A Man, His Nikes, & A Warrior-Sized Hero Complex

My mom texted me the other day. She wanted to know why I haven’t blogged in a while. “Are you mad at me?” she asked. Yes, Mom. I haven’t been blogging the last several weeks because I’m mad at you. You got me. Smiley face.

If you read this blog, you know I hit a wall twice a year: about six weeks before the end of each semester. It’s when I like to think that I’m forcing myself to “buckle down” and focus on school, when really it’s the semester caving in on me.

But these last two months have been different than the previous times. I’ve been reassessing what it is at 36 I want out of life. Is going to school to pursue a writing career really in my best interest, in my family’s best interest?

As many of you may also know, I spent several weeks training for the Warrior Dash. By training, I mean that I ate less pizza and snacked on fewer cookies. I tried to add a jogging regimen to my workout routine. Said routine wanted no part of that, outsiders aren’t welcome. But thanks to an Internet call-out by my baby sister’s husband, I had to man-up…or at least try.

My brother-in-law Jeremy raved of the warrior-sized obstacle course we’d attempt to conquer. He promised the finish line would be waiting with a warrior-sized turkey leg to reward my efforts. There was talk of a warrior-sized beer to wash down my warrior-like feast. All that was missing was a wench to satisfy my warrior-like needs - he’d said I could bring my wife; he was bringing my sister. Yuck.

He’d said that upon completing The Dash there’d be warrior-sized stories to tell my family and friends. I could tell the truth or exaggerate my warrior-sized accomplishments. The choice was mine. So this is where I tell you, my fledgling peons, that I conquered the race in the fastest time ran by any man, woman, and superhero, and despite what the photos-for-purchase that were taken at various points of the course might show, I didn’t walk at all. Not. One. Step. This is where I don’t tell you that my chariot to the Warrior Dash was my mom’s mini-van, because mini-vans aren’t warrior-like…despite the heroic antics of Flynn Rider in the movie Tangled playing for the kids in the back seat.

If I’m being honest, I didn’t think I was anywhere near ready to commit to something I thought was so challenging. Mentally, I wasn’t ready to do the work, so I didn’t do the work – not really. But as I ran to the first obstacle, I found my inner monologue telling my overactive brain to settle down, just have fun. So I did.

We finished the race in 47 minutes. Not great; not horrible. But being that Jeremy and I were running in the very last heat of the two-day race, my only real goal was to not be lapped by the volunteers cleaning up trash on the trail before calling it a weekend.

Despite as much psyching myself up and psyching myself out that occurred in the weeks leading up to the Warrior Dash, once the race was over, I’d forgotten about everything I’d previously feared. You see, after races like these there’s an option to donate your shoes to charity – they’ll be cleaned and shipped across seas to people in countries where used shoes are better than no shoes. The shoes I’d left behind that day were shoes I didn’t want to let go of. I know, you’re thinking I’m crazy for being so sentimental about a pair of Nike Shox that were nearly four years old. You probably think I’m crazy for spending the three weeks prior to the race questioning my decision to give up those Nike Shox, and instead wondering if buying a new pair of cheaper shoes to run in and then donate would be a better option. But something inside of me, no matter how much I tried to rationalize my reasoning for why I’d miss those shoes, wouldn’t let me run in anything else. So I ran. I walked. I waded through water. I crawled through mud. I crossed the finish line. Then I donated. That’s when it hit me: those Nikes had been with me when I’d experienced some of the most memorable moments of my life.

Those shoes were there when I’d finally gotten to watch a baseball game at Fenway Park. They’d been to famed Dodger Stadium, where Kirk Gibson became a legend, and John Cusack made out with a girl on the hood of a 1967 Camaro that was parked at home plate. They saw Derek Jeter collect his 3000^th hit in front of the home crowd in The Bronx. They’d seen Mickey and Minnie and all of their friends at Disneyland. They were there the day I took my first steps as a grown man and enrolled in classes at a university full of teenagers, and then again the day I almost backed out of going to my first class, a writing class. Those shoes walked down Hollywood Boulevard, and took part as I had my photo taken as I crouched next to Tom Selleck’s star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Those $140 Nike Shox that had been purchased one hot Texas July evening in 2008 saw Big Ben tower over London, waited patiently outside the Blue Mosque in Istanbul for me but were later allowed to step inside the Hagia Sophia. A few days afterwards, they walked in the rain through Paris at night as my wife and I looked for the perfect souvenirs in shops scattered on various streets at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Those shoes had seen more in four years then some people will ever see in a lifetime – more than I thought I’d ever see in mine. I loved those Nikes, as if they were an extension of my soul. And as I took them off and placed them in the pile of other participants’ memories, I knew they’d soon see a different part of the world without me. I found comfort, not regret.

Donating my tennis shoes that day was just the beginning though, there was a dumpster for unwanted race clothes as well. I’d run the Warrior Dash in a blue T-shirt that on the front read Her Living Room Hero. My Twitter address was on the back. I let it go too. Only fitting that something that represented my entire family and supported some random thoughts and anicdotes on an Internet page read in over thirty countries around the globe should make its way into the world too, apart from us. Somewhere, somebody owns the very first Her Living Room Hero souvenir. Sorry, Mom. I promise I’m really not mad at you.

So today, I write. I’m doing the work – something I’ve started waking up and telling myself every day. I keep those words on an index card, tacked to a corkboard by my desk. A reminder that nothing comes free, that everything requires some level of sacrifice. That effort might lead to frustration and even heartache, but it’s the only thing that’s going to make life happen – not just happen by default, but really happen. If I want to be a writer, I have to write – no excuses. I have to do the work. I want my kids to know that. Kacie turned 14 today. She has eleven days left before the summer that will lead her into her new life in high school begins. I especially want her to know that. Do whatever makes you happy, baby girl. Be who you want to be. Dream of the impossible if that's what you want. But do the work. You won’t get where it is you really want to go if you don’t, no matter how awesome your shoes might be.

Share