The Van by Ned Fox
“Dozhd', zvonkoj pelenoj napolnil nebo majskij dozhd'” the raspy voice of Yuri Shevchuk emanates from the speakers. The pulsating keyboards and the simplicity of the verse lulls the back three rows into a slow sleep. What had been chaos for the first leg of the trip has become serene, almost as if we had never left the tranquility of the woods of Rattlesnake Mountain at all. Aleksey sits quietly, driving a road he has driven countless times, eyes only flickering when a car passes. The only sound, other than the worn cassette in the stereo, is of the van driving down the highway.
Staring out the window, the endless forests of New Hampshire fly by. Eyes becoming unfocused, I am back at Rumney, feeling the cool black rock under my fingers, the warm breeze on the back of my neck, the pure pleasure of climbing. Breaking out of my trance I look down at my arms. Chalk remains under my fingernails. The lack of skin turns my fingers bright red. I can still feel the tightness of the lactic acid in my forearms. My legs feel leaden, worn from the hike up to Waimea that would make an alpinist laugh and a sport climber break down in tears. Exhaling deeply, I lean back in the faux leather seats, and for the first time today I completely relax every muscle in my body. The sudden lack of tension overwhelms my body with fatigue and causes me to lapse into an almost comatose state.
My body remaining completely still, my mind is as alert as it ever has been. Scanning though the accomplishments and failures of the day, I can go through every move of my project. Seeing my body catch the crux move over and over again I can’t understand why I couldn’t do it earlier that day. I want to go back, give it one more try, but when I try to turn my head back to where Rumney lies, my head won’t move. It will have to wait until next time.
My mind drifts to other topics, seemingly random thoughts that are occupying my subconscious at the time. A movie I had seen recently, a physics concept I couldn’t quite grasp, the meaning of life. I have yet to solve that last one, but given enough time in the van the answer is sure to come at some point. Absorbed in thought, I do not notice as we drive by the New Hampshire Liquor Store, our usual stop for vending machines, nor do I notice getting off at exit 36. My body finally awakens as the van goes over the bumps of Mishawum Road, and a familiar sight comes into view.
As we finally pull in to the Boston Rock Gym parking lot, the rest of the van slowly returns to consciousness, and the children stumble out of the van like zombies, dragging their backpacks lazily to their parent’s cars. I slowly lower myself into my car, turning the ignition and letting it run for a minute. Closing my eyes, I know this was a good day; that this is the good life, when a day’s measure isn’t how much money was earned, but by how tired you are. A wave of satisfaction sweeps over me as I pull out of the lot, ready to resume the mundane routine of daily life, at least until next weekend…
