It has been often said that small minds amuse easily.
Well dear reader, my brain must the the size of the arse hair on an ant if my last week was any indication.
I spent days watching a dot on a map move very very slowly.
Sure it was about as graphically exciting as an early game of Combat on an Atari 2600, but the narratives unfurling in my mind were more epic than Tolkien’s.
Sean was competing in the Tip to Tip. It’s an annual ultra endurance race in Nova Scotia. Every year, a group of riders leave The Hawk - the southern most tip of Nova Scotia on Cape Sable Island and race to the northern most tip of the province in Meat Cove on Cape Breton Island.
In between? They have to hit checkpoints. It’s not a strictly linear race.
Once of the years that Chachi won they raced to the end of a chain of islands to Briar Island. That segment included three ferries. For some? It was totally demoralizing seeing people heading back and onward while you were still on the way out.
It’s a race that you only know where you’re going 24 hours in advance. Though most riders know that the entire course is going to be between 1200 and 1500 km.
The funniest thing about it? It’s a race without a set course. It’s up to the riders to navigate their way from checkpoint to check point and manage their food and water along the way. Getting support other than what you can muster and find is not allowed.
Most riders used a Garmin or some other GPS device.
Sean made maps and wrapped them in packing tape.
That’s what Sean did.
And while others stayed on course, he got lost.
Each time he got lost I screamed and sent texts to Zeke - we need to get this old man a Garmin - or at least a phone that works properly.
Zeke, ever the man of many words, politely gave my rantings and ramblings a big thumbs up.
Eventually though, Sean pulled through. Watching the video of him crossing the line, I felt like I was right there with him.
Only I wasn’t.
A few days later after his return, I cracked wise about his Luddite ways.
No man, he responded, I did this in the most ‘ME’ way possible. Getting lost like that? That was pure ME. Even more?
These wrong turns, they were the best. I had the best experiences then. Each one was a life lesson. Each one was so typically ME.
Sure these wrong turns may have cost me a place or two in the race, but I wasn’t there. It was a race but it wasn’t a race. I was on a mission - my mission. With a Garmin, I may have stayed on course, but then I would have lost the experience of being 100% me.
It was then I realized how deeply this journey was pure him.
We spent the evening talking. I'd tell you more about the coyotes and the stick he swung and the sleepless nights and the gravel and everything else he experienced.
I can’t.
It wasn’t my story to tell. His wrong turns were his alone, and I could never truly understand them. So too, with my words, dear reader. You'll never know what it's like to ride this far until you start your own grind.
What was remarkable was listening to him and knowing how wrong I was with my jokes.
We all are rolling on in our own races.
Sure, some may do it more efficiently, doing things ‘correctly’ and arriving first.
For the rest of us?
The struggles of daily life can sure give you a sore arse from time to time.
That’s ok.
But in the end, choose your course, make it a mission to learn what you can from the wrong turns you make.
But most of all?
Enjoy the grind.