Back in early January, I wrote a post in which, inspired by Cheryl Strayed, I pledged to bike 1000 miles this year and hike 100 miles.
I live in Minnesota, so the weather does not allow me to do a whole lot of hiking and biking until spring. Well, spring is officially here, so it is time to get serious about my pledge. I have done a little bit of “warm-up” hiking and biking in March-April (11 miles of hiking and 115 miles of biking).
But now, I need to step up the pace. I am using my blog as a way to keep myself accountable.
My goal for May is to bike a minimum of 200 miles and hike a minimum of 20 miles. I will post periodic updates. If anyone wants to join me in the challenge, let me know!
I loved The Secret History by Donna Tartt. Although the novel was published in 1992, I didn’t read it until a year or two ago. I found it riveting, and I mentally kicked myself for not having read it earlier. So, I was excited to read Tartt’s novel The Goldfinch, which won the 2014 Pulitzer Prize for fiction.
The Goldfinch tells the story of Theo Decker, who is 13 years old at the beginning of the novel. He and his mother were at the Metropolitan Museum of Modern Art in New York, admiring the Fabritius painting “The Goldfinch,” when bombs (planted by terrorists) exploded in the museum. Theo’s mother was killed, but Theo survived. In the ensuing chaos, Theo grabbed “The Goldfinch” and took it home with him. He remained obsessed with his stolen possession for the rest of the novel. To Theo, the painting was more than a priceless masterpiece. It represented not only his lost mother, but also the very idea of beauty, of transcendence—of beauty that transcends the grim reality of everyday existence.
The idea of this story sounds compelling, and many parts of the novel ARE compelling However, I have to admit that I found large chunks of the novel rather underwhelming. I found the first section of the novel, when Theo lost his mother and then was taken into a wealthy friend’s home appropriately disorienting. I felt lost, numb and emotionally adrift along with Theo as he tried to adjust to a world without his mother, a world without meaning. Theo then moved to Las Vegas to be with his father and his father’s girlfriend. This Las Vegas section may have been my favorite section. I thought Tartt’s portrayal of the 21st century American West as the American nightmare was brilliant, as was her creation of the Russian character Boris, the waif–thug with a deep streak of alcohol-enhanced sentimentality.
After Theo moves back to New York, however (about half way through the 771 pages), the story loses steam for me. Theo grows up to be an adult, but is still stuck in the same numb haze he was in at age 13. He sleepwalks through life in a haze of drugs, white-collar crime, and unrequited love. I understand that Tartt is portraying someone who is traumatized, that his sleepwalking through life is part of her point. But still, how many hundreds of pages can a reader want to spend with someone who is this numb?
The Goldfinch could have benefited from some serious editing. Tartt could have cut out 300 or more pages without losing anything of importance.
Better yet, I think Theo Decker should have met up with Cheryl Strayed and gone for a hike with her. (See my previous post on Cheryl Strayed here.) Both Theo and Cheryl were traumatized by the untimely loss of their mother. They were both on a downward spiral and needed something to save them. Strayed went on a 1000 mile hike in California. Theo took a lot of drugs and stole money from people (in a complicated, high-end kind of way). Strayed’s plan seemed to work better.
If Tartt had come to me for advice (which for some reason she never did), I would have told her to cut out the return-to-New-York section. Instead of leaving Las Vegas to go east, Theo should sell “The Goldfinch” and use the proceeds to buy some hiking boots and backpacking gear. He should travel slightly west to the Pacific Crest Trail, where he could meet up with Strayed. They could hike together briefly, at least long enough to have some hot sex on a rock. After the sex is over, a goldfinch would appear on the rock. It would land there just long enough to look at them meaningfully and sing a plaintive, yet healing song.
In the past couple of weeks, I have read the memoir “Wild” by Cheryl Strayed and seen the movie version of it starring Reese Witherspoon. My reaction to both the book and the movie was a constant oscillation between “Strayed is amazing!” and “Strayed is batshit crazy!”
Strayed’s memoir is about a period in her early twenties after her mother died suddenly of cancer at the age of 45. Reeling with grief, Strayed’s life started to unravel with her self-destructive behavior. She became promiscuous, used heroin, and divorced her kind and loving husband while on her downward spiral.
One day, Ms. Strayed, who had never done an overnight hiking trip in her life, decided it would be a good idea to hike 1000 or so miles of the Pacific Crest Trail by herself. “Wild” is her account of both her downward spiral and the hiking trip that helped her recover from her grief.
“Wild” is not a hiking guide or a self-help book. It is a memoir, a work of literature. Strayed writes beautifully and honestly about the beauty of the landscape she traversed, but also, frequently about the physical pain she endured. Her backpack, which she affectionately called “Monster,” was way, way too heavy for her. Not only was it difficult to walk with such a burden on her back, but it left her seriously bruised and blistered. Even worse were her feet. I don’t know if this is common for long-distance hikers, but her feet were in constant agony and she lost six toenails by the end of the trip.
Nonetheless, her book was inspiring to me. I have done a little bit of hiking I my life, but not a great deal. And I certainly do not enjoy pain. But what she wrote about the healing effects of strenuous outdoor activity makes sense to me:
“I was amazed that what I needed to survive could be carried on my back. And, most surprising of all, that I could carry it. That I could bear the unbearable. These realizations about my physical, material life couldn’t help but spill over into the emotional and spiritual realm. That my complicated life could be made so simple was astounding. It had begun to occur to me that perhaps it was okay that I hadn’t spent my days on the trail pondering the sorrows of my life, that perhaps by being forced to focus on my physical suffering some of my emotional suffering would fade away. By the end of that second week, I realized that since I’d begun my hike, I hadn’t shed a single tear.” (92)
Strayed suggests that there is something about strenuous effort or—to be more blunt—physical pain in the wilderness that can make a person stronger, not just physically, but also emotionally. Whereas heroin and sex were attempts to get outside of herself, Strayed realized on her hike that she need to stay inside herself in order to heal.
“But walking along a path I carved myself. . . was the opposite of using heroin. . . Uncertain as I was as I pushed forward, I felt right in my pushing, as if the effort itself meant something. That perhaps being amidst the undesecrated beauty of the wilderness meant I too could be undesecrated, regardless of what I’d lost or what had been taken from me, regardless of the regrettable things I’d done to others or myself or the regrettable things that had been done to me. Of all the things I’d been skeptical about, I didn’t feel skeptical about this: the wilderness had a clarity that included me.”
So I am now inspired by Strayed to experience more of the strenuous outdoor life. Yet, I still think hiking 1100 miles by oneself is crazy. I’m not interested in doing anything like that. However, I would like to get out into nature more often than I normally do. So here is my compromise, my very Mild response to Strayed’s “Wild” adventure.
Strayed hiked a total of approximately 1100 miles. My goal is to do 1100 miles this summer, by combining biking and hiking. I pledge to hike a total of 100 miles and bike a total of 1000 miles this year. I am no Cheryl Strayed, so these miles will be cumulative, not all at once.
I live in Minnesota, so I can’t really get outside until probably late April, when the snow melts and the temperatures are regularly above freezing. Because of the generally crappy climate I live in, I henceforth declare the spinning classes can count toward my mileage.
I will update my blog periodically about my progress, so stay tuned!