Falling down

In July 2003 when a heat wave was announced, I all the more dearly wanted to get away on vacation, but it didn’t look like my finances would allow that.  So I decided to sweat it out.  Sleeping naked on top of a sheet with the windows open didn’t prevent me from waking up around six in the morning covered with sweat.  The days were miserable and there was no escape.  It occurred to me that the coolest part of France is Brittany, and it turned out that I had just enough money to get a round trip ticket and to pay for camp sites.  I’d never been on a long distance cycling trip, much less on my own, but reckoned that years of dodging Paris traffic would have me in good enough shape.

When I stepped out of the train station at Brest, it was scorching.  And to make matters worse, I discovered the only way out of town was up an endlessly long steep hill.  I pedalled slowly, never having been on a bike loaded with gear, wondering when I’d get to the top of the hill.  The people in passing by cars unrolled their windows, and cheered me on.  It felt like I was competing in the Tour de France.  I had no itinerary; I just kept pedalling until I found a camp site.  Not an attractive one, but a welcome site for this exhausted cycler.  The next two days were similar—I was getting impatient for the coast to come into view.  At least I could feel a cooler breeze once out of Brest.

Finally I came across Le Conquet, a lovely village.  I got to the campsite at dusk, in time to see one of the most surrealistic scenes I’ve ever witnessed: I was overlooking a lightly fog covered long strand of sandy beach, I couldn’t actually see the water, just ghostly forms of people wandering around in it.  I pitched my tent and then went into town to procure the evening’s alcohol.  Once comfortably drunk, I got into my sleeping bag, looking forward to a good rest.  Just then a rowdy bunch of teenagers settled in to party right next to my tent.  After a great deal of turning from one side to the next, I decided: “Well if you can’t beat them, join them.”  Alcohol flowed freely, and then joints were passed around.  Having little experience with hash, I had no idea that it’s a terrible idea to mix it with alcohol.  Beyond fucked up, I finally stumbled back to my tent.  A moment later, a stark naked young man showed up at my tent.  I made enough of a fuss to scare him off.  Then I had to go out to pee, on what I thought was level ground.  (Which it turned out to be.)  I rolled over backwards, and crouched down until my head stop spinning, made a second attempt to pee, and fell on my face.  I tried to get into a crouching position again, but fell several more times.  After I finally managed to pee, I tried to get up but my head was spinning so badly that I fell repeatedly.  I got back to my tent on my hands and knees.  Once safely inside, another young man showed up, to reassure me that everything was ok.  He was agreeable enough, but then tried to convince me to have sex.  I indicated my blood covered tent, and he said: “never mind, you can clean it up in the morning.”  Somehow I convinced him to get out, all the while aware that the group of young men were there.  I was lucky--it was a situation that could’ve easily turned into a gang rape.

The next morning I inspected the damages which I hadn’t been able to feel the night before.  My left knee and toe were ripped open.  (My right ankle was already sprained from a fall in my room.)  I left the town doctor’s with a few stitches, and wrapped in gauze, with his stern warning not to go into the water.  I limped back to what was an even more glorious beach than I’d imagined.  I couldn’t believe it, I’d made it all the way to the beach, only to be able to sit and look at it longingly.  Late in the afternoon, I hobbled into town for my night’s supply of beer—which turned out to be a mistake.  Drinking beer results in frequent peeing, and my tent was surrounded by blackberry bushes.  Too drunk to make it to the restroom, I kept squatting to pee by my tent, and falling ass first into the blackberry bushes.  I prepared for the next night by switching to hard liquor.  For several days I could do nothing but sit on the beach and look at the ocean in frustration.

Finally my wounds were healed up enough for me to spend the days taking photo walks and going cycling.  The days were enjoyable.  At night though, I felt lonely, but the bottle kept me company.  One day I felt well enough to make an expedition to the nearby Ouessant Island.  The ferry took only foot passengers and cycles—the cars on the island were only for locals, and few.  Cycling around an island with few cars was a real pleasure.  The campsite was smack in the middle of the island, surrounded by high stone walls—sleeping quarters only.  The first thing I checked out was the location of the restroom.  It was just by the entrance, and to get down into the campsites was a very irregular path.  I found the closest pitch possible, and then walked up and down the path memorizing the irregularities and rocks. 

It was a gorgeous day, and I’d healed up enough to take a lovely hike around the heather covered island.  It was a consolation to see that the surf on the beaches was so rough that no one could go in for a swim.  I stood at the cliff tops watching the surf crashing in, keeping a safe distance back.  Not that I’m afraid of heights.  But lately, I’d been having suicidal thoughts, or worse yet, perhaps, urges, I’d never been suicidal in spite of it all.  However, I’d discovered that while drunk I’d walk in front of cars.  Later I was to find out that I’m not the only alcoholic who plays “car tag.”  I’d even become obsessed with shooting myself in the head, to the point where I’d been contemplating going back to the US where it’s easy to procure a gun.  I didn’t think I’d really do it, but the idea obsessed me.  The ocean beckoned to me.  I love its beauty, and at times am tempted to become one with it.  What more beautiful way could there be to become part of infinity?  So yeah, I sat down ensconced in rocks, or stood safely back.

Back in my tent, I drank until it was time to make my way up to the restroom.  A group of young people was partying there.  I wanted to join them.  Perhaps I did—I wouldn’t know because I blacked out.  When I came to from the black out, I’d sprained my one good ankle.  I’d already been walking like a robot, now I really looked like one.

The ferry rides back were beautiful, and when I got back to Paris the weather had finally cooled down a bit.  In spite of all of the difficulties, this was one of the trips that I have the fondest memories.  I’m looking forward to going back sober, and enjoying the region to its full extent.  When I shared about this trip in my next meeting, the man who became my sponsor, and said amongst other things: “Stay sober for a year, and if you still feel like shooting yourself in the head, do it.”  He had enough years of sobriety and working with other alcoholics to know that I’d be in a totally different headspace after a year of sobriety.

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