So for the last three months I’ve been diligently working at rejuvenating my more than slightly used mind and body. I’m eating so healthy it makes me sick. I work out just about every day to the point where I’m pretty much constantly in pain. I want to hurt the person who coined the phrase, “Feel the Burn.”
I finally have an event that provides a “why”, as in why am I doing this to myself. I’m going to connect with my son in Southern California and do the San Diego Five Peak Challenge. The peaks are not Everest-like, but they do have a very challenging elevation gain in a short distance. The trails are basically straight up, very narrow, rutted and sandy which adds to the fun. The piece of resistance, there’s no shade. But I’m not concerned, much. For 90 days I’ve been working out as if I’m preparing for an Olympic Steeplechase event, I’m ready.
My first bump in the road, a 6:30AM flight to San Diego. This required me to leave my house at 4:15AM. Occasionally when I overthink things, like wondering if I’ll sleep through an alarm clock, I have trouble sleeping. This flight was right in the wheelhouse of this neurosis - I got about an hour of sleep the night before. Towards the end of the flight I decided to use the restroom. It was right next to the small kitchen area that two of the flight attendants were working out of. There was a person already in the bathroom, so it quickly became awkward just standing there in close quarters. I decided to make some airline small talk asking if they are just going to turn around and head back to Newark once we land. The attendant closest to me was friendly and said, no, they’d be heading up to San Francisco and then they’d be done for the day. I agreed with her sentiment that it seemed like an equitable day’s work. Before I could ask her if she really eats the airline food, the person ahead of me exited the bathroom. It was time to awkwardly end my conversation and head in. Just as I’m about to enter the bathroom, the stewardess who was at least half my age says to me in a very sincere voice, “If you need anything, just let me know.” I pause momentarily, a bit stunned and think to myself, what could she mean by that? I’m going into the bathroom. I’ve done this for over 60 years. At this point I’m a pro at it. Or maybe there was some new state of the art voice activated toilet system and most of the people going in end up screaming for help. Or, the scariest of all, she spent a minute or two with me and after careful analysis came to the conclusion that I was going to need help in the bathroom. So much for eating right, getting healthy and turning back the hands of time on my biological clock.
I leave the plane with my confidence shaken. When I enter the San Diego airport mall I quickly stumble into a high priced boutique bakery. It’s like Satan planted it there. Sugar and plain white flower is everywhere…all good tasting things that I’m told are poison to my body. I’m on autopilot as my sweet tooth is dragging me through the isles. I felt like Superman after walking into a candy store filled with Kryptonite. My will power evaporates and I buy two huge blueberry scones (rationalizing that the blueberries were healthy). The scones are swimming in a delicious sea of pink icing; sugar content is off the richter scale. Not wasting any time, I sat down in the airport and inhaled one of the scones in a few seconds. Next I grab an Uber to the hotel and walk to the lobby coffee barista where I consumed a large cup of coffee (my second cup in the last 90 days). Naturally not wanting the other icing slathered scone to go stale, that one goes down the hatch as well. It’s official, I’m off my nutrition regiment.
On day one of hiking we climb the two tallest peaks (Cowles and Pyles). It’s very sunny that day and I have no hat. I wind up wearing the hoodie portion of a moisture wicking hiking shirt. In my exhausted, delirious state I crown myself “Moon Knight” after the new super hero series being released that day. Sadly, I was not feeling super at all. When you step on the trail, there is a posted sign that says, “Bring more water than you think you’ll need.” I think to myself, I’ve had this body for more than half a century, I think I know by now how much water I need for a hike. I was wrong. By the time we got to the first peak it was pretty clear I didn’t have the slightest idea who I was. I certainly wasn’t Moon Knight, and I wasn’t Camel Knight either. Coming down the final peak of the day, suffering from dehydration, I began saying anything that came to my mind, mostly the words, “Moon Knight.” What would Moon Knight do in a situation like this…? In frustration, my son finally told me to shut up and put as much distance from me as he could. When you’re in pain, its always a pick me up when you can effortlessly tick off one of your kids.
Okay, day one is completed. I wake up the next morning and once I regained sensation in my legs, we head down for breakfast. (I felt like my torso was sitting on top of two long gummy bears. My lower back was a mixed bag of spasms. With my new nutrition based lifestyle, painkillers are a no no. Instead the use of herbs and voodoo are preferred. I have packed both as I’ve found that the herbs work about 50% as good as Advil. And the fewer Advil I take, they better they seem to work when not used regularly.)
During breakfast we discussed the 2nd day of hiking, which I thought might be the last if we can fit the final three peaks into one day. I rationalize this being doable as the final three peaks are the lowest in elevation. My son looks up the five peaks on his iPhone and comes across a post that describes all of the peaks. As it turns out, the first two peaks we did are the easiest…Ah come on, really!?! The remaining trails have more challenging terrain and steeper inclines. This is Perfect.
We step onto the trailhead that leads to North and South Fontana Mountain peaks. The good news is the weather is cloudy and cooler and we have plenty of water. There is a decent hike to get to the vertical part of the mountain. But when you do arrive at the incline, it’s up, up and up. At one point, in between gasps for air, I strained to look up and thought I saw Saint Gabriel standing by some gates waving me on. Or he could have been waving me off, who knows. The trail is completely rutted and you need to look for clear spots to step on the rocks. Due to the terrain and recent rains any footing is now covered with loose sand and gravel. As my physical capacities begin to wane, I get creative by placing my hands just above my knees and push down, basically using my arms as a piston-like assist to keep my legs moving forward. Moon Knight is nowhere in sight and I’ve abandon the herbs - I down three Advil. At one point we began to catch up to a tall and rather large middle-aged woman. She had extreme features and was not dressed in hiking clothes. She looked as if she had just wandered off the street and decided to start mountaineering. Added to that, she had a small dog hiking with her. As we got close to her, she stopped and suggested that we pass as her dog didn’t like having people close behind. So now I need to kick it into a higher gear and risk a heart attack as it wasn’t like she was moseying up the trail. We pass her and in doing so my ability to sustain a more aggressive pace fades. She’s now hot on our (make that my tail) as my son has raced ahead of me and I curse him for being 26. This goes on for quite a while as I do not have the stamina to leave her in the dust, she and her dog are an unnatural constant. At one point, my son came up with an appropriate name for her, “The Android”. And from that point forward, whenever my son would want to goad me on, he’d reference how the android would handle a challenging situation. I cursed him a lot during this trip. Quick final note on the android: She turned out to be a very helpful person who knew these mountains in detail and provided sound advice once we reached a decisive plateau.
We eventually get to a plateau called the Saddle, which sits in between Fortuna South and North peaks. We hang a left and head to the South peak. We reach the highest point on the peak and take our obligatory picture along side an official marker as proof we made it. Now we have to come down the steep and treacherous backside of the mountain. The review post describes the trip down as one that will turn your legs to jelly. It was accurate. The path down has what seems like countless large scary steps made out of rotting wood. They’re covered in slippery grit and gravel with no ropes or chains protecting you from a sheer drop off. There are large crows flying over our heads and occasionally landing on the edges of the sheer cliffs. Again in my depleted and delirious state, I start incoherently spewing the words, “The Crow-ning” a shout out to “Schitt’s Creek”. My knees and shins are toast by the time we get to the bottom of the mountain. And my reward…Now I need to hike for a while and then climb back up the mountain and do the North peak. I likened it to the phraseology, “Burn Your Boats!” When you have no way out, you’ll find a way to succeed, or in this case get off this mountain range and back to a comfortable hotel room. The day ends mercifully but we’re still missing the fifth and final peak, Kwaay Paay that happens to be the most difficult.
The final day was supposed to be a day of relaxation with leisurely travel back up to the Irvine area where my son and I would part and I would connect with some old school friends before flying back to Newark, NJ the next day. I was thinking sleep in, grab a monstrously unhealthy breakfast, late checkout and then saunter up the 405. Instead, we get up early, pack our granola bars and water, and drive to the Kwaay Paay trailhead. Not too much is left in the tank from the last two days, but I’m chock full of the best over the counter pain and anti-inflammatory products modern medicine has to offer.
Since Moon Knight retreated after day one, our standard hiking routine became: After a short while on the steep inclines, my son hikes ahead and waits for me while catching his breath. As soon as I reach him, he takes off again. In gasping fits of outrage, I’m not saying anything to him, but thinking, “Are you serious you little snot!” By day three I had had enough. It took every bit of self-control in my being to keep myself from throwing rocks at him as he’d shuffle off after I’d reach him. (He does the same thing in reverse when we ski together.) We make it to the top of the final Peak. There great views from all angles. We hang out for a while, take pictures, inhale a granola bar and hydrate. On the way back down we make the expected bet on how long it will take us to reach our car. Then naturally, there are challenges over what times were written in blood by each, and finally, the associated lambasting of the loser. As you can see we love each other, but having said that, I’m so hoping this new science about turning back your biological clock is not all smoke and mirrors.
And now a public service announcement about cross country flying in the year 2022: Airlines are not to be trusted. So that Friday I connect with friends that I had not seen in ages. We consume enough greasy food to give an elephant cardiac arrest. And we wash it all down with a commensurate amount of adult beverages. In my defense, my direct flight home the next day is at 12:37PM. I ‘m seven minutes from John Wayne airport so I have plenty of time to have a leisurely breakfast and pull myself together for a comfortable flight home. I’ve planned ahead, what could possibly go wrong? At 1:30AM I was startled awake by the “bing” alert of a new text message on my iPhone. I get up to take a look. It’s my airline telling me, “Hey, we really appreciate you business, oh and by the way – we canceled your flight home. Go suck an egg.” My new flight options are only connecting flights with horrendous layovers. And all flights leave before 9AM. I’m in a state of extremely aggravated disbelief. I pinch myself hard trying to wake myself up from this nightmare. And adding insult to injury, the science experiment I have rolling around my stomach and intestines wants to weigh in. I lie in bed for the next couple of hours, convinced that if I close my eyes, I will not wake up for my new flight(s) home.
I get to John Wayne airport and as I walk to my gate, I pass a direct flight to Newark, NJ. Naturally my first response is, what the f…,this was not one of my options at 1:30AM. I eventually get to the agent behind the counter. In a very calm but direct tone I explain what her airline did to me and want to know who I have to bribe to get on this flight. She explains to me that this flight is overbooked, of course, and that I should keep walking to the flight I already have a ticket on. Thank You.
I’m getting on a flight to Denver. And then once I’m in Denver, I have a 4 hour layover before getting on another flight to Newark. I trudge onto the plane like one of the walking dead, which is probably what I looked like as my hang over has had a chance to settle in nicely. On the plane I’m sitting next to a couple that appear to be a few years older than me. As we’re landing in Denver they engage me in conversations asking where I’m going in the Denver area. I take the opportunity to unleash my story telling skills and explain in excruciating detail the extent of the wrongs I’ve been enduring for the last twelve hours. After listening to my diatribe, the man siting next to me says in a very sobering tone, “At least you’re getting home.” And at that point I cancelled my pity party and embraced the good fortune that I have…begrudgingly.
Long story somewhat shorter…I get off the plane in Denver and look up at the electronic flight departure board. There is another flight to Newark that leaves in less than 90 minutes. I can see no reason why I’m not on that flight and walk a short distance to the airline customer service desk. The line of people waiting for satisfaction runs zig zag in the customer service area and then down the airport hallway. It looks like what I imagine the complaint line was like on the Titanic after the iceberg. I decide to hike the length of the airport and plead my case to the attendant at the gate of the flight I want to get on. On the way down I come across the airline “Clubroom.” I walk in, the air is cleaner, there’s no riffraff lurking about. Everyone seems extremely pleasant and civilized. I’m thinking, hoping that one of these fine people will listen to the heinous crime that was perpetrated against me, and in return, apologize profusely, hit a couple of keys on their computer and have me personally escorted onto the plane, handing me a glass of champagne as I sit in my 1st class seat luxuriating. The pleasant lady at the desk listens to about half of my story, cuts me off and informs me that, at the Club, they do not have the ability to change flights. I walk out and do an about face and head back to the customer service center…thinking that maybe all of the people on line gave up and left…as I did. They were all still there and it seemed like their friends and family joined them on line. There are about 6 kiosks placed at the outer edge of the customer service area. A number of people are throwing things at them as the single airline employee assigned to help people use them does a good imitation of a sacrificial lamb. It would appear that the airline cheaped out and bought an Artificial Intelligence system running at a first grade level. After watching the mayhem for a while, in desperation I approach one of the kiosks. I wrestle with it for a couple of minutes and the lamb comes over and tells me this unit must be broken. I move to another machine and use all of the remaining patience I possess in an attempt to muscle my way onto the Standby list of the earlier flight. When I finished I wasn’t sure if I put myself on standby for the flight I want to be on, or cancelled the flight I was already booked on.
I head back down the length of the airport to the gate of the flight I want to be on, it’s about to board. I walk up to the lone woman standing at the desk by the gate and ask her if she could be so good as to tell me if I’m on the Standby list for this flight. She says, Yes. I’m truly amazed. In a bolder move, I ask her how far back am I on the list. The replies, “You’re number one.” Now I think she just punking me or cruelly messing with me. I say Thank You very much, and walk around the corner and purchase a very healthy looking yogurt parfait, as it’s the only think that my stomach will accept at this point. I walk straight back to the ticket agent and ask her, “What do you think the Vegas odds are that I’ll be getting on this flight?” She looks at me half surprised and half remembering who I am and says, “I had a ticket for you!” The only word that registered in my mind was, “had” past tense. Within a split second my mind is racing to a really dark space thinking, “You had to go and get that stinking yogurt parfait, you idiot!” I look at her and say in an unintelligible broken language, “You had a ticket for me?” She corrects me and says, “No I have it right here, it’s an exit row seat, is that okay with you?” The human mind is a resilient, complex and amazing torcher chamber. I immediately think this has to be a set up. She goes on to tell me it’s one of the exit row seats where you have no seat in front of you. I’m thinking if you really want to stretch your sado muscles, just tell me I have a first class seat and that I can sit next to the pilot and fly the plane most of the way home. I’m convinced that as soon as I get into my seat, an Air Marshall and flight attendant will approach me before take off and pointing their fingers at me say, “Come on, you know you don’t belong in that seat. You’re coming with us.” After those thoughts ran through my brain in a fraction of a second, I responded to the gate agent telling her that I was training to be part of the upcoming US Olympic Power Lifting team, and that hurling a mere escape hatch would be no problem.
As the ticket agent is finalizing my new ticket she remarked how good my yogurt parfait looked. I immediately offered it up to her, along with one of my kidneys for the work she did to get me on the flight. She cordially took a pass on both. Considering how I must have looked, I completely understood her reasoning.
Of everything that happened, the phrase, “At least you’re getting home” is what has stuck with me. It’s probably deeply embedded in an indestructible part of my gray matter.
Again, completely up to everyone, but if you’re looking to make a food impact to help the displaced folks from the Ukraine, the World Central Kitchen continues to make an outstanding, positive impact. Donations can be made at: donate.wck.org
