Pain
by Titus Gee
My feet went numb in Bakersfield.
I lost the little toes first, then the others one by one. Then the left foot and the right.
Night had fallen before I left the office, headed north for a miniature family reunion (more on that in #13).
I took the 14 fwy, because it’s all there was. Traffic thinned above Rosamond, and by the time I hit the 58 in Mojave I was all alone with the truckers.
On Tehachapi summit the mercury fell to 25 degrees. At 60 mph the windchill drops that to 3 degrees.
I was going faster than that, with a headwind.
Cold.
Uh huh.
Last year I rode through the winter — rain, snow and all — but my longest night ride was the one-hour commute. I bought snowmobile gloves because letting my fingers go completely dead for two hours a day seemed like a bad idea for a writer, and the hunter’s hot packs I stuffed in my summer gloves only lasted 30 minutes.
I got a fleece face wrap, and a full rain kit (which my housemate dubbed the “super suit”). My favorite editor took pity and bought me some real, rechargeable glove warmers. So as I braved the wintry freeway I was toasty from the waist up. No boots or chaps, though. One piece at a time.
The numbness wasn’t so bad. It kind of felt like I was communicating with my feet by pinafore, but they know their jobs pretty well. The searing pain from mid-calf to upper thigh, on the other hand, proved a bit . . . distracting. After a while, my brain switched over to adventure mode.
My usual response to pain would be pretty standard — complain, avoid it, or hole up ’til it goes away. But adventure pain is different. Every adventure comes with some kind of discomfort. That’s part of what sets it apart from the boring 9-5. Adventure demands endurance. So, I’ve developed a little mental process for braving the pain without losing the excitement:
Step One — Accept it.
Dwelling on the fact that my knees feel like they’re being smashed by a hammer will not lessen that sensation. Neither will clenching every muscle in my body and whimpering. All that just makes it hurt more. I relaxed, and the pain eased . . . well, a little anyway.
Step 2 — Expect it.
Come on man. This isn’t the first time you’ve done something like this. Three hours is too long to “Hold out” for that distant moment when your brain stops screaming. Save the last ditch effort until the last ditch is a little closer. So I let the goal evaporate. My world shrinks down to the road, the wind, the engine, and the aching cold. It will probably be like this forever. And that’s OK.
Step 3 — Conquer it.
Bodybuilders push themselves to superhuman feats. Climbers summit mountains and reach out to the sky. Midnight riders face the pain. Make it my adversary and enduring becomes my conquest. Nothing feels better than victory and greater challenges just make the win more potent. I’m gonna win this one, man. Sub-zero wind chill and bone-jarring ache, is that all you got? Bring it on!
(Ever notice that bodybuilders and mountain climbers tend to look a little . . . crazed?)
I made Fresno at 10:30 and spent a few hours warming up and swapping adventure stories with my uncle, then hit the road again for a repeat campaign, this time through the darkest and coldest part of the night.
My feet went numb at Bakersfield.
I pulled into the driveway at dawn.
On Sunday I bought boots — leather and steel, the tallest I could find.
Might as well have the right weapons.
