10/11/2008

The Cleanse Words and Photos ~ Stephen Wilde Click images to enlarge.

The sun is blasting down its July maximum.  Pretty much a perfect day to be stretched out on a tranquil patch of sand.  Still.  Lying still, soaking up vitamin D.

I glance down and see blurs of movement.  The contrast is high and I catch just a glimpse of motion.  My eyes readjust to the hard shadows, my pupils dilating.  The soft, safe patch of sand in the sun is far from my mind and further from my body.

I pull my eyes down, forcing them to refocus on what lies ahead. Despite the harsh sun's attempt to penetrate the forest canopy, the trail remains damp and dark.  Roots the size of anacondas hold preciously to cracked chunks of granite...all strewn randomly in a slick fashion of slimy root and rock stretching down before the front tire of my bicycle.

Down.  This is a trail.  A mountain bike trail winding steeply down.  Again I catch a fleeting glimpse.  The blur is my riding partners.  Arthur Gaillot and Danu Huber.  They're rapidly descending through the steep slime-covered boulders and snotty-glossed roots.  I flex my fingers gently over the brakes, releasing and eding in the snarl lying ahead.  My brain has realized this danger.  I'm at risk.

My heart rate has risen,  almost twice its resting rate.  My blood threatens to push out of my veins.  My brain's amygdala tells my body I am afraid. My mouth is dry.  My stomach has butterflies, or rather hummingbirds.

I really feel like turning back.   I feel alone and very small in this old growth forest.  My rider partners are gone, dropping elevation at many feet per second.  I'm about to push gently down into something that could possible rip my arms from their sockets. 

Fear has turned my body into a chem lab.  I'm getting a massive dose of adrenalin, nonadrenalin and growth hormone.  All from sitting on a bicycle.  In milliseconds my brain's hypothalamus gives me corticotrophin, which is telling my adrenalin glands near my kidneys to start producing cortisol.

I edge closer and my breath is short.  I suck deep on the forest's oxygen-rich air and can't get enough.  My blood is diverted to now-important areas of my body, like my arms and legs - in one more second they'll be in charge of keeping me alive.  The loss of blood from my stomach region has given me the butterflies.  Adrenalin, nonadrenalin, growth hormone and cortisol still pump feverishly through my blood.

As I peer down the section of trail that's caused these reactions, my body goes a step further and starts to tap into its energy reserves, glucose, in anticipation of hard braking, handlebar wrangling and precision body manoeuvring.

In the seconds I've been sitting alone on the saddle of my two-wheeler, trying to see lines down what seems an impossible tangle, my body has prepared me for fear.

Stephen Carroll, band member of The Weakerthans, paddles solo out through the seemingly impossible surf breaks.  Each wave he conquers on is paddle out threatens to drag him under the murky churning abyss, snatching away his meagre supply of oxygen.

Once past the breakers , Stephen sits alone on his board.  There are no camera crews hovering from a sleek helicopter.  No gathering of 600mm lenses on the beach to record his efforts.  He sits and pulls deeply on the salted air, replenishing his depleted oxygen supply.  Part one of the battle is done.  Part two is about to take place.  He glances over his shoulder in anticipation of the wave that will push his body into fear mode again.

Everyone, regardless of his or her abilities, takes risks.  Those risks are relative to their experiences in life.  Or their comfort zones.  The people out there taking the biggest Vegas-style gambles for the camera crews...they happen to earn a living from risk - for our entertainment...so they have to.  To pay the rent.

The rest of us take risk to cleanse our souls.  To take in the deep breaths of oxygen.  To push fresh blood to all our ailing limbs and brains.  So what sets Arthur Gaillot or Stephen Carroll apart from Bob, whose comfort zone is the simple feat of crossing the street to purchase a double-shot Americano?  Maybe Bob has a phobia of being hit by a speeding Greyhound...so in his mind, he's taking his life into his own hands just to cross the street to purchase tha coffee.

Or the man standing on the curb.  Now a -35° day, there had earlier been freezing rain on top of melting snow. The temperature had dropped like a sack of dead dogs.  You know how it does that in Calgary.  The man was standing at the curb.  An older man.  There was a glaze on the street. The previous rains and melted slush, combined with the frigid temperature had turned the street into a surface suitable for a Flames game.

The man was standing on the far side of the street, waiting to cross.  When the light turned green he edged out with his crutches, making little slipping movements on the iced-over street. He hobbled three steps.  On the fourth my heart leaped into my mouth in that clichéd way it does in the unexpected presence of something really bad...the man's crutches slip out in one smooth motion and he slams straight down on his weather-worn face.  I rush over and offer unwanted help.  He is determined to get up on his own.  His ego roughly damaged. His face not so torn up.

The man was obviously determined to get out of his home that day.  I would say that for him this was a form of adventure, considering the state of the streets and the frigid temperatures. Was this what drove him to go outside?

Risk isn't the main factor for the man cossing the street, or for Stephen Carroll doing a solo mission out through the breakers.  The main element present is the fact that we all choose our own way to clean out built-up anxieties of everyday life.  To take away the horn honks, the evil glares, the nasty week's worth of pent up frustrations.

For me the anger all gets ripped out of my skull the second I glance down teh trail at the terrain I'm about to navigate.  The thoughts of the week are swept out.  Just the cleansing sound of a distant grouse ruffling its feathers.  The breeze through the old growth forest. My brain is being cleaned.  The rot of the week is taken away.  And even though I'm well aware of the dangers that are ahead and my body is frantically warning me to use even more caution than I am...I need to do this. For the cleanse, I push my thought of ripped body parts out.

Arthur Gaillot, Danu Huber, Stephen Carroll, the old man crossing the street, myself and millions of others take into consideration all our experiences of risk. That on the split-second moments of sitting on the edge of fear, thoughts of turning back are overridden by the strong backing of experience and faith that the odds will be in our favour despte the obvious dangers.  To clean out our branks today.  To find the tranquil patch of sand tomorrow, when our bodies will really need the rest and the vitamin D.

Words and Photos ~ Stephen Wilde

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