Nothin' Quite Like Giving Up

Thick, chalk smothered air blows around me.  Everything closes in more in the summer.  Humidity.  Goals.  I brace for the lift.  Grit is willing to do and willing something to be done, but in the end, even the strongest muscles in your body are at the mercy of your grip.  There are ways to save your grip.  Farmers know that it is their grip that will save them.  I was raised by a farmer.

“Fingers are amazing,” Dad had said.

Chunked.  Gnarled.  Folded over.  Stretched out.  I close my fingers and sense gaps in their curves.  Fingers over guitar strings.  Steel.  Barbells.  Plows.

“Fingers can grab with two inches and hold on.  Well, maybe not yours, but you know what I mean.  I always knew I could hold on,” Dad had said.

My grip upsets me.  Sometimes it means that I can’t finish a number of reps or lift a number of pounds.  It’s a small thing measuring just over two inches, that makes me feel small.  I stop and shake my forearms out. 

“You tired?”  Dad asked.

“My grip gets tired.”

“Nothin’ quite like giving up.” He smirked darkly.  “My grip’s about all I’ve got left.  Used to be a time when I knew I could hold onto anything.” 

Somewhere in my memory, Dad turned his back to the fence and clasped the top board with each hand. 

“Look at that silo.  Over there on the other barn.  I used to climb up those all the time.  Your grandpa, he was fearless.  I made sure I never looked down.  You couldn’t look down.  But even when you didn’t.  The clouds.  The clouds were hypnotic.  You felt like you didn’t belong.  I’d think about what it would be like to jump.  But, then you know, you back away from the edges.  The feeling would come back into my fingers gripped tight around the rungs.  I have a good grip.  I’m good at holding on.”

Fighting to hold on is a risk, because its not your grit, a belief in what could come next, but your grip, the cumulative memory of knowing you can hang on, that matters.  Shooting and stabbing pain are a warning.  The dullness that spreads next means an inability to hang on.

“Stop before you think you need to,” trainers often remind.  “When you fail, you can’t get it back.”

Be smart.  Make smart, choices.  When it comes to holding on.

If asked to describe myself, the first word that always comes to mind is determined. I had even been called 'scrappy' once. These days I don't think those are a very popular descriptions. Better choices would be softer, kinder, perhaps even for myself. My friends expressed this worry, not about my grip but my heart.

Except, it's my heart upon which I aways depend. Cardio, not strength, is my preference. Summer heat or no, I can make it. Even if I slow down, I will still power through to a goal.

What's the other option? My dad already answered that question, "There's nothin' quite like giving up."