Chapter 1 Everest

Everest

Once it had been determined that Mt. Everest was the highest mountain in the world, it was only a matter of time before someone would undoubtedly attempt to reach its summit.  Why?  Could it simply be “Because it is there,” as stated by George Mallory, who was among the first expedition in 1921 to attempt this seemingly insurmountable feat?  Mallory, who became obsessed with Everest, risked everything, even death, for the experience of a lifetime.  He pushed himself to the limit in an attempt to do something no one had ever done before.   It was a goal he would never obtain and which ultimately cost him his life.  In 1924 Mallory died on his third attempt to reach the top of Mount Everest.     

Once Mallory had set the whole crazy idea to summit the tallest mountain in the world in motion, someone would have to do it.  Everest had to be conquered; it just had to be—human nature, I suppose, to see the impossible and to make it possible.  So, the world would watch in eager anticipation to see who would be the first person to stand on top of the world.  Although this quest was scoffed at by some, many got caught up in the adventure, passion, and sheer determination of those who attempted to achieve this goal.  It wasn’t until Twenty nine years after Mallory’s death that Everest was finally conquered by Sir Edmund Hillary and Tenzing Norgay in 1953.  It was an amazing feat that left the world astounded—in an era before the modern high-tech tools of today.  

 Everest has always intrigued me.  I was captivated by the book “Into Thin Air,” the true story of 8 climbers who were killed and many others were seriously injured attempting to summit Mt. Everest.   It was amazing to me that seemingly normal people would risk their lives to stand on top of some mountain.  Sure, it would be incredible and a small part of me vicariously felt the exhilaration and excitement of their accomplishment; however, the more levelheaded side of me saw the images of death and extreme frost bite; black rotting skin, loss of fingers, toes, and noses which reaffirmed my notion that the whole idea was irrational and lacking of good judgment. Yet, people still do it.  Why?  They don’t do it for love, or money, or science, or any logical reason.  It’s bizarre.  Still, I could not dismiss that deep inside a part of me was a little envious of their tenacity, drive, and especially for their total disregard of common sense.

Not only did Mallory go down in history for his attempt to conquer Everest, but for me, he answered the great question of all questions--why?  People were looking for Mallory to explain the madness that possessed him and others, who put their lives at stake, to attempt something so irrational.   People wanted a concrete logical explanation, “Why?”  Mallory’s answer was ingenious.  His short simple comment said so much without saying anything at all.  His famous answer came when a reporter on national TV asked, “why?” His simple response, “Because it was there.”  Surely, Mallory did not really intend to risk his life and limb to climb Everest just “because it was there”.  He must have known that no explanation, no matter how in depth, could satisfy the rational mind.  It was neither logical nor practical. It was something much more, something that bystanders could only catch a glimpse. 

Mallory’s comment became the perfect answer for me when I had set a goal to run the St. George Marathon--“Because it was there.” No lengthy soul searching comment, no clever or humorous remark.   Besides, I really wasn’t sure why myself, and it was the best explanation I could come up with when I ran into my first cynic, Cheryl.

Until then, everyone I told about my new found goal was impressed or at least pretended to be impressed and responded positively and encouragingly, so I was caught off guard by the first brutally honest response.

I was so proud when I announced to Cheryl that I was going to run the Marathon.  She and I were part of the 20 percent of returning college students at Dixie State College over the age of thirty; however, we were much older than that.  I had just turned 40 and she was nearing 50.  The politically correct term was non-traditional student.  It did sound better than, "the Old lady in my class".  We were instantly drawn to each other in a sea of very young and very smart classmates.  Returning to college was extremely hard on my self-confidence.  Students would ask me if I was the professor when I walked into class.  "No," I would say as I took my seat next to someone who could have been my kid.  I felt so out of place as a 40 year old freshman taking classes like math 900 which some students, including me, referred to as dummy math.   In Biology, I struggled with even the simplest concepts.  I’m not sure if DNA was even discovered when I was in high school, and if it was, I certainly wouldn’t remember—that was over 20 years ago.  I had to start from scratch where some of these kids had been taking college classes in high school.  And if that wasn’t hard enough, I was new to the area—new town, new people, new experiences.  Shortly after moving to St. George, Utah, I enrolled in college.  I was very much out of my comfort zone and feeling very insecure. 

 Cheryl and I met in American History 1700 (freshman history). I noticed her right off on the first day of class.  We were the oldest in the class except the teacher who only had us by a few years.  Cheryl’s warm friendly smile assured me that I was not alone in my plight.  She motioned to the seat next to her which I happily slid into and set my books gently on the desk.  Her bleached blond hair hung gently on her shoulders.  Unlike mine, her appearance was always polished.  She was the kind of person who looked sophisticated even in a pair of jeans.  I, on the other hand, I didn’t stress much about things like that.  Comfort and function were my top priorities.  I would wear my pajamas if I thought I could.       

My professor, Cheryl, and I often stayed after class to philosophize about different subjects—politics, religion, history, small towns, or whatever peeked our interest.  I normally found our conversations enjoyable and rewarding, but this time was quite different. The topic turned to my decision to run the marathon.  I guess I expected them to be excited for me but instead Cheryl’s forehead wrinkled and her face became distorted. “Why would you do that?” she replied incredulously. She didn’t even attempt to cover up the disgust in her voice.  It was as if I had just told her I was considering torturing myself in some masochistic way—which, I suppose I was.  My college professor added in a matter of fact tone, “That’s crazy. I just don’t understand why people do that.  It makes no sense what so ever.” 

 I stood there trying to explain myself searching for something smart or profound to say, but I just stammered and rattled off a few half hearted reasons about getting in shape and losing a few pounds.  They didn’t hesitate to let me know how foolish that was, and quickly pointed out that there were far better ways to accomplish those things.  Of course, I knew that before I even spoke, but I didn’t know what else to say. 

I began to question myself, and I wasn’t coming up with anything.  Really, what had gotten into me? Had I lost all my marbles?   I felt about three feet tall.  The thought of running a marathon had excited me. I had felt exhilarated ever since I decided to run the marathon, and each time I expressed my feelings about it something inside me swelled, but now I just felt stupid. 

I hid my emotions until I was out of the building and on my way to my car which was parked 300 yards across campus.  My normal posture slumped and my heart sank as I walked.  I looked only at my feet and didn’t notice the beautiful sunny day.  A tear escaped from the corner of my eye and I pushed it away.  What was I trying to prove anyway?  What was wrong with me?  I wasn't smart enough for college, and I was too old for a marathon.  A walked in silence with my head down until something broke me from the grips of the darkness I felt inside.   I had felt this dark feeling way too often in my life.  Anger was coming to the rescue as it often did.   

 With each step the anger grew.   I was angry at how they had made me feel—like an idiot.  I couldn’t explain my desire to run a marathon to myself and certainly not to a stifled old professor who relied on facts and logic, and a lady who preferred talking about life rather than living it.   The anger felt good and empowering as it pushed aside the hurt.   “Who are they anyway?” I thought as I clenched my teeth, “They’re just a couple of pompous arrogant know-it-alls who don’t really know anything at all,”  I yelled in my mind.    I didn’t need to explain myself to them or anyone else—“because it’s there!”   I mumbled a few obscenities under my breath to console myself. 

Halfway to my emotions began to settle.  With each step, the anger and hurt began to slowly disperse.  I stopped momentarily and closed my eyes.   I took a deep breath.  The cool crisp autumn air filled my lungs. I held it as long as I could and then released it as I opened my eyes.  It was like consuming something incredible.  It was like breathing in energy and peace at the same time.  There is just something about autumn.  I began walking again.  I felt the sun on my face.  I noticed the tall mature trees on campus and how the green leaves rustled in the gentle breeze.  In St. George, the leaves wouldn’t turn the brilliant fall colors until November.  

Now that I had gotten a hold of my emotions, I began to realize something.  I used to feel the exact same way about marathons as my professor and my friend which is probably why it hit me so hard.  I had never even remotely considered running a marathon before now.  It was just four years ago when I was the one on the other end of a conversation about marathons.  That seemed like a lifetime ago.  I was the cynic then.  I remember talking to my friend April, whom I had known for nearly twelve years.  I recall the phone conversation I had with her all those years ago when she suggested I run the St. George Marathon with her.   In trying to convince me she said, “Oh, come on Sal; it will be fun!”  “Fun!?” I remember thinking, “Sounded more like torture to me.   Camping, hiking, and mountain biking were fun, reading a good book on a sandy beach was fun, but running 26.2 miles was just wrong.” I had always exercised and enjoyed new experiences, but a marathon used to seem well, I hate to say it—but just stupid, but so much had happened in the past four years.  For the most part I was the same person, but something had changed.  I was no longer the person I used to be.   

I suppose my negative attitude towards marathons back then was fueled in part by my extremely rational personality, and running a marathon was near the top of my list of ridiculous things to do.  The notion of paying an entry fee to run a grueling race which I had no chance of winning or even finishing in the top 50 percent made no sense whatsoever.  Not only would it be painful, but it seemed like such a waste of precious time, energy, and money.  My response to anyone who even hinted that I should run a marathon was a firm, “No way!”  No hesitation, no second thought, not even an ounce of desire. I could not understand why any sane person would do such a  thing, and now I was that insane person!  And, that was how I answered April four years ago.  It was a short but firm, “No.” It was nothing like the “no” she was accustomed to hearing me say—the one that starts out slowly with a slight bit of hesitation.   April heard that one plenty of times from me.  She could usually convince me to change my mind about almost anything especially if it involved being active and being outdoors.  However, this time she knew by the tone of my voice that there was no use in pursuing any further tactics.  I felt then the way my professor and Cheryl felt now: a marathon was just a bit extreme for me, and for April as well, I had thought.   

  At the time, I was the one wondering what possessed her.  She was just as sensible as I was.   She graduated from Utah State University with a bachelor’s degree in accounting and worked for a local CPA firm.  Her name even fit her—April because she was born in April.  How practical is that? We had been friends for so long and had so much in common we seemed almost like sisters.  I found it hard to believe she was really serious about a marathon. So, what had gotten into her?  And now, what had gotten into me? 

It was not rational, but perhaps it was something more—something neither of us could explain.  Each year as October neared there was excitement in the air.  The marathon was always the first Saturday in October, and each year, thousands of people from all over the world descended on St. George to fulfill a dream of accomplishing a monumental goal. The front page of the local paper was dominated by it, conversations turned to it, the trickle of early morning joggers increased with each passing month. And, each year more and more people from St. George made it their dream.  I wondered if April felt the anticipation and enthusiasm that surrounded her, and now that the notion had entered her mind did it touch something inside her which she wouldn’t be able to put aside?  She didn’t run the marathon that year nor the next or the next.   

Now that I was in St. George, I could feel it. I wondered if April's goal to run the marathon would always be there nagging at her like a gentle breeze that would whisper relentlessly to her soul.  Would she always feel the longing?  Would it be hidden deep inside and sometimes surface with burning regret?  I knew there would be only one way to satisfy the yearning, but for now she would just push it aside. She would use all her logical reasoning to sooth the disappointment in her heart for giving up on her goal; she would tell herself she was just postponing it, so she wouldn’t lose a part of herself.

  I wondered about April because that is what I had been doing for most of my life—pushing my aspirations aside.  But this time was different; I could not dismiss it. I had done that too many times.  From the moment I determined to run the marathon I knew that there was no turning back.  It was more than a gentle whisper; it was loud and clear and burned in my heart, and there was no ignoring it.   I had set a goal and nothing was going to stop me from achieving it.  I knew if I didn’t do it, I would be letting go of my dream, and I just couldn’t bear that, especially not now. I had already lost so much of myself by giving in and giving up that I barely knew who I was anymore.