From where I sit, the middle third of any journey, no matter how long, is always the toughest. The excitement and the adrenaline that accompanied the start of things is gone. Exertion is beginning to take its toll. The newness has worn off, and you’re really nowhere near the end.
Back when I was in the Navy, we participated in a biannual sadomasochistic ritual called the PRT or Physical Readiness Test. The test consisted of curl-ups, push-ups, a mile and a half run, and, before they eliminated it just as I found yoga, a sit and reach to touch your toes. After a bit of yoga, I can now reliably touch my toes, but that was not always the case. That’s not important. The important bit was the mile and a half run.
We often completed these tests on a track. After the curl-ups, push-ups, and the always difficult sit and reach had been completed (hey, if you’re not cheating, you’re not trying) we were supposed to have a ten minute rest before commencing the run.
Generally speaking, everyone was amped up, warmed up, and ready to go. The fitness proctor would check with everyone to ensure we were ready, and we’d all line up on the track. The proctor would blow the whistle and drop an arm after about six minutes of rest, and we’d be off.
We’d cross the starting line in a thundering herd, but the real rabbits of the group would begin pulling away from the pack as we came out of the first turn at the two hundred yard point and start easing over into the inside lanes.
At the same time that the rabbits were pulling away, the sand blowers and turtles began to fall off the pace. By the time the group finished the first lap, the herd at the beginning had thinned out to resemble a bumpy snake crossing the starting line and heading into the first turn again.
Anyone who knows me will not be surprised when I admit I was not one of the rabbits. Generally speaking, I was somewhere in the middle bump of the snake as we passed the timer and started taking the second lap around the cinders.
As we passed the six hundred yard mark, I could still look ahead and fool myself into believing that I might still catch the rabbits. This notion finally died as I rounded the track and started down the straightaway toward the starting line for the second time. At eight hundred yards, I was breathing hard, and sweat was beginning to trickle down from my brow and into my eyes. The second lump of the snake passed the starting line for the second time, and we’d commenced the second third of the PRT journey.
Sixteen hundred yards to go. “Are you kidding me?” I’d think to myself. We’re not even halfway through. My energy’s flagging, my quads are beginning to burn, and my rhythmic breathing, which seemed to flow effortlessly at the beginning, was beginning to break down into a bit of a labored wheeze.
Those next two laps, that second third of the PRT journey, was always the hardest. My mind wandered, and I thought about our Physical Training uniform. With its bright yellow shirt and its navy blue shorts, all made out of some sort of terrible nylon that was pretending (unsuccessfully) to be a tech fabric, we looked a little like Gru’s henchmen the Minions. I’d chuckle a little and immediately regret that mistake as it caused my labored breathing to further degrade into a hacking cough that didn’t help my burning quads one little bit. “Don’t think about that again,” I’d admonish myself.
We’d finish the third lap and half the PRT journey was complete. The excitement was gone, and although the fitness proctors would cheer us along, all that was left was the work. One more lap and we’ll only have two laps to go. “Are you kidding me!”
After what seemed like an eternity, but was really only about four and a half minutes, the lump of the snake had stretched out a little more, and we’d finally finished the second third of the run. Two thirds complete, and only two laps to go.
Light began to appear at the end of the tunnel. My quads still burned, my breathing still a little labored, but there was a new lightness in my step. We’d made it through the second third, and we only had a little way to go.
That’s where we are in our journey. We’re at the beginning of the second third. Some of the excitement and anticipation has been eroded away by the miles spent on the blacktop. The thought of seeing another corn field does not give me the same thrill that it did when we came down from the mountains in New York and started seeing agricultural country for the first time. I no longer wonder how my feet will feel at mile eighteen because I know, and it hasn’t changed a whole lot from the beginning. Motrin helps, of course, good old vitamin M, but the dogs are gonna be barking no matter how much I try to stay in the softish dirt at the side of the shoulder.
Still, I know that there will be light at the end of this tunnel. If I’m paying attention, the Universe knows that I need to hear and understand this message. Like the PRT proctors encouraging us every time we passed the starting line, it speaks softly encouraging words, but it does speak.
Dad - Heading for the Light at the End of the Tunnel - Oak Savannah Trail - Broadway - Merrillville, IN
“There will be light at the end of the tunnel, and you won’t even really remember the seemingly endless stretch of the middle third with anything other than gratitude. Keep going. It’s right around the next couple of turns.”
