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The Brave Only Die Once
I’ve had three really scary events in my life. Two were life-threatening, but the one that wouldn’t have harmed a hair on my head was pure terror.
In 1969, my wife Marie and I took a scooter trip through Europe, camping along the way. We started out in England, Marie perched on the back, along with a tent, sleeping bags, clothing, etc. Then across the Channel and through France, the Mediterranean Coast, and Italy. Then we started north and into the Swiss Alps, where we planned to go up and up and finally motor through one of the tunnels of the Simplon Pass. The climb up the Alps on our 200 cc Lambretta was beautiful and uneventful. Then we started through a long, gently curving, totally dark tunnel.
About halfway through, the lights on the scooter went out, and everything was suddenly pitch black. We were going about 50 mph at the time. In total darkness, I got the scooter to come to a skidding stop without hitting the walls of the tunnel, but the next car that came through would smash into us.
Though I couldn’t see it, I knew there was a small ledge on the left side, probably for maintenance, so I pushed the Lambretta, which weighed about 300 lbs, up to the ledge. We were going to die if Marie and I couldn’t get that Lambretta up on the ledge and out of the way of the next car that came barreling through the tunnel.
The stars were in our favor that day because no cars came either way in the next minute. And somehow or another, we wrestled the Lambretta up onto the ledge. From there, I stood on the highway and pushed the Lambretta, still on the small ledge, forward toward the other end of the tunnel. Remember, it was pitch dark. We couldn’t even see one another. Each time a car came, I would scramble up onto the small ledge with Marie and the scooter. You Swiss folk, you may know how to yodel, but you need to work on lighting your tunnels.
The next life-threatening event occurred during a long solo hike I was making on the Pacific Crest Trail. I always hiked in running shoes and a hiking pole. The running shoes were light and dried overnight if they got soaked. Hiking boots are heavy and, once soaked, never dry.
I started meeting more and more snow as I neared the crest of one of the many mountains along the trail. The trail, however, was still relatively clear. But when I got up one morning early, the trail ahead was covered with frozen snow, with the mountain descending to the left before me, covering the trail. A couple of hundred feet below to the left was the edge of a cliff, and then a few hundred feet drop off to the valley below.
Rather stupidly, I started across. I needed boots and crampons, but I didn’t want to turn back. I got about halfway across when I knew I was in trouble. The snow had turned even icier and I was starting to slip. The snow was so hard I could no longer stomp my running shoes into the snow to give me a footing. If I started sliding, there was no way of stopping my descent. I would drop off the edge of the cliff and die.
I was jamming my walking stick into the icy snow, but the pole started bending badly.I stood there for a few minutes as the pole threatened to break or come out. I finally went forward, an inch at a time, making sure my pole was planted firmly before I told each small stop. Each time, the pole bent as I slid a few feet and put all my weight on the pole. “Damned fool,” I could imagine someone saying as they found my body in the valley below. “Running shoes!”
Now for the terror. I had been a professor for a number of years when I saw that there were tryouts for a local play. How hard could it be to pretend to be someone else and speak some memorized lines? It sounded like fun. I always liked to try new things, so I showed up for auditions. I had been speaking in front of students and colleagues for years, so I had something of an advantage. I got the part. It was a two-man play and I had hundreds of lines to memorize.
On opening night, I began to panic. The theater was small, with the first row of seats a few feet from the stage—and on the same level. My wife was out there, along with friends and colleagues from the university. My autonomous nervous system was kicking in, telling me to fight or fly. I didn’t know who to fight, so flight was my only alternative. Just before I was to enter the stage in Act 1, I was seriously considering jumping off the elevated platform that I was on. I would pretend to break my leg. That’s how desperate I was.
I was never an easy public speaker. I took a public speaking class at Compton Junior College. In front of the class, my knees would shake. I hated that. My knees down there were quivering, and there was nothing I could do. It was terribly embarrassing. In fact, I’m a little embarrassed to tell you that now, even at that distance. You may have spoken before new groups without quivering. You don’t understand.
This is not easy for me to admit. I admire people who are suave, confident, and speak easily before groups. I’m not one of them.
I’m introverted in an odd way. I call myself an outgoing introvert. In most situations, I might even come across as brash, outgoing, and talky. But I’m not good at small-talk in small groups. and I’m terrible at new public speaking situations.
It’s weird. I’m as cool as can be giving a talk at a conference. One time the great Theodore Sturgeon (you’ll have to be old and a science fiction fan to remember Sturgeon) said “Nice job, Kent” as I returned from speaking to a large audience. Sturgeon was next up. (Darn, I just name-dropped, perhaps losing your respect, and it served no purpose at all because you didn’t know who I was talking about.)
Well, I got through the play without dying, though death would have been something of a relief. The poor guy who was on the stage with me, a fine actor with a lot of experience, deserved some kind of award as he tried to support me and keep the play going. I would skip a whole scene or blow a line so badly it couldn’t be recognized. My mind had grown white with fear. All those faces looking up at me just a few feet away were crowding out the space in my mind where my lines were supposed to be.
This went on for the next three evenings. Worst three days of my life. Maybe it’s true that brave only die once, in a tunnel or on an icy trail, but cowards like me die a thousand deaths every time I bring to mind that time I was struck with terror on that little stage in Murray, Kentucky.
Published in General
Good stories. Thanks.
I see what you did there . . .
Great post.
Ms. She, thanks. However, you’re smarter than I am. I don’t know what I did there.
Kent
I don’t think you’re a coward, @kentforrester.
Not mine, I’m impressed. Kent, you may want to check out the science fiction group, Starship Ricochet. A lot of people remember SF writers from way back.
Randy, I’m really surprised anyone remembered Sturgeon. BTW, he was dressed in some kind of purple one-piece outfit with matching boots that came up to his calves. He was really a character.
Kent
It’s not at all unusual to hear his name mentioned at a science fiction convention, along with a lot of other old-timers.
One of my favorite posts of the year so far, thx.
Really, Mark? Thanks. I appreciate that.
Kent
That is SO opposite me!! I’d never go marching across an icy ledge with slippery shoes and a flimsy pole!! NO WAY!! Pushing a moped in a dark tunnel?? You’re a Wild Man, man.
But-I’ve been in a number of plays, got awards in high school for extemporaneous speaking [they give you a topic on current events, 30 minutes to prepare, and you are to deliver a convincing speech, pro 0r con–I got second in state, twice.]
Isn’t life funny? We’re all so different…and that makes it a wonderful world.
Ms. Cow Girl, you’re one of those. You were probably even popular in high school. No on likes you, Cow Girl. You could never understand the dweeby, wobbly-kneed ones.
Kent
I sort of met Theodore Sturgeon at a science fiction convention many years ago. I got into an elevator he was taking. He was somewhat tipsy , regaling the other occupants with an interesting story and saying things like “I’d give my right arm to be ambidextrous!” A “character ” indeed. But an interesting man and a great writer.
For future reference, Mr. Kent, they make waterproof hiking boots. Wonderful stories !
I’ve tried them, Susan. For me they’re hot—and water eventually gets into the boots under wet and soggy conditions.
Kent
And, pseudonymously, in Vonnegut novels.
Ms. Cow Girl, I just reread this. I hope I haven’t been misconstrued. You know I’m just kidding, don’t you? I’m sure everyone likes you.
Kent
Ha, ha!! I was the dweeb in high school! I wasn’t in any of the cool groups! I would NEVER have even considered trying out for cheerleader. Get up there and leap around (not falling down) and look adorable?? NO WAY. And I didn’t hike either. (But that is mainly because I had a horse–why would I have used my own feet??)
No, I’m not offended–I got your joke! I remember coming home from my first speech tournament with a trophy. My mother admired it, and said, (not necessarily sarcastically) “Well, you’ve finally been rewarded for your best skill.” I read a lot, so I knew a lot. And I relentlessly shared all my knowledge. All the time. Sigh. I once remember being so mad (about 9 yrs. old), and deciding that I’d show them! I wouldn’t talk for the rest of the day! Then my family would miss me! I managed to survive for about an hour or maybe two before I said something. No one had even noticed my boycott. Or maybe they’d just enjoyed it.
You survived to tell the tale, which is the most important part of the story.
You are still hiking on the PCT? THAT is impressive.
Al, at almost 80, I still get around with some alacrity—you young people might call me “spry”—but I’m not much of a hiker anymore. The incident I described in my post occurred years ago.
Kent