At about 45 miles, we come to a little place called Mexican Water and I do some gulping of a different sort — about half a gallon of vanilla milkshake. This is our breakfast stop, but as it often the case, we end up eating cheeseburgers for breakfast. A milkshake on top of a greasy cheeseburger is a fantastic idea, right? A big rich milkshake that’ll sit and curdle in my stomach for the next few hours as we make our way across a hot desert…
Stated that way, I know it doesn’t sound like such a great idea. But sitting in an air-conditioned diner, enjoying the coolness and wanting more of it, an icy milkshake sounds really wonderful. Intellectually, I know what’s going to happen. I know this won’t turn out well. But I do it anyway.
Why the heck do we do this to ourselves? Are we pre-wired for self destructive behavior? I can’t even begin to count instances in my life when I’ve watched smart and sane people dive headlong into a night of drunken debauchery fully aware of the high price they’ll pay the next day. Or folks who maintain high calorie intake diets day after day, knowing full well that they’re saturating themselves with weight and goop that will significantly deteriorate their quality of life all the way up to the point that it kills them early.
I’m sure psychologists have all sorts of “reasons†for this behavior. There must be a few folks who are immune to it, but it’s a pretty small percentage in the culture I’ve observed, and certainly doesn’t include me. Is it an internal collective lemming-type behavior, truly trying to bring about self-destruction? Maybe some sort of psychological pathology bred into us by a common ancestor way back in time who just happened to have some other traits that evolution selected for, and we just got this dark tendency by accident?
Maybe it is lemming-like. If so, I just took a huge leap off the vanilla milkshake and cheeseburger cliff, and I pay a heavy price as I push my mushy legs around the pedals headed east out of Mexican Water. That cheeseburger grease and heavy cream curdles nicely in my gut, urged on by a broiling sun baking down on me.
This self-induced gastronomical hurt-locker stretches out in front of me for a lot of miles, so I settle down into a miserable pity-party, and watch Dave hurtle on up the road without me. Wallowing in my suffering, I imagine that wind could have a big impact on me right now. A friendly tailwind would drown my bellyache in the pleasure of the ride, while a bad wind would dig this black hole of misery deeper.
With that thought, I cast a jinx. A nasty crosswind pushes against my right shoulder. Just as the euphoria I felt this morning boosted my physical well-being, my current milkshake misery pummels my tolerance for the wind that’s blowing in my ears. Dave seems unfazed by either the milkshake or the crosswind, cranking away at his steady pace. Mr. Consistency.
Misery, like the Sirens of the ancient Greeks, lulls our mind into numb acceptance, and we fall deeper and deeper into the hole of loathing, unable to see joy around us. I know this is happening to me as I force my legs to turn the pedals, and I struggle to find a mast onto which I can lash myself to avoid falling into a pit of despair. I remember the wonderful euphoria I was feeling all morning before breakfast, and try to keep my focus on the goodness the memory brings. I begin to enjoy the ever-evolving desert beauty around me again.
