Icarus-ing
that bit about flight & failure
I’ve been thinking about this for awhile now, but let’s see if I can translate it into a cohesive narrative. I won’t go deeply into the details of the Icarus myth (research greek myths on your own time, dear friend), but all you really need know is that my interpretation is wrapped in the duality of flying & falling. The essential bit being that I’m paying as much attention to the fantastic flight of Icarus as I am to his fall, then using the myth as a framework to think through my own recent patterns in life.
One of the semi-recent instances I have had with Icarus-ing was in racing a half marathon in Accra during my Peace Corps service in the neighboring country of Togo. I have had a complicated relationship with running for quite some time, tending to often overtrain & often restarting training while still in the window of recovery & healing. That’s the background at least, but I would like to think I have grown past my foolhardy impatience, or, a touch of growth at least. However, the issue lies in that, even in fixing one stumbling block, there are always a myriad of ways for things to go awry.
I trained with the intention of finishing competitively, both for myself & for the athletic field that would be in Ghana (i.e. there should not have been heaps of competition). While I could have perhaps given a bit more to my training buildup, what I had accomplished should have been sufficient for the day. Alas. I had failed to factor in the comedy of errors that would interweave to unweave the dream I had dreamt. The day before the race, on a shakeout morning run, I found myself a tad bit lost in the streets of Accra. What should have been an easy five mile jog spun into eight miles of exploring streets & asking strangers if they knew where the, hopefully nearby, hostel was located. A task made more difficult by a lack of street names. While not ideal, this mistake should have been minor. A few extra unplanned miles should not have the capability to derail the whole production.
The missteps kept coming, however, & the next came in the form of overthinking nutrition to the point of under-eating. I let myself be too restrictive in terms of quality of nutrition to the point where I fell short on quantity. The demons of body image & insecurity speaking too loudly at a pivotal, inopportune moment. So it goes. A similar situation, more circumstantial & less to do with body image, happened with hydration — too infrequent, too small a quantity. Small mistakes that, stacked together, became a hefty challenges.
I could write for awhile on all of the branching avenues that might have contributed to my failure — insomnia & an inability to sleep the night before, the heat & humidity on the day of the race, overly optimistic pacing, a poorly designed course, etc. Time & again I made the incorrect decision, which is perhaps the point. The fall becomes much more pronounced when you continuously rip holes in your wings & tie weights to your feet.
The short of it is that I realized I was in a good deal of trouble as soon as five miles into the 13.1 mile race. Running (let’s be honest with ourselves & call this one a jog) turned to stretches of walking until I would amass enough energy to lope back into the pitiful jog I could barely manage. I was dehydrated & in trouble, cycling through scenarios of how to get to the finish line in an increasingly dubious & dangerous condition. No real alternatives but to keep moving forward, some sort of caricature of poor performance.
I eventually stumbled across the finish line at the first race I had been to that did not have a recognizable medical tent; the first time I could have used a medical tent. For some time I lay on the ground, sipping water, & trying to quell the thickening haze in my mind, trying to manage a wave of nausea. Fortunately, good man Greg (another Peace Corps volunteer, a group of us had trekked out to Ghana for the race) saw that I was in a Bad Spot & steered me inside to the bar & to some pineapple juice. Something to help restore the electrolyte imbalance that water alone could not fix. Something my dazed & delirious brain would not think to have done for myself.
Never before had I felt that level of dehydration & extremis. I was in a thick haze for the next few hours, & it would not be until a day or so later that I started to feel a bit back to normal.
So, Icarus-ing. I stayed healthy enough throughout the training to be able to enjoy the daily process & the gradual mileage build-up. I enjoyed enough of a mileage base to delude myself into actually trying to race as opposed to simple completion, trying to prove something to myself / others. Enough of a base to start off the race at a decent pace & blow up spectacularly a few miles later. That’s the key bit about Icarus-ing though, it isn’t complete failure. It’s the flight that goes unfinished. That brief bit where you are flying, before the inevitable, spiraling fall.
It isn’t always athletic, but that’s where the physical collapse can be easily seen & felt. A version of Icarus-ing could be applied to rejection from graduate schools, Peace Corps being evacuated & projects going unfinished, etc. Recently, though, it was again a physical failure. Unsurprising, I suppose, if you consider that my life has simplified to daily cycling around the country & writing about it.
The day before this particular fall was 94 miles of bicycling in New Mexico, about seven hours in the saddle. So, this then would be the flying bit of it. The pleasure of getting a tad lost down dirt roads in the desert & the fortune of finding a ranching family that would steer me in the proper direction when the panic began to mount. The pleasure of cycling for long enough to see the light change throughout the day, spinning into the sunset & then into twilight (beautiful but becoming dangerous on unlit dirt backroads). I wasn’t sure how much mileage the day would be with my forays off route until I rolled up to my host’s house for the night, & while I was pleased with the strength of knocking out 94 miles without too much of a hassle, I was rightfully anxious for the next day’s mileage & what the condition of my legs would be.
The following morning, a fear was lingering, just perceptible, throughout my body. A sort of unease that I hadn’t felt in quite some time. It was something that seemed to emanate from the unknown & a lack of control, but it escaped my attempts to pin it to one source. Pieces of the unease perhaps originated in the absurdity & unreachability of my dreams & the task at hand, something I tried not to dwell upon too often while paradoxically working ardently towards.
In any case, on a normal day that contained a reasonable amount of adversity, I would have been in a spot of trouble. I’d like to think it would have been manageable, but, as it happened instead, I ‘dealt’ with 27mph headwinds that contained frequent 30+ mph gusts. ‘Dealt’ is in quotes because I certainly did not deal with the wind. My legs had disrespectfully thrown in the towel, & I quickly came to the realization that there would be no way I would be able to make it to my pre-planned destination for the night. Unable to push the remaining 30 or so odd miles to Santa Fe (with a portion being on the interstate), I landed in Pecos, New Mexico at a Benedictine Monastery for the night. I was utterly empty, dazed in a bit of a haze, yet I had enough presence of mind to be grateful for the hospitality shown to me. Though, too, I had enough presence of mind to be disappointed in myself.
The following day, my body was in a similarly uncooperative state, perhaps a touch more rested, but with more pleasant weather. Not necessarily good weather, mind you, but better than the day before. The improved weather included a storm on the horizon with a touch of riding through hail in Santa Fe, a thoroughly absurd weather to be travelling through. Doing my best to read the signs that were telling me to quit acting foolishly, I capitulated somewhat & took the train to Albuquerque. Now, in the vast majority of circumstances, train travel is one of my favorite modes of travelling, but this might be one of the few exceptions. If you’ll indulge me, please allow me to tie myself up in complicated moral knots for a moment.
The issue revolves around what in the actual hullabaloo I’m doing out here. Is the point to cycle the whole way? Not accepting shortcuts & being suspicious of deviations? Or is this primarily an artistic thing? Is the most important element of the trip the writing & art I’m able to do along the way? The people I meet & the relationships I form? Is a train cheating? Cheating to whom? Myself? Why do I feel the need to set the difficulty of this endeavor to the maximum? What am I trying to prove & to whom, if not primarily myself? How am I able to disappoint myself so often, how is the flight seemingly always followed by the fall? How am I so far into the journey without having clear answers to these questions?
It seems a version of self-sabotage, or perhaps insecurity with the whole idea of what I’m trying to do, the what & the who & the why of it all. The caveat is that this day still ended up being around 44 miles of cycling, & I was still properly knackered for the 13 or so miles in Albuquerque after the train. The difference being that I was able to enjoy the journey more, after allowing myself to have a touch of flexibility in the plans. I smiled often as I spun the remaining mileage for the day, washed in delight as I found some tired strength & able to fly more often than crawl. Because of the train, I was able to end the day in a less drastic haze, even popping over into some bar for a spell. A detour that provided the unexpected delight of chatting about religion & beliefs with a kind stranger. A stranger I would have missed if I hadn’t opted for the train & embraced the fall.
The flight & the fall & the unknown of if the fall will be all the way this time. The delight when it isn’t. What I’ve been fixated upon, what I’ve been working on, is the question of how Icarus felt on the way down. The initial jolt of fear & the ensuing stability in the lack of actions left to take. I imagine him as playful, laughing & smiling on the way down. Spiraling & somersaulting in the air as he plummeted into the sea, jackknifing into the waves with an Olympic diver’s splash. The patron saint of adrenaline junkies should, in my mind, enjoy the fall as much as the flight. The trick, I suppose, is maintaining the presence of mind to enjoy it all.
One of my favorite poems centers around all this & Icarus, & I made an effort to memorize it while in Togo. It’s by William Carlos Williams & can be found here if you’re keen.
The Alphabet Dream Circus / 03/05/2021 / Albuquerque, NM / 2,081 miles / 36 days
