Beyond stupid

-I have long appreciated the word flow, how it can be used to describe both the passing of time and the movement water. Now, as I say it out loud, I even like the way my lips curl as it rolls off my tongue into the air-

It seemed like a good idea. I remember thinking this even up to the last second before my kayak flipped in 42F (5.5C) degree water the other day. Matt, Alex and I were having a laugh, running a small set of rapids down what is normally a calm creek in front of my house. However, the last few days had warmed the surrounding mountains in the Inland Northwest and an unusual January runoff had super-sized the amount of water and the roll of the rapids. I thought what harm could there be in shooting the middle set.

They say body heat is lost 25 times faster in cold water than in cold air. Something I could not fully appreciate until I decided to ditch the capsized kayak. A frigid rush of water engulfed my chest, gasping for breath but inhaling a mouth-full of water instead, my arms thrashed their way towards shore, fighting against the natural flow of melted snow. I remember the sensation of my hand gripping a clump of reeds sprouting above the water next to the swollen bank. Drenched in adrenaline I managed the cold walk back to the house. 

Dry, warm and safely ashore I sit here the day after, thinking maybe I wasn't as close to the edge as I thought I was during those handful of frantic moments. Staring out, surveying the same rush of runoff from the kitchen window it seems almost like a day-dream now. I guess it's like Hunter Thompson said, "the edge.... there is no honest way to explain it because the people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over."

Among the valuable lessons I am taking from this experience is how I prefer the phrase "going with the flow" more metaphorically than literally.

(Blair Witch footage provided by my good friend Alex. 

Kayak recovered by my good friend Matt)

bringing it home

In all of my travels I have never chosen to sit in the first row on any airplane. But with Southwest's "open seating" policy I found myself spontaneously sitting in the first row on the short flight over the Cascades to celebrate my friends birthday.

At first glance they were easy to miss. The set of lifeless legs seated next to me. From the waist up his strong build carried the look of a rugged cowboy. Mid 40s with a full head of fine blonde hair, trimmed tight, a sharp line disappearing behind each ear. A well manicured mustache that appeared almost fake had the color not been so perfectly matched to his hair. His eyes, one badly blood shot, damaged I imagined doing something on the farm, gazed down with shades of dark blue when he spoke, unable, or more likely too painful to turn his neck. His red collared shirt would have seemed like business casual on its own. But a clay colored vest embroidered with NFPB (National Federation of Professional Bullriders) pushed it into the realm of formal farm wear.

I rarely initiate conversation on flights. "How are you doin' today" I said just before take off. Casting his gaze on the open middle seat between us, he paused for a split second, interlocking his hands like one does when giving a leg-up to a horse he slid them under his thigh and readjusted the position of his right leg.  "Not bad, and yourself?" he said in a low, raspy voice still holding his head down and to the right.

For the next hour, we shared thoughts on life. He spoke about his two daughters, his wife, his medical supply business. I told him of my recent travels, my buddies birthday party. We traded bits of banter about sports and cars and the inland northwest. I could feel a childish temptation to ask how he had become paralyzed. But I didn't. I told myself "don't be that person."

The plane dropped low for landing, "Well, I'm the last one off so enjoy your party?" he said with a chuckle and half smile. It was then that we discovered we were scheduled for the same return flight the following day. "Doug, I hope we'll see each other tomorrow."

I arrived at the gate eager to find Doug. A few minutes past before I spotted him wheeling towards me, his carry-on suitcase strapped close to the front of his thin legs. "Doug!" I said with a big smile. Both of us started trading stories like old friends. A women approached us a few minutes later, "Doug, right?" "Thank you so much for volunteering in my PT classes." They laughed, reminiscing for a few minutes about how some students can't handle all that is associated with assisting those who are paralyzed. In the dull light of the airport terminal I noticed the small halo traction scars left behind by the screws that they drilled in between gaps of his hairline and eyebrows.

Everyone began boarding the plane. Not surprisingly I found myself back in my same seat next to Doug. The topic of women jumped onto the runway while the plane taxied for takeoff. Somehow I got this crazy cool cowboy talking about love and the heartache that comes with it. We were having some good laughs along with serious discussion about the subject when I leaned in and asked him my favorite question whenever I come across someone who seems to be, for all intents and purposes "happily married".

"Doug, if you dont mind me asking, how did you know your wife was the one you should marry?"
A big smile comes over his face, glancing down at his legs he says "you know, that's not the question I often get asked on these plane rides." I hadn't realized how my introduction to the question had the appearance of going down a different direction until he looked at his legs.

"I knew her for six months before I asked her to marry me, I was 25. It sounds crazy and I'm sure you've heard it before but you just know, I knew I wanted to marry her. We had been married for three months when I was hit by a drunk driver. I was within an inch of my life, my wife was with me every day for the six months in the hospital. And we've been married 20 years now."

A moment past without either of us saying anything. Then, laughing a little before he leaned in, his neck still just as stiff as a starched shirt, "Sorry to ruin your question about love with that heavy answer." I hesitated, "You didn't ruin it, you brought it home."

I sat in my chair, the cabin dark with the night sky, thinking about how an answer to a single question can capture so much about life and living and loving. As the plane touched down in Spokane, Doug added "We live in a disposable society. Often we cut and run when the going gets tough. Relationships are no exception. But I was lucky enough to have found someone who stuck by me. Well, I'm the last one off, take care Brad."

There will never be another flight where I will not look to see if Doug is sitting in the front row.

PHOTO ESSAY: Driving around Snowkane

Part 2: not just a car.

My hands grip the wheel, remembering the years we spent together. Remembering our epic trip around America. How we drove over the golden gate bridge down the 101 from SF to San Diego. Remembering our campsite in Santa Barbara how much we enjoyed the generous meal shared with that white Rasta and his wife who invented the first recipe for vegan cheese, more money than god and they were just a cool couple camping next to Ruth and I.

Remembering how Ruth raced my friends and I away from the crazed drunkards that over ran what was turning out to be a pretty great party. Then blazing through the scorching desert past Palm Springs, camping under a Josha Tree, then running along the Northern rim of the Grand Canyon, wrapping back towards Zion National Park, hiking up to the angels' landing, pushing east, stopping to see the pillars of glowing red clay in Bryce Canyon one minute before a snow storm covered everything white. Spending a day to see natural bridges cut between to canyons in southern Utah cut by wind and time and weather and mother nature's creative talents. Meeting a middle aged women who liked Jim Beam and believed camping doesn't mean shitty cooking, she also believed, the following day, as we ventured way out into the wilderness that her Subaru wagon could withstand extreme abuse. After brushing off my suggestion she might consider buying something with 4-wheel drive, she assured me the car is doing just fine as we threaded along massive gaps in the dirt road, both axles on the brink of breaking, remembering how the whites of my eyes went wide with fear as she mentioned the possibility of us having to spend the night in the car (together), should flash floods catch us, still hearing her say in perfect pitch, "I only buy cars that I can sleep in and that I can @#$% in."

Never more happy to see Ruth than after that little day trip I took with that wild woman. Moving on through Durango, over the Rio Grande river, sweeping past northern New Mexico, then cutting across the top of Texas, connecting with my roots in Oklahoma, Ruth and I searching for a headstone, lost in the prairie among the buffalo.

Amazed in Memphis, where we shared a drink with Russell, the owner of Earnestine and Hazel's, (the coolest drinking establishment IN AMERICA), saw the Loraine motel where MLK was shot, (all of it sounding too much like that cheesy movie that Orlando Bloom starred in) seeing where Dr. King's dream became not just his but America's. Up and down the Shenandoah valley, listening to John Denver, the sun roof open, Ruth feeling every inch of those crazy hills. The beard was getting long when we reached my sister and brother-in-law in Philly, shared some laughs then pushed on, towards our goal of getting her back to where my great aunt drove her oh so many years ago, Long Island.

Down 34th street, passing the empire state building, onto the long island, jammed with traffic, "buddy" i say to the cabbie stuck next to Ruth and I in traffic jam "is it always like this". Chuckling " 'ey kid, its the long island expressway, the longest parking lot in america".

We reach the house where my great aunt lived, an old women opened the door, and a boy wearing his grandfather's cowboy hat, driving his great aunt Ruth's car, weathered with a long black beard, stood as tears formed in front of this perfect stranger, because it was never just a road trip, it was never just getting Ruth back "home". It was always about connecting with the spirit an amazing lady I never really knew. I listened to stories from the old women who told of my great aunt Ruth's zest for life, but then it was time to go. I never thought, nor did my mechanic, Ruth would make it this far, so the question was what to do with her now.

"I guess you could drive her back" my mom said. And that's just what Ruth and I did, headed west, across Pennsylvania, stopped off and visited an old friend in Chicago, went on a savage burn as Hunter would say across Iowa at 4AM, listening as On the Road played by Kerouac, his words making perfect sense in such a state at such an hour in such a car on such a trip. Twisting around the road long enough to catch a glimpse of Mt. Rushmore. Standing next to Custer's last stand, cruising across montana, and stopping off at my mechanic's before home, showing him where Ruth took me without troubles.

But she's old now. She's tired, she has endless issues, a tragic state of affairs every time i return from my travels. this could be the end of a long and beautiful run.  My hands still grip the big round wheel, an endless flow of memories cover my mind. It makes no sense to be sad over this hunk of steel, but to sink into her seat and stare down a long stretch of open road, is to be full of life and love.

A running resolution

Though the snow was coming down hard today, I laced up my shoes and headed out into the winter weather for a short run. There was a time when I ran 26.2 miles in a single day. What follows is a story about one of those days.

A journey of 26.2 miles begins with a single step, or at least that is what Confucius would have said as I stood shoulder to elbow with a few 16,000 other runners (almost all European) at the start of the Stockholm marathon. As I stood at the back of the start line an excited Swedish announcer shouted out what I imagined to be words of Swedish inspiration while my knees and legs had plans of their own. They tried desperately to convince my brain that their leader had gone mad and mutiny was the only option.  I admit, my legs had a good argument. My amount of training for such a distance could be brought into question. Two choice words that Runners World magazine might use would be "severely inadequate". But my mind held firm, I had crossed ocean to see this goal through to the end.

Though youth was on my side, history was not. The first man ever to run a marathon died after he finished, in fact the evolution of the marathon is a brief story worth telling. The marathon race commemorates the run of the soldier Pheidippides from a battlefield near Marathon, Greece, to Athens in 490 B.C., His mission was to deliver news of the Greek's victory over the Persians. Sadly Pheidippides died at the end of his historic run. When the Olympic games were held in 1896 in Greece, Pheidippides' epic run was recreated by a 24.85 mile run from Marathon Bridge to Olympic stadium in Athens. The first organized marathon on April 10, 1896 had a total of twenty-five runners. Spiridon Louis, a Greek postal worker came in first, his time was 2 hours, 58 minutes. When it was all over nine runners finished, 8 of them Greeks. At the 1908 Olympic Games in London, the marathon distance was changed to 26 miles to cover the ground from Windsor Castle to White City stadium, with 385 yards added on so the race could finish in front of King Edward VII's royal box. After 16 years of discussion, 26.2 miles was deemed the official marathon distance at the 1924 Olympics in Paris.

Here is a mental transcript of my 26.2 jog across Stockholm in 3 mile intervals:

mile 3: What a great idea this was!

mile 6: Look at all these nice Swedish people along the roads yelling god only knows what.

mile 9: And to think I was worried about how little I trained.

mile 13: Halfway there. hmmm. Only halfway. interesting.

mile 16: It will be fun to sight-see around Stockholm in a wheelchair tomorrow.

mile 19: The great marathon runner Toshihiko Seko who once said "the marathon is my only girlfriend. I give her everything I have" Applying this wisdom, I have just given her everything I have, we are fighting about how I should give her more, and considering we are going to fight for the last several miles of the race I see myself introducing our breakup with "It's not you, it's me."

mile 22: I wonder how I would feel right now if I had actually trained properly.

mile 24: I have a few choice words for Pheidippides.

mile 26: So happy that I get to run an extra .2 of a mile thanks to King Edward's royal f-ing box.

The Stockholm marathon finished with a half lap around the 1912 Olympic stadium. I waited for this moment the entire race imagining the 83 world records that have been set in the stadium. A picture made even easier to visualize with it filled to capacity with cheering fans.

The fading hours of daylight stretched across the city as I made my way along the lower field behind the stadium where the finishers gathered after the race. Loud speakers carried the announcement that the official registration for next year's marathon was officially open. 

Maybe it was just me, watching as a sea of runners hobbled down the stairs (myself included) like a pack of senior citizens during a fire drill, but the last thing on my mind at that moment was committing to run another 26.2 miles.

Where we at? Who's left?

In the nerdy world of blogging, it seems the only thing more sinister than neglecting to post is making preemptive excuses for not making future posts. However, to the remaining few who are still following, bare with me and my notes as they adjust to the small town in America's northwestern corner, where I will refuel my bank account, regain some ground I lost with old friends and take a breather from life on the road.

I will do my best to keep the lights on, but be warned the photos and the stories will be far from the humanitarian effort in Kyrgyzstan, a long way from the bread oven tucked up on a hillside in the south of France, nowhere near the bike that delivered me over the French Alps, and painfully distant from that bookshop along the Seine.

Here's to a new year. Join me for the odd jobs, the random stories, the long laughs and all else that grows from what my buddy Keat's called Negative Capability.