If I get cocky walking a long distance, I portray my body working like a fine-tuned Rolex, but I’ve learned that winding up my gears is another story. The cogs of my mind cannot control fatigue.
Early on, I felt tired, sitting down for a Coke one afternoon and falling asleep in an aluminum chair. That was just three days into my 500-mile journey, when the mountains and distance were new to my legs. I overcame that tiredness.
Interestingly, the cycle of the Camino de Santiago delivers some pain and sleepiness at the beginning, and some strength and endurance mid-way through. But when the finish line gets closer, the statistical bell curve slopes south. The body wears out. As of today, my hips have swung like a clock’s pendulum 940,00 times since September 9.
With 470 miles recorded on my trek across Northern Spain, I feel tired — tired in a different way. I sense my body parts. Ordinarily, when a person moves his arm and legs, he should feel nothing. But now I feel they are present. They are not crying, but they are telling me, “I am here,” begging for attention.
Maybe they suggest, “Ice, please.”
But I ignore the request, because they don’t really hurt. I‘m sure they just want candy or a good night’s sleep.
All I give them is a good stretch.
An eleven-mile walk is now a holiday. Once you’ve been given an eleven-mile day, the five extra miles of a sixteen-mile day seems like a burden. One day’s walk of sixteen miles is okay, but not forty-days in a row.
The remedy is that the Camino presents no alternative. The extra five miles must be delivered. I have no choice. Walk or sleep along the cold folds of a river’s bank for a dose of hypothermia.
I persevere.
The shouting of my hips makes me feel stupid and ashamed. This tiny pain and fatigue is nothing. The shouting is nada. The ache is vapor. In fact, I am blessed and privileged to be walking.
Others cannot walk. Others cannot feel. Others cannot be present.
I press down on my trekking poles to offset pressure from my knees to my arms.
Then a memory comes to mind: “Come to me all you are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
More guilt arrives. I should not claim a promise for rest, for relief from the mere physical situation I have created for myself. “That’s a promise for relationships and tragedy.”
So I conjure up more pride and quash the promise in favor of enduring the fatigue.
Nearing my destination for rest today, I took a slight detour to photograph a church, but as I turned the corner, the caretaker closed the doors and told me there was another sanctuary one kilometer down the road. I wanted a photographic reward for my aches, but she shut me down. No reward.
I would never arrive to the second sanctuary because my hostel came first — with a bed and a meal. It was late-afternoon. Surely I would have time to write words, edit stories, and tweak some photos. But the Body-Rolex failed. I put down a few words. I searched for some photos, but the iPad fell on my face — literally fell. Ouch!
My journaling gave way to fatigue. However, I knew my final destination to Santiago was just nine days away. “I can make it just fine, if I can keep my bones quiet,” I told myself. “I claim the promise for the heavy laden.”
This is so inspiring, I really want to do this now. Your posts have filled my heart and now this is officially on my bucket list.