80 Degrees, and Up

I’ve been trying to tell myself, for the previous two hours, that it’s pointless to write properly when I’m tired and/or sleepy (the equivalent act of trying to fly over a canyon with a cloth and an undaunted trust at the gods of winds), so I don’t know why I’m here, at the advent of imminent exhaustion, trying to write when the words keep forgetting itself every three seconds.

I think someone is having an exam tomorrow, and while she won’t probably read this (she never does, I think, exams or otherwise), it’s still high-time to wish her all the best and go crazy with the broadsword.

I also think that I’ve forgotten something rather important, and I’d really, really hate to wake up in the morning cursing myself.

I’ve been trying to revisit Resident Evil 4 today, considering RE5 comes out on the 15th, forgetting that I absolutely suck in the game and have little tolerance of the constant flow of fear and tension. What transpired was a lot of shouting as I try to run haplessly away from crazed villagers while my mother bustled around telling me to clean my room.

(In the end, I got decapitated by Dr. Salvatore, or so I believe he’s called, with a chainsaw while getting stuck behind the staircase without the shotgun).

******

Sometimes I tell myself that Broga Hill is softcore while maintaining a certain allusion that it’s just as hardcore as things can be if you take away the extremities of what people always put themselves through. Hence, the allusion becomes an illusion and I pride myself rather pathetically for being able to scale a very easy hill weekly.

But extremities, as it tends to be, is what that makes up the greater portion of Life as we know and love, and while mostly avoidable, tends to present itself in the bare-faced grin only the Grim Reaper can give, hoods down.

Today was one of the extremities. It wasn’t the foliage of new, freshly trekked jungles unfamiliar to anyone. It wasn’t entirely the feeling of growing disappointment that middle-aged aunties (with leotard-tight, um, tights, and walking sticks) besting me in terms of stamina and endurance. It wasn’t the mosquitoes nor the several bugs that managed to find its way into my clothes every now and then. Truth is, I’ve been through most of them and I love them. I have a sense of naïve adventurism that’s just as it is, naïve.

Today’s extremity was the 80 degrees, almost perpendicular, almost Vertical Limit vertical slope we faced. Three times I said, “Hot Diggity Demon.”

And yet I surprised myself. I expected to die halfway up, my lungs collapsing inwards as my brain fall into pitch darkness, my legs failing as I tumble downwards and rolling on top of unseen rocks and burnt grass until my body lodge itself between two trees, which at that time meant that I’m as dead as the cadavers in India.

Somehow I get to keep going, and going, and going, and somewhere I wondered if it’s really out of the hands of muscles or cardiovascular endurance. It’s probably adrenaline or some sort of elixir-type rejuvenation caused by some obscured insect bite, giving me a temporary burst of strength.

No place to step. Find it. Climb. Step. Look up. Say Hot Diggity Demon. Climb. Step. Climb. Step. Slip. Climb. Oh FUCKING HELL IT ENDED.

It’s gonna hurt in the morning.

But strangely, as I say it, and believing it, it was wonderful. Great. Worth everything. No beautiful view at the top, no nothing. Just some minute sense of self-satisfaction that I didn’t die halfway up. It feels great. It feels like I can do it next week.

It’s just as extremities are. Going to and sometimes over your limits.

Yeah. I might just be able to do a bit more next time.

(And yet, for tomorrow and the days after, I will hate climbing the stairs to the office and ending up trying not to pant in front of colleagues).