Mike nodded and took notes and then asked me what I thought of Dad’s interesting idea, and I said, “The truth is, Mike, I’m feeling very numb at the moment,” and at once I saw a look of intense concern form on Mike’s face. “I’m sending you back to the unit,” he said. “What?” I said. Dad looked stunned. “You’ve been here in Partial for weeks. Then you ask for this very impromptu meeting with your father. Then you talk about feeling numb. It’s a communication. You’re telling me you’re planning to kill yourself. Maybe you can’t say it straight. But that’s the message you’re giving me, even if you’re not aware of it.”
I spent the weekend back in the inpatient unit. At Mike’s prompting, I had a consultation for ECT. The ECT doctor was a man who reportedly specialized in the procedure and had administered it to hundreds of patients and knew everything there was to know about it. His manner was courteous. I experienced no explicit coercion from him. Yet I had the impression he was a person with a narrow or perhaps exclusive focus on his chosen skill, and that having entered this psychiatric barbershop, so to speak, I could expect to leave with a head shock. “You will be sedated,” he said. “We’ll put electrodes on your head. A low-voltage current goes into your brain. We induce a little seizure. It’s very low risk. You might lose your memories of the time just before the procedure. But you might also feel less depressed.”
I asked for a second opinion. Sometime later I found myself sitting on the blacktop with a senior psychiatrist. He was an older man in spectacles with a full professorship. He asked me to tell him the history of my illness from as early as I could remember. I spoke for a long time. He listened. I could sense him listening to every word I said and absorbing every detail with great caring and acuity. “It doesn’t sound like you have the kind of depression that would necessarily be helped by ECT,” he said. In the end, I didn’t go through with the procedure. If I lost my memories, who would I be?
The Lost Men
The two-thousand-foot descent from Snow Valley Peak follows a rocky trail down to the tree line that then winds through the forest to the next aid station near the highway. It’s around four in the afternoon on Saturday and still very warm. When I reach the aid station, I see a bunch of runners lying out on the ground, getting some kip. Man, it would feel good to join them. After almost a second full day on my feet, I’m feeling exhausted and woozy from all the uphill marching and high mountain sun. But if I lie down, I’m not sure when I’ll manage to get up again. I guess I’ll see how I feel after I’ve filled up on food and fluids. I sit down with a big cup of soda with ice and a plate of food. I sip the soda. Yum. There probably isn’t a single thing in the world that would taste any better right now than these twelve ounces of ice-cold sugar water.
I drain the soda and wolf down a couple of quesadillas and some salty chips and boiled potatoes and a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, then I get up, fill one of my bottles with more cold soda and the other with electrolyte drink, then down some of the electrolyte drink, drench my neck and head in cold water, and march out of said station toward the trailhead and back up the mountain, heading south in the still-fierce heat of late afternoon.
I’M ALMOST HALFWAY AROUND the lake now. Quite a thought. I merge into the rhythm of uphill hiking as the sun sinks lower toward the horizon. Looking across the lake from its eastern side, I can see the mountains in the west where my run began. I can remember looking across the water from Homewood, a day and a half ago, toward the peaks where I am running now. The background has become the foreground; the future has become present. I feel myself merge with the pink and gold radiance of the evening, with the rhythm of my march up the mountain, while the light begins to fade.
THE TRAIL’S BEEN HEADING downhill in the dark for much longer than seems fair or reasonable. I’m not blaming the mountains for being high or the lake for being far away. But a hundred miles and thirty-six hours in and just this sort of dreamy illogic is getting harder to resist. Once in a while I can see what looks like a ski lodge, lit up in multicolored lights like a fairy-tale castle, a long, long way down by the lake. What I can remember of the course profile for this section is that it’s basically up, then down—like this: ∧. I’m on the downward slope of that pyramid. So I’m assuming the fairy castle is Heavenly Ski Resort: mile 102. Halfway. Nap time. Miriam will be there. My friends Emily and her husband, Andrew, will be there. Miriam and Andrew will tuck me in and help me go night-night. Then Emily will join me running for the next eighty miles. Get to Heavenly. Get to Miriam and Andrew and Emily and all the friendly, generous people. Then you can rest. Heaven knows you deserve it.
The castle disappears. All I can see is the little path of steep trail below me and the dark forest. Really? Screw you too, Mountain—I never liked you anyway. Down, down, down, and now I’m at the bottom of the mountain. No sign of the castle. I remember it being over to my right. But now the trail’s heading left. Away from the lake. Away from the castle. The trail’s been going this way and that, higgledy-piggledy—surely any minute now it will cut back right again. Back to the lake. Back to the castle. But that’s not what happens. I’m heading even farther from the lake and then uphill again. What? Am I lost? No, I see a course marker. This has to be the right way. Only it feels so wrong. In theory, I could stop. I could look at the map, try to figure out where I am. But I’m so very tired. I don’t have it in me. Please just put me to bed, Mountain. I’ve been such a good boy. Haven’t I, Mountain? Please take me to the castle.
The trail heads deeper into the trees. I come across a little group of runners. Three men. “Where’s Heavenly?” I say. “Are we off course?” “Who the hell knows. GPS says no. But this makes no sense. We should be there now.” I should be there now. And yet we are not. We are the Lost Men, abandoned in the darkness, forever trudging up an endless hill and never getting home. Mountain has decided. We fall into single file as the trail heads up steep switchbacks that go on and on and on.
“WHEN WAS THE LAST time anyone saw a course marker?” I say. Silence. All I want right now is to be lying down. Please make this stop. One of the Lost Men says his GPS has us at 104 miles. This can’t be right. A sort of angst starts gnawing at me. If we’re really off course, there’s no telling how much longer it’ll take to find our way back on course again—but if this is really where I’m meant to be right now, well, then, I don’t like it. Could this uphill be a little blip on the downhill slope of the ∧? But it goes on so long, that just doesn’t seem credible.
At the side of the trail I see an extremely old man. His head is drooping forward, in a gesture of defeat. What’s this old man doing out here all by himself in the forest? Wait, that’s impossible. The old man turns into a burned-out pine tree. My mind is playing tricks on me. I see an infinity of trees and darkness. I contemplate the thought that one day all the stars will burn out and all the light will go out in the universe.
“Seriously, when was the last time anyone saw a course marker?” I say.
Silence from the Lost Men.
“How far have we gone?” I say.
“About 103,” says one of the Lost.
“About 106,” says another.
Am I ever getting out of here?
STOP. THINK. I REMEMBER something. In my pocket I have a little piece of laminated paper illustrating the sawtooth profile of the course. I don’t need to keep marching onward through the dark in despair. I need to stop. Think. Get my bearings. Make a plan. If I really am lost, so be it. I’ll deal with it. Better to know you’re lost and change course back in the right direction than keep heading in the wrong direction and ignoring the evidence of your eyes, trying to kid yourself you’re not really lost.
One time I did just that in the middle of the night about halfway through a 120-mile run in the mountains of British Columbia. I hadn’t seen a single soul in eons. In the pre-race meeting the day before, the race director said, “If you don’t see a course marker after you’ve gone a mile, assume you’ve gone off course, and turn around.”
There were supposed to be course markers every half-mile. I hadn’t seen one in I didn’t know how long. I was in a zombie state, marching ahead, oblivious to logic and the empty fire road that stretched farther into nowhere without the slightest trace of a course marking or another runner for a great long while. But by then I had invested such an effort down this dark, empty path, it felt like such a waste to give up on it, especially since I had not bothered to check my watch for some indeterminate passage of time and felt my mind drift into a state where that indeterminate stretch of time could have been five minutes as easily as fifty. I kept going. In this fatigue-induced state—a kind of regression into the delusions of magical omnipotence that characterize the minds of very young children—it then occurred to me that if there was any justice in the universe the course markers surely ought to appear soon enough simply because I had struggled so hard in the direction where in good faith I had imagined their existence. Yet as the trail wound farther into the darkness, the realization came to me that I was lost, and I turned back and ran the five miles I’d gone off course.
I made that mistake in British Columbia only a couple of years ago. I have no desire to repeat it. So I do stop and look at the course profile. I get my bearings right away. The course is just a single long descent to Heavenly. My memory had failed me. What I see now isn’t as simple as the up-down picture I have had in my mind. It’s more like this: ∧∧. At the top of the second smaller pyramid there’s a red dot, marking the aid station. Okay, now this makes sense: I’m done with the first big pyramid, and I’m somewhere on the upward slope of the second, smaller one. What a dumb way to spend my time. Who put that extra mountain there? Ri-dic-u-lous. I should quit. That’ll show ’em! Stop whining. You’re frickin’ exhausted is all. Get to Heavenly. It can’t be more than twenty minutes max from here. Miriam will be there. Emily and Andrew will be there. Then you’ll sit down. Soak your feet in ice water. Eat. And then you’ll get some kip. You’ll head out with Emily into a new day. Everyone’s done so much to help you. You absolutely cannot quit. Not yet, anyway . . .
THE TRAIL LEADS DOWN to the ski lodge, where I can see Miriam bundled up in warm clothes. There’s a man standing next to her whom I don’t recognize. “What do you need?” he says. This man is here to help me, it seems. What kindness exists in the universe: it is a marvel.
I sit down. Miriam wraps a sleeping bag around me. Kindness asks me again what I might need. “Food,” I say. He lists the foods available. Soup is among them. “Soup,” I say. “Can I get you anything else?” says Kindness, the Knower of Names. “Cold water for my feet,” I say. Kindness is gone, then reappears, bearing a cold chest filled with water. “Thank you,” I tell Kindness, the Granter of Wishes.
I take off my shoes and socks. I put my feet into the water. The cold soothes their painful swelling. I drink my soup.
Miriam and Kindness help me stand. I hobble inside the lodge to a large dining room that has been converted into a makeshift sleeping area. The whole room is full of exhausted runners, lying on the floor in sleeping bags. I can see their weary faces, hear the silence of the nighttime hours punctured by a chorus of moans and farts and snores. I lie down among them, my legs propped up on a chair, feeling my calf and thigh muscles stiffen and throb with pain, and join the chorus of moans.
“When would you like me to wake you?” says Kindness, looming above me now from my position laid out flat on an inflatable mattress on the floor. “Two hours,” I say. In the light of the ski lodge interior, the face of Kindness becomes visible. It’s Andrew. In my exhausted state, I hadn’t recognized him. I drift into the twilight between dreams and waking, and soon I am running in the dream forest, the convergence of the remembered trail and the paths that lead inward to everything imaginable. I watch the dream leaves dance in an imaginary wind and I become them.
VIII
Uranus
The Horizon
I wake after two hours of restless sleep. My body is as stiff as a board. It’s difficult to stand. I hobble downstairs on swollen, blistered feet to the communal bathroom. I’m moving really slowly. My mind’s not doing much better. It’s hard to think straight. Go to the bathroom . . . Stretch . . . Yes, that’s the right order . . .
Several runners are seated on chairs at the foot of the stairs, outside the bathroom, getting ready to head back out on the trail. Their faces have the crumpled and shattered look of souls drained into states of utter depletion, persevering on quests of mysterious purpose, like weary ghosts in exile from the world they once knew, someplace now faded and almost forgotten.
I go into the bathroom to splash some water on my face and clean my teeth. I see the man in the mirror: me. English male, disheveled . . . I’ve seen and thought and felt more in the past two days than the previous forty years. But there’s one thing I haven’t seen, because it’s invisible: Me. When I look in the mirror, my perspective flips from inside looking out to outside looking in, from I to me, between the world as it shows up in my awareness and the way I show up to others. They’re so unlike each other, this mirror me and I, it’s almost hard to believe we’re the same person.
I leave the bathroom. Andrew is in the lobby outside with Emily. She’s in her running clothes, after a few hours of sleep in her car, ready to go now. Andrew hands me a plate of food. It’s hard to get the food down. I have no sensation of hunger, my lips are chapped and dry from two days in the mountain sun, and for some reason my tongue hurts.
I take off my socks to inspect my foot damage. There are several blisters between the toes on both feet. I put some antibiotic cream on the blisters and wrap my toes with medical tape. I put my socks back on. I crouch on my hands and knees to do some yoga stretches to loosen up my shoulders, neck, legs, and back. Then I sit down, drink a cup of coffee, and put on a change of shoes.
“Ready?” says Emily. I nod yes. I feel more awake now, but not by much. I’ve slept four hours in the past forty-four. My head is fuzzy. I look at my watch. It’s around half past four in the morning. Between getting up and being ready to go, it’s been more than an hour.
I’m glad I took the time.
I grab my poles and follow Emily out of the lodge into the cold early morning air. As I get into a good hiking rhythm behind Emily, my mind starts clearing up and my legs feel more limber.
“Water,” says Emily.
I take a sip. “Thanks,” I say. I’m grateful for the reminder to stay hydrated. I’m 110 miles in. You run 50 miles on your own brain. Past that point, when the thinking mind turns off, you need a second brain, someone still awake and compos mentis who can do the thinking for you: a pacer, as they’re called. He or she might help set your physical pace, but for the most part their role is to remember and plan and reason when your brain can no longer perform those functions. Maybe you should drink something. Maybe you should eat something. Keep going, and you’ll get there in the end. Everyone knows that. In normal circumstances, yes. But not after you’ve run 110 miles. In my current state, the only thing I can remember is the need to keep moving. So it’s good I have Emily with me. As far as second brains go, I couldn’t hope for a better one.
The trail gains two thousand feet from Heavenly to Armstrong Pass. The rising sun in a cloudless azure sky casts the arid sand pyramid of Freel Peak above us in a golden aura. At close to ten thousand feet, the pass is the highest point of the course. The air is thinner at that altitude. I feel light-headed. The long, breathless slog uphill is worth it for the view. In the early morning light in the pure high-mountain air, every single visible thing, every tree and creek and peak and bird and flower, shines with a crystal luminosity. Nothing could have such crisp edges, such a shimmer of living radiance both outside and within. It is perfect. Complete. Unsurpassable.
We stand in the morning light, gazing across at the vast green wilderness and at the mountains far away.
WE ALL START OUT with the same view, the inside of a womb. But we’re each born into a different world. At first, it’s a blur: we ca
n see just far enough to glimpse Mom’s or Dad’s face. Our eyes flicker back and forth, the quick motions called saccades, shooting signals from the optic nerves to the brain, where over time the dance of light forms into names of things, a smile or a frown, a shoe or a spoon, and we learn that day turns into night and a leaf blows away but some things persist. Over time, we explore the terrain that stretches beyond the cradle, our house and neighborhood to the planet beyond. We find out that there are two ways of looking at things: the up-close-and-personal world of our own joys and worries and the wider world that extends to the Arctic pole and the troposphere and from there to Uranus. The ancient Greeks thought of Uranus as the god of the sky.
The brain has separate processes for those two distinct ways of seeing. Look at your hand and it is a single thing that belongs to you. The brain sends signals from sound and sight and touch to the top front layer of your brain. This allows you to shift your attention quickly to anything to the left or right, up or down. By the time the signals reach the regions of your brain that support so-called focal attention, they also have stimulated regions connected to memory and emotion and what happens to you and what is yours.
But look at the horizon from a high place or stare into the night sky and it’s not about you. Another neural pathway starts at the back of the brain and runs forward to the temporal and frontal lobes and supports a wider view: global attention. This is the way you see how objects stand in relation to one another rather than to yourself. Global attention enables you to see things beyond what’s you and yours, independently of your needs or their capacity to hurt or help you.
Running Is a Kind of Dreaming Page 20
