... To Being Schooled by a National Park

Purple Mountain (I think?) Killarney National Park

Tourists don’t know where they’ve been, travelers don’t know where they’re going.

Paul Theroux

Torc Waterfall

I awoke this morning worn out from the past few days of hitching and walking.  My fatigue was further enhanced by only about 17 minutes of sleep last night, under the bunk of a German who sounded like a horse riding a lawnmower.  I felt grouchy for the first time since I've arrived, and knew enough to know that anything active and outside is usually my best medicine.  Doing so would also prevent me from losing my ish on some poor unsuspecting college student.

I decided the best cure for all of this would be to hire a cycle (this is how they say rent a bike) and head out into Killarney National Park.  Knew it would be a solid workout, and would help me to stay in the solitude and silence that I'm craving so much right now.  And it was.  At first.

Secret Garden

I made it to Muckross Abbey, the Torc Waterfall, and to the Meeting of the Waters.  I was well aware of how sore and tired my body was before I started, and felt it even more acutely as I went.  I mean, my armpits were sore.  My hips were sore.  My tramp stamp was sore, for goodness' sake.  But onward I rode, as I'm pretty determined on this trip to move forward and not back, metaphorically and otherwise.

There were more pedestrians than cyclists, and even some who traversed the park via horse-drawn wagon.  The mountains, the lakes, the trees, everything was beautiful.  And then my self started to drown out the beauty that was around me.  I was so very sore, and fatigued, and of course hungry, and realizing I was only getting further from the end.  I think I rode approximately a bazillion kilometers, interspersed with a few intermittent off-trail hikes.  Despite the beauty, my mood was quickly deteriorating.  I was even cursing the fuzzy horses in my head, especially when I had to drive through the mud to avoid being squashed.  Not my finest hour.

Future Tattoo?

Thankfully though, the lowest point of this 6+ hour not-joyride ended up giving me the check I needed.  I arrived to a point where the only way to go was straight up.  Like, so vertical we cyclists had to carry/push/pull our bikes, as there was no way the 6-inch wide, 80 degree incline was possible, up or down (props to Gregg for doing this as a hobby back home... Crazy man!).  This followed at least 4 hours of riding up and down hills and valleys and twists and turns, both of the park and of my mind.  But somehow, when I started to push that damn bike up that wicked, beautiful mountain, I remembered where I was, and how very glad I am to be here, aching body aside.  So I said some quick prayers (I'm sorry, help!), and got 'er done.  Smiling.  Kind of.