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i find it so ironic that in order to relax, one must first bust one's ass. repeatedly. ever since i stood up and declared my intention to go west, it's been like mountain climbing, or similar in philosophy to what little of that i've done (and, Old Rag Mountain is the most exertion that i can claim): the first gentle inclines lull you into thinking that there's nothing much to this climbing thing. then, it starts getting a bit more vertical. and strenuous. it's like booking passage; deciding what and how to pack up. making sure the house is secure. loading up the car for stage one. that's where i was on Monday. sufficiently revved to the redline, that when i finally got in the car to drive to work, i was one step short of frenzy. thankfully, the simple act of piloting a car for an hour-and-a-half was like finding level ground... especially since it was the first time in ages that i'd sat for so long. then, as in climbing, comes the real ascent... the scrambling at roots and rocks to gain footing. i think that will be security check at the airport. the flying part will be like another plateau for catching my breath--after the metal-detector and the threat of body cavity search. i'd prefer that part to be much, much later... under completely different circumstances. i'll be looking to find that next level space at 35,000 feet... ...and getting around to that body inspection at the end of the trail. |
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