A Man Walks Into A Bar…
A man walks into a bar and orders a drink. It tastes good. So he orders another. It tastes even better. Soon friends arrive. More drinks are ordered. Laughter is heard, glasses hoisted, toasts made. There is cause for celebration. You see, this man is 30-years old. Tonight. It is his birthday. The man is successful. He is a businessman, well educated, well paid. More drinks appear. Still more. Soon a woman approaches. She is good looking. Stunning, actually. She is flirtatious, suggestive. The man is married. But she is beautiful, and he is drunk. A moment’s pause, to use the washroom, to think. But he misses the turn and walks out a side exist. He is on the street. It is night. Late night. Midnight. He is confused, disoriented. He starts running. South. Away from the bar; away from that place. The man is accomplished, but he is not happy. He drives a fancy car, lives in a nice house. The man is miserable. South he continues, running. His pants are burdensome, so he removes them. Liberating. The man is in his underwear. He is not a runner. Not now, at least. Used to be, his younger self. Used to love running. Running was freedom. Running made him feel alive. He hadn’t felt alive in years. Tonight he felt alive. He would run 30-miles, tonight, to commemorate his birthday, in that moment of reflection he so decided. But he is not a runner; he is drunk. He does not stop. Soon city lights disappear. He keeps running. And running. The stars are out. The sky is bright. For the first time in years he can actually see. For the first time in years he can actually feel his skin tingling, his soul stirring. The running is painful, but it does not hurt. He keeps running, and running. All night this man runs. He arrives the next morning at a different township, one 30-miles away. He is now sober. Clear-headed. He is sore and blistered and chaffing, and very, very content. The sun is coming up. The man calls his wife. Collect. From a payphone. A payphone outside 7-Eleven. Commuters are driving by. The man is in his underwear, outside a 7-Eleven, using a payphone. His wife answers. She is relieved. He is safe. He loves his wife. Loves her dearly. They were high school sweethearts. His first love, she was. His only love. Wife drives to retrieve the man, no questions asked. They talk on the ride home. Something is swirling. Something unsettling. Something exciting. Wife senses this. The conversation is cut short. Man passes out in front seat, midsentence, drooling slightly from his mouth, from the corner. His job. His corporate job. His corporate job with robust stock options, liberal bonuses, 401K matching and opulent company car to drive; what about these things? What about this job? It wasn’t a bad job, it was a good job. There was nothing wrong with this job, it just wasn’t right for this man. So he resigns. Quits just like that. Apologizes to his boss. He is a good employee, a valued employee, well liked and a hard worker. But now he is going to be a runner. He says goodbye. He is going to run. Not just anywhere, he is going to run in strange and remote places, long-distances along isolated trails in every imaginable weather condition earth can serve up. Snow, sleet, hail, mist, fog, rain, and sun. Sometimes lots of sun. Sometimes sun so hot bread toasts, eggs fry on the pavement. This is his new life. This is how the man now lives. Running long distances in extreme conditions, struggling and suffering and experiencing great discomfort. These are the new motivators that get him out of bed. Pain and misery. He likes these things. Likes them a lot. Madness. Madness you say. Perhaps so. But this man decided a life of madness was preferable to a life of numbness. And off he ran…
~Dean Karnazes is that man
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This story was contributed as part of the #QuestionMadness campaign is further described in Ultramarathon Man: Confessions of an All-Night Runner.
