by Patrick Gray
When the coach called out a player’s name, that player would enter the center of the circle, and when the whistle blew, his job was to lower his shoulders and hit any player who challenged him—which always seemed to be one of the biggest guys. As two of the scrawniest players on the team, Justin and I were both petrified at the possibility of hearing our names and having to step into the ring. Somehow, Justin escaped this fate, but I wasn’t so lucky. On more than one occasion, I suffered a beatdown from players who seemed twice my size.
To this day, I wonder whether Justin still harbors some mild resentment toward me for convincing him to play football. On the other hand, allowing your best friend to talk you into a situation where you find yourself entirely outmatched makes for great stories and even better life lessons. I take this hope with me as I scale the fence.
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As I drop to the stone-paved surface of the plaza, a small voice screams in my head: What in the world are you doing? But Justin’s persuasive words are considerably louder, and I’m actually thinking, I’ve got this!
For the past hour, I’ve been studying the various techniques of the men in the plaza who have successfully dodged the advancing bulls. As near as I can tell, there are two recipes for success. One is to convince one of these large animals to chase you and then dive out of the way at the last possible moment. The second strategy is to stand in the path of a charging bull, fake a step to one side as the bull approaches to get him to slightly change direction, and then lunge in the opposite direction as the bull goes by.
As I stand at the west end of the plaza, with the church to my right and safety on the other side of the fence to my left, a surge of adrenaline begins to work its way through my bloodstream. I can feel the slight tingling sensation and jitteriness grow. When two shadows appear on either side of me, I realize I am no longer alone. Glancing to my right, I see Ted.
“What are you doing out here?” I shout.
He just smiles and says, “Justin told me to do it.”
I can’t argue with that.
To my left, I find Mike, with a camera.
“I’m catching this on film!” he says.
It’s too late to challenge their decision to join me. The moment I look toward the other end of the plaza, I see the two larger bulls running off to the left around a corner while the two smaller, more aggressive bulls come charging in our direction. A bare-chested man waving his shirt distracts one of the bulls, but the other is lumbering straight toward us. In an instant, Mike bolts for the fence with Ted right on his heels, and I’m left standing there—alone again. For the briefest moment, I can see Justin looking at me through a gap in the fence, but I can’t tell if he’s terrified for me or laughing his brains out.
With the beast now ten feet away, I lunge to my right—just like I practiced it in my mind—to convince the bull to change direction. He shifts slightly but still has me dead center between his twelve-inch horns. As I jump back to my left, I see him lower his head, ready for the gore.
Panicked now, I begin an incredibly uncoordinated pirouette—but as my head and body rotate to the left, my feet are slow to follow.
“Ohhhhh nooooo!” I shout as I lower my right hand to chest level in an effort to push myself away from the half-ton of mayhem that is about to collide with my body.
For a fraction of a second, my hand lands on the bull’s horn as its massive shoulder brushes my rib cage.
He missed!
With limbs moving in all directions, I flail my way back to the fence and scramble up and over like a deranged spider monkey. When my feet touch ground on the safe side of the fence, I hear nothing but laughter. Ted is laughing. Mike is laughing. Robin is laughing. Complete strangers are laughing and smacking me on the back. But no one is laughing as loud or as hard as Justin.
“Dude, your eyes were the size of silver dollars!” he shouts. “I can’t believe he didn’t get you. That was awesome!” Justin hunches over in his chair as laughter consumes him.
Robin steps to my side and says in his thick French accent, “You touched a horn!”
“Does it count if I didn’t mean to?”
Pointing across the square at a couple of young men, he tells me to listen. I can’t make out everything they’re saying, but I do hear the words americano and estúpido.
“Are they calling me stupid?” I ask Robin.
He shakes his head and says, “Not exactly. They’re calling you a ‘stupid macho American.’ Another pilgrim tried the same thing last night and was taken to the hospital because he was gored. You were lucky.”
I don’t know what to make of what just happened. Justin just talked me into doing one of the dumbest things of my life, and I put up little resistance. I can’t help but wonder whether, on some level, this is payback for football. I guess we’re even.
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— JUSTIN —
I will never forget the look on Patrick’s face when he realized Ted was standing next to him out there among the bulls, or the size of his eyes when he began to move in a way that seemed to defy the laws of physics. I didn’t know a person’s toes could point in one direction while his head and torso were going the opposite way. But I’m glad he didn’t get hurt, and I’m glad he seized the opportunity.
Patrick knows this, but I would have given anything to have been out there in the fray with him. I love my life and am grateful for everything I get to experience. But in times like these, I can’t deny there’s a sting. I want to be out there running with the bulls, risking my life alongside Patrick for a good story. But in these moments, I have a choice: I can let my limits ruin me, or I can let them go. If I can’t catch a bull by its horn, the next best thing is to watch my best friend do it for me.
Patrick and I have often found ourselves outmatched by our circumstances. But we’ve learned that if we live in fear and never try, if we never attempt something scary or daunting, we can’t know what limits we possess. If we don’t push ourselves, the only limits we face are the ones we place on ourselves, the ones we fabricate in our minds.
It may sound simplistic, or even ridiculous, but something was triggered in Patrick today. His near miss with the bull was validation that he is capable of far more than he thinks he is. He doesn’t know it yet, but change is coming. I can feel it.
12UNEXPECTED
— PATRICK —
SEVERAL DAYS HAVE PASSED since my run-in with the bull, and with a hundred miles now behind us, Ted’s departure is drawing near. Eight days into our adventure, my body is weary from constantly pushing, but I feel rejuvenated from the break we took yesterday in the small metropolis of Logroño. A day off from the trail offered time to stretch my muscles, rest my body, and take in the city’s slow-paced culture. Much of our time was spent enjoying café con leches and Spanish tortillas for breakfast, and rich Tempranillo wine with paella for dinner in the courtyard at the center of the city.
Now on the trail, I can see Ted is beginning to move slower as his time here winds down. He has given 150 percent every step of the way in an effort to ensure that Justin and I have the greatest chance of success on this journey. Giving beyond what his body could reasonably do, I think he has hurt himself in the process. Even with a limp, Team Ted continues to help move us forward.
The seventeen miles from Logroño to Nájera are relatively uneventful. As we near our destination, we have the pleasure of meeting Carl and Deborah, two pilgrims in their late forties or early fifties whose journey has some obvious parallels to ours. Deborah has multiple sclerosis, and her small, frail body has suffered much from the disease. But she is mentally strong. As Carl cares for her, the love we see between them is astounding. Carl, who is tall and lean, has been walking nearby roads that parallel the Camino, while Deborah rolls alongside in her power wheelchair. They are only able to do segments of the trail where they can find places to recharge her wheelchair battery, but their commitment to each other and to the Camino is absolutely beautiful.
Watching Carl, I
am reminded of Justin’s wife, Kirstin, who bathes him, dresses him, and tends to his every need with a willing heart. Her background as a nurse has made the mechanics of caretaking easier, but the emotional strength required to care for someone you love is remarkable. Kirstin knew this was in her future when she married Justin, but she still said “I do.” It’s a brave and beautiful thing to give yourself to someone so completely.
After parting ways with Carl and Deborah, we continue on into town. As with so many of the quaint and beautiful towns we’ve been through, one night in Nájera doesn’t seem nearly enough to appreciate the city for what it is. Still, after finding a place to rest our heads for the coming night, we drop off our backpacks and head out to explore as much as we can.
It isn’t long before we happen upon a large courtyard surrounded by souvenir shops, bars, and restaurants. We couldn’t care less about souvenirs, but a cold drink and dinner are high on our priority list. As we wait for our meals to be served, we find ourselves surrounded by a number of pilgrims we’ve met along the way, including Carl and Deborah. But there are also quite a few new faces.
I strike up a conversation with an American named Christie, who is sitting to my left at the end of a long string of tables. Her golden hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and her bright blue eyes match her inviting smile. Judging by her sun-kissed skin and strong, lean frame, she has spent a lot of time outdoors.
Christie has been walking the Camino with a friend, but her friend has suffered a foot injury and will be returning to the States in the morning. This means Christie will be walking the rest of the Camino alone.
As I enjoy my meal and give Justin bites of his paella—filled with chunks of chorizo, chicken, and shrimp—Christie asks about our Camino experience.
“We’re headed all the way to Santiago—at least Justin and I are. Ted leaves in a few days.”
“Doing this in a wheelchair is pretty crazy.”
“Yeah, we get that a lot.”
Soon, Ted and Justin join in, and we all have a lively conversation.
As we finish our meals, I turn to face Christie and ask, “What’s your plan now that your friend is leaving?”
Before she can answer, Justin says, “You should join us tomorrow!”
Christie looks at the three of us and says, “Oh, I don’t know. I think I’m going to go it alone for a while. I need to figure some things out.”
She seems reluctant, so we don’t press the issue, and after a while we head back to our rooms. Before we go, we tell Christie where we are staying and what time we’re planning to leave, in case she changes her mind.
Back at the hotel, it’s time for us to shower. Not many people find themselves giving their best friend a shower, but as I soap and rinse Justin, I’m reminded of Carl and of Kirstin. This is a privilege. It may be work at times; it may mean I’m the first one up in the morning and the last to bed, but to have the opportunity to tangibly express my love for my friend, to serve him, is a gift I cherish.
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The first time I gave Justin a shower, I was visiting him in San Diego to give Kirstin a break from caring for their three kids and her husband while also working outside the home. It wasn’t long after Justin had lost the use of his hands, so having others bathe him was still a relatively new experience.
The kids were in the living room while Justin and I went into the bathroom. As I helped him get undressed, he said, “I never thought I’d see the day when you would be taking my clothes off.”
“Me neither.”
As I wrapped my arms around him and lifted him onto the seat inside the shower, Justin laughed and said, “New territory for the both of us!”
In my years as a nurse, I’ve helped countless patients bathe, but this was very different.
“You’re now officially the vice president of my inner circle,” Justin said.
“What do you mean?”
“Kirstin’s the president, and now you’re vice president of my inner circle—the people who have had the pleasure of seeing me naked.”
I just laughed, grabbed the spray nozzle, and began washing his hair.
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— JUSTIN —
In the morning, the air is crisp and cool. While Patrick helps me get dressed, I sing a little song to him, as I have done every morning since Bayonne. Today’s version goes like this:
There’s Pat
Puttin’ on my socks
Puttin’ on my socks
He’s puttin’ on my socks
After three rounds of my spontaneous ditty, Patrick is smiling and laughing. If I can’t dress myself, I will bring the comic relief.
Once I’m dressed, Ted bundles me up with my fleece jacket and fleece-lined chaps, which are like a miniature sleeping bag without a zipper. Ted drapes the chaps across my legs and tucks my feet into the pocket at the end. After securing the chaps around the leg rests of my wheelchair with one of the straps sewn into the fabric of the chaps, Patrick wraps a second strap around my waist to keep them from sliding down as we travel. We eat a quick breakfast at the hotel, but not before I find myself in timeout again. Before he grabs our food, Patrick realizes I’m facing a corner.
“Sorry about that, Skeez!” he says with a chuckle as he turns me around. I think he may have done it on purpose this time. After we enjoy some eggs and coffee, we’re ready to get back on the trail.
As Ted washes down the last of his eggs with coffee, he looks at Patrick and then locks eyes with me.
“I don’t like the thought of you guys being on your own.”
As he stands to throw his backpack over his shoulder, he continues, “Tomorrow is my last day, and you guys are going to need some help.”
With only a day and a half left with us before he has to fly home and return to work, the thought of Ted leaving gives us pause. Team Ted has been instrumental in getting us this far, but we have almost four weeks left on the trail before we reach Santiago.
Ted walks ahead of Patrick and opens the door so Patrick can push me outside. As we step into the chilly, early-morning air, the surrounding buildings cast lengthy shadows along the street. The one exception is a small park bench directly across from the hotel, bathed in brilliant sunlight streaming through a gap between the buildings.
Sitting on the bench is a young pilgrim with long blonde hair and a backpack resting at her feet. Bent over, she is cinching her hiking boots tight, but she raises her head when she hears us come outside. With a huge smile on her face, Christie is ready to push. Help has arrived.
Soon after we begin our walk, we are joined by John, a sixty-year-old retired US Naval officer and recycling specialist from San Diego, and Lynda, a young Canadian who teaches English at a school in Barcelona. Willing to lend a hand, they jump in to push or pull whenever necessary.
My backside is starting to get pretty sore again from the trail, and though my chair’s shocks reduce the jarring of my bones, I need another break from the rocky dirt path. Consulting our guidebook, we see that a highway, N-120, parallels the Camino for most of today’s stretch to Santo Domingo de la Calzada. With this revised plan for the day, we work our way down a short stretch of trail to N-120.
As we set a comfortable pace along the paved roadway, Christie volunteers to push me so Patrick and Ted can just walk for a while. On the inclines, John and Lynda step in to help push and pull. For the first hour, the road is smooth and quiet. Pleased with our decision, my body is thanking us for the alternate route.
But not for long.
In our second hour of travel, traffic has increased dramatically. A multitude of cars, pickups, and semis are now speeding past us at seventy miles per hour, and we feel as if we’re suddenly on the edge of a heavily traveled freeway. With no way to get off the road, we cross to the left-hand side, where at least we can see the traffic coming. Our situation now is anything but safe, and Patrick decides to move out front and start waving to get the attention of oncoming drivers. Most vehicles veer to the middle of the
road to give us a few feet of room as they fly by, but some drivers insist on hugging the shoulder, missing us by a foot or so.
We soon learn from the film crew why so much traffic is barreling down a road that is supposed to be minimally traveled. A parallel freeway, A-20, is closed for construction, and every car, van, and truck has been diverted onto N-120, which is essentially a frontage road. With no way out of our current plight, we must simply make the best of the day. Christie, Ted, John, Lynda, and Patrick alternate between the jobs of pushing, pulling, and warning oncoming traffic.
Like so much of life, challenges come when you least expect them.
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As I pulled into my driveway, the sky had already gone black, like a splash of ink backlit by a million tiny pinpricks of light. Inside our small turn-of-the-century home, my wife, Kirstin, and Jaden, our rambunctious toddler, had long since gone to bed. In our second year of parenting, we were still learning the ropes, and life had become even more chaotic when I launched my own graphic design business.
I shifted my green Toyota Tundra into park and killed the engine. When I stepped down onto the worn concrete pad, I used the side of the truck to steady myself as I worked my way around to the other side, one fragile step at a time, to where a short, curving walkway led up to the gated front porch.
The Southern California evening air was fresh and crisp—unusual for that time of year—and an eerie quiet hung over the neighborhood. Only the faint, distant hum of traffic challenged the occasional chirping of crickets, and a random scattering of porch lights pushed back against the night.
I lifted my right leg to step onto the raised walkway, but the six-inch riser proved too much and my legs folded underneath me. They had been getting weaker over the past few months, but this time it felt like someone had taken a baseball bat to the back of my knees. Going down hard and rolling onto my left shoulder, I was completely taken by surprise. I had become accustomed to stumbling or falling every now and then, but this was uncharted territory.
