Courage and a Best Buy® Card

A college buddy accused me yesterday of being an adrenaline junky.
Guilty as charged.
There’s more to my chase of adventures than the rush of falling or flying, speeding or splashing. There’s substance beyond the conquering, below the dreams crossed off life’s to-do list, above the totem pole carved for legacy. Yes, I want the attention. Yes, I savor the stories. Yes, I covet your envy.
But all that’s empty and temporary, creating a need for more of the same and more of the not yet. It’s enough to keep driving the antics though not sustainable beyond a certain level of safety and superficiality.
The part that keeps it all fresh and real comes in the accomplishment, particularly in the victory of mind over matter. When you attempt what you fear and survive, you gain confidence. When you charge at your fright and enjoy the battle, you build an inoculation of inhibition to serve you against other crippling dread.
Beyond moderation, this proves a death wish. I guess we all have drawn different lines as to where safe starts, when practical ends. We all gamble with death in mundane things, vaccinated by repetition from eating too much, driving distracted, and sitting on public toilet seats.
I typically go only as far as licensed professionals can legally take me. I’m not risking my life, no matter what the life insurance actuaries say. I’m not base jumping, flipping motocross bikes, or setting Salt Flats records. I’m following only where others have tread—in good number.
That doesn’t mean I’m fearless. I get nervous. What if‘s scream into my head. But I invite that moment of truth, that freeing experience. I want to grow—to know the extent of the things I can do.
So, Saturday, on the way home from hang gliding, I saw a mobile blood donation center in the parking lot next to my lunch shop. Probably a small thing for you but scary to me. I hate needles. I’ve gotten through previous squeamish moments by focusing on their medical necessity. I’ve never donated blood.
But Saturday I did. Toes nervously tapping against the walls of the frigid bus, I awaited the sucking insertion, steeling myself much the same way I did before a New Zealand jump. You might as well finish: you’re already committed. Look at the normal people all around you; they’re not making a big deal out of this. Thousands of people have done this before. If it weren’t safe, they couldn’t do it. That kind of stuff.
The piercing still stung; the twisting needle still burned; the pressure still smarted. The choice to do it—like cliff jumping, etc.—doesn’t negate the senses. If anything, it maximizes them. In fact, Block (our bungy jumpmaster) told me, “The more fear you have, the better the rush.” And the sense of accomplishment.
The $10 Best Buy® gift card was nice. The cookies and apple juice hit the spot. And the smiles of the old pros seemed congratulatory. But the pinnacle prize for subduing this obstacle proved to be the view from the other side. The mountain showed itself smaller than me; my will grew bigger than my eyes.
I won’t gamble with life, betting on years to grow and charge and conquer; and I will “not go gentle into that good night,” even if Dylan’s night is half a life time away.