A heavy blanket of fatigue wrapped around me as I read into the evening. We’d spent the afternoon running errands, so my weariness did not surprise. But then came the head and body aches. At 8 o’clock, Keith asked, “Do you want to watch a movie or something before bedtime?” “No, I think I’ll just go to bed,” I said. One of our errands that afternoon had been to the pharmacy to get vaccinated for flu and shingles—to lessen the physical risk. The nurse who administered the shots told us the usual reactions: soreness and “meh” feeling for a day or so. People over sixty-five like us get stronger doses, she said. Since 911-worthy allergic reactions tend to be similar—swelling of face and throat, difficulty breathing, fast heartbeat, dizziness—I didn’t bother reading the information sheets until the following morning. Then, in addition to fatigue, muscle pain, and headache, I ticked off shivering, fever, and stomach upset that had troubled me overnight. This will pass. In the meantime, what are my choices? Wallow in self-pity or get on with the day. I got out of bed, let the dogs out, turned on the coffee, and did one little thing then the next then the next. By evening, other than residual soreness in my arm, I was back on track. This experience got me thinking about the emotional risk that writers take. These days, posting anything open to comments can stir up virulent reactions or incite a pile-on, nasty retweet, and sharing with added venom. But not all reactions are negative; some provide helpful feedback. And without feedback, I would probably produce work that was “meh.” As with vaccinations, risking negative feedback is worth the possibility of sore feelings. So, every day, I get out of bed, let the dogs out, turn on the coffee, and write one thing then the next then the next.
Risk was one of the board games my older brother and I played on weekend mornings while my parents slept, setting it up on his bed, he at the head me at the foot, the board between us, the box with pieces against the wall.
When I woke up I would knock twice on my wall, our shared wall, and he would knock twice back. Then I would pad into his room in my feet pajamas and we’d set up the game.
I didn’t really understand Risk. I didn’t get taking over countries or what the little wooden colored cubes represented. But I did love the sound of gently shaking a few of those perfect cubes in my cupped hands. And I followed my brother’s directions well. Somehow we played OK in spite of me not getting it.
My brother lives only four miles away now, 60 years later, but I rarely see him. He says he’s just not very social. Maybe I should risk it, drive over to his house, stand outside, and knock twice on his door. I imagine him opening the door, remembering, smiling, us dusting off the old Risk board, setting out the little cubes.
As a teenager, I was typically unaware of risk and would do things like catch a lift to the beach then look for a party on a hotel balcony, count how many floors up and how many rooms in from the left or right, and go there. I'd knock on the door and innocently ask,”Is this George's room?”, or some such name, and they'd always say,”No, but come in, have a drink!” and I would join the party, eventually crashing on their floor. This weekend we celebrated our 7 year wedding anniversary. It was a wonderful, relaxed day of walking, eating, drinking, reminiscing, and laughing. There was sizeable risk in us getting married because it was the only way we could be together and see if we would work. We are happily in Love but I am still aware of the risk I took in relocating and worry at least a little every day that I will never reach the level of success I had found back in the US. I was not famous or sought after, but I had regular commissions and earned a respectable wage with my art. I miss the days of being unaware of the risks.
Back in August 2000 I went backpacking for a month to Australia with a friend. Last few days of the trip we went to a 3 day excursion to Uluru or Ayers Rock,(a massive sandstone monolith in the heart of the Northern Territory’s arid). There I met people from all over the world and a funny guy (not my type at all at the moment). We exchanged a few words, some laughs and a goodbye on the third day.
April 2021, he mentioned he was visiting some family in the UK and asked if I wanted to meet him again.
Should I? He was almost a stranger to me. I had to get a flight from Spain to meet someone I met in the middle of “nowhere’ 8 months before.
Was he really going? Would he be at the airport waiting for me? Was he worth it? Was he lying? I had no idea.
I took the risk, got a plane and flew into London Luton.
The rest is history. We have two kids now and have lived in Barcelona, London and now Singapore.
Andy was a couch potato but he is now an ultra runner. Always taking risks running in extreme environments and places. Andalucía, South Africa, Australia…
When I was little, my little brother and I watched a TV programme called Stunt School. Then we went to play ‘Stunt School’ in the overgrown garden. We pretended to sword fight with big sticks, clashing them together as we twirled around. We leapt over each other and did high kicks.
Then I spotted something in the long grass – a flat metal cog, bright orange with rust, edged with sharp curls like Sonic the Hedgehog.
‘Throw it at my head,’ I told him. ‘And I’ll duck.’
We stood a few metres apart. He threw it like a boomerang, and I managed to duck, but somehow it caught the side of my face. My brother came running over, a look of horror on his face, as I fell to the ground. I had four tiny bleeding points along the outside of my right eye. They healed quickly and weren’t deep enough to leave a scar. We told my mum I walked into the washing-line pole, which was so unbelievable she thought it must be true.
I love what I do. I get to manage the intense risk taken by others for one week a year. As an ultra-marathon race organizer for over a decade, I know a lot can happen during a race. Especially ours, a 5-day, 234-kilometer run in the brutal heat of July in Andalusia. Challenges present themselves, twisting and turning, but our ship must remain steady. Every competitor’s goal is the reach the finish line, no matter their physical state. They push and push and push some more. I’m responsible for their safety. I take this responsibility very seriously. A calm is required for effective decision-making during high-intensity situations. With practice comes the calm. This energy can be transmitted directly to the participants, so I try to charge them up with the good stuff. It seems to work. We have made many great, tough-as-nails friends over our 14 editions. The risks we all experience together creates that bond which lasts a lifetime.
Even as a girl in pigtails, I knew my eldest brother did not like having me around. He would sneak off with my middle brother – a happy band of brothers – leaving me at home. This pattern continued into adulthood. But the death of our mother unleashed his full animus. He tried to reduce my share of her estate - just money for him, but with legal consequences to jeopardize my family’s visa status in the US. I hired an attorney to fight him off, a two-year battle. His attempted fraud was exposed, but the cost left me homeless and bankrupt. In revenge, he withheld jointly-owned, treasured property – my mother’s personal papers and family photographs - and poisoned my reputation with extended family. Digging out of poverty and deep grief, such petty cruelty was like a knife-blade to the heart, causing intense emotional distress over many years. Finally, I would be a victim no more. To stop the abuse, I decided to reclaim this longed-for property and my reputation. A legal claim was filed in the UK where if you win in court, your opponent pays your costs; conversely, if you lose, you pay for everything. I put up my house as collateral - the second home that might be lost to them. My home and mental health - all, or nothing –– I risked everything – and won.
A heavy blanket of fatigue wrapped around me as I read into the evening. We’d spent the afternoon running errands, so my weariness did not surprise. But then came the head and body aches. At 8 o’clock, Keith asked, “Do you want to watch a movie or something before bedtime?” “No, I think I’ll just go to bed,” I said. One of our errands that afternoon had been to the pharmacy to get vaccinated for flu and shingles—to lessen the physical risk. The nurse who administered the shots told us the usual reactions: soreness and “meh” feeling for a day or so. People over sixty-five like us get stronger doses, she said. Since 911-worthy allergic reactions tend to be similar—swelling of face and throat, difficulty breathing, fast heartbeat, dizziness—I didn’t bother reading the information sheets until the following morning. Then, in addition to fatigue, muscle pain, and headache, I ticked off shivering, fever, and stomach upset that had troubled me overnight. This will pass. In the meantime, what are my choices? Wallow in self-pity or get on with the day. I got out of bed, let the dogs out, turned on the coffee, and did one little thing then the next then the next. By evening, other than residual soreness in my arm, I was back on track. This experience got me thinking about the emotional risk that writers take. These days, posting anything open to comments can stir up virulent reactions or incite a pile-on, nasty retweet, and sharing with added venom. But not all reactions are negative; some provide helpful feedback. And without feedback, I would probably produce work that was “meh.” As with vaccinations, risking negative feedback is worth the possibility of sore feelings. So, every day, I get out of bed, let the dogs out, turn on the coffee, and write one thing then the next then the next.
Risk was one of the board games my older brother and I played on weekend mornings while my parents slept, setting it up on his bed, he at the head me at the foot, the board between us, the box with pieces against the wall.
When I woke up I would knock twice on my wall, our shared wall, and he would knock twice back. Then I would pad into his room in my feet pajamas and we’d set up the game.
I didn’t really understand Risk. I didn’t get taking over countries or what the little wooden colored cubes represented. But I did love the sound of gently shaking a few of those perfect cubes in my cupped hands. And I followed my brother’s directions well. Somehow we played OK in spite of me not getting it.
My brother lives only four miles away now, 60 years later, but I rarely see him. He says he’s just not very social. Maybe I should risk it, drive over to his house, stand outside, and knock twice on his door. I imagine him opening the door, remembering, smiling, us dusting off the old Risk board, setting out the little cubes.
As a teenager, I was typically unaware of risk and would do things like catch a lift to the beach then look for a party on a hotel balcony, count how many floors up and how many rooms in from the left or right, and go there. I'd knock on the door and innocently ask,”Is this George's room?”, or some such name, and they'd always say,”No, but come in, have a drink!” and I would join the party, eventually crashing on their floor. This weekend we celebrated our 7 year wedding anniversary. It was a wonderful, relaxed day of walking, eating, drinking, reminiscing, and laughing. There was sizeable risk in us getting married because it was the only way we could be together and see if we would work. We are happily in Love but I am still aware of the risk I took in relocating and worry at least a little every day that I will never reach the level of success I had found back in the US. I was not famous or sought after, but I had regular commissions and earned a respectable wage with my art. I miss the days of being unaware of the risks.
Back in August 2000 I went backpacking for a month to Australia with a friend. Last few days of the trip we went to a 3 day excursion to Uluru or Ayers Rock,(a massive sandstone monolith in the heart of the Northern Territory’s arid). There I met people from all over the world and a funny guy (not my type at all at the moment). We exchanged a few words, some laughs and a goodbye on the third day.
April 2021, he mentioned he was visiting some family in the UK and asked if I wanted to meet him again.
Should I? He was almost a stranger to me. I had to get a flight from Spain to meet someone I met in the middle of “nowhere’ 8 months before.
Was he really going? Would he be at the airport waiting for me? Was he worth it? Was he lying? I had no idea.
I took the risk, got a plane and flew into London Luton.
The rest is history. We have two kids now and have lived in Barcelona, London and now Singapore.
Andy was a couch potato but he is now an ultra runner. Always taking risks running in extreme environments and places. Andalucía, South Africa, Australia…
Life is an experiment. Take risks. Enjoy.
When I was little, my little brother and I watched a TV programme called Stunt School. Then we went to play ‘Stunt School’ in the overgrown garden. We pretended to sword fight with big sticks, clashing them together as we twirled around. We leapt over each other and did high kicks.
Then I spotted something in the long grass – a flat metal cog, bright orange with rust, edged with sharp curls like Sonic the Hedgehog.
‘Throw it at my head,’ I told him. ‘And I’ll duck.’
We stood a few metres apart. He threw it like a boomerang, and I managed to duck, but somehow it caught the side of my face. My brother came running over, a look of horror on his face, as I fell to the ground. I had four tiny bleeding points along the outside of my right eye. They healed quickly and weren’t deep enough to leave a scar. We told my mum I walked into the washing-line pole, which was so unbelievable she thought it must be true.
I love what I do. I get to manage the intense risk taken by others for one week a year. As an ultra-marathon race organizer for over a decade, I know a lot can happen during a race. Especially ours, a 5-day, 234-kilometer run in the brutal heat of July in Andalusia. Challenges present themselves, twisting and turning, but our ship must remain steady. Every competitor’s goal is the reach the finish line, no matter their physical state. They push and push and push some more. I’m responsible for their safety. I take this responsibility very seriously. A calm is required for effective decision-making during high-intensity situations. With practice comes the calm. This energy can be transmitted directly to the participants, so I try to charge them up with the good stuff. It seems to work. We have made many great, tough-as-nails friends over our 14 editions. The risks we all experience together creates that bond which lasts a lifetime.
Even as a girl in pigtails, I knew my eldest brother did not like having me around. He would sneak off with my middle brother – a happy band of brothers – leaving me at home. This pattern continued into adulthood. But the death of our mother unleashed his full animus. He tried to reduce my share of her estate - just money for him, but with legal consequences to jeopardize my family’s visa status in the US. I hired an attorney to fight him off, a two-year battle. His attempted fraud was exposed, but the cost left me homeless and bankrupt. In revenge, he withheld jointly-owned, treasured property – my mother’s personal papers and family photographs - and poisoned my reputation with extended family. Digging out of poverty and deep grief, such petty cruelty was like a knife-blade to the heart, causing intense emotional distress over many years. Finally, I would be a victim no more. To stop the abuse, I decided to reclaim this longed-for property and my reputation. A legal claim was filed in the UK where if you win in court, your opponent pays your costs; conversely, if you lose, you pay for everything. I put up my house as collateral - the second home that might be lost to them. My home and mental health - all, or nothing –– I risked everything – and won.