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My mate, who is as heavy as The Notorious BIG, ran and finished the comrades marathon. Not once, but twice. His first was the up run from Durban to Pietermaritzburg which he ran with an impressive pace for a first time runner. On that day, I pessimistically waited for his total body collapse; first in Pinetown, then in Drummond. When he successfully reached Polly Shorts I had been converted into a believer and a praise singer. It was one of the most pleasant bets to lose as I witnessed a spirit of perseverance prevail. The 89 kilometre strong stretch of road can easily break down a veteran 1985 Mazda 323 engine. But, not him. He was focused. He was inspirational. He was the triumphant. The road was his bitch. At the finish line, he flashed his shiny bronze medal on my face, and the glitter of success kung fu’d my pessimism to dust. He has since put up his name to run it again next year. He puts me and my other mates to shame. Well done Bubble. You are my inspiration.
A day passed before I decided to visit him at his parents’ house backroom. I sought to gain insight into his methods and mental preparations. I found him in boxers laying on his back staring at white ceiling board unable to move any body part except blinking. His legs were as fat logs of wood. His ankles hidden in what looked like dough inflating in the oven. I think he lost a nail on his pinky toe. Seeing him so helpless, I couldn’t resist, so I asked him for a two kilometre race right there and then. I offered him double or nothing on our earlier bet. He called me a fool. I called him a chicken - and that was that. I bowed down to him as would a karate kid to ‘Mr Miyagi’ about his methods. He explained to me the mental conversations that he had with himself at all the stages of the race. He knew that it all boils down to his thoughts. The principal thought in his mind was that ‘IT CAN BE DONE’. He imagined that he had no choice on the matter. He ran as if he was running away from his girlfriend’s dad who was chasing him with a knobkerrie, or, from racist police German shepherds. Once this thought was firmly in place it become a foundation for energy conservation and motivation for the entire race. When his legs wanted to give in, he dug in deep and reaffirmed the foundation thought. I was very impressed with his method but then I began to look deeper into question of motivation – which he seemed to be able to pin down well.
My best high school results came after I had religiously read a brown covered book by Sri Swami Sivananda titled “Enlightened Education”. A friend who had attended former Indian schools in Shallcross, Durban had received the book from his school for mahhala. Because he neither cared nor had any use for it, he passed it on to me. With me, it crossed the t’s and dotted the i’s. It explained the concepts of concentration and attention very well. I felt as if someone had switched on a V8 turbo charged engine on my learning, memory and attention abilities. I did better in every subject I had previously struggled with. The book combined the learning skills with life philosophies. It endeavoured to protect our innocence and leading an exemplary life of celibacy and selflessness. For example, to keep the mind occupied in order to avoid impure thoughts. And, Oh Lord, did I have impure thoughts at sixteen! Forgive me, but, R Kelly had ‘Summer Bunnies’ music video on TV that had every red blooded sixteen year old boy re-adjusting their pants. CCVTV (now SABC1) eventually banned the song from the small screen. Not only did I fail to resist impure thoughts, I began to actively pursue them. Successfully. I admit I was a disaster.
I could not afford to blink during my varsity days – there were just too many mini skirt fair skin pretty students. The bus terminal, the taxi queue - OMG. The hip and fresh sounds of Boom Shaka were a hit and the student cafeteria was little heaven. It was almost equivalent to swim suit edition on Fashion TV with flashing skin. My near-rural self could hardly contain the excitement for the entire first year. Not that I was going to make any moves, just the opposite was true: I wasn’t going to spoil my day by attempting to make a move. See, I was always alive to the limit of my game. My task was simply to observe, drool, wipe drool and commit to memory, as kids would with their camera phones these days. After being exposed to so much welcome distraction, I reverted to my trusty Swami Sivananda for motivation during exam time. To my disappointment, I couldn’t be motivated anymore. When I reread the lines that used to make me cut like the saber on Star Wars - I just couldn’t. The ‘apple juice’ that the book used fuel my fire was finished. I needed something new to motivate me.
Years later, I came across Neil Donald Walsh ‘Conversations with God’ and thought I had found the perennial Nile River of motivation. Neil had a smart approach of the whole meaning of life and who God is. All activity that was done in the name of motivation became clearer when linked to spirituality. I could really get the point that fear was the heart of all misery. Love is brave. God is love.
It got me all psyched up for a while. I found myself explaining the concepts to my friends (who couldn’t be bothered) as how an evangelist would do. But, it soon wore off. I couldn’t keep up with higher awareness or the awareness exercises the book suggested. It required me to see no evil in any action of other human beings as they are a manifestation of God. It required I accept everything is as it must be. I failed. I cannot be blind to entire human tragedy. I must confess I looked like an idiot when my enthusiasm and motivation burnt to ashes. Friends would ask me:
‘Are you done yet with your sermon of New Age gibberish?’
‘Yes’
‘OK, Here is Windhoek lager. Welcome back mfwethu.’
It was bruising.
I often get high on something motivational. I savour its energy as one would on a fizzy pop lolly to derive maximum sweetness from that particular motivating factor – then I drop it. I could watch Rafael Nadal serving with a back injury, listen to sublime Simphiwe Dana mixed love portions music, watch Leonel Messi (Not Ronaldo) dribble past a half a dozen defenders, or watch Chad le Close swim like an amphibian and suddenly feel all lit up. I have gone through most of the popular motivators: Deepak Chopra, Richard Bryston, Robert Kawosaki, Tupac (don’t judge me), Oprah and the likes. All of them get me going for a while, but I am bound to deflate sooner or later. Worse, if it has motivated me before, I can never rekindle its force after its deflated. Do I devour energy out of motivators? This is slightly disturbing. I am currently working an angle of being motivated by fine art. But I find it difficult to initiate it. It either motivates or it doesn’t. Anyhow, that too will be good only for a while. What can be done get sustainable motivation? Some people never seem to run out of it.
