Adventure or Ordeal

 

It seems to me that I've heard it said that attitude is the difference between an adventure and an ordeal. There may be some truth to that, but I think there's more to it than that. Go ahead. Ask me what makes me think that.

I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you. I had an ordeal yesterday. It was supposed to be an adventure, but an ordeal cut short the adventure. The wounds are still red.

It started when I asked Rubicon Jones (obviously a pseudonym) about a good place to fish. He gave me a location and warned me that it was about an hour and half away. I decided that wasn't too far, and riding the motorcycle (an ADVENTURE bike) to go fishing would make a fun outing--the first of what would prove to be a series of bad decisions.

You may not be aware of the fact that a prior fishing companion, sometimes referred to as Big Dog, gave me a new fishing pole when I left for Byzantium--he was that excited to see me go. I needed to try out the new pole, and fishing season is winding down. Saturday morning I stopped by the Everything Store to get the three Ls: license, lures, and Livewire. When I got back, I realized that I actually needed the five Ls: I had left off line and live worms. I strapped the pole to the bike and loaded the case with lunch (the 6th L), and stopped back by the Everything Store to purchase the two missing Ls and hit the road. 

The day was only moderately warm--more of an inviting shoulder than a sweaty gym shoe temperature range . It was perfect weather for riding and I expected the fishing to be great as well. What could possibly go wrong?

First I missed my turn and drove a few miles out of the way and had to take a roundabout course back to find it. Things went swimmingly from there, for a while. The pavement ended but the gravel road wasn't too treacherous. I did get behind a pickup pulling a horse trailer down the middle of the narrow road, but he quickly let me pass when I pulled up to emerge from the dust cloud.

I followed the signs and the directions on the digital map until I came to a bridge. A white pickup was pulling out and I stopped to confirm that I was still on the right track. He knew the place I was going and was going by there. He gave directions, so I went ahead to avoid eating his dust. I did stop and check the map at the fork in the road. I noticed that the next turn was only a little over a mile away. At precisely that distance a mere suggestion of a road turned off the gravel. I figured it led to where some rancher filled a tank with water for the cattle I saw, or where he put out salt blocks. Nevertheless, I only went a short way before I checked the map again. It indicated that I had passed the turnoff. 

Obedient to the digital wisdom, I went back to the suggestion and followed it. This was another error in judgment. I should've driven to some unknown destination instead of choosing this road less traveled. Fate tried to warn me. A hundred yards in, the suggestion became rutted. I was going faster than I should've been and the front wheel couldn't turn within the rut to counter the sideways thrust of either my momentum or whatever it may have been that I hit. When I did turn, the bike made a sudden stop and cast itself to the ground. I continued on in a beautiful aerial maneuver that I call the Whaump.

 I slammed to earth and the inertia allowed me to roll to my knees and stand. I then saw that I had judges for my maneuver. The white truck and its occupants had arrived in time to see my acrobatics. When I raised my hands above my head to make sure I was still capable of the action, the judges may have thought I was signaling the end of my maneuver. I didn't get to see the scores they gave because the intense pain in my side spurred a panic at the thought that I had broken every rib on my left side. 

Apparently I hadn't fractured any bones and I was able to lift the bike back onto its wheels and take the seat again. It started, and I followed the pickup which had taken a second fork. After a few hundred yards, the driver stopped and turned around. He pointed to where the suggestion of a road disappeared over a rim and reported that he wouldn't take his truck down that way because it was too steep. He did however say that there was another way that he could take his truck down, and he would show it to me.

We went back to the first suggestion of road and followed it over and down. It became steep and treacherous enough that I let him get way ahead before I resumed course. I remember thinking that this was probably a bad idea--but if he could take his truck down over this trail, it must be ok. I re-evaluated that decision when the steep, rugged, rutted path tipped the bike over a second time. "This is probably just one bad spot on the trail," I thought. "Once I get past this, it will get better. I may have some trouble getting back up this spot on my return, but I think I can do it."

I lifted the bike again and worked my way with fear and trepidation deeper into the abyss. The trail did get better--before it got worse. Two or three drops of the bike later, I found the pickup turned around and stopped. The driver indicated that he couldn't go any farther in his truck because it got rougher and steeper, but that I could take the bike down and there was a four-wheeler trail in the bottom I could take to a better exit.

At this point, knowing that what I had already been through had taxed my abilities, that I was already tired, and considering the idea of venturing into something this maniac thought too treacherous for his rig, I decided that fishing wasn't that important. Escaping this chasm of despair became my priority. I told him I would follow him out. By the time I got turned around, he was gone.

Now I was alone in the 5th or 6th circle of the Inferno without even other tormented souls for company. I knew I would have serious troubles getting out. I was completely right. Thoughts about my guide's devilish motives pestered me, but that course of thinking wasn't getting me out. I started up the trail. The steepness of the way was exceeded only by the menacing incline of the path. The rear wheel slide on the sideways down while the front aimed for the forward up--and we all went down again.

This would probably be a good time to note that the specs on the bike put it at 388 lbs OR 176 kg. It totally felt like the 388 to me. We wrestled once more, even though it was several weight classes above mine. We struggled; we grappled. In the totally unfair match--gravity was totally helping the bike and completely against me--I prevailed in raising it upright. I took my cycling coat off and draped it over the case on the rear of the bike and walked ahead to find a spot to rest should I manage to escape the black hole of defeat that threatened to suck me forever into its eternal gloom. 

Back at the bike, I mounted. It wouldn't start. A new desperation clawed at me. Who could I call to help drag the recalcitrant bike from this abyss? Could I even call? It's unlikely that cell service extends below the third circle of the Inferno. I would have to walk out and find someone. A thought pierced misery's suffocating embrace. I checked. The kickstand was down. I had to leave the bike in gear and hold the brake lever to keep it from slipping backward. The bike would not start when in gear with the kickstand down. That was an easy fix.

I started it and wrenched the throttle to summon the full power of the Bavarian Motor Works. The bike fought and clawed its way forward. We went up and left the roadway, came back onto the roadway, left again. I held on, bouncing and battling to remain upright and on the unruly yellow beast. At last we made it to the designated rest spot where I halted. I walked back down to retrieve my jacket, which had fallen into a swarm of stickers, and the right blinker cover that had broken off in the last fall-down.

We repeated the major portions of this exercise on two more occasions, but the overwhelming despair and been banished by our success at the nadir of our fortune. No longer adversaries, the bike and I combined our abilities to surmount the obstacles and escape the maw of misfortune. By dint of its single cylinder and my willingness to pick it up and try again, we left the hopeless hole behind to regain our place among the unforsaken.

We celebrated with a half-sandwich and several swigs of Livewire for me, and replacing the blinker cover--with a little help from the electrical tap--for the bike.

Was it an adventure or an ordeal? At the time it was an ordeal that swallowed the adventure. Now, I examine the raw wounds on ankle, knee, calf, shin, and thigh, and feel the aches in many muscles--particularly my back--and I can confidently say that it was an ordeal that will be remembered, in time, as a mostly involuntary adventure. Perhaps that's the difference: An adventure is entirely voluntary. An ordeal includes a significantly involuntary element.