There was much consternation form the ranks of our motley crew when we discovered that this staircase was to be climbed nine times during Monday's practice. However, consternation quickly changed to resignation as we lined up at the very bottom and went up.
and up
and up
and up
and up.
And it felt good. It really did. At the end, that is. Heavy breathing turned to shallow breathing which turned to not breathing which turned to lightheaded euphoria and camaraderie. We hummed the tune to chariots of fire and gulped water and stared at the throbbing city below. At the end of it, in the little cove of the team room, twelve bodies lay in a circle, chests rising with full breaths of air.
I have never been that high. I'm not sure it it is possible to get that particular brand of ridiculously high on any substance, whether legal or illegal. The death of a body flying, a mind gone, a present and imminent physicality while the world screens slightly, legs shake, lines blur, quadriceps stop working and it's hard not to laugh for reasons unknown.
I do not mean to overexaggerate the achievement of climbing 2000 stairs. My friend and private hero climbed Everest and died doing it - compared to that, 2000 stairs is not even worth mentioning. It's just that I used to be addicted to the edge and have since become complacent. I biked miles, ran ridiculous lengths, kayaked waterfalls, climbed things that scared me, and now I sleep and enjoy cookies more than I should. I miss the carnal, primordial knowledge of being alive at the brink of something. Comfort is good, but so is extremity. Even if it's found in a city park.
