In the fourteen years since English 101, I have discovered my personal voice, the joy in the struggle of the craft, and the wrestling mat where I make sense of the world.
Somewhere amidst the Hawaiian shirts and bridge-playing fogeys, French-fried buffets and almost-innumerable hand sanitizer dispensers, Crystal and I surrendered to tourism.
I had not challenged myself as I’ve grown the reputation of doing, and we all knew it.
Today, one of my clients wished me a weekend free of injury, as “me and the boys” tackle the Gauley River marathon: 26+ miles of whitewater with 100 classed rapids, a handful of which are class V or V+. I told Marla, “Well, it’s not likely I’ll get hurt. It’s one of those deals where [...]
There’s one line, for me, that always seems as thin as a moment, at most a few minutes: the line between I can’t and I just did.
We smirked at the implication: America is vanilla.
“Yeah, dude. Jimmy earned his tip today. This is what I paid for,” I’d reply. “And I’m just happy to be here.”
There’s substance beyond the conquering, below the dreams crossed off life’s to-do list, above the totem pole carved for legacy.
I’ll bask in the glow of retrospect and well-timed photographs. I’ll keep the ease and simplicity to me and Timmy, the recollection to a grand story.
Copyright © 2012 Ryan George
