Sisyphus

They say Sisyphus is happy but that's only what people want to believe. They don't want to believe a punishment so painful exists because then there's a non-zero chance that they could receive the same treatment. No one would ever be happy doing what Sisyphus does, rolling a larger-than-life boulder up a hill only for it to roll back down again, and having to do it all over for the rest of eternity. It's the equivalent of letting bread dough rise for days only to leave it close enough to the edge of the counter for the dogs to grab it at the last second. That's not just a lost bread loaf. It's a broken bowl and a potentially injured dog.

Even so, I signed up for a half-marathon at the ripe age of sixty. Not a full one because I can't do anything all the way. Who really can these days? It was a cold morning, enough to make me question whether I'd actually warm up when I started running or if I'd stay frozen like a corpse. Maybe my fingers would freeze and I'd die of hyperthermia before I hit the halfway mark.

Packed in tight like a sardine, I waited, surrounded by a pack of millennials who had nothing better to do but post photos with the medals that they bought as part of the half-marathon race pack. This race's theme was hot chocolate. There's a large medal given at the end shaped cartoonishly like a mug of hot chocolate. There was supposed to be hot chocolate at all of the check points, but that seemed like a recipe for cramps and diarrhea, so I never planned to stop at one. I had one too many sugary drinks in the middle of my runs to see that disaster from 26.2 miles away.

A young man shouted into a megaphone, exhibiting energy that he probably sucked out of wrinkly people like me. "Are. You. Ready!?" he screamed. The people around me screamed in response like their lives depended on it. I imagined this was what it was like to be inducted into a cult.

The man said a few words, but I didn't pay attention because I doubted a child like that had something profound to say about me torturing my body for...what? Purpose? What the kids don't realize is that there is no purpose in life. There is only us. We do stupid things like run half-marathons to make it feel like there is one, but there isn't. We're here and we're free to do what we want with that knowledge.

A shot rang throughout the air and the crowd surged forward. Some people were pushed, but not me. That's the perk about being old. No one dares push you for fear of an injury lawsuit.

I started running, if you could call it that. A better word for it would be glorified jogging. People with signs screamed all around me as I trotted along the straight, gravel road that seemed never-ending.

"You got this, old man!" one pierced teenage boy yelled.

"Keep pushing!" another lady yelled, even though he had only been running for two minutes. I felt patronized, but after the first few miles the amount of people thinned out, and the endorphins started to flood in. I could feel it, that ecstatic feeling that made me believe I could live forever and enjoy it.

At mile seven, my legs felt lighter than feathers. I started dreaming about the future. I would start making my grandchildren cookies again, and stop taking those pills that my wife never liked. I could keep on running forever because running is heaven itself.

I'm lost in my thoughts of ecstasy when I started to feel my bones grating against each other. They felt like a car trying to start. It had nothing to do with exhaustion, but everything to do with a fundamental inability to brush up against each other for such long periods of time. Even so, I persisted. Why? Because it felt good. Not every question is complex enough to require a thirty-page thesis.

Despite myself, hot chocolate sounded really nice at mile five. I couldn't feel my fingers and toes. The thought of the warm liquid sliding down my throat became my only motive, so I ran faster towards the checkpoint. When I reached it, I bent over gasping for breath. A young lady put her hand on my back and offered me a Styrofoam cup. When I grasped it, I was greeted by firecrackers going off, setting off a ringing in my already half-deaf ears. Why did they set off fireworks so close to the race? It wasn't anywhere near the end yet. I thought I was having a heart attack. I should have known it was too good to be true. People can't be like Sisyphus, anyways. Life changes and people get old, and then they die, just like I am right now because I was foolish enough to believe that my age couldn't stop me from running this race. The stupid millennial thing of spouting purpose nonsense got to me, and now I've sped up my purposelessness doing something that only brings me pain.

Someone grabbed me and steered me away. I was surprised I could still walk, but I couldn't see anything. A thick, brown fog covered my line of sight and I started coughing. A man mouthed something to me, but I shook my head at him. Just let me die. I've already lost my hearing, anyways. What's life without the ability to hear?

He grabbed my shoulders gently, as if to sit me down. I did, and I looked down and see the reddest red I've ever seen in my life. It was the color of the roses I would get my wife for Valentine's day. It came from the bottom half of my body, but I couldn't see where. Glancing to my left, I saw a much redder woman lying on the ground, the left side of her body gone. I recognized her as the young lady that handed me the Styrofoam cup. I looked back up at the man and he looked at me, and from there I can't remember what happened next because I decided I would rather die than vomit on the man in front of me. As if my brain understood, I blissfully lost consciousness and fell into a deep sleep.

When I opened my eyes again, I was looking at a white ceiling. A slow, smooth jazz melody played from somewhere to my left.

"Dad," a deep voice said. I tried to open my mouth in response but couldn't say anything. I turned my head to the side and saw my son standing in front of me, creases down his forehead as if he'd been frowning for days in a row. "I'm so sorry, Dad," he continued, dropping to his knees in front of me so that we were eye level. "I never should have pressed you to do that awful race. I just thought, you've been so sad, and you used to love running so much. I thought it would be good for you. It's all over the news, what happened. Thank God you weren't directly in front of the bomb when it went off."

The bomb? I thought to him, willing him into seeing my confusion, and he did see.

"Eden's group," he said grimly. "That band of crazy religious people that have been trying to get into the government. I'm going to kill them for what they did to you."

What they did to me? I tried to get up and almost fell into my son's arms, realizing the absence only when I tried to use it. My legs were gone. A firecracker blew, and I ran straight down the gravel road again, seeing the reddest red I've ever seen in my life.

"Dad," my son yelled, grabbing my shoulders, but not gently like the guy at the race. Another firecracker went off and I tucked my head under the standard issue white blankets only to see the woman again. I ran down the road, away from the woman and away from the brown fog.

The breath was knocked out of me as I was shoved to the side, my arms pinned to themselves. A man with a bleeding forehead and fanatic eyes stared back at me.

"Breathe, sir, breathe," he screamed, or demanded, or shouted, and I closed my eyes because I really did think I was going to have a heart attack. I'm too old for terrors such as these. I writhed around until my old body gave out and I whimpered and cried, refusing to open my eyes again until I heard my son's voice cut through the chaos. I saw the white ceiling of the hospital, only brighter because we were in the hallway. I had jumped and crawled out, my son later told me. I thought about Sisyphus and wondered whether or not he was happy, as I sat there on the hospital floor hearing firecrackers go off. Somehow, I know I'll be running down that same gravel road for the rest of my short life. After all, the half-gone woman was watching this play out the whole time, standing in the corner watching me with her Styrofoam cup, and defying gravity with half of a body but probably the whole of a peace.