New England is part of my origin story as much as my upbringing in the rural Midwest. It is where I discovered my passion for filmmaking and storytelling. It's where my faith began to shift from textbook understandings to deep curiosities. It's where I went to film school and spent my subsequent "starving artist" years. It's where I worked a variety of jobs: pastor, wheelchair van driver, chino folder, kindergarten classroom chaos manager, high school film camp counselor. Each experience was accompanied with a cast of unforgettable characters that loved me, or at least tolerated me, and challenged me, informing my character and enriching my understanding of the world. Eventually, I felt the pull. California was calling and I had to say goodbye. I left New England, but the place stayed with me. The first short film I made while living in Boston was called "The Short Life of C.K. Rottingham." It was about the life of a prolific student film actor who never made it beyond the world of student films and the common clichés that define amateur filmmaking. He never made it "big," but he was passionate about what he did and became a legend to those who knew him. "The Short Life" is my handle on social media. It reminds me of the days where it all began; when I was broke, living in a drafty apartment just north of the Charles River, making a film about a young man who wanted to be great at his craft. My circumstances have changed over time, but in many ways I'm still that man. When I was a kid, a scene played out in my imagination countless times. In fact, for a while it became the paramount dilemma of my young life (which, as you’ll soon discover, is a testiment to just how good my childhood was). The scenario was this: if I received a letter in the mail from Kids Incorporated asking me to join their cast, how long would I wait before accepting to see if I got a similar letter from The Mickey Mouse Club? Of course, I would be honored to join Kids Incorporated (“K-I-D-S! Yea!”), but my dream was to be on The Mickey Mouse Club. My pre-adoloscent mind contemplated the possibilities. If I waited too long to accept the Kids Incorporated gig they may decide they don’t want me anymore and ask someone else. But if I said yes to Kids Incorporated and then the MMC letter arrived… Oh the regret if I missed the opportunity to rock the house with Fred and Mowava and the Mouseketeers. Afterall, I knew I was a perfect fit for MMC because they told me they liked me while saying goodbye at the end of every show. The question led to more than a few sleepless nights. I believe I concluded, after much consideration, that a waiting period of 2-3 days was the appropriate amount of time. Now I had reason to believe I might get a letter from Disney asking me to be a child star. My resumé of starring roles in children’s church musicals was unparalleled. I played Mr. Jackson, the benevolent father, in the foot-tapping retelling of the parable of the Prodigal Son called “Barbecue for Ben.” I played Ramsey, the wise old Ram in “We Like Sheep,” a sentimental adaptation of the parable of the Lost Sheep. I also starred in “Super Gift from Heaven,” “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” and “Down by the Creek Bank.” But the pinnicle of my young thespian life came when I was cast in the coveted role of Psalty the Singing Song Book. They do not give that role out willy-nilly. I had to sing and dance and impart Christian values with a painted blue face while donning a body-sized blue with yellow trim book. The range I had! How could Kids Incorporated or the MMC not want me!? I’m now in my mid-30’s and I still haven’t received that letter. But that’s okay. I’ve learned you cannot wait for the letter. You cannot wait for Ms. Perfect to knock on your door. You cannot wait until it becomes just a little easier. It’s all work. And it’s all hard. So I write. I write because I have to. An idea finds me. The “what ifs” woo me. Characters move into my imagination and refuse to leave until their stories are told. And I write because the waiting hasn’t gotten me anywhere. |
AuthorA WRITER AND TRAVELER KEEPING THE FAITH IN LOS ANGELES Subjects
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