Suffering Has Meaning

“Why is Form beautiful? Because, I think, it helps us confront our worst fear, the suspicion that life may be chaos and that therefore our suffering is without meaning.” – Robert Adams.

That got me going! Yesterday was one of those spectacular Seattle spring days that simply commands one to be outdoors. (I used to say that if all Seattle days were sunny and 77 degrees there would be million people here). Interestingly enough it seems that the allure of a totally out of proportion salary will compensate for seven months of gray drizzle, and lo - here they are - the millions. But that is not the story today, or at least I won’t dwell on it for now. The story, the one I just bored my favorite spin class with for 60 long minutes, and the one that asked for ten seconds of spring sprinting power every three minutes, and the same one that took me into A-Fib during the second blast of explosive power, went something like this: (and every word, as such, is true).

But before we get to the juicy personal part of this pathetic pastiche, allow me to give the same introduction that I provided the group just a couple of hours ago.

We are riding our usual 40 miler when we come to an intersection notorious for a long signal. I have the post and sit casually just inches away from a beautiful new, detailed BMW something or other. The driver seems to have handsomely invested in his sound system because as we await the stoplight’s change of color I hear Louis Prima belting out Old Black Magic as if we were in the from row of Carnige, or Benaroya Hall. It sounded fucking great. 

Color change and we’re off. But now I have the rest of the song in my head immediately thinking that I should use it in class tomorrow morning. One thing, one song, leads to another and the magic starts to bubble under my helmet. Why not do a ‘decades’ ride sampling iconic tunes from each, starting in the 50’s and progressing through - using years as seconds (50 seconds in the 50’s, 60 for the 60’s) and an RPE rating to match (5 0f 10, 6 of 10, etc.) Now I am jazzed as we climb an infamous grade, starting to assemble the rock n roll lineup and associate memories. Here is what I came up with.

The Fifties: Sinatra, Louie, Elvis

The Sixties (in two parts, <65 and >65): Dave Clark Five, Kingsmen, Beach Boys, Turtles, Beatles, Stones, Simon & Garfunkel

The Seventies: Clapton, Steely Dan, Eagles, Springsteen 

The Eighties: Fleetwood Mac, Pretenders, Santana

The Nineties: Pearl Jam, Nirvana, REM

We never made it out of the Nineties, probably a good thing. And the story, as it unfolded, from leaving LA in 1973 in a 1948 Chevy half-ton pickup and heading North, with all those songs as the soundtrack of my life, seem somehow more poignant and a little more profound today. 

We finish our set, calories torched and endorphins running amok, when it hits me like a Warren Zevon ton of bricks, we stand by our bikes after the stretch and I say that the reason I didn’t tell you the end of the story, is that it hasn’t happened yet, it’s not done, not over. 

And neither is yours. Our suffering has meaning.