I'll Push You

by Patrick Gray

  At dusk, we reach our destination, only to find all the inns are full. Terry was able to secure lodging for himself, but albergues don’t hold beds for pilgrims. It’s a first-come, first-served business model, and we are dead last. Frustrated, but resigned to the necessity of moving on, we retrieve our headlamps from our backpacks and begin the three-mile trek to the town where Mike, Jasper, and Robin are spending the night.

  With the wind picking up, the temperature begins to drop, so we stop briefly to bundle Justin against the cold. Heading straight into the wind, I suddenly realize how incredibly tired I am. Surrendering the handlebars to Ted to push Justin onward to the town of Obanos, I drop back and moderate my pace, grateful to be able to just walk for a while. In the darkening countryside, I’m thinking of my grandpa and the bird feeder. As a smile crosses my face, lightning illuminates the sky to our left, marking the approach of another storm. My thoughts scatter with a renewed sense of urgency, and we push on.

  By the time we reach Obanos, the darkness of the night makes the town roads difficult to navigate. Even though Terry called ahead to let the other guys know we’re coming, we have no idea where to find them. Around ten thirty, with our lamps on high beam and a stroke of luck, we stumble across our film crew in the heart of town. Tired, grumpy, and hungry, we find some food. After the usual routine of getting Justin into our room, we settle in for the rest and recuperation we so desperately need.

  As I drift off to sleep, my mind wanders through the events of the day—the challenges, the shortcut, back to thoughts of my grandfather—and finally rests on God.

  Many people grab on to a concept of God as judgmental and angry, as someone who causes strife simply to teach us lessons or toy with us. I don’t profess to understand the creator of the universe, but I have no time for a divine puppeteer who throws obstacles in our way for his own amusement. The God I believe in is a God of love and compassion, much like a loving parent or my wise grandfather.

  My grandpa didn’t set me up for failure, but he didn’t intervene to keep me from making a mistake. He simply used my bird-feeder mishap to teach me an incredibly valuable lesson—take time, evaluate, and learn from my mistakes.

  Today was a frustrating day, and the challenges could easily have been avoided. But even though I ignored the lesson I had learned from my grandfather, being reminded of the wisdom that can dwell in simple tasks affirms so much of what we’ve done.

  I don’t know exactly what my grandpa meant when he said, “No matter what, measure twice and cut once! This applies to woodworking and people!” but I’m pretty sure today qualifies. We didn’t measure twice by double-checking the map, and we ignored the absence of yellow arrows. As a result, our shortcut was anything but short. Yet so often in life, it’s easy to take the path of least resistance in hopes of something easier around the next bend.

  I don’t believe that God litters our lives with obstacles, but he certainly doesn’t just take them away or prevent us from making wrong decisions. He lets us walk the path we choose, and he lets us encounter the struggles of life, hoping we will learn and grow from each experience.

  Today I’m grateful for this.

  No more shortcuts!

  10PADDY WAGON AND SKEEZ

  — PATRICK —

  JUSTIN AND I HAVE BEEN together twenty-four hours a day for the past ten days, and we’ve also had Ted and the film crew by our sides. Despite the challenges of the Pyrenees, the broken wheel, getting lost, and our constant and intense proximity, our spirits are high.

  Since our run-in with the Spanish police, we have taken to calling Robin “The Fixer.” He solves problems, gets us out of tight situations, and makes sure the cameras and equipment are running smoothly. We didn’t come up with that nickname on a whim; he earned it, and it’s a name he clearly enjoys.

  Robin isn’t the only one with a nickname on the Camino. Ted is a beast—not because of his size but because of his fierce determination, strength, and willpower—and we’ve all begun referring to him as “Team Ted.” He may be only one individual, but he gets as much done as a team of people.

  Team Ted recently began calling me Paddy after hearing it from Justin over the past week. And Justin has been Skeez for as long as I can remember.

  Paddy and Skeez—there’s something powerful in nicknames that become terms of endearment. There’s a history behind any nickname that sticks for as long as ours have. And we’re reminded of their origin every time we hear them.

  | | |

  — JUSTIN —

  My father, Jim, is the original Skeez, dating back to his college days, but Patrick felt it worked for me as well while we were growing up, and the name stuck. It wasn’t long before all our friends knew me as Skeez.

  Patrick, on the other hand, had no familial history of nicknames. So I worked with what I had—and thus began a litany of iterations of Patrick’s name. Some lasted only a moment; others a few weeks or months. I believe the order went something like this:

  “Patricia?”

  Nope. Apparently that falls into the realm of insult.

  “Patty Melt?”

  Nope.

  “Patio Furniture?”

  Nope.

  “Paddy McGroin?”

  A tip of the cap to Patrick’s Irish ancestry. But nope.

  “Paddy McCrotch?”

  Nope, for all the same reasons.

  “Spatty?”

  This worked for a while, but just didn’t seem to fit the way I wanted it to.

  “Paddy Wagon?”

  We found a winner! I don’t know why it stuck, but it did, and I started calling him Paddy Wagon everywhere we went. Patrick didn’t seem to mind, and the name never really got old. Paddy Wagon and Skeez—that’s how we were known for years. But just because something works doesn’t mean there isn’t a better option out there somewhere.

  I don’t recall exactly when it happened, but it was sometime during our middle school years. One of us had just returned from a summer family vacation, so we had been apart longer than our usual twenty-four-hour limit. If I remember correctly, Patrick had just arrived in my driveway on his bicycle, and I was pretty excited to see him. I don’t know what came over me, but I squinted my eyes and tilted my head back while out of my mouth erupted a loud, high-pitched, and prolonged “PAA-DDY!”

  As Patrick walked toward me, his head dropped slightly forward and began to turn from side to side. I could see the rise and fall of his shoulders as he laughed. There it was—the pitch-perfect name that had eluded me for so long. I had been so close and had finally found the name that would stick forever.

  Out here on the Camino, he hears Paddy more often than Patrick, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

  | | |

  The past few days have been especially rough on my backside, lower back, and neck. In an effort to give my body and wheelchair a break from the rugged trail, we decide to travel along a paved road that parallels the path of the Camino. Shortly after leaving Obanos, we work our way from the trail onto pavement.

  As soon as we get out on the road, a cyclist speeds past us, shouting, “¡Buen Camino!” But he’s moving much faster than any other cyclist we’ve met.

  Within seconds, four more cyclists power past us, and it doesn’t take long to realize we’re in the middle of a bike race—and clearly not competing. Over the next few minutes, sixty or more cyclists rush past us in their pursuit of those up ahead; and for the next two hours, as the sun beats down on our backs and radiates off the pavement, this same stream of cyclists keeps passing by. Apparently they’re riding some kind of loop. Each time they pass, the cheers and shouts of “¡Buen Camino!” get louder and grow in number. The joy in their voices distracts us from the heat and our sore feet.

  A scattering of their fans along the roadside also cheer us on, and now we’re laughing at the situation because we’ve tried multiple times to find a way back to the Camino path, to no avail. Instead, we continue to press forward, in the middle of the race, staying
to the left side of the road while cyclists whiz by on our right.

  As Ted and Patrick begin powering my chair up a long hill, we see two tables with sunshades at the top. After a slow and steady climb, we approach the summit and can see that one of the tables is covered in bananas, cut in half, and the other is stocked with shiny packets of energy gel reflecting in the sun. Several volunteers stand at the ready, passing out bananas for cramps and gel packs for energy to the fatigued cyclists.

  As we begin to crest the hill, the volunteers cheer and clap for us while filling our pockets with banana halves and packets of the not-so-tasty energy gel. Ted and Patrick are repeatedly smacked on the back and shoulders by strangers who are smiling and shouting out words of encouragement in Spanish. Many of these same people hug me in my chair and give me looks of admiration. We are laughing at how crazy this day is, and we’re overjoyed by the reception we receive from these complete strangers.

  Now on a flat stretch of road, we finally leave the bike race behind, making our way back onto a smooth section of the Camino trail, and continue our day’s journey to Estella. When we arrive in town, we find lodging and get cleaned up before dinner. Ted and Patrick have angry feet from the hard pavement, so they exchange their sweaty shoes for the flip-flops they have stuffed in their backpacks.

  Estella is a beautiful town, and the central plaza buzzes with the happy sounds of local denizens who are out for dinner and drinks after a long day’s work. As we sit at an outdoor table enjoying a cold beer, other pilgrims filter into town, and a couple of Germans we met briefly on the trail from Pamplona join us at our table.

  Ziggy and Dietmar, both in their sixties, are brothers walking a section of the Camino. Dietmar is taking his brother on the pilgrimage for his birthday. Their trek is ending soon, and this is one of the last times we’ll see them. We welcome the opportunity to enjoy dinner with these new friends before they return home. As we eat, we recount for them the details of our inadvertent entry in the bike race, and we all have a good laugh at our incredible circumstances.

  | | |

  — PATRICK —

  With the sun hanging low in the sky and shadows beginning to swallow up the town square, I excuse myself to take a bathroom break. When I return, everyone at the table is deeply engrossed in animated conversation. Justin looks up, and as we make eye contact, he smiles and shouts out, “PAA-DDY!” in that unique, high-pitched way of his—like two half notes on the upper register of the piano, descending from D-sharp to C-sharp.

  I can’t help but tilt my head down, shake it from side to side, and laugh. Justin laughs with me, and the joy on his face is infectious. By the time I reach the table, he is leaning forward in his chair and laughing so hard that his eyes have smiles all their own.

  Paddy and Skeez may just be silly names from our childhood—but every time Justin calls me Paddy, I am taken back to riding bikes across town, snowball mishaps, shared groundings for shared mischief, and any of a number of moments we have crafted together.

  Right now, though, I’m taken back just a few hours to finding ourselves in the middle of a bike race on the Camino de Santiago.

  Who we are has grown by one more memory. We have grown by one more story, one more shared experience, one more adventure.

  11TAKING THE BULL BY THE HORNS

  — JUSTIN —

  TODAY’S STOP, LOS ARCOS, is a small town between Estella and Logroño, about forty miles west of Pamplona. It has taken us six days to make it this far, but this section of the Camino is relatively uneventful and goes by quickly.

  With an intense sun beating down on our heads and shoulders, we enter the town square—Plaza de Santa María—and are greeted with applause from many of the pilgrims we have met along the way as they sit at tables in the center of the square, enjoying cold beer and food from the nearby cafés. With the sun still high overhead, Patrick orders food for the three of us, and we sit outside the Church of Santa María, enjoying a light afternoon breeze.

  While we eat, we learn from our fellow pilgrims that the town’s 1,100 or so residents are about to spend the evening running with bulls. In just a few short hours, this courtyard will be fenced off and large bulls will be turned loose to lumber through the streets and throughout the square, while smaller, more aggressive bulls chase down whoever stands in their path.

  This we have to see!

  We were in Pamplona much too early to witness the Festival of San Fermín, known for its running of the bulls. But now, as luck would have it, we’re about to have front-row seats for a different version of running with bulls. Uncertain about how the festivities will be organized, we decide to wait right where we are in the square.

  “Can you take our packs and check us in at one of the albergues?” Patrick asks Ted. “We’ll stay here and save us a spot to watch this.”

  “Sure!” Ted responds. “I can’t believe we’re going to get to watch a bunch of idiots get chased by bulls!”

  As afternoon approaches evening, the number of people in the plaza seems to double every fifteen minutes or so. Soon a group of men begin moving seven-foot-tall sections of thick fencing into place at the end of the square, blocking the archway that leads to where Ted has gone to look for lodging. Side streets are soon barricaded, and a Spanish gentleman approaches us to let us know we’re not safe where we’re seated. Seeking his advice about a better location, we are directed to a section along the north side of the square, opposite the church, where a number of people have already gathered. Patrick steps in behind my chair, releases the brakes, and we relocate to the designated safe area.

  The crowd continues to grow, and soon the same men who barricaded the streets are lining our spectators’ section with similar fencing. We haven’t thought this through. It is now four thirty in the afternoon, we’re completely fenced in, and the fence will not come down till after seven.

  “Looks like we’re watching the whole thing,” I say to Patrick.

  After successfully securing beds for all three of us, Ted returns just as the festivities are about to begin. At five o’clock, a bell sounds and two massive brown-and-white bulls come trotting down a side street to our left. Cheers explode from the crowd around us. The men in the square begin to wave their hands, hats, and shirts to get the attention of these huge animals, but the beasts show little interest. Then another bell rings, and the real excitement begins. Two more bulls appear—smaller, but moving much faster. These two are much more inclined to be enticed by the many attempts to get their attention.

  Soon, the thirty or so men out in the square are voluntarily placing themselves in the path of danger, and we begin to understand what kind of game is afoot. The idea is to touch the horn of a bull without getting knocked down or gored. Near miss after near miss, the bulls charge and people dance out of the way. Finally, we hear the crowd explode as a young man successfully grabs a horn while dodging another bull’s charge. Seeing this, I turn to Patrick and say, “You should go out there! When will you ever have another chance to run with bulls?”

  “Are you kidding?” he says. “Those things are huge. And if I get gored, you’re screwed!”

  “Don’t worry,” I say with a smile, “I have Ted.”

  Ted looks at me kind of funny. “I’m only here for a few more days,” he says, “and if Paddy gets hurt, you really are screwed!”

  I continue to work on them, and before long they are second-guessing their decision to take the safe route.

  Looking out at the square, Patrick says, “It’s true we’ll never have this chance again. You only live once, right?”

  Turning to Ted, he says, “But we can’t both get hurt. Only one of us can go.”

  “Then it should be you,” Ted says with a smile.

  As Patrick begins to climb the fence to enter the plaza, I’m laughing to myself. He has always been one for an adrenaline rush. Whether rock climbing or jumping off cliffs, he has always had a little thrill-seeking in his blood. But honestly, I didn’t think he would take the ba
it.

  | | |

  — PATRICK —

  When Justin and I entered ninth grade, I went out for the football team. Our high school didn’t yet have a soccer program, so Justin waited for spring to play tennis.

  At six feet three inches, I was tall for a freshman, but I weighed only 145 pounds—not exactly the classic frame for a football player. Still, I enjoyed the game, and even though I wasn’t very fast, I had decent hands. That first year, I saw some playing time as wide receiver, but with daily practices and weekly games, I had a lot less time to spend with Justin during the season.

  Before the start of our sophomore year, I hatched a plan to get more time with my best friend. Since Justin wasn’t involved in a fall sport, I told him it only made sense for him to join me on the football field.

  “Think how much time we’ll have together!” I said. “And we’ll be in excellent shape for the ladies.”

  Though Justin initially rejected my brilliant suggestion, I eventually wore him down after weeks of badgering. He decided to join the team just in time for two-a-day practices, which commenced a couple of weeks before the start of school. The combination of summer heat and intense physical activity had us both shedding pounds from our already lean frames and eating food by the plateful.

  Despite Justin’s small size and lack of football experience, the coaches put him on the defensive line, while at six foot three and 155 pounds, I continued playing wide receiver. Though it’s difficult to admit, I wasn’t very good, but somehow I made the team two years in a row. Justin, however, was terrible. In hindsight, I feel kind of bad for talking him into playing, but at the time I was just glad there was someone worse than me on the field.

  Every practice seemed to start or end with all the players gathered in a multilayered circle, with the coaches in the middle. This massive huddle, with the biggest and meanest players always closest to the center, was a source of deep-seated fear for both Justin and me. Inevitably, the coaches would vacate the middle of the circle and initiate a drill known as “bull in the ring.”