A mountain biker.
An extreme(ly mediocre) skier.
A rock climber.
I live on the edge. I’m an adrenaline junkie. An edge-of-his-seat, full-speed ahead kinda guy. But sometimes I have to take a break from my 30 pieces in a 20-meter pitch lifestyle, and earn some money. So here I am in Ecuador, living my work-a-day lifestyle. But just because I’m here, doesn’t mean that I don’t need my fix. Sometimes I can get it by pushing Big Blue over 60km/h on the Panamerican. I can put a plastic statue of the Virgin on the dashboard and paint Si dios quiere volveré on the bumper just to make sure the world knows that it is out of my hands whether or not I survive this next blind-corner pass on a mountain road. But even that doesn’t really give me what I need.
I had to play Clark Kent today and take care of business scouting the market for a gas can for Big Blue (see the previous post, with the caveat that he is still a Land Cruiser), when I wandered into the Lunch Zone. Of course, it was well after lunch time, and most of the Señoras had packed up for the day. No customers in sight, and the only people around were sweeping up. But I saw opportunity for a thrill. Pulse quickening, I approached the final remaining lady, and did my best to act casual,
“Señora, cuanto cobra un plato?”
She looked at me like I was nuts, and quoted me a price. I wasn’t listening, though, since price didn’t matter. I was a junkie looking to score.
That familiar thrill ran up my spine as she picked the remaining scraps of meat off of what was once a magnificent pig. To make sure I wasn’t get excited about nothing, I picked at a piece. Cold. I nearly started sweating. With her bare hands she starting picking up the mashed potato balls, feeling each one.
“I’m trying to find you the best of what’s here” she explained apologetically. I nearly kissed her.
“Quiere ensalada?” she added. I tried to stay calm.
“Gracias,” I replied.
Armed with the brimming plate, I took a seat. I tried to steady my shaking hands as I picked at pieces of meat. A piece of skin was fried crunchy, but was now stone cold. I bit in.
I was committed now. Commitment. That’s what it’s about. My true love is on the apron, of course, where vicious 5-pitch routes put you at the mercy of the party in front of you. But when I can’t have that, I’ll get it where I can. I took another bite. Mystery meat. Delicious. Dangerous.
I shoveled a bit of salad, lettuce and onions, freshly “washed”, into my mouth as well.
I shoveled a bit of salad, lettuce and onions, freshly “washed”, into my mouth as well.
“YEAH!!!” I screamed inside my head, “I FUCKING LOVE THIS SHIT!!!!” What a rush!
Sometimes people ask why I take such risks. I say life would be nothing without it. Yeah, I’m aware of the consequences. I’ve lost friends into the bathroom, where they stayed for hours. And I’ve had my share of close shaves, stomach pain and near sharts. But it’s worth it.
Adrenaline sick, I picked at the last of the pig, and scooped up the last bits of corn, grateful for the calm reassurance of an almost-warm vegetable. Plate clear, I pushed it away and took a drink of my Red Bull. I’m okay. For now. Though the adrenaline rush is fading, I won’t know until the morning whether or not I really made it. Not out of the woods, yet.
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