A Minute Lost

I don’t remember the date. I do recall that it was the summer, whether or not it was June, July, or August; it doesn’t really matter. The year was 2003. It was hot. It was South Texas hot. It was San Antonio with no wind hot. For those reading this and wondering, well, how sweltering could it possibly get in San Antonio, Texas? A quick Google search placed the average temperatures of well over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, sometimes hitting triple digits, along with a hundred percent humidity. It's quite commonplace in South Texas. The takeaway from this beginning is that it wasn’t the best backdrop for what I was asked to do that day. I won’t get too much into the macro explanation or the overall arching motivation as to why I was asked to do this one thing, but I was invited to run an undisclosed distance with a group of others as a way to observe the state of my physical prowess at that current time to gauge whether or not I needed to improve or if I met a certain standard set by an organization. Now, at the time, I considered myself a decently athletic individual. A simple run around the block shouldn’t have been too difficult, so I blew it off. I chalked it up to a jog I didn’t need to prep for. I used to do these all the time. I did this all the time because I enjoyed running. If you talk to avid runners, some might mention a phenomenon known as the “runners high.” It is a place of euphoria that some runners experience when placed in a strenuous physical state for long periods of time. Nothing no longer mattered when I would slowly climb into the runner's high. It was just me, my breathing, my music, and my empty thoughts. It was myself versus distance. The lactic acid burn and occasional muscle pump were addicting.

Back to the story.

As I mentioned before, I don’t remember the time of day, but I remember the sun being out. I drank a small amount of water because, in my head, I thought that this wasn’t supposed to simulate any fitness test, nor was it meant to weed out the weak; not yet. The group consisted of two “leaders” and roughly five or possibly six other participants, excluding myself. We all met at a shopping center, all in various workout gear; we individually warmed up and stretched out. Then, with no warning or instructions, the two leaders simply said, “Okay, let’s go,” and sprinted away, yelling at us to keep up. For three miles, we ran as fast as we could in incredible humidity on hot pavement. Up to that point, I never ran that fast for that long. I pushed myself to a point I knew I had to get to in order to tell myself I belonged and was good enough, perhaps better. What happened was I pushed myself to a point I had never been to. There were no runners high; there was no satisfaction afterward, and there was no feeling of accomplishment. I completed the task, walked upstairs to get water, vomited, fell to the floor, then began to convulse.

I could feel myself bend into awkward and horrific poses while my muscles contracted violently. I was conscious, or at least I thought so. What felt like an eternity was only, possibly, a minute. I felt the universe becoming larger. I could only imagine what it looked like to others; they were literally watching me slip away into possible death within that minute. I could feel my muscles continuing to tense as I lay there helpless. My mind began to prepare for what was next. My body wasn’t responding, but my thoughts and being were already a million miles away. I felt sad, depressed, and angry. I kept thinking that I was a disappointment to everyone and I was leaving my family with nothing. I felt dread. There was no point where I felt peace in the beginning. Perhaps at the end? There was a moment of acceptance. This whole existence that I conjured up from hopes and dreams all were being squashed within a minute. I wanted to feel the cosmos; I wanted to see the doorways into the other dimensions I know exist. I wanted to sense the presence of a god. I remember feeling the sensation of floating, untethered, and directionless into nothing but still being present in the moment. This one minute was the introduction to my nightmare or perhaps the beginning of a wonderful journey. I can’t fully remember if my eyes were open or not. If they were, then it amplified the horrifying sight from the other people’s perspectives. Have you ever counted to one minute? Slowly and with purpose? Counted every second with a matter-of-factly and stern posture? I couldn’t. Within that minute, I was vulnerable and susceptible, and I felt weak. Eventually, everything came rushing back. Then, I was in a moment of silence. Everything around me was muffled.

The seconds were approaching their final rounds around the clock. Every single small grain of sand problem that I forced into a mountain became insignificant. I promised myself that nothing was going to be a barrier any longer. I vowed to live. These were two commitments that I have since broken or forgotten until this very minute. Life has a kick in the face way to remind you what is truly important. Sometimes it just takes a minute.