Isn’t it odd that we as a culture have decided January is the month to set big goals collectively? The days are about as cold and gray as they get — at least in the Northern Hemisphere — and we’re still hungover from our predominant holiday season. Nothing exciting is happening on the near horizon. And supposedly this is the time to gain the motivation necessary to remake our lives? Or perhaps January is resolution month because self-loathing is at an annual high. We all know self-loathing is the driver of our capitalist culture.
Wherever the motivation comes from, I’m certain it doesn’t come from within. There’s no way my northern European ancestors were toiling away in the January cold, gnawing on frozen herring and gathering spruce twigs to burn just so they could survive the next blizzard, and thinking “New Year New Me!” No, for them, survival was the only goal. When I think about it, survival should always be the goal.
Last January, when I was still recovering from a painful sternum injury that arose from what was then my latest trail running fall (now about seven falls ago) and wallowing in a particularly deep bout of depression and anxiety, I made at least a dozen New Year’s resolutions. I started seeing a therapist again, scrubbed saturated fat from my diet, cut down on sugar, joined a gym, started a weekly weightlifting routine, took yoga classes, hired a personal trainer to help me work on my balance, promised to quit Twitter for good, restarted my meditation practice, and determined I could cure my insomnia simply by deciding not to agonize about the grief of the world every night in bed.
I tried all of these things and shambled into February, barely functioning. The abundance of new tasks on top of everything else only weighed me down more. I was drowning. Ultimately, what worked to lift me out of the depths was antidepressants. As the lights came back on, I shed most of my new habits save for the weightlifting and therapy … although I have been cured of my Twitter addiction (thanks, Elon!) The resolutions were never about self-improvement. I’ll probably never meaningfully improve my cholesterol without medical intervention or go an entire year without falling on my face. I live in a body and operate a mind that both have an ever-increasing list of problems. But we’re alive. We survived. I’m grateful.
This year, I’ve only set two goals. I am finally going to start learning French. I even have my therapist reminding me weekly about my Duolingo resolution (no, sigh, I haven’t started yet.) The other goal is to take my two upcoming races seriously, so I can revel in the process and hopefully take what was becoming a tired and punishing experience to a new level of self-discovery. The races are tough but familiar 100-mile ultramarathons that I’ve completed before: The White Mountains 100 in Fairbanks, Alaska, in March, and the Bryce 100 near Bryce Canyon, Utah, in May. Racing events that I know will allow me to strategize in new ways. It also allows me to remove some of my ego from the endeavor. I have nothing to prove with these races. I simply want to see whether I can execute a smart race and move joyfully, rather than slogging something out in misery, which had become my mode of operation for too many of my most recent long races.
Still, January is barrelling past and my training has not been ideal. For the first ten days of the month, I was sick with the not-Covid respiratory virus that seems to be going around. Recovering from the strenuous trips in Alaska as I was, the virus quickly found its way into my lungs and I was hacking up all sorts of crud. I’ve had pneumonia in the past and never want to risk it again, so I avoided venturing out in the cold. When I finally began to feel better, winter settled in with a vengeance.
The Arctic Vortex was all the rage this week, as frigid Arctic air settled over much of the Lower 48, bringing ice storms, deep subzero temperatures, and blizzards. I love interesting weather — enough so that I admittedly logged back into Twitter … ahem, X … for the first time in months because I love a good #cowx thread. I logged a 10-mile snowy trail run in the raging windchill on Friday, but then slipped, fell, and conked my head while hiking to Bear Peak on Saturday. The hike to Bear Peak was something I did because I’ve made it a tradition to remember my father by climbing a mountain on his birthday. But taking a seemingly bad fall when it was 11 below zero with strong winds, and then realizing my hands had frozen to the point of barely functioning … that was intensely scary. When I thought about it later … why my hands froze so quickly … I wondered if it was because I had lost consciousness for a few seconds and didn’t realize.
I spent the rest of Saturday thinking I had a concussion but didn’t want to voice these concerns for fear they’d come true. My head hurt, though, and I was suddenly, deeply depressed. I couldn’t tell if this depression was raw grief rising to the surface. After all, I was injured, and physical pain tends to dredge up painful emotions. But I read through the symptoms of concussion, and yes, depression is one. For the rest of the evening, whether I was thinking about my father or scrolling through Facebook, I was on the verge of bursting into tears. I did my best to hide this from Beat.
Around 9:30, when I was about to propose an early bedtime, there was a quiet knock on the front door. The doorbell wouldn't work because the battery for the Ring camera had died in the cold. The temperature outside was 12 below zero. Beat answered the door and immediately ushered the person inside. He was a small, dark-skinned man with an African accent. He wore a pair of jeans, a light windbreaker jacket covered by an Amazon vest, and canvas sneakers with white cotton socks. He had only a thin hat and no gloves. He stammered that his car was stuck in the snow down the road and he had no cell reception.
The road where Beat and I live can be described as a rural mountain road. We’re not far from Boulder, but for practical purposes, it might as well be way up in the mountains. The four-mile-long gravel road is private and there are only 18 houses along it. It sees almost no traffic. Most of those houses are hidden out of view. Many of our neighbors are gone this time of year. This man could have theoretically walked several miles and knocked on a half-dozen doors before he found someone to help him. I was grateful he went off the road so close to us.
“Where are your gloves?” I asked the Amazon driver as Beat suited up to help pull the man’s car out of the ditch with his truck. “Do you need gloves?”
“No gloves. No gloves,” the man kept repeating. Along with, “Thank you. Thank you. It is very scary.”
As Beat walked toward the entryway, my eyes darted around for warm clothing I could give to the man, but I could only see things that belonged to Beat. Knowing Beat would not appreciate my giving away all of his favorite gear to a stranger, I watched with growing concern as they walked out the door.
While they were gone, I finally indulged in the gasping cry that I had been holding back all evening. They returned 20 minutes later after successfully extracting the Amazon driver’s car from the ditch. Beat helped him log onto our wifi connection so he could download directions to the nearest paved road. Beat told me later that the Amazon driver had mounted a heroic effort to extract himself from the ditch by digging into the snowbank with his ice scraper. I couldn’t fathom how he didn’t freeze his hands doing that with no gloves at 12 below zero.
As he was about to leave, the Amazon driver admitted that he left his engine running for so long that he was nearly out of gas.
“I have, I think, five miles before empty,” he said.
The nearest gas station is about ten miles away, which is a long way down a winding, icy mountain road.
Luckily, Beat had extra gas in containers for his truck, so he was able to give the Amazon driver a couple of gallons.
I wanted to give the Amazon driver all the warm clothing I could grab, but he slipped out the door before I could put together a coherent thought. At least he had gas. Getting stuck out here again … it might be so much worse the second time.
I indulged in a rant about Amazon hiring contractors without supplying them with proper gear or understanding where they’re sending them at 9:30 on a subzero night. But what can I do about it? Amazon doesn’t care. Amazon doesn’t care about me or anyone else. Whether I boycott the company or leave my entire estate to Amazon in my will … they don’t care.
The following day, I continued to quietly worry about a concussion. The hit was in the sensitive temple area on the right side of my scalp. Although there was no bump, in bright light I could see a bruise through my hair. I didn’t have a headache, but I couldn’t make facial expressions without wincing in pain. However, the inexplicable depression went away. Thank goodness.
I just acquired a new pair of lightweight running snowshoes that I think will be perfect for the typically variable conditions in the White Mountains 100 — like I said, racing this year is all about strategy since I’ve more or less accepted that I’m not going to make any great gains in my fitness. Monday presented the perfect training weather. It was 14 below zero and snowing heavily. When falling in temperatures well below zero, snowflakes are light but sharp and have the consistency of sand on the ground. This sort of snow does not consolidate well. I was excited to get out with my new things, which also included my latest $34.99 jacket find from Poshmark.
I thought running would hurt, given how tender my shoulder and head had been since my fall. But my lower body was unscathed, and the cold snow quickly sucked up so much energy that all I could do was shuffle and breathe. Snowflakes swirled around and I heated up rapidly in my relatively minimal layers — just the Monkey Fleece jacket and a light base layer, tights with Primaloft shorts and knee warmers, a pair of overboots over my summer trail running shoes, and a single pair of socks. I had to take off my mittens to vent because I felt hot. The impenetrable warmth felt incredible.
Everything felt incredible. The fact that I could take my weak, clumsy body into a subzero snowstorm and feel strong. The fact that the cold world around me had slowed to a stop yet I could move freely. The fact that all I need to do is move and breathe and … survive. I’m happiest when all I need to do is survive. No New Year’s resolutions or ego-driven ambitions or everyday stressors or tossing and turning with the grief of all of the world. When the Arctic Vortex takes over, all I have, and all I need, is the immediate moment and the reverence it commands.
I’m alive. I survived. I’m grateful.
Could you expand on "We all know self-loathing is the driver of our capitalist culture"? I'm not sure I understand. Did you mean consumerism?
Capitalism is an economic system of ownership and free market. Consumerism is the theory that a progressively greater consumption of goods is economically beneficial, and yeah, sadly this has become part of our culture. I will agree with you that it is a sad day when a free market company embraces consumerism over the value of their Amazon employees. UPS is no better, My nephew worked for them in the Phoenix summer and almost had a heat stroke. Then again, I guess even the best market system will fall if they believe in consumerism and are run by someone whose highest priority is money over the value of people.
Interesting thoughts about why we pick January as a goal setting month. After reading this, yeah it's a bit odd. lol I've given up on New Years resolutions and just opt for goals throughout the year when they make sense.
I hope your head is feeling better. That sounds like quite the fall, a bit scary.
Loved reading that. Thank you!