Maps

The temp is 5 F (-15 C). I’m on mile 20 of a morning bike ride (32 km). My fingers have been numb for the past 30 minutes and my toes are in the process of joining them in their transformation from body extremities to icicles. My nose runs like an ever-flowing fountain. The tendrils of snot cling to my merino wool gaiter and then freeze, hindering my breathing. I have to lower the gaiter and when I do the biting winter wind absolutely punishes my face.

About ten miles ago I passed a flock of geese. There was an albino goose amidst the flock that stood our like a lone star in a night sky. I find a part of me wondering if the other geese can detect its genetic difference. Birds can pair bond, so can they also judge?

Five miles ago, the sun broke to my left. It slants down and brushes my left cheek but offers little comfort. Above me there is a stark demarcation of clear sky and clouds ahead.

I am alone on the trail again and I find myself also thinking that I’m on a bike ride this morning to escape the artificiality of the city. In this pain I cannot delude myself into thinking that nature is something offering constant peace and solace. If I were to sleep out here the elements might take me, as they’ve taken many of those not gifted with air conditioning.

Death is harsh in nature. Some of the geese may be slowly devoured over many minutes by a predator. Others, if they reach old age, may slowly starve to death due to their slowed reflexes. Or the elements may slowly overtake them as their weakening bones fail to fend off the cold.

Nature is harsh, but through it we may find a part of us, and the darker elements, the harsher elements, give us a realer view of our role in the universe. In the city we do not think of death. We delude ourselves into thinking it doesn’t exist, and therefore ironically find ourselves dissatisfied with our actions in the present moment. We refuse to believe that it can be a moment away.

On my final mile the verse to Ghost’s song “Pro Memoria” echoes through my mind. The Roman generals ride to war with their slaves, who whisper reminders in their ear that they will also die. This paradoxically gives them both peace and cunning.

And it isn’t just these Romans who have a more intimate relationship with death. Many Buddhist cultures also are more apt to contemplate it, and ironically measure “happier” than American culture.

It is almost uniquely in the west that we delude ourselves into thinking death can be avoided, that not everything has to end, that a future purchase may bring eternal salvation, and therefore the solution to life is a simple checklist. And this leads us to a life imbued with dissatisfaction.

“Don’t you forget about dying, don’t you forget about your friend death, don’t you forget that you will die.”

In the distance I see the silhouette of a wildcat maneuver through the underbrush. A prey animal may be on its last legs.

I cannot predict when I will be that prey animal.