There are times when the sight of a climb, stretching out before you, defeats ambitions without ever having to engage in combat.
There is some smart advice out there for cyclists who wish to conquer hills: don’t rush into them, don’t sound the charge and empty all your intent on the opening slopes. If you do this, there will be nothing left when the climb starts to kick in.
I think that this applies to life. The mountain, that is before me, dominates the horizon. It’s got the assurance of its supremacy, its peaked heights, its precarious precipices; one false move and the air will open up to engulf the invader. The mountain has time on its side, eons that have stretched out and out, so much so that even it is unaware of the beginning. And it sits there, touching heaven whilst promising hell.
I have been heading for this meeting all my life. I have not made basecamp yet and am still in the foothills, but I am getting closer with each passing day. And I think the mountain has started to become aware of my approach. It is no longer indifferent. Its eye is upon me, guaging my intent.
So, I turn the wheels. I keep it steady as they told me. I set my pace. I keep it constant. I survey the terrain so that surprises do not ambush. And I keep turning. Keep turning.
And with each turn I am getting closer.