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“What, now, is the result of the miraculous passage and return?”
— Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces
Every other 10-year-old on my block wanted to be a professional athlete when he grew up. I was no
different. How cool would that be, I thought, to get paid to play a game you loved, all day,
everyday? How bitchin’ (I can say that, I am a seventh generation Southern Californian) would
it be to never have to grow up, to realize that Peter Pan is real, that adulthood is a myth, and
heroes come from regular old places? As far as I know, I was the only one from my ’hood who
had his dream come true. And in hindsight, the dream has been all that and more.
Unfortunately, the “more” part includes a period when the dream ends and the hero wakes
to find him- or herself faced with the formidable task of re-entering a society that has a narrow
window of acceptance, let alone opportunity. Everybody wants to remember the hero as the great
athlete he once was—hitting home runs, scoring at the buzzer, bringing home the gold. But the
person who must transition back into everyday life is not the same individual. He must change. For
if he doesn’t, he will slowly fall into an emotional black hole from which escape becomes
increasingly difficult.
It is with that thought that I pondered my first summer in nearly 20 years in which triathlon
competition was not a forbidding monolith. I would, of course, participate in triathlon and
probably do very well, but I knew instinctively that the tide had turned and the torch had been
passed. I would never win a major triathlon again. That thought was not frightening. But the
underlying meaning was that my life was at least half over—I was closer to checking out than
checking in, and that there were probably some things in this life I would not accomplish. (I use
the word “probably” as a last-ditch life raft on which to cling.) This is the part where
the hero returns, I thought, where he brings with him the wisdom gleaned from half a lifetime living
in the The Special World, where one is treated as only a hero can be.
It would be hard, I knew, but I was ready. At least I thought I was.
When triathlon was no longer my false but effective idol, one thing became instantly clear to
me—they don’t teach humility in Hero School. I would have to get in line, figuratively
and actually behind The Great Unwashed, waiting my turn to purchase, sell, ask, receive, trade, and
apologize. “I don’t care what you did bro’,” the comments went, “you stand
in line like everybody else.” Indeed, humility is a hard-learned yet invaluable trait.
If I was going to “re-emerge,” I might as well jump right in with both feet. I went back
to school, applied for a part-time job lifeguarding, and painted my bathroom—all in one week.
When someone in my class asked what I did, I had to stop and think. Nobody had asked me that in
many years. I guess I just expected them all to know. When I got to the part on the job application
that said, “Please list all employers in the past 15 years,” all I could think of was
“Self.” And when I went to the paint store and the sales agent asked if I wanted flat or
semi-gloss, I thought he was talking about the finish of my surfboards. Did people really have to
do all these things by themselves? When did they train, for heaven’s sake? No wonder half the
population is overweight; all they seem to do is stand in line, stare at the computer screen, and
make small talk with the neighbors.
Gradually, though, I began to see the intrinsic beauty of doing it yourself, putting others first,
and making small talk with the neighbors. It was a foreign concept that I didn’t have to win a
major race to experience joy. I didn’t have to put my swim workout before my daughter’s
homework to stay in shape. And I didn’t have to make the cover of a magazine to know that I
was accepted by my peers. It was almost like (dare I say it?) freedom.
How would competition fit into this newfound enlightenment, I wondered. Would I stop in the middle
of a race and fix a fellow competitor’s flat tire? Would I be willing to do enough training to
properly represent my few remaining sponsors? Had I completely lost the edge? And then I remembered
the words of Joseph Campbell: “Man is that alien presence with whom the forces of egoism must
come to terms, through whom the ego is crucified and resurrected and in whose image society is to
be reformed.”
My task was not to race until there existed no age group high enough, nor was it to become employed
in the services of society, cutting lawns and unstopping drains as a penance for my tenure as hero.
No, my duty was to strive for balance among the two and all things relevant and intertwined,
searching for something called grace within the communion. It would be the beginning of another
journey, one without a beginning and without an end. But what a trip it will
be.
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