Tom

You remember what it feels like to be young? I mean 18 or 19? When you want to fuck everything or fight everything? Full of ebullience and fear? Not knowing what the future might hold? You think it might be great. But you’re afraid you might not have that thing in you that will allow you to get to the stage where you can actually live on your own and buy things like a couch and a TV and a fridge and pots and pans and shit like that. I was that age. In my third semester in college. The first year I’d spent at Framingham State. I think I was aiming at a degree in meteorology. But I’d learned there was a lot of science involved in that. And math. And all kinds of boring stuff like that. Besides, who did I think I was? Did I think I was going to be a weatherman? Please. There were, what, three weathermen in Boston? ABC, CBS, and NBC. And those guys weren’t that old. So there’d be a bit of a wait on that one.

I quit Framingham State, moved home with mommy and daddy, and attended University of Lowell, for one semester and one semester only, with a double major of business and computer logic circuitry. I took calculus and accounting, both of which I would stop attending halfway through the semester. But, the thing was, I didn’t bother to drop the courses. The whole thing is blurry to me now. Alcohol was involved. But I do remember being very surprised, at the end of the semester, to see that just because I stopped attending the courses, it didn’t mean they just let it go. No. They did not let it go. Accounting: F. Calculus: F.

I was spiraling. I would never make it. Drinking as I did. Not giving a fuck as I didn’t. And still. Autumn was spectacular. As it always is. I was in a park somewhere in Lowell. Hanging out with a skinny kid who said he wanted to be an ice climber. I had never heard of such a thing. It seemed silly. Who in the fuck would want to climb ice? This kid did. But why?

Neither did he understand why I wanted to ride a motorcycle fast. It was impossible for either of us to explain. Even to ourselves. It had to do with too many disparate things. All the other kids of my youth owning mini bikes, for one thing. Russell James and his Honda 70. Our neighbor, Mike West and his enduro bike. I swore if I were ever able to actually own a bike, I’d clean it meticulously and just sit there and look at it. Just look at it. For a long long time.

And then there was The Wild One. Easy Rider. Electra Glide in Blue. And, of course, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance.

And then there was, once I did own a bike, the feeling of speed. The center line blurring. And the road right there. Right there. You could reach down the toe of your boot and touch it. Imagine what that would feel like. Close up.

I started reading Krakauer’s Eiger Dreams a few days ago. I picked it up for the same reason I picked up Finnegan’s Barbarian Days, not because I care one way or the other about climbing or surfing. In fact, I have always sort of hated the macho, exclusionary attitude both these guys evince. Regardless, I picked up Eiger Dreams because I had just finished a couple books by Ian McEwan, and I was tired of that guy’s voice. I recalled Krakauer as being sparse and clean. And that’s what I wanted now. Something not so rich and gooey. Besides, in his introduction, he said he wanted to shine a light on why it was climbers climbed. And I wanted to know why.

I read about the town of Valdez, Alaska. Ice climbing. I read about bush pilots. And K2. And Everest. And Denali. Bouldering. And canyoning. And, generally, a macho, dick-measuring guy writing about macho, dick-measuring guys, all who want to toe the line of life and death because…I still don’t know why.

I thought of that skinny kid at U Lowell. In the park. When we wrestled around. And talked about literature and ice climbing and motorcycling. His name was Tom Coe. And I thought, Damn. I wonder what happened to that kid. So I looked him up on Facebook. Wouldn’t it be a kick to send him and IM? Hey, Tom! Remember me?

I found him. There was a big story about him in there. With pictures and everything. And he was an accomplished rock climber. He had a wife and two children. He lived on some very expensive island across the bay from Seattle. The story was put up by some funeral home. Gee, I thought. I guess he must be working at a funeral home. That’s interesting.

But no. In fact, he didn’t work at a funeral home. had become a lawyer. There were lots of people who were saying what a great guy he was. And how he will be missed. After that climbing accident in April. At Index. A place he loved. How he had guided so many young climbers. How he had been patient with them. How he had integrity. And honor. And kindness. And intelligence.

Picture of Tom atop some peak. All kinds of gear hooked to his belt.

I had just missed him. Old Tom. Looking very fit. And happy. Died in a place he loved. Doing something he loved. I think about that. He was alive. He did what he loved. Wasn’t that good? Wasn’t that why we were here?

I mourn his passing. I really do. I mourn that skinny young kid. So full of ebullience and fear. I mourn for his his wife. And his two sons.

And, of course, being very selfish, and unable to allow the spotlight of my thoughts to focus on anyone but me, I think of my wife. And my three sons. And my daughter.

And, again with the spotlight, I think of my motorcycle. I think of those moments, now, when I lose my balance just for a moment. When walking down a hallway. Taking a turn. Looking up. Just for that moment. That long, slow curve. Through the foothills of The Rockies. Somewhere in Wyoming. And then. That infinitely straight stretch of road. The Extraterrestrial Highway. Through Nevada. Just dying for you to tach it out. And then. The cow on the shoulder. That moment of dissonance. Confusion. That slight stumble. I know a 19-year-old would never lose his balance like that.

My wife. My children.

Tom. Tom.

I know we won’t be getting any more nimble. Strong. Sharp. We never will now.

And I wonder, I really do, if these things I defined myself by no longer suit me. And I wonder whether it might not be time.