And Then…

How can it be that I’ve not written in so long? Surely sloth has something to do with it, but so too is my slow process of digestion. Those of you who’ve been reading my blog know that for the last year or so that I’ve been celebrating my 50th birthday. I’ve been savoring new experiences, drinking in some adventure and, yes, to carry the metaphor a little too far, suffering from the inevitable hangover. Today, I turned 51 and now I can look back, see what I can recall, make some sense of it and try to figure out where I left my car (or “Doug” if you’re partial to The Hangover instead of Dude, Where’s my Car?).

My 50th birthday activities actually started before I turned 50. Back on October of 2009, I traveled to China with a friend of mine. Tom thought it would be cool to immerse ourselves in another language and Mandarin in Shanghai won out over Arabic in Morocco. Shanghai was, literally and figuratively, a trip. I wrote about it back then.

A few months later, the celebration changed venue to Iceland. I ventured to Reykjavik in July 2010, shortly after the summer solstice. This meant that my friend, Rich, and I could start a round of golf at 10pm and finish it at 2am with plenty of daylight. (Which we did). We also spent time on snowmobiles and glaciers and geysers and waterfalls and walking through areas described in 1,000 year old Icelandic sagas.

After Rich left, Barry joined me and we rode over the lid of Iceland. Not in comfortable cars, no, we rode motorcycles. And no, we didn’t ride on well maintained easy trails; hell no, we rode the nasty trail full of treacherous sand, numerous river crossings and way too many kilometers between gas stations. And speaking of running out of fuel in the volcanic desert, we didn’t make life easier for ourselves by bringing the right fuel for our camp stove; hell no, we had the wrong stuff and had to eat cold freeze-dried food. And no, we didn’t die in the desert; hell no, we had a satellite phone and called for Search and Rescue. Manly men occasionally do something right.

I didn’t write about Iceland because Barry was doing such a good job of it here. Maybe he or I will finish the story someday.

My final 50th birthday adventure was spent with my good friend, Oscar. I traveled to Florida in early January and we went huntin’. Yep, shot ourselves some little birds (quail). Tasty critters but you have to eat half a dozen to get a decent meal out of them. Given that I’d only shot a gun (of any kind) a couple of weeks earlier, I surprised myself by shooting two birds with my first two shots. By the way, the best part of hunting quail is enjoying the dogs (the pointers and the flusher).

So, metaphorically, where is my car? What did I learn from all this?

First, some simple stuff:

– Anyone under 40 should be studying Mandarin. It’s a good thing the language is really not that hard. Yes, you have to master the 4 tones, but then it’s just a lot of vocabulary.

– The Icelandic vikings only kidnapped good looking people.

– When riding through deep sand in a volcanic desert, avoid the well-worn trail. Blaze new tracks through virgin powder, sit back in your seat and let the bike go where it wants to go. Will it to stay on course, but don’t fight it.

– If you aim a shotgun carefully and squeeze the trigger slowly – you will miss every time. Let the gun become part of your arm. Point to the target and shoot without thinking too much. Just don’t shoot the dogs.

I think these are damn fine lessons to take with me into my 51st and subsequent years. I should be satisfied with them. I guess, though, if I had to add one more I’d say that I learned a lot about frailty and robustness in friendships.

Each of my fellow adventurers was a friend of mine. Tom and Rich were roommates of mine 30 years ago. In my travels with them I could sense ways that we’ve grown apart and may never recover the intimacy we once had. I could, however, also sense the original bonds the drew us together and allow us to remain friends after all this time. Barry has been a friend for only 6 years, but I know that there’s no one whom I’d trust in more when riding through the desert or crossing a swiftly flowing river. As to Oscar, we might have different interests and opinions about many things, but he is my brother.

For every Tom, Rich, Barry and Oscar there are numerous Johns and Joes and Jasons (and probably some Jennifers and Juliets) with which I’ve lost touch. I mourn these lost friendships; most were victims of simple neglect.

So, if I had one last lesson to highlight, I’d say that, for my 51st and subsequent years, I vow to better tend to my friends. As Chauncy Gardner said, “As long as the roots are not severed, all is well. And all will be well in the garden.”

A few weeks ago, I attended an off-road motorcycle class. After a few preliminary basics, we started learning some basic skills: climbing hills, descending hills, hopping over obstacles, riding through slippery terrain and, most importantly, lifting up one’s bike after you’ve fallen down. After two days of camp, I’d fallen down 3 times, once resulting in a nasty bruise to my leg.

What struck me most about the class (other than 500 lbs. of motorcycle falling on my shin) was how challenging it was. Some of the skills (e.g. hopping over 6″ tall obstacles or riding through river rock) were downright scary. While I waited in line for my turn to come, my mind raced through all of the bad things that could happen. And these weren’t simply idle worries; bad things did happen. I remember hopping over a 6″ obstacle (a stack of 2×6’s) and accidentally gunning the throttle. As I raced towards the fence, I knew that I needed to release the throttle, but that meant loosening my death grip on one of the few things that were holding me on to the bike! Somehow, that time, I managed not to fall.

For the most part, I managed to overcome my fears. I took on most of the riding drills and emerged mostly unscathed. After my nasty fall, however, I did choose to skip some of them (e.g. hopping a 9″ obstacle).

Ok, now, imagine this experience 1000 times as intense. A soldier rides slowly down a street in Baghdad or Fallujah knowing that an IED might be buried up ahead. How can anyone do that?

Another soldier is riding on a troop carrier and someone tosses a hand-made grenade into the vehicle. The soldier quickly picks up the grenade and tries to toss it over the side. It explodes before he has the chance, but his actions save the lives of his squad. How could he do that?

I think the image of the war hero as a fearless warrior is inaccurate, at best, and disrespectful, at worst. John Rambo rushing into battle without regard for his safety and no fear of death exists only in Hollywood. I believe that real life heroes are much more human and acknowledging their humanity makes their deeds all the more heroic.

Much of what the military does to train its soldiers, including the mindless repetition of tasks in boot camp, is to provide them with the right instincts to do the right thing at the right time. Athletes, doctors,  and pilots all train to achieve the same goal. A linesman falls on a loose ball. A surgeon clamps a bleeding vessel. A pilot  pushes down on the stick if the plane is stalling.

Fear is a natural response to danger. Our brains are programmed to recognize threatening situations and to run, if possible. Racing towards an obstacle is not natural. Grabbing a grenade is counter to our inborn survival instincts.

For me, the essence of heroism is what happens in that brief moment when, pondering action or inaction, fight or flight, someone quickly makes the decision that yields the greater good even at the price of personal sacrifice. I imagine a millisecond of total awareness when the decision is made, amidst fear and amidst the barrage of a trillion neurons all shouting “NO!”. 

It is hard to imagine such moments. I’d like to think that I would do the right thing, especially if it came down to defending my family or myself. Could I do the same thing to defend my country or the interests of my country or, more mundanely, to take a hill that my commanding officer told me is important to take? I don’t know. 

So, on this Memorial Day, I don’t think about the John Rambos (if they even exist). I think about the millions of soldiers, both friend and foe, who’ve faced the ultimate moment of truth and have made the right decision in spite of all the obvious reasons not to.