Sickness and Cure

The Icefields Highway, Jasper National Park - Northern Canadian Rockies

SICKNESS:

My love is as a fever, longing still
For that which longer nurseth the disease;
Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
The uncertain sickly appetite to please.
My reason, the physician to my love,
Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,
Hath left me, and I desperate now approve,
Desire his death, which physic did except.
Past cure I am, now reason is past care,
And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;
My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,
At random from the truth vainly express'd;

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

- Sonnet 147, by William Shakespeare


CURE:

45mph speed limit – check.
60mph actual riding speed – check.

Back and abs tight, slight forward lean, arms loose, hands tight, big breath in, slow exhale… go!

Road curving right, position on far left of lane, the road falling away 1000 ft off the sheer face of the cliff, weight on left foot, leaning right into the turn, breath, throttle back – 65mph.

Leaning closer to the ground, right hand pushing the bar away, ass lifting off, adrenaline spiking, breath, neck tight, head up – looking for the end of the curve – 70mph.

Still can’t see the end of the curve, body off the bike entirely – getting closer and closer to the ground, breath, leaning on the throttle – 75mph.

Still no end in sight, heartbeat matching the trance in the eardrum – 100bpm…110bpm…120bpm, breath, knee almost to the ground – 80mph.

Face burning, the flush of adrenaline soaking me, beads of sweat running into my eyes, the sparks flying as the right peg scars the blacktop, I see the end of the turn, breath, almost there, throttle back, on the far right of the lane, stone wall of the cliff barely a meter away – it too is soaked from the tiny waterfalls covering its face, breath, throttle – 85mph.

G-forces subsiding, slowly sliding back onto the seat, pushing the bar back to the right, heart growing lighter, snow covered peaks revealing beyond – draped with skirts of pine, the sun slowly disappearing beyond a mass of granite… road curving left, speed – check, breath…


On The Book:
I discovered that writing on the road is damn near impossible, at least writing about something not related to the journeys and the travails of daily adventure. I've written many pages since leaving New york, but only a few that will be of any use in the book. Now that I'm in one place I can focus again, my head clear now from the solitary cleanse.
I also started my first translation - my grandmothers diary from the siege of Leningrad. It took 4 hours to the first page, and then another 4 to recover from what I have read...