When I was a kid, I was fearless....

She was the complete opposite of me. I was a walking advertisement for “retired and sensible”: no tattoos, no jewelry, and hair that used to be the thrilling color of damp cardboard. She was a walking fireworks show — tattoos from here to tomorrow, a silver stud bullseyed dead-center in her chin like she’d lost a bet with a piercing gun, and bright shimmering purple hair that was clearly trying to outshine the Bonneville sun itself. I liked her immediately. My inner old-man radar went off like, Warning: cool person detected. Do not embarrass yourself. I was at the Bonneville Salt Flats trying to set a national speed record on my motorcycle, because apparently turning 71 doesn’t come with an off switch. Every time I blasted down the salt like a slightly arthritic missile, this purple-haired force of nature flagged me off. During a break she took my picture — and honestly produced the best photo anyone has ever taken of me on two wheels. When I asked her name for credit, she flashed a grin and said, “Rocky Wingwalker.”

Not a stage name. She really walks on airplane wings for fun. Like those gloriously unhinged people at airshows who treat physics like it’s optional. I was equal parts impressed and concerned for her life choices. As we talked, her bulletproof confidence and “fear is for quitters” energy were infectious. Then she hit me with it: “You should try wingwalking.” I laughed the laugh of a man who still gets dizzy on the second rung of a ladder. Look, as a kid I had zero fear and negative common sense. Speed was my love language. Mom calls “lunch!” one day and I turned the hallway into Talladega. The scar I still rock in the middle of my forehead is proof that drywall beats forehead in overtime. I also pioneered several terrible aviation experiments: rooftop bedsheet parachute (failed), classic umbrella drop (failed harder). Gravity kept the receipt. Miraculously, I never outgrew the speed thing. At seventy-one I finally set that national motorcycle record at Bonneville. Boom — checked. Heights, however, betrayed me like a bad ex. I developed a perfectly rational, soul-deep terror of becoming a messy pancake. Stand me near a drop-off and my brain starts drafting my obituary. Put me on a ladder and I enter monk-like focus mode, refusing to acknowledge that “down” exists. Yet somehow — possibly possessed — I found myself at the Mason Wingwalking Academy. In the hangar I rehearsed the routine like a man training for the apocalypse. Three points of contact at all times. Special foot spots so I didn’t accidentally kick a hole in a perfectly good airplane. I was so locked in I almost forgot I was secretly terrified of heights. The instructors promised muscle memory would take over up in the air. They are professional liars. We’re cruising at 3,500 feet over the Strait of Juan de Fuca when the pilot gives the signal. I unbuckle and stand up into a wind that immediately tried to delete me from existence. Muscle memory? Gone. Brain? Factory reset. I’m fumbling around like a drunk toddler on a jungle gym. At peak dignity I’m balanced on the fuselage like a confused garden gnome when I commit the ultimate sin: I look down at the water thousands of feet below. My body instantly voted to shut down. Full prehistoric shutdown. This is how it ends — as a temporary hood ornament. Concentrate, you fossil, I snarled at myself. Hand here. Foot there. Swear word. Other hand. Somehow, through sheer stubbornness and mild panic, I clawed my way onto the top of the wing, jammed my feet into the loops, and buckled that safety belt like it owed me money. Only then did I peek. Holy crap. The fear evaporated. The view was stupidly gorgeous. I gave the pilot the thumbs-up. He took that as permission to try and peel me off like a price tag — loops, hammerheads, rolls, sky and ocean playing violent musical chairs. My face skin was flapping like a loose tarp in a hurricane, my heart was redlining in the stratosphere, and I was laughing like a complete lunatic. Best panic attack I’ve ever had. Climbing back down required the same white-knuckle focus. The second my butt hit the seat and the belt clicked, my legs filed for divorce and turned into wet noodles. Some people say facing your fears conquers them. I faced mine, laughed like a hyena in their face for a few glorious minutes… and then they moved back in, redecorated, and raised the rent. I still hate ladders with a burning passion. Would I go wingwalking again? Are you kidding? Sign me up yesterday. Thank you, Rocky, you magnificent purple-haired enabler. You ruined my perfectly good fear of heights… for about twelve minutes.

Bicycling the Camino de Santiago.

A few years ago, I was dying on one of the ugliest climbs of the Camino de Santiago — legs on fire, 12% grades that felt like they were personally offended by my existence. It just kept going and going like a sadistic Spanish staircase to heaven. Way up the road I spotted four cyclists. Little by little, I reeled them in like a determined snail. Three were riding together, chatting away. The fourth was dangling about twenty feet behind, looking like he was questioning every life choice that led him there. As I pulled alongside the straggler, I heard English and assumed they were British. Up ahead, one guy was joyfully roasting his friends: “Come on, you slow bastards, my grandmother climbs faster than this!” I was somehow still feeling fresh — one of those rare unicorn days. I looked over at the guy next to me and said, “Sorry mate… I’ve just gotta do it.” I stood up, mashed the pedals like I owed them money, and dropped the whole group like they were parked. I hammered over the top and stopped at the big monument to St. James, sucking wind and feeling pretty smug. A few minutes later they rolled up. We started chatting and I discovered they weren’t British at all — three from mainland Spain, and the quiet straggler was from the Canary Islands. That’s when things got weird. The Canarian guy wouldn’t stop staring at me. Full laser-focus, mouth slightly open, like he was seeing a ghost. Finally he stepped forward, voice shaking with excitement: “Pepe… can I please have a picture with you?” I laughed. “Why would you want a picture with me?” He looked at me like I’d just asked why water is wet. “Because you’re Pepe Benavente!” Apparently Pepe Benavente is a big famous singer from the Canary Islands. And this dude was convinced he’d just met his musical hero halfway up a random mountain in Spain. I tried to be honest: “Look, the only money I ever made singing was when someone paid me to stop.” The joke cleared his head with six feet of altitude to spare. Now his buddies caught the fever. Suddenly all four of them were crowding around me like I was Taylor Swift on the summit. One by one they lined up for photos, arms around my shoulders, huge grins, while the others snapped away like paparazzi. I was laughing so hard I was shaking in the pictures. They still didn’t suspect a thing. Before I rode off, I couldn’t resist. I muttered just loud enough for them to hear: “Darn it… I can’t even go on holiday without getting recognized.” Then I clipped in, pointed the bike downhill, and descended like a thief escaping the scene of the funniest crime I’d ever committed. I still laugh every time I think about those four grown men proudly showing their friends photos of “Pepe Benavente” they met on the Camino — while the real Pepe was probably somewhere sipping a drink, blissfully unaware he had a body double crushing mountain passes in his name.

May 13, 2018

So today we are right in the middle of Bask wine country. Tomorrow we were told that we will be riding right along the "divide". Like our continental divide, water that lands on one side of the line flows into the Atlantic, and water that lands on the other side flows to the Mediterranean. So, during the presentation, a lady pops up and asks if there will be a place to pee so she could know which side of the line she was on. Another lady then adds, that if both her shoes get wet, then she would be right on the line. Hmmmm, wondering what kind of a group I got myself into.  😁

May 11, 2018

One day before the bike ride to Santiago begins. Storefront in Pamplona,  Spain. Even has a countdown clock 'til the running of the bulls. 56 days, 19 hours, 45 minutes and 27 seconds and counting.

Walking in Barcelona.

Walked 13.6 miles (so far) in Barcelona today. Got to see a lot of the town. Tomorrow is another travel day.

Not even half way there.

Can't get to sleep. Lots of turbulence. Pilot trying different altitudes trying to find some smooth air. Hopefully I'll doze off soon or else tomorrow I'll be like the walking dead.

May 7, 2018

And another adventure begins.