The scene was horrific.
A beachside condominium in ruins, with residents trapped beneath the rubble.
It seemed like something out of a movie. But back in June 2021, it was all too real for the residents of Surfside, Florida.
A wing of the Champlain Towers complex abruptly collapsed in the middle of the night, killing 98 people and injuring plenty more.
No hurricane or fire or other acute disaster brought the building down. And there were no warning signs to alert inhabitants to the structure’s demise. Indeed, the randomness of the incident made it so terrifying.
How could a building that had been through the rigors of the tropics suddenly give out like this on a clear, calm night? And would others suffer the same fate?
The answers are disconcerting. But they require our investigation.
I remember the day I first felt it.
A hollow pain on the inside of my lower leg.
I was on a morning run, and I’d just crossed a busy street. I grimaced for a second. But I gave no thought to stopping.
After all, running is about endurance. About continuing, even when it’s uncomfortable. I wasn’t about to break with that mantra here.
Besides, it was hot and humid out. Maybe I was just cramping up.
When I reached a water fountain a mile later, I took a healthy swig. But the blast of hydration and a quick stretch of the legs did little to quell the discomfort. And nothing else I tried in the ensuing days helped.
So, I went to the doctor, who ordered an X-ray. When that came back clean, I went through acres of red tape to get an MRI scheduled.
That image contained the smoking gun. A hairline fracture in my left tibia.
I was ordered to stop running for 12 weeks, and to drop out of the race I’d been training for. My body needed to heal.
I was devastated by this news. All the work I’d done to train for that race had gone up in smoke. The five stages of grief were all that remained.
Still, I tried to find the silver lining in it all.
I’d put more than 1,000 miles of running on my legs over the prior year. Perhaps they’d feel fresher after a reset. Perhaps I would as well.
Yet, I found the return to running challenging. When I hit the streets a few months later, my endurance just wasn’t there.
It would take a couple months to get my stamina to return. Meanwhile, my top-end speed never quite did come back.
Plus, I kept sustaining new injuries, including one that required surgery. Those setbacks robbed me of any semblance of rhythm. I was effectively in a rolling rehab cycle for two years.
Eventually, I found the culprit for my woes. I was diagnosed with a degenerative bone condition — one that left me particularly susceptible to injury. Genetic misfortune had done me in more than anything else.
I could have taken this tidy explanation at face value. Indeed, perhaps I should have. But instead, I kept pulling at the thread of my athletic demise.
Perhaps my own delusions had done me in more than my bone chemistry ever could. Maybe the mantra that time would heal all wounds was misguided.
It all required further investigation.
When you get your driver’s license, you learn a host of new skills.
There are the core driving functions, of course. How to accelerate, brake, and steer. How to check mirrors and blind spots. How to merge into traffic or pull into a parking spot.
But then there’s the maintenance acumen. How to fill the gas tank. How to read warning lights on the dashboard. And how to check tire tread.
That last task is critically important. And yet, it’s easily overlooked.
We tend to forget about the circles of rubber connecting our vehicles to the road until that connection becomes faulty. At which point, we’re in deep trouble.
Fortunately, there’s an easy heuristic for checking tire health. If we insert an upside-down penny into the tread and see the entirety of Abraham Lincoln’s head showing, the tire is worn down — or bald.
There is no remedy for a bald tire. Our only option is to replace it with a newer, fresher model. And this happens relatively frequently.
I’ve primarily driven three vehicles in my lifetime. But I’ve had at least six sets of tires — combined — on those vehicles.
So, I find myself perplexed when I hear the term wear on the tires bandied about as a complement in social settings. It seems woefully out of place.
The analogy is meant to be a compliment. It indicates that someone has plenty of experience. And that a little recuperation is all that’s needed for that individual to share the fruits of all that experience.
It’s an appealing sentiment. But it’s also a delusional one.
You see, time moves in but one direction. And once we stop growing, we start degrading.
This is as true for our bodies as it is for the clothing we put on them or the tools we operate with them. Everything gets worn down until it’s worn out. There is no magic reset button.
I should have considered this when I saw that hairline fracture on my MRI results. I grasped onto the delusion of coming back better than ever. But I would have been better off acknowledging that the worn tread on my legs would never return.
It’s a sobering reality. But accepting it would have helped me move forward.
In the middle of Spain lies a small city named Segovia. And in the middle of Segovia sits a giant stone aqueduct.
The aqueduct was built by the Romans nearly 2,000 years ago to ferry water across a steep valley in what’s now the city center. And it still stands intact today.
It’s safe to say there’s been plenty of wear on the “tires” of this structure over the years. The granite is no longer pristine, and the mortar is no longer quite as smooth.
But the leaders of Segovia have done a remarkable job keeping the structure maintained. Over the years, they’ve repaired some of the arches and replaced some more. They’ve checked the integrity of the structure and fortified it as needed.
They’ve let the aqueduct age both gracefully and safely.
Contrast that approach with the one taken by the proprietors of the Champlain Towers in Surfside, Florida. Instead of working with the lost tire tread, they effectively let the building rest. And 30 years into its lifespan, it gave out.
These two structures – and their fates – represent paths of destiny. We just need to choose which one we follow.
Do we cling to delusion, believing that a little time off our feet will reverse the wear on our tires? Or do we work with the degradation, and build a smooth path to tomorrow?
The answer should be clear. Let’s go with it.