We’re a few weeks beyond the closing ceremonies of the Pyeongchang Winter Olympics, and I confess I had a middling interest in the games. Part of it stems from sad memories associated with the last time the Winter Olympics came around, and part of it comes from being a coastal dweller — the last time I was on skis was during the Clinton administration, and I haven’t been on ice skates since about five years before that. There’s curiosity, sure, but I was more curious about whether the Warriors were going to pull out of their mid-season malaise than I was on whether Nathan Chan would land his quads.

But the story that has stuck with me and that I’m trying to draw solace from is what happened nearly a half hour after Dario Cologna of Switzerland crossed the finish line of the Men’s 15km Cross-Country skiing. First, I don’t know if you’ve ever cross country skied. It’s ridiculously difficult and utterly exhausting. We’re talking over 9 miles of up and down snowy hills — and mind you, downhill on cross country skis is no picnic, either. So, fast forward past the podium finishers. In 111th place, came 40-year-old Samir Azzimani of Morocco (think about how much snow there is in Morocco). Seven minutes later, 38-year-old Kequyen Lam of Portugal crossed the finish line, just two minutes ahead of the unforgettable 34-year-old Pita Taufatoria from Tonga — if you don’t remember him from the Summer Games two years ago, you must have seen him shirtless in the 20 degree Opening Ceremonies this winter).

A minute and a half after that, 42-year-old Sebastian Uprimny of Colombia crossed the line. And then all four of them stood together at the finish line, utterly spent, but cheering on the last man struggling towards the finish line. As 43-year-old German Madrazo of Mexico crossed the finish line almost 25 minutes after the first-place Swiss, these last-place finishers celebrated like the standings were inverted. They hoisted Madrazo on their shoulders because he finished — they all finished!

I woke up in the midst of a panic attack towards the end of last week. The laundry-list of missed-[self-imposed]-deadlines combined with other external pressures, and I just lost it. Fern, bless her heart, was there and managed to calm be down. I’m still not totally right — the weekend where I would hope to catch up evaporated in a bartending gig down in Carmel — but I’m also not completely freaking out. And in the greater scheme of things, that laundry list is not nearly as significant as my fomenting brain made it out to be. But in the middle of it, trying to talk that kind of reason into myself is futile. As my dad was wont to say, “When you’re up to your ass in alligators, it’s hard to remember you’re there to drain the swamp.”

Mind you, I’m the first person to offer the advice about “how to eat an elephant” (one bite at a time). Taking my own advice? Yeah, not really good at that myself. It comes from being my own worst critic, and a very self-deprecating one at that. If I say something bad about myself — and it’s a deliberate effort not to — and Fern overhears, she makes me say at least three nice things about myself. She calls it the “Jordy Is Awesome Game” and it’s the hardest thing in the world to say something, anything nice about myself. And coming up with more than three nice things if I’ve been particularly vicious about myself (and I can be vicious; as Neko Case sings, “Did someone make a fool of me/ Before I could show ’em how it’s done?”) is a Herculean effort.

But I’m trying to do better — that’s all we can hope for. I’m no Dario Cologna crossing first. Heck, I’m not even Samil Azzimani, or Kequyen Lam. I sure as hell don’t look anything like the Tongan god, Pita Taufatoria. But putting one ski in front of the other, I’ll keep struggling forward. It’s not worth focusing on the fact that I’m not a podium finisher. In the end, it’s enough to know I’m at the Olympics, damnit, even if just in my mind. Keep my eyes on the finish line, and when I do cross, I know all you other bottom-finishers will be there to help celebrate with me.

This was the initial article in the Washington Post I read about the 15km Cross Country finishers