118. The Worth of Work – Connie Carpenter Phinney
When I was a kid, people asked my parents how they got me to work so hard. My mom’s answer: “How do we get her to stop?”
When I describe myself, I say I’m a humanist, feminist, artist, writer, scientist, entrepreneur, mom, partner, friend, and athlete. I am best known for the latter, having won the gold medal in road cycling at the 1984 Olympics in Los Angeles.
I actually started my career as an Olympian earlier than that. In the 1972 Olympics, when I was only 14, I competed in speed skating. Because of this, people often romanticize my story. They talk about my early talent—or how I married a fellow Olympian (Davis Phinney, bronze 1984), or how both our children became elite athletes.
They don’t romanticize all the unknowns, the relentless self-doubt, the set-backs and injuries and countless failures. They don’t focus on the fact that, as I stood at the start of an Olympic race, it was just me standing there. Knowing that I had worked hard, but never knowing: Was it enough?
When I was a kid, people asked my parents how they got me to work so hard. My mom’s answer: “How do we get her to stop?” This was the 1970s, back when nobody was running like they do now, and I ran after dark through my neighborhood so no one I knew would see me.
For the last five years I’ve been sporadically working on a memoir trying to explain that part of me—that drive. I’ve written more than 75,000 words, only to find myself thinking about starting over. As I age, I realize I’m still learning my own story, finding my voice. I’m still reaching for the right words to tell my truth. My writing mentor says this desire to start over is the sign of a true writer. I think it’s more that I’m still reaching, searching, and hopefully, still growing. I also think it might be that I value the work over the outcome.
So I’m wondering, what drives you?
– Connie Carpenter Phinney
Prompt:
What was your 15-year-old self doing that you couldn’t stop doing? Drawing? Writing? Running? And what did it give you then? What could it give you now?
Write about what drives you—not what you get paid for, not what others want you to do. Write about the thing you can’t stop doing.
Anonymous
Location: Austin, Texas
My 15-year-old self was stuck in an eating disorder. She couldn’t stop fretting over her next meal, worrying about calories, ignoring her hunger. She couldn’t stop bullying herself in the mirror, pinching skin and sucking in, dreaming of smaller clothes. All of this gave me nothing but more pain. I thought if I became skinny enough, at some point, I’d feel successful. Happy, too. But I only ever felt like a failure, like my body would never be good enough. At 15 years old, I was entirely convinced I would never be good enough.
Even then, I still journaled. I still wrote, picked up the pen. For whom, I don’t really know; it must’ve been for me but I felt pretty dead inside. It was more of a visceral impulse to get the words out of me. I didn’t realize how many words I kept stored, bottled within.
I also couldn’t stop looking up quotes on Pinterest. It sounds kind of silly and sure, some were really cheesy, but to me, quotes felt like a snapshot of great writing and comfort. Like little snippets of perfection that held encouragement, wisdom, perspective.
At 15, I couldn’t get enough of words and frankly, I still can’t. It’s as if there’s something in me that just couldn’t stop searching for the right words, for the truth. From age 15 to now, words have been a tool that help the world make sense. Words have always been a comfort for me, a fascination, a home.
Anonymous
Location: Oregon
About: How a broken ankle reminded me of all I have.
Age: 40
Remnants of a seasonal cry from the trees
in the shape of burnt sienna leaves
are strewn on the path
The clouds above
pregnant with rain
let out preterm contractions
that land sloppily on my cheeks
I am lost in Eye of the Tiger,
blaring through my iPods,
as my feet rhythmically thud
the damp ground
to the beat
Until a foot
meets a rock
Just so
and as I go down
The moment slows, stretches, yawns
Then lands with a crack
With me splayed across the trail
I whiz back into my body
The sharp throb of my ankle
the cold packed dirt beneath me
the dampness of my leggings
clamor for my attention
And after I make the call
and wait for my love to come
I think of him,
I think of
last week's hike in the Gorge
our living room fireplace
green bean casserole
my weekly walk with Kate
my teal office chair
my french bulldog stretched out on the carpet
whipped-cream-topped coffee
And I give Thanks.