Blowing Snot Rockets in the Age of COVID

2020.

I'm sure there have been, in the history of America, shittier years. For me (and I'm positive for many others divorcees), the year of breakup was my worst year. That said, 2020 comes in a very close second. And since losing by a narrow margin--so near to victory you can taste it--also sucks, I guess we can add that disappointment to the Jurassic Park-sized mound of dinosaur dung that this entire year has been.

I suppose I should be thankful. And while I know that feeling is a yolk to carry in and of itself, I should be. No one around me's life has ended prematurely, and I yet have my job. That is more than many in our country can say. But ending it at what I should be grateful for but short of any mention of struggle--as I have in many a discussions online thus far--is disingenuous. So I suppose I will have to expound a bit. After all, my blogs are not just a personal journal. They are also an endeavor to inspire and share the adventurous with a world mostly devoid of and starving for adventure. And without being real and giving some context around the true challenges of maintaining an adventurous spirit, this blog will fail miserably at that second goal.

Maybe it's not COVID that has made me feel socially isolated--perhaps it is that positivity is no longer culturally en vogue.

So has 2020 really been that bad? Well, I can tell you it's to the point that having an upbeat attitude or even thinking that the pandemic is not so bad is seen as traitorous by many. It’s hard to be balanced on the issue. Instead of the caricature of an angel and devil on my shoulders arguing each of their cases, it is a different scene for me. I am tasked with the celestial role, met instead by an imp on each shoulder: shame for attempting positivity when the year has been so bad for others and guilt that the truly bad things happening to me haven't yet crushed me. Maybe it's not COVID that has made me feel socially isolated--perhaps it is that positivity is no longer culturally en vogue.

Don't get me wrong. As I said before, I have reason to be negative.

My COVID-19 experience started with cancellations. Events whose status I marked "Coronacancelled". Again, it seems on the surface a very first-world problem to complain about cancellations of plans, but much of my life (and happiness) revolves around my ability to be in the wilderness, to travel, to escape the mundane, to go on adventures large and small. And that is not a claim I flippantly make. In point of fact, I learned the gravity of it when I attempted living without these personal essentials for two years. During that period, I got family-sized box of acute depression, a shiny new thirty pounds around my waist, and a divorce. It is not debatable nor is it inconsequential. It's simply how I am wired. I know this about myself now, and I act accordingly.

So, knowing now what I learned about me the hard way, I hope you can appreciate the impact that the following Cononacancellations had on me when their meticulously-planned itineraries were discarded:

21-day, 4-country, 6-flight, 2-continent honeymoon trip (not to mention the preceding WEDDING!) involving trekking Mount Kilimanjaro and an African wildlife safari.
9-day, 4-flight father/son NOLS Llama-packing and fly fishing trip in the Wind River Range in Wyoming.
5-day, 2-flight mountaineering trip to Mount Shasta in California.
A weekend climbing/camping trip to Mount Yonah and another weekend Via Ferrata climbing/camping trip to Kentucky.
A host of Wednesday night hikes that I organize in the Atlanta area.
A metric shitton of other events that I would have planned and more that I did not plan but was to attend: pretty much the entire spring season of orienteering meets with the Georgia Orienteering Club, the Chattajack paddling race in Tennessee, the Tennessee-Alabama-Georgia (TAG) Fall Cave-in 4-day weekend, three adventure races in the Southeast for which I was registered, including one with my family team.
Season tickets to the Fox Theater for their Broadway road tour, including Hamilton. What? I clean up sometimes.

Even as someone who had previously battled with deep depression and suicidality--and won to the point of believing I would never see it again--I began to notice its telltale signs creeping back into my own life as so many things I was working towards came crashing down, one after another.

Even as someone who had previously battled with deep depression and suicidality--and won to the point of believing I would never see it again--I began to notice its telltale signs creeping back into my own life as so many things I was working towards came crashing down, one after another. The training soon fell off, and I spent a lot of effort avoiding an all-out spiral from the loss of direction in my life. These were not just Coronacancellations of casual jaunts--they were revocations of my life's endeavors, and I was struggling to maintain my sense of drive. And I was not the only one. Those supported by me were also struggling.

Teammate Jesse Spangler’s and my 3.5 seconds of fame.

Learning at school was cancelled as well, and it was a mad scramble to ramp up remote learning programs and discipline. My kids were separated from their friends, and they were reeling from it. As parents, we did what we could to cover for the shell-shocked school system. We instituted coursework outside of school assignments as well as gamified creative writing and vocabulary exercises. It was rocky at best, but it was more than most were able to do. In the meantime, the educational vehicle was being retrieved from the tree it was wrapped around and put back on the road. It was not drivable yet; it would have to roll into summer.

Summer was time for the kids to play while we feverishly juggled working from home with parenting savages. Tiger King was comic relief, and as I had competed in the World’s Toughest Race: Eco-Challenge Fiji, we were all looking forward to its summer release on Amazon Prime. But even with much of the good that came from the additional family time and entertainment, it was clear the children were deeply worried they would not return to their classrooms in the fall. They started showing their own signs of depression, and for a number of reasons it manifested severely in my son, who first started thinking about suicide…then attempted it.

The contrast between childhood dream and parental nightmare was blinding. They poisoned one another.

It was bizarre watching myself complete the World's Toughest Race when it first aired while my firstborn slept in the intensive care unit next to me, charcoal stains still on his teeth from the medical staff's attempt to "manage" the physical effects of his desperate decision. The contrast between childhood dream and parental nightmare was blinding. They poisoned one another.

He went through several trips to emergency psychiatric facilities until we could get him into a residential treatment facility. It was a turbulent time. Again I lost my footing. As his father and someone who has wrestled with depression myself, I was blindsided by my inability to help him. Feelings of parental helplessness and failure cut to the soul.

We became part of society's catch-22: looking for the answers of how to safely escape lockdown from the very sources that made quarantine so miserable.

At the same time, my relationship (like those of many 100% at home with their significant others) was struggling against the constant inundation from the media of the horrors of 2020. At a time when little was known about the new virus running rampant out and about, we chose the path of caution by staying home, and in doing so found ourselves soundly in the jaws of the negative news cycle. We became part of society's catch-22: looking for the answers of how to safely escape lockdown from the very sources that made quarantine so miserable. It seemed to be the only way; the need for information in order to make informed decisions necessitated it. But in retrospect, the cost to mental, emotional, and relational health was personally too great--the physical risk, by all estimates now, much smaller in comparison. We learned from our mistake and dialed back the intake. It got better.

And as each date for Coronacancelled events passed, it seemed a smidgen of the uncertainty also departed with it. Plans began appearing in my calendar anew, absent reliance upon the variables of the era. I was organizing ventures into the woods that did not rely on airlines flying or campsites being open or restaurants providing service. The momentum was beginning to build again, and I was seeing what appeared to be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Good news roused me further when it came to my attention that The World's Toughest Race: Eco-Challenge would be returning to Patagonia. Notorious for inclusion of alpinism and ocean kayaking in frigid and fiercely windy condition, this would be a version of expedition racing for which I was both suited and well-trained. Finally, something to train for! Excitedly, I formed Team Mustache, a group of alpinists, paddlers, and adventure racers that could take on the environment. Taking on a team name to tip our hats to the Movember Foundation, we hoped to raise awareness of mental health issues that too often lead to suicide, an outcome that has been chiefly plaguing men for years and that was now exacerbated by the efforts to contain COVID. The race would be held in November 2021. With over a year to prepare, there was ample opportunity to both get back into racing shape and for the virus to have run its course. Our application was submitted.

Then Finley, our family dog, suddenly and prematurely died. He was a service animal for my son, trained to avoid all the behaviors that people who do not like dogs list as their reasons why. Of course, his training went well beyond that, and the love and affection he both gave and received from our family did as well. 2020 for me was starting to read like a country song. The year was mottled with starts and restarts, setbacks and tragedies. It was beginning to grate on me.

2020 for me was starting to read like a country song. The year was mottled with starts and restarts, setbacks and tragedies. It was beginning to grate on me.

Then a weird thing happened. The pattern of momentum-killing derailment followed by malaise after getting hit with a piece of bad news finally broke. When it was announced that the World's Toughest Race: Eco-Challenge Patagonia would be dropped by Amazon Prime because "the cost of production was too high", it was met with only mild disappointment. Why?

Stubborn defiance, I suppose. I was done being defeated. I was done losing momentum. I was done with a lack of progress, with a lack of goals, with a lack of direction. I was done letting the events of 2020 affect my own ability to set my life's trajectory. I was done being "locked down". I had given enough of myself to be accommodating of the fears of others. I was done betraying the joy of living.

Stoicism had re-taken its protective hold over my heart. It was a good thing. After all, we cannot change those things over which we have no control--so best to spit in their face and focus on that which we can: how we let ourselves be affected.

It is generally not wise to spit in the face of overwhelming circumstance, because odds are that matters will get worse as soon as you do. A wise man, after all, will go with the flow. It is said that "when the winds blow, some people build shelters and others build windmills." But, I have always known endurance athletes to be a different breed.

There is precious relief in knowing that we can still stand after so much suffering--it undergirds our sense of hope for the future.

We tend to be stubborn beyond wisdom. We often take pride in valiantly pitting ourselves against all odds. And--perhaps most important--we are defiant to the last breath. Our clan neither builds shelters nor windmills. We brace ourselves, face the wind, blow a snot rocket, and take a rebellious step forward. Another step. And a thousand more still, the growing chorus of the uprising come. The thousand thousand steps to follow, a mutiny against the chest-battering tempest intent on breaking our spirit. Until finally, having prevailed, we look up from our feet and find ourselves...yet unchanged. There is precious relief in knowing that we can still stand after so much suffering--it undergirds our sense of hope for the future.

And so while Eco-Challenge's sad announcement was the final nail in the coffin for plans made prior to 2020, I took the shot and pressed forward. The furnace of this year had destroyed everything that 2019 had set into motion. But it was not the end of adventurous plans. In fact, I saw 2020 give birth to something purer: all-organic, locally-grown adventures. Quests unbeholden to airline flight schedules or occupancy limits or mandatory business closures or corporate sponsorships being pulled. Ventures that socially distance in miles rather than feet, far away from the camera crews and production teams. Plans to look forward to because they are unaffected by the winds of all those things which I simply cannot control.

Out of the furnace of 2020 came something harder. Something rawer. Something I know will in its outrageous ambition and ostentatious design fetch me an unhealthy dose of suffering and some small measure of hope from the toil therein. Out of the furnace came The Georgia Saga: