It certainly seemed to work for Mr. James Joseph Brown, so
why not for me? I must admit there
aren’t a lot of similarities between myself and the “hardest working man in
show business”, but I thought I would give it a whirl anyhow. Just gotta stay off the bad foot-ah! Uh, slight problem Jimbo. . . after a closer
examination of both of my extremities, it doesn’t appear that I have a good foot
to “get on”. After an ill-advised 33km
trek through the Dordogne River valley with the wife, it would appear that my
age has finally caught up with me and my war torn body is sinking faster than
the Black Pearl. Don’t get me wrong, I
am thankful for the suffering. It was a
well-timed wakeup call during which the concierge on the other end of the line
indicated that I need to get my ass in gear or I am not going to make it for my
appointment this September. This
pilgrimage of mine, it is never too far from my mind. It is the driving force underlying everything
I do. It is that voice in the back of my
head, begging to be heard. As is often
the case when the big man upstairs mandates you to accomplish something in your
life, you have a want to bury it beneath your daily toil. Dismiss it as fantasy and ban it from your
logical thought process. Perhaps a part
of you even hopes it will pass. This IS
NOT going to pass. It is something I
must do. I don’t know what is waiting
for my in Santiago de Compostela, but to deny the journey would be a sin I am
not willing to commit.
I have some mixed feelings with regard to the preparation
for such an assignment. A large part of
me believes the path of true enlightenment lies in no preparation at all. The physical suffering could surely be part
of the path. After all, people have been
crossing this land for centuries without so much as the clothes on their back
and the best intentions. Historically,
many of these pilgrims began their journey at their own doorstep and they would
travel several hundred miles further than I will endeavor to cover. In addition, the 20 year old heart that beats
within my chest has a way of betraying the balding hunchback that greets me in
the mirror every morning. There was a
time when a 500 mile journey on foot would not have caused a wrinkle in my brow
or single drop of sweat to race down my weary face. These days, however, aging wisdom has a way
of leveling the playing field. Logic
dictates that the 37 years I have spent abusing my body will certainly play a
part in the probability of my arrival in Santiago. Yes, historically, others have simply taken
the notion and left their homes in search of the truth without so much as a
second thought on the spur of the moment.
These people, however, were cut from a heartier cloth than I. If they needed water, they carried it by
bucket from the river or a well, often an incomprehensible distance back to
their home. If they wanted to eat, they
needed to cultivate the land to produce the crop that would grace their table
each eve. Whereas I, I simply turn the
handle on my kitchen faucet in demand of my water and utilize modern combustion
to carry my fat ass to the grocery store for my food. Hell, I don’t even have to tote the groceries
by hand any further than the distance from my driveway to my kitchen once my
shopping is complete.
And so, with this wisdom in hand, it was time to test the
waters. The wife and I signed up for a
33km 500m hike that was sponsored by one of the local village associations and just
like that we set off. Being ever conscious
of the bravado beating in that 20 year old heart, 20 miles seemed like a cinch
and a fine time to break in a new pair of hiking shoes under the weight of a moderately
filled pack. What was the worst that
would happen anyhow? The literature
assured us that there would be numerous rest stops with refreshments and
several opportunities to call it quits and catch a ride back to the start if we
gave out before the 33km mark. Indeed,
as promised, there were plentiful rest stops ever 7km or so, but that ride back
to town was nowhere to be found. Limping
into the rest stop at the 27 kilometer mark, there it was . . . the quitter
bus. The last 7 km had been hell. At 20 kilometers everything was pleasant,
perhaps a small blister working on my left foot, but nothing of any REAL
concern and so we happily marched forth.
Not but a few steps into the following 7km, it was clear that it would
be here that the battle must be fought.
The wife and I both began to feel the fatigue and mental exhaustion born
from each painful step. It was agreed
that the next stop would be a longer one than we had afforded ourselves
before. We had skipped a couple of the
rest stops along the way and only stopped for 15 minutes or so to consume our
lunch. And so, we agreed that this final
rest stop would be a place to stop and collect ourselves for the final
push. When we did finally arrive at the
27km mark, however, the sight of the “quitter bus” weighed heavy on our
hearts. The ground we had just covered
had taken its toll and the thought of another 6km or so seemed laughable. We sat down for a bit with a bottle of water
and tried to mull things over. It was
eventually left in my hands. This was, after
all, for my benefit and she would agree to call it quits here or push on if we
must. I sat there for the longest time
watching as folks limped into the rest stop as we just had and eventually
struggle with the same decision that we now faced. It appeared that most were electing to call
it quits and the bus began to fill to capacity.
Those that didn’t make it on would surely wait for the next one to come
around.
This indeed seemed the rational choice. Call it a day and board the “quitter bus”
with our tail between our legs. Neither
of us felt too proud to do so at this point.
I stood up to gather my things. I
turned to my wife and opened my mouth to suggest we take the bus, but before I
could speak I again could hear the voice begging to be heard. Internally, I argued with the voice. I told it I couldn’t go on and that the
punishment my feet had taken over the preceding 7km would not allow them to
carry me any further. “They must!”,
urged the voice. I paused for a moment
and looked at my wife. I could tell that
she felt as finished as I. Yet somehow,
through her eyes, I could tell that she had heard it too. She had heard that voice urging me
forward. Without any further
deliberation we gathered our things and kept walking. We didn’t speak much over the remaining
6km. I don’t know whether it was because
we couldn’t think of anything to say or simply that every bit of our mental and
emotional energy was being driven into our legs to urge them toward the next
step that must be taken. For me, I
believe it was the ladder. We both suffered
silently and the only time we spoke that I recall was to speculate whether
those that passed us on fleeter feet were suffering as much as we were and if
that was the case, perhaps we looked as stoic as they appeared. Not likely.
I would wager they weren’t suffering as much as we were and we were
likely looking anything but stoic as I could feel my face grimace every time I took
a step with my right foot.
And still we moved forward, certain that the finish line would
never fall within our gaze. We
eventually fell to the back of the pack.
There weren’t many that had pushed on for the finish on foot, but those
that had were seemed up to the task.
Still, I was proud to be in their midst.
Perhaps we didn’t belong there and were in over our head, but maybe that
alone meant we were the best of them. We
were the ones who wouldn’t let our physical limitations dictate the length of
our journey. We CHOSE to move
forward. We WILLED ourselves to carry
on. Step by painful step we inched
closer to the finish line. And finally,
after 33km we collapsed into the open hatch of the Renault. The moment I had been euphorically dreaming
of had arrived . . . I could take off these fucking shoes. Delusional dehydration and the release of my
feet from this terrible prison would certainly provide me with the relief I
sought. Unfortunately, that feeling
would never come. Damage had been
done. My feet did not immediately
recover as I had hoped. I could hardly
walk. Over the next several days, my
right foot remained swollen and painful to the touch. I had spent most of my young life playing
baseball. A pitcher to be exact. Repetitive pivoting on my right foot had
developed a thick pad on the ball of my right foot. I have had it for as long as I can remember
and it had never caused me any concern . . . until now. Now it felt as though I had a grapefruit
attached to the bottom of my foot and really kind of looked that way as
well. I wouldn’t be able to carry on
this way on the Camino. Could my
pilgrimage be over before it started? My
heart was heavy as I spent a day or so essentially bedridden with my foot
bandaged in ice. Eventually thoughts of
a doctors visit seemed less unreasonable and the possibility that my pilgrimage
would be delayed in the event that surgery would be required began to plague my
mind. And just like that, the pain
subsided and the swelling went away.
Perhaps now not a “good foot” but an “Ok foot” all the same. That will do for now and the preparation will
continue. I will keep you posted when
time permits. R.
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