Danger Is My Pseudonym
When I was younger I was fearless.
I enjoyed riding my bike as fast as I could downhill and launching myself off of jumps on the edge of a canyon to see if I could make it to the other side. I would leap off of the roof of the school at lunch with the intent of landing in the dumpster, then in the afternoon ride down the roof of my house on my skateboard. I would rock climb in the middle of the night with my best friends at Joshua Tree. I would paddle out in the middle of a storm into a churning forest of towering fifteen foot choppy waves with the hopes of catching a quick ride back to the shore. Without any prodding I went solo skydiving just to see what it felt like. I would slide down black diamond runs after having just learned how to snowboard. And when I was bored I’d run into Death Valley with no idea where I was going, and with nothing more than a bottle of water and some sunscreen (Devil’s Golf Course!).
I was invincible, with nerves of steel and confidence to match.
But now, with many years having stacking up between then and now, I look at something like this and I can’t help but feel a bit jealous:
Now that I’m a bit older with a career, a wife, and an amazing nine-month-old son I find myself relegated to long trail runs where help is a quick cell phone call away, and once a year I run up and down Mt. Whitney.
I no longer want to launch myself off of precarious precipeces, plunge from great heights, hurl myself out of planes, tempt broken bones or chance death by dehydration.
I now have responsibilities. I have a family to look after. I’m getting older.
And you know what? This is exactly where I want to be.
