soulchaser

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Sir Edmund Roadsworthy made a good observation recently when editing my last post:

How right he was. I've made reference to this over the last two weeks, I've blamed it on being kidnapped, I've used it as an excuse for the lack of quality posts recently, but there is a good reason for this sudden outburst of alcohol fuelled activity in my travels that I have completely neglectecd to keep you up to date with.

In the last two weeks I've spent a fortune on wine women and song, I climbed out of the window of my bus and rode on the roof at night through jungle and over hills and vales from Cuenca to Machala, I was a one man riot in Baños, I've broken hearts and broken mirrors, I've woken up with strange and unexplainable cuts and bruises, discovered Nicaraguan rum and destroyed the evidence of its existence....well, you get the idea.

Was all this rash, spontaneous, a natural release brought on by the pressures of my life? It would appear that way, wouldn't it. But lets consider the fact that Monday 20th is my 21st, and on that oh so fateful, as stated here not so long ago, I am going to summit Mt Chimborazo and in so doing be the furthest man from the centre of the Earth, and arguably the higest man on the planet. No man has or will ever climb further from the Earth's core. It's 6310m high and thanks to the elliptical shape of our planet it's peak is further from the centre than Everest's.

Does that put the last two weeks into some sort of perspective now? Realising the impending peril I have subconsciously sought out every carnal pleasure known to man and invented some completely new ones. I have been stuffing my proverbial last meal into my face for the two weeks before my day of doom. Ironic that in preparing for death I have been making my demise more likely. When I should have been training, I have been gorging myself on food, when I should have been acclimatizing, I have been drowning myself with booze.

Oh sweet life how you tease us with your games, why do we only see your subtle ploys when the deed has been done and it's too late to change our ways. We eat our own legs in starvation before we realise that we only need to climb the next hill in order to find a feast.

So here it is, my dear, dear Readers. The last supper. Take you fill, satisfy yourselves on my humble words one last time for tomorrow I leave to meet my fate. Should I survive I shall return to you all, reborn. Should I die, know that I live on in you, and that my death was not in vain.

Viva la vida.

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