Inhuman Race

Chased by my ghost in a race against time
He makes the most of each hill that I climb
Scrambling boulders with fire in my chest
Look over my shoulder there's no time to rest
If ever I stumble, if ever I fall
My slim lead would crumble in no time at all
I'm lost if I lag with my ghost on the chase
When my feet start flagging - he picks up the pace

Every day my marathon
Against my ghost goes on and on
Tearing up that lonesome track
The breath of death upon my back
The breath of death upon my back

If I were an angel with heavenly wings
I would soar high above all these damned earthly things
Fly through the clouds full of glory and grace
Crying out loud with sweet joy on my face
But I am a man, I'm bound to the earth
Hounded by death since the day of my birth
Pounding the path in a fight for first place
Against my own ghost in an inhuman race

Every day my marathon
Against my ghost goes on and on
Tearing up that lonesome track
The breath of death upon my back
The breath of death upon my back

Down from Everest

Here's an odd fact about me: I hate people climbing Mt. Everest. I think it's an arrogant and misguided quest that does nothing but harm to the mountain and is a poor prize even for the successful climber.

But I can't say I don't get it. The truth is, I do get the idea of setting an outrageously high goal for oneself. I understand risking everything for some deeply personal, symbolic achievement. I know why people want to do things that will bring them face to face with danger and death, in hopes of getting a whole new lease on life at the end of it all.

So maybe it's no surpise that I was intermittently picturing myself as an Everest climber for a few years. I saw my attempt to bring my dreams to life as a glorious peak I was doggedly trying to climb. And just like a real climber, when I started getting really lofty, I could feel myself getting higher, weaker, sicker. Lacking proper food and sleep and oxygen, I felt I was losing my judgment, my sense of purpose, my energy, and ultimately, my will to go on.

Maybe I'm naturally more cautious than I give myself credit for, but I always kept in mind the fact that most people who die on Everest, die on the way back down. They've failed to plan for what happens after the goal is achieved; they've given everything they have for that one moment at the top of the world, and with nothing left to give, they never make it home.

Is it a weakness in me that I never went that far? The truth is, I never made the peak. In fact, I never even figured out what the peak was. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I just felt tired, and lost, and ready to retrace my steps and get back to base camp. I even had a dream that I was on a glacier, high on the mountain, I could see people celebrating on the summit above me... and I didn't care. I wouldn't have traded places with them for anything in the world.

I turned around and started trudging back home, feeling very glad and grateful to be returning with the only thing that mattered to start with: my life and all that's wonderful and worthy in it. I knew I had miles to go before I slept, before I could breathe easily, let alone before I could enjoy the plain comforts of home.

I don't know what real-world timeline all this thinking might correspond to, but by the time I left Discovery Channel last autumn, I felt I was in darkness and danger on the slippery slope back to base. It was a weary trudge, to be honest; I felt lost and lonesome for a lot of it, and I didn't always step rightly. But I had a much clearer idea of my goal on the way down, than I had on the way back up: I didn't want to be somebody's idea of a hero now, I just wanted to be a human. Down I went.

Last night, I was out for a walk and for some reason, my inner Everest movie started to play in my mind. Never having figured out what my peak was, not sure when exactly I had turned around, not knowing where base camp was or how I'd know when I got there... I'd never been sure I'd know when I was home at last, ready to put the journey behind me and move on. But last night I asked myself, and the answer was clear: I am home.

Alive, intact, and glad to have made it back, I feel oddly satisfied. It seems whatever questions I set out to answer have been dealt with somehow. Except for one, a nagging query that buzzes around my brain like a bold bumblebee: just what the hell was that all about?

Aftermath

Screaming home from Hugh's Room in a cab after midnight on my fifth night out drinking in a row, I had to suddenly bail out because I couldn't handle the ride.

I told the cabby to pull over right away. I said I'd decided to go to my girlfriend's place. I left him ten bucks for a six dollar ride, wobbled into an alley and puked all over the pavement. Then I sat down on the curb, threw a pack of cigarettes I'd bought earlier into a heap of garbage, put my head in my hands and I called Molly. I told her I'd hit the wall and I couldn't get home for a while. We talked for about 20 minutes, me leaning on some old worn-out fence next to a puddle of my own vomit, telling her I was fine, I needed this, I thought it was coming and now I knew, and it was all okay.

Then I walked home to Riverdale from Dufferin and Dupont, one step at a time. It only took me til 2 am.

Molly was asleep when I got there. I woke her up to tell her I was fine.

I'm fine.

I'm thanking my instincts, actually. The alarm went off late, but that's better than not at all. I really think I could have died in that cab. It felt like a rocket car to hell.

I'm fine.

I miss a meadow. I miss a Labrador puppy. I miss a fourteen foot aluminum boat. I miss a beaver pond and an old dirt road. I miss pine needles on the forest floor, a sixty foot hemlock tree to climb, summer sunshine and cicadas. I miss it all, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is, I'm MISSING it all while it rolls beneath my wheels.

Two guys at the coffee shop today: One gets a dollar in his change. The other says, "Hey, it's a Terry Fox! You gotta keep that one." The first guy bobs his head happily and pockets the lucky looney. And I remember how this morning, putting on my jeans, I checked to make sure mine was there.

Last night I told Melwood Cutlery how Stuart McLean had read my short story about Terry Fox in Gus' barbershop one morning years ago, and how he'd taken the trouble to read his favourite line back to me. Melwood asked if I remembered the line, and I did:

"I felt sad that the road was so long and hard, and the oceans are so far apart."

Twenty-six miles a day to get back home again... to get back home again.... to get back home...

It's not just the length of the road ahead. It's keeping it between the ditches on the way. The rock cut walls are jagged and cruel and they don't care if you run into them, or how hard.

I've been lucky to have shoulders on both sides of me to collapse on when I have to.

Today I woke up alive and aware and awake, and I got myself running again.

The road and me, the road in me

I just got back from Winnipeg, where I had a great time feeling away and awake and alive and alone and all those things that make a road warrior road worthy.

I came back as I often do, wild and weak and weary and worn, dragging myself to the doorstep with nothing but blunt words and worthless sighs to share.

So much of my life has been spent in faraway places, on the brink of this or that, chasing epiphanies and scrambling after peak experiences, that I'm afraid I've ruined my ability to be at peace in one place anymore. My heart crosses the doorstep like a marathon runner breasting the tape to collapse in exhaustion on the other side.

These are the ugly edges of my selfish self. I've got a lot of work to do.

Winnipeg was wonderful. For a while there, so was I.