Day Two-Hundred-Thirty, Decrepitude

My friend Shonna is an athlete.  She's an ungodly mess.  She's emotionally stable.  She's got a great family.  She lives in a beautiful home.  But after years of playing aggressive soccer she has trouble with her knees.  And her feet.  And God knows what else.  She gets cranky when she's hungry or tired.

It was a revelation to me.  I thought sports were good for you.  No, she says unequivocally.  They really tear you up. 

Of course.  I should have known.  It isn't really my world.  But had I stopped to think about it I could have figured it out.  I know an MMA fighter with a disfigured ear, a rugby player with a bad back.  A competetive shooter with hearing loss and a dancer with ugly feet.  There are all kinds of punchy boxers.  NFL players die young.  It raises the question: is what I'm doing good for me or not?

Everyone knows walking is healthy.  It is good to get out of doors.  I'd been certain that Walking Across America would add ten years to my life.  Provided I wasn't killed, of course.  I left room for that.  But I'm leaner than I was six months ago.  I expect I have lowered my heart rate.  My endurance is better; my legs are stronger.  You can crack walnuts on my ass. 

If you buy me dinner first.  My appetite is good.  I am calmer.  I am more at my ease.  I am better at making friends.  I sleep better.  I'm more regular.  I am taller by at least half an inch.  My feet have grown a size-and-a-half.  I can do pull-ups again.

Or I could until yesterday.  I've dislocated my shoulder.  Or threatened to.  I've got a bad hip.  My hair is turning grey.  My vision is fading.  I'm getting wrinkles.  I'm starting to look like my mom.  I've got pains in my feet that suggest broken bones.  I've got one unhappy knee.  I'm sore enough that only complete exhaustion lets me sleep at night.

I start every day with two aspirin.  Later I might take two more.  And as soon as I finish the bottle I'm going to buy something stronger.  My days off don't really seem to help.  I walk with something of a limp.  And very well might for the rest of my life.  I'll have fun explaining why.

I don't limp when I've got my backpack on.  Must be a psychological thing.  Today I walked twenty-five miles, split into two long hikes.  And it wasn't so bad.  I did get a bit bored, but the weather was fine.  Sometimes it's nice just to stare at the clouds.  They grow 'em pretty down here.

I stopped in Bronson, Florida for lunch.  I had a hamburger.  It's been a while; I had sworn them off but I was really hungry.  They do fill you up and do not cost much.  They did not have any pie.  So I didn't linger as long as I usually do.  I could have used more recharging.  But the nourishment did me good.  My shoulder hurt but my spirits were high.  I hiked the next dozen miles to Williston, only stopping once.

Briefly.  I wish I hadn't.  I wound up wounding myself.  They have cactus in Florida; I bet you didn't know that.  Flat little things.  They fascinated me.  I had to cut one open.  Just to see what they had inside.  You will never guess.

A billion little barbed fibres, nearly microscopic.  I got them all over my hands, my face, my neck, in my mouth.  They can't be removed.  It seems, given time, they do begin to dissolve.  Until then all I can do is suffer.  They are rather uncomfortable.  Marie Curie died of radiation poisoning.  Sometimes science is hard.

I stopped briefly in Williston, to eat a bit and recharge.  But I couldn't stay long.  It was almost five.  I had to leave town before dark.  Or get stuck indoors.  I cannot afford that and it always breaks my stride.  As it was I had plenty of time.  I could have walked two more miles.

But I had my campsite all picked out.  I found it last night.  Using Google Earth, a wonderful tool.  Every modern hobo should have it.

It is meant to be cold tonight.  I'm not feeling it yet.  It is raining some but I don't care.  It is going to be colder tomorrow.  And colder still the night after that, somewhere down below freezing.  But I don't care; I've got teddy bear pants, and a song in my heart.

MY INJURED shoulder not only makes it very hard to adjust my pack, it prevents me from flashing my peace sign at passing trucks.  I hope they don't think I'm stuck up.

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Day One-Hundred-Seventy-Four, Eskimo Farts

Twenty-eight degrees.  I feel cheated.  Twenty-seven and I'd be indoors.  That was the line I drew in the frost and I can't go back on it now.  It would make me look weak.  Indecisive.  You'd lose all respect for me.  A little cold air never hurt anyone.  Except for the people it has killed.

That is unlikely to happen to me.  Mine is a passionate nature.  I am warmed by my depth of feeling and by my boundless sense of romance.  And my two pairs of socks and my thermal underwear and my custom made teddy bear pants.  And my two fleece pullovers and a hat that ties under my chin.  I've got my bag made out of ground up ducks and an empty Gatorade bottle.  I'm as prepared as I can possibly be.  If I freeze to death it's not my fault.

I expect to be fairly uncomfortable.  I am a little shivery now.  But I am not yet feeling sorry for myself.  Do you feel sorry for me?  Well you damn well should.  It's freezing out here and I'm probably going to die. 

They'll dig me up in five-thousand years.  I will be well-preserved.  They will study my clothing and stomach contents.  I will come to define my age.  Twenty-First Century Man, they will say, was bearded and wore his hair long.  He was by nature a wanderer.  He lived on biscuits and gravy.  He communicated by means of a primitive electronic device which, their technologists will affirm, sucked.

National Geographic will put me on their cover.  I'll be displayed under glass.  T-shirts bearing my likeness will be sold in museum gift shops.  Anthropologists will build their careers on theories as to why I bottled my urine. 

You ask why; I say why not.  It really is cold out there.  Don't judge me until you've walked 2500 miles in my ill-fitting moccasins.

I was perfectly willing to stay in a motel.  I've been doing a lot of that these days.  I checked two papers and looked at a TV.  The weathermen all agreed.  Twenty-eight, they said.  Not twenty-seven.  Miserable conformist bastards.  Not one had the courage to give me an excuse to move myself indoors.

I could be watching Law & Order right now.  I could be taking a bath.  I could be eating pizza and talking to my mom on the phone.  Think how sad she'll be when I freeze to death.  She'll be out of sorts for a week.  Think of my lonesome banjo going forever unplayed.

It has never been played particularly well as it is.  And now it never will be.

I could walk to the highway and put up my thumb, but that would not be sporting.  It is for me to endure this pain.  Who knows, I just might live.  There have been people frozen almost stiff who went on to live happy lives.  The trick is to thaw them slow.  Make a note of that.  Thaw me slow.  Like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Planning happy Thanksgivings, are you?  Be thankful you're not me.  I'm cold.

It'll be warmer tomorrow night.  Then it will be in the forties.  So all I have to do is survive for another 12 hours or so.  Hell, I can do that.  I think the point here is that I am going to be uncomfortable.  Which I should be used to by now.  I've suffered as few others have.  Have you ever flown across the Pacific in economy class?  I'd rather be here now.  Of course on the plane I do drink quite a bit.  I should have procured a bottle.

I used to know some Polacks.  I am not being unkind.  That is what they called themselves.  They drank their vodka neat.  At room temperature and by the pint.  I remember one snowy evening.  We were on the veranda in our T-shirts, sharing jokes and singing songs.  I was not the slightest bit cold.  It was like magic.

But all I've got is Gatorade.  I must be careful not to mix up the bottles.

I was cold this morning as well.  I slept until almost seven.  The sun was out but it was not warm.  It was though a beautiful day.  The sky was blue and the air was clear.  It was windier than I like to see.  I took my time packing up.  My tent poles stung my fingers.

It had dropped to thirty-seven or so.  It must have been forty by then.  I had slept with my windows open in order to dry out my tent.  It worked, thank goodness.  If it had not I would be in much worse shape now.  As it is I expect it to fairly ice over from the steam of my breath.

I'm steamy.

I had a twelve-mile walk to town.  I was completely out of water.  And I had breakfasted on Corn Nuts.  It left me a little parched.  But I figured I could make the hike in three hours.  I was wearing my lucky warm socks.  And half hoping I'd be stopped by the State Patrol.  I've got more to write about them.

Six or seven miles in I found a cafe, one of them Mennonite concerns.  Simplicity, Economy, and Modesty; that's what they're all about.  And baking, God bless them.  They fed me fairly well.  I had biscuits and gravy and a blackberry roll with a half pint of cream cheese frosting.  And coffee.  It was the last time I ate.  I wish I were back there now.

The Amish, I believe, spun off from the Mennonites.  They weren't hard core enough for them.  The Mennonites too believe in non-violence.  So do I, in certain moods.  Other times I just really want to hit someone.  I almost never do.

I'd like to hit Newt Gingrich, but I don't think that's fair to him.  Try as I might, I cannot distinguish him from Pat Robertson. 

I reached West Point, Mississippi well fed.  It took away my reason to be there.  I drank Sweet Tea at a McDonald's and tried to recharge my computer.  Which is misbehaving again.  The cold isn't doing it any good.  But I've got other worries now.  I am cold.

West Point made little impression on me.  It seemed like a pretty big town.  There was a lot of traffic at any rate.  It was hard to get around.  I stuck around as long as I dared then headed south again.  For another eleven miles.  I more than met my quota today.

I didn't notice for the first couple hours, but I've been walking steadily uphill.  Which I almost prefer if it's not too steep.  It seems to suit my stride.  And I came to a stretch with no houses at all.  It was easy to set up my tent.  I think I'll stay here until the sun is well up.  I hate being cold in the morning.

I haven't the vaguest where my next town is.  I'll hit Macon the day after tomorrow.  I'm hoping there will be something between here and there.  It's possible I'll want a snack.  I didn't put any food in my bag.  It seemed heavy enough.

IT HAS BEEN a while and I'm not dead yet.  My nose is a little runny though.  Which is an awful hardship, I know, but unlikely to earn me a medal.

IF I DO last the night, twenty-six becomes my new minimum temperature.  Damn.

VODKA is in fact a Polish drink.  You'd be forgiven for thinking it's Russian.  They stole it.  At least that's what the Polacks tell me.

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