Why Quitting is the Best (and Other Dubious Corollaries of Ace of Base-ism)
Last May I ran a 50k race. I never wrote about it, mostly because I forgot. But also probably because I only made it about 30k before I quit. I’m okay with quitting. A lot of people equate quitting with some sort of character defect. But not me. I equate it with stopping doing something that I used to want to do, but now it sucks and I don’t want to do it anymore. I quit all the time. It’s the best.*
I remember the first time I quit. I joined a Pop Warner football team when I was 9. We were really bad. We lost our first game 28-0, and our second game 42-0. In our third game, we were behind 14-0 when we finally scored a touchdown. The problem was they flagged me for holding, so the touchdown got called back. My coach swore at me for a good five minutes on the sideline, in front of the rest of the team and all the parents, presumably in a bid to mold me into a better version of myself. I felt inspired after that, capable of so much more, a valued part of the team. Just kidding. I cried. Then I quit, snuffing out the alternate timeline where I become a successful offensive lineman, sustain dozens of concussions, and forget how to spell my name by age 55.
Bopping around with friends at the starting line. Starting to wonder what “svelte” means.
The 50k race started at 5 am in the center of a little town called Ataco in the rugged highlands of El Salvador. Blaring Spanish-language house music erupted in the town square around 4 am. This is standard for foot and bicycle races in Latin America for reasons I don’t fully understand; maybe the intent is to prevent from sleeping anyone in town with the audacity to fail to enter the race. Fortunately, I have nothing if not audacity. And also a receding hairline. I have nothing if not both of those things.
I wandered around the starting line while the thumping music rattled my teeth. There weren’t many other soft middle-age people. It seemed like all the other runners were svelte-yet-chiseled young Latino endurance runners who, without necessarily doing or saying anything, or even necessarily acknowledging my presence, sowed within me seeds of doubt. Such as, for instance, doubts about what the word “svelte” means and whether I had been misusing it my whole life, and also doubts about whether I’d trained enough, and also doubts about my permanently droopy left eyelid and whether it made me look intimidating to the other racers — like I was experiencing a partial stroke but was so committed that I was lining up for the race anyhow — or, more likely, whether it made me look like Sloth from The Goonies. Either way, I was starting to feel uncertain, underprepared, old, and insufficiently svelte.
Lest you think me a one-dimensional quitter, I also quit things besides sports. I quit jobs too. When I was 16 I got a job at Craft Warehouse. Although I liked my fellow cashier, who was my age and very cute but whose name I can’t remember but was probably Julie or Andrea or Wanda. I didn’t care for the manager Jim. He wasn’t cute. And he yelled at me whenever I misused the store intercom system by singing snippets of Ace of Base songs into it, which I did at every opportunity, and even when I didn’t have the opportunity. In Jim’s defense, my behavior was unprofessional. In my defense, I quit. I saw the sign. It opened up my eyes. Life is demanding without understanding.
Less than 5 minutes into the race. Even the guy in the cargo shorts and trucker cap is outpacing me! Stop the madness!
Conventional ultramarathon wisdom suggests you avoid going hard out of the gate, unless you’re trying to win, or impress someone, or escape a hit man. I usually easily conform to conventional ultramarathon wisdom. No one has ever tried to off me, as far as I know, apart from Jim at Craft Warehouse, who was so old that his uppercuts mainly just tickled, and I definitely never try to win or impress anyone. When the starting gun sounded at 5 am, I started slowly, per cited ultramarathon wisdom. The problem was that nobody else did. A couple minutes into the race, I was only ahead of like five people. Portly guys were passing me. Lots of hit men in this town, I thought.
The course wended away from Ataco and into rugged coffee fincas. I felt tired. The sun rose. It got hot. I was miles from anything, climbing dumb mountains in clingy humidity. Occasionally I caught glimpses of a figure or two way ahead of me, and sometimes I heard footsteps far behind. But mostly it was just me, and grabby tree branches, and warm, wooly air, and cramps. I’d never got cramps before while running. I swallowed some salt tablets and whimpered. That helped.
Fifteen miles in, I came to a lake. There was an aid station. I asked for something to drink. The lady said I couldn’t have anything until I’d circuited the lake. It looked sort of big. “Really?” I said. “Yes,” she said. “The course makes a 1 kilometer loop around the lake.” That turned out to be a lie. Two miles and about 1,000 feet of climbing later, I returned to the aid station. “Now can I have something to drink?” I asked. “OK,” the lady said. I drank a sugar-free Coke. Usually I feel better after chilling at an aid station. Not this time. Maybe it’s because all they had was gross Coke Zero. Maybe it’s because there was nowhere to sit except out in the hot sun. But when I rose and staggered up the next little hill toward a small town called Apaneca about four miles away, the resolve I’d worn precariously at the race’s start was now down around my ankles, like the cosmos had depantsed me and was laughing and pointing.
Something like 14 miles in. Contemplating eating the cameraman.
My quitting does not practice ageism. I quit when I was young. I quit when I was older too. After I was married and had a small child, Shannon and I were staying with my parents one summer. We didn’t have any money, because Ace of Base CDs aren’t cheap. Well, they are now, but they weren’t then. Shannon was cold calling publishing houses in the Yellow Pages looking for work. I’m a team player, so I looked for work too. I found a job ad stapled to a telephone pole. I called the number. They were political activists. You got paid for canvassing. I was like, “Sounds awful. Count me in. At least until I quit.” Just kidding, I didn’t actually say that. It’s just literary foreshadowing.
They called me in for a group interview. I wore a dress shirt tucked into a pair of khaki pants. Among the other job candidates was a guy in a one-piece spandex outfit who arrived in a car, not on a bicycle, and a woman who either had Tourette’s, or had lost her meds, or had eaten all her meds for breakfast that day, and chased them with rubbing alcohol and rubber cement. The interview was really just a video vilifying capitalism, dress clothes, personal hygiene, and not liking Rage Against the Machine enough. The other applicants were enraptured. I became increasingly cognizant of my corporate attire. It seemed maybe some of the other candidates started side-eyeing me with suspicion. And, was that an umbrella leaning up against the wall beside the guy in the Black Flag shirt and 16 visible piercings, or was it a pitchfork? I stood up and asked where the bathroom was. Down a hallway, next to the back door, said the dreadlocked hiring director. I didn’t go to the bathroom. I left out the back door. I invented quiet quitting. I’m like the Nirvana of quiet quitting. Actually, no. I’m like the Sonic Youth of quiet quitting — I inspired the Nirvanas of quiet quitting.
Much of the course looked like this. Bonus points for not falling off the craggy mountain. Extra bonus points for finding the right trail.
I reached Apaneca after 19 miles and almost 6,000 feet of climbing. The sun was high. It was about 90 degrees outside. I swore I was in last place. A 1,500 foot volcano loomed behind the town. The route climbed straight up it. Could I continue for another 12 miles and 2,000 feet of elevation gain? Probably. Would it take me another six hours? Likely. Would I finish with an otherworldly sense of elation that I had surpassed what I had believed to be the limits of my physical capabilities? Yeah. Was that a very persuasive thought at that moment? Nah. I sat down on a curb beside the aid station to rest. Pulled off my shoes and socks. My feet had been soaked in morning dew and sweat for hours. Skin was hanging off in ribbons. And it opened up my eyes. I saw the sign. So I quit. Sometimes you’ve got to stand up — or sit down — for yourself. No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong.
* Disclaimer: I am employing hyperbole in a humorous essay about the supposed virtues of quitting, most of which I have either invented or exaggerated here for entertainment purposes. I hope the unwritten reality is obvious: reflexively quitting activities, jobs, relationships, or other serious responsibilities is a poor habit, and also robs us of opportunities to be stretched and strengthened. I also hope a second unwritten reality is clear: Ace of Base songs can and should provide the basis for most critical life decisions.
While I was busy theorizing on the nobility of quitting, Shannon was busy winning. 1st place in her age group, after signing up on a lark a couple weeks before race day. Stop the madness!
