In the old days, meaning the 1960′s, there were junkyards. Acres and acres of cars in various states of disrepair. If you needed, say, a new starter for your car you could, with a couple of wrenches from Sear’s, take the old one off and head to the junkyard. Once there a very nice man in oil-stained overalls would point you in the direction of a car similar to yours and you would – for just a few dollars – exchange your non-working starter for one that you were pretty sure worked. It was recycling before we knew about recycling.
One day, in the middle of an odyssey to find some obscure part – like a fuel pump for a 1959 Pontiac – it occurred to me that at some point all of these rusting, dilapidated cars were brand new, fresh off the assembly line. And further, at some point all of these cars were purchased by people with great hope and enthusiasm. Now, they sat forgotten in a sea of other forgotten cars.
It made me wonder when, exactly, people gave up on their cars. When do you stop caring? Is it when a headlight burns out and you don’t replace it? Is it when it just won’t start and you don’t have the time, the interest, or the money to find out what’s wrong. And when do you finally say it’s time to send that car, bought with hope and pride, to the junkyard?
And then I wondered when do we send ourselves to a physical, emotional, or spiritual junkyard. When do we give up on ourselves? When do we stop having hope, or dreams? Is it when we hit some weight threshold? Is it when we get to a certain age? Or, is it when we feel like life has put so many miles on our spirits that they’re just worn out?
As I look back at my own journey from eager, ambitious young musician with a trombone and a Honda 305 Scrambler to a jaded, middle-aged university administrator with a house and a garage full of cars and motorcycles, I realize that there wasn’t one moment at which I gave up on myself and my dreams. It wasn’t a cliff that I drove over, it was that slippery slope that everyone talks about.
When I couldn’t get into pants with a 34 inch waist I bought pants with a 36 inch waist. Then, 38 inch. Then, 40 inch. Could I, at 36 inches, have said 
that I wasn’t going to allow myself to keep gaining weight? Of course I could. Did I? No.
When I went from smoking a few cigarettes a day to a pack of cigarettes a day to a pack-and-a-half a day did red flags go up and alarm bells sound? No, I simply stopped buying cigarettes by the pack and started buying them by the carton.
I had accepted, wrongfully as it turns out, that the days of dreaming were behind me. I had accepted, wrongfully, that by my 40′s I was settled into the life that I would have forever. To paraphrase the great philosopher Popeye, “I was what I was and that’s all that I was.” And, I thought, all that I would ever be.
Then, I took my first steps towards a new life. I walked some. I ran some. It didn’t feel great. It wasn’t a monumental leap back. It was a slow and sometimes painful climb back up that slippery slope. There were days, weeks, and years of going three steps forward and sliding two steps back. There were successes and failures. There were moments of exhilaration and desperation. But, through it all I had a clear sense that I was going in the right direction.
Like someone who finds an old car and lovingly restores it, I was restoring myself. I thought I was only restoring my body. I thought that I was making my body healthier. I discovered, though, that the changes in my body were nothing compared to the changes in my soul.
I had hope again. It might seem modest to some people, but I hoped that I could run an entire mile. I had dreams again. I dreamed of the day when I could run a 5K. And I had ambition again. I wanted to be able to run a 5K in under 30 minutes.
It’s sad to give up on a car. It’s sadder still to give up on yourself. It takes more than a couple of wrenches from Sear’s, but we all can restore ourselves with just our own two feet.
Waddle on, friends.
John
