My friend and I decided to be tourists in our own city and planned a trip to Grouse Mountain to participate in the widely popular tourist activity, the Grouse Grind.
Excited and ready to break record time up the rocky incline, my friend and I were quickly and most shamefully defeated by the first twenty steps we took. We struggled, thighs burning, backs sweating, and hair matted to our foreheads to reach the 1/4 mark. “1/4? You’ve got to be kidding me. Only?” Breathless, soaking and sorry for ourselves, we trudged onwards. Looking back as I knead my aching quads, I have no idea why I thought clambering up the Grouse Mountain would be easy. I had done it before long ago and I don’t at all recall crying out to the sky for mercy, or scuffing my ankles along jagged rocks, or tripping over hopelessness and being deafened by my thumping heart.
“Oh my God, Jamie, I see the 2/4 mark…. The 3/4 sign is just ahead! We’re almost… We… Jamie we made…”
And alas, as my crumbling knees kissed the top of the unforgiving mountain, the refreshing breeze I so longed to touch purged my lungs, I breathed my last.
Okay, maybe not. But I am not attempting the Grouse Grind any time soon. As rewarding as it was, the company of my tea will do for now.