Primal Scream

We closed the doors of our storefront for the last time. Took the obligatory photo, almost 22 years after we posed the same way on opening our new business. We locked the metal gates, as we had for all those years, although there was nothing more to secure inside. We walked to the car. I don’t know exactly what was on Chris’ mind, but one of the things I felt was relief.

The liquidation gave us a little money, and that would buy some breathing room, at least a few weeks of not wondering how the bills would get paid, a small reprieve from all the things that were closing in on us for months.

In the morning, I got up and made coffee, and happily settled in for a day of doing nothing, after so many of nearly constant busyness. Chris was getting ready for his own brand of therapy. He wheeled out his ancient Slingshot mountain bike, and began assembling his gear in the middle of the dining room.

Mountain biking is actually more than therapy for Chris: a religion, a meditation, a way to connect with the voice of his father and the cosmos at the same time. He rides with others sometimes, but I believe he most enjoys riding alone, losing himself in the rattle of the tires against the dirt and tree roots, and letting the rolling terrain carry him off to where he can find some wild part of his soul.

He set off early in the morning on that crisp February day. The ground was frozen, no ice, the mud crusty and brittle under the knobby tires. On a weekday morning, the suburban woods were empty and quiet, except for the noise from the nearby highway. As he plunged deeper into the network of trails, even those sounds faded, and all he heard was the whistle of the wind in his ears and the calls of birds.

The conditions were perfect. The firm ground offered surefooted grip, bare trees made for good visibility along the undulating trail winding its way over bumpy terrain. It was a trail he knew well, both for its charms and its challenges, and he could negotiate it with just enough concentration to let his mind marvel over the austere beauty of the winter landscape.

It was so fucking beautiful here.

Why was it, that he was never allowed to simply sink into the beauty and forget about everything else? Why did he not deserve that pure sense of delight? Why wasn’t he good enough? After so much work, so much love, and so much dedication, how and why did he fail? And why could he not simply be grateful for what was around him? It was as if he resented it, because like so much else at this moment, it seemed just out of his reach.

He plunged down a steep hill, and started to crest the rise on the other side of the ravine. In the sun, the frozen mud turned mushy, and as he powered up hill, the rear wheel lost its grip, and the bike skidded out. Chris wrested his leg from the bike, and kicked it down the slope. He watched as it tumbled lightly on its tires and came to a stop at the bottom of the ravine, and then he screamed.

He screamed as loud and long as a single breath would allow, then he drew another breath and screamed until he again wrung all the air out of his lungs. The stillness around him was complete. The wind stopped, the birds fell silent, not even a flutter of wings.

It felt gratifying to have such an immediate and devastating effect.

He drew air again and opened his mouth to scream once more. But no. It was perfect, exactly as it was.

In the silence, he returned slowly down the slope to collect his bike, pulled out a twig caught in its chain, lifted it over his shoulder, and hauled it up the hill. He bounced onto the saddle, and coasted down the trail. As he picked up speed, the wind whistled again, and the birds resumed their singing. Small flakes of snow were beginning to fall and settle on his sleeves.

It was so fucking beautiful.

And he had nothing else to do that day, but to continue down the trail.