Epilogue

2010

The pain was searing, but I couldn't notice that, not thirty seconds before they sounded the airhorn.

There was every manner of contestant, and the camera crew behind the rope filming my brother and - by some cruel twist - my former crush, who had been invited along.

I tested the weight on my foot. Only after my pre-workout stretches had I slipped and twisted it, but it felt fine. It felt fine if I didn't put weight on it. I was shivering, too cold to care.

It was now or never, and then the airhorn, that staple of pranksters, sounded.

Down the rugged hill all the participants ran, and I fancied that nobody could see me, for the pain in my foot grew only greater, and though I was not competing to come first, by the people soon rushing ahead, was my injury more noticeable to the crowd.

By adrenaline and focusing on the goal could I ignore the stares that I knew would be commonplace. Limping along with the stragglers was more pain than in my foot, and I had signed a death waiver.

I had already set my mind to the grueling tasks ahead; crossing through hanging electrified cables; wading through knee deep mud; navigating fields of fire; swimming through underwater tunnels.

I strained everything in my body to push ahead, my mind was there; my mind was where I had always wanted it to be, far ahead planning everything no matter what my body was incapable of.

And now, as I felt mind over matter work, as I grew only angrier seeing the many people ahead, I vaulted myself forward, and slipped once more on my foot.

My brother's friend, hailing a volunteer, had to get my consent to remove me from the race. My greatest fear, the one I had been running away from since my journey started, was that every eye was on me and I was entirely vulnerable, and could use nothing in my arsenal to stop the hot shame and tears.

My brother's best friend sat by my side while I lay on the hay in a shed, and and kept my leg raised.

"Don't sweat it," said he, "There's always another year."

I was lying in my hotel suite with my foot propped up when the phone beside my bed rang. With some difficulty I reached over and picked it up.

"Yo. Let us in."

I scowled and glanced down at my foot. It was veiny, and in the weeks to follow would grow bigger and blue. It was with difficulty, but not beyond my focus, to hobble to the door, hoist it open, and then have my brother and his friend take either shoulder, but turn me to the door.

"What are you doing?"

"You're not goin' cooped up in this here room," said my brother, "There's a heated indoor pool. You can rest up and watch."

So it came to be that I rested in a recliner, watching them tread water and do divebombs. Their shouts reveberated around the enclosed space. Us four were the only ones present, until a mom and her child took a U-turn within the first few minutes.

Amidst the splashes, I had had time, during the three hours it had taken my brother and my former crush to finish the challenge to dwell on that I was not among them; and more still to dwell on the future, when I had returned to my hotel suite, showered with difficulty and napped in my bed.

Everything in me was built to withstand the challenge, and yet still my body let me down.

"Can I getcha anything?"

I glanced up and saw my former crush. He was older like I was, and I could see in him how the beer drinking would round out his face and his gut. He came back with some snacks from a vending machine and tore open a packet of crisps and passed it to me.

"Look, I know you're into your healthy livin' shit, but you gotta try this."

He ate his with gusto and crumbs to make me laugh, and I gloried in the taste of crisps. His cell phone rang, and he stood to answer it, and came back a couple minutes later.

"That was the wife," he nestled his cell phone in his crumpled, dirty-wet clothes, "You work at your mom's salon, right?"

"She doesn't own it," I sniffed.

"You alright?"

I glanced down to my leg. "I'll be on bed rest for god knows how long."

"You'll be aiite - "

"Hello? I can't work out!"

"Pfft," he waved a hand in a feeble gesture, "What's a couple weeks, months, gonna do?"

I hated that at this point, I felt comfortable with him. I felt guilty to glance at his cellphone, and met his gaze.

"You'll be fine," said he, as he crunched his crisps, "You're pretty tough."

I stared at the pool full of splashing. "I'm getting old - we're all getting old."

He rose, obeying at last the frantic gesturing of his friends. "I hear that."

My mom insisted that I stay in the spare room while I recovered. She did all she could to make me comfortable, and my dad endeavored to sort out my work and my finances.

Lying in my childhood room, with a newer bed bought since, it was nigh time that I took a hard look at myself. I no longer hated myself as much as I thought. I hated my excuses. I started off unsteady, and the long road to procrastination had been a bramble to come out from.

I could not have taken the Tough Guy Challenge, my mind intent to win, with only my body to fail me where it had not failed me when I pushed it to its limits, for so many years.

There was another year ahead. I had always been scared during my journey that in achieving my goal, I would be without. Yet that would never be the case.

There was always a goal to pursue, and not one straight ahead. It was all around me, in the comforts of my home, my family, my friends, however fractured to collect the pieces and hold them close.

Time was ticking, and not all opportunities could be noticed before they elapsed; even now, if I wanted to binge, the stakes were higher for my metabolism would change.

My injury was not threatening, but it forced me to look beyond the bounds of staying in shape.

It was that which brought a collision to my reality. When I ran a hand over my body. When I realised I loved it. It was the shape of my successes, and I had never taken time to love it. My outward hate was merely internal hate I had never really got rid of.

There was never such a thing as perfection. But there was grit, knowing you could build yourself up again, and in the uncertainty of the future, knowing your own mind was one tool invaluable to the fight.

I laid back on my pillow and closed my eyes, surrendering to the images flickering in my mind. As I found more often as I grew each year older, I considered my regrets…

And when I opened my eyes, I knew the fight was not over yet.