In the early mornings now, instead of scrolling the news or mulling over a Wordle, I check the wind speed and direction. If it’s from the East, I multiply by two. I run along the Rideau Canal, watched by the same worryingly-tame heron every day, and by the time I get to the lockmaster’s house the sun has fully risen.
I will have seen maybe six people in those 30 minutes, but the next stretch through the Byward Market is the most populated. Someone is passed out in the middle of the (pedestrian) road, embracing a pilfered potted plant. By the time I get to the homeless mission, it’s all “fuck you!” from one side of the street and “fuck you!” like an echoed loon call, from the other. Then on past the Chinese embassy, which since COVID has been missing its around-the-clock vigil of Falun Gong protestors.
The Starbucks opens at 6, which means if I time it right I can pick up a latte for my walk through the chichi part of town. Rockcliffe for a long time was designated as a village inside of Ottawa in order to avoid being subject to the city’s administration. As a result, it remains a sylvan oddity with massive lot sizes and no sidewalks. My mother had to learn the rural curriculum there as a child because she was officially inhabiting a hamlet, identifying cow breeds at school but raised far from any farm.
On the other side of Rockcliffe I reach my destination, the rowing club. I’m into rowing now, you see, and I’ve met a group of people who spend a lot of time hauling themselves with oars from Ontario over to Quebec and back again on the Ottawa River. It’s surprisingly tricky for even a lifelong paddler to get the hang of even the more stable touring shells. They reel to the side in the wake of any long-passed motor boat traffic and catch on any clothing that isn’t tightly cinched to the body. Though I haven’t gone for a swim yet, those boats seem constantly to be conspiring. Meanwhile an instructor has remarked to his assistant coach that I have a rower’s physique. I dine out on this notion for weeks.
In the course of my training, there is one boat that has gained a mystique. Probably because I’m not allowed to use it. Roped onto the boat racks at the club, there are racing shells that are so tippy and dangerous that you need special mentoring and one-on-one ninja training to earn the right to access them. From a distance, it’s not at all clear how people get their hips in those things. And it’s said they are so delicate that if you step anywhere but the designated load-bearing point, your foot will crash straight through the hull. The boat is ruined and you’re in the drink. This idea is wildly exciting to me.
So I will put in my time this summer running through my ‘skills consolidation’ program, all the while eyeing those zippy and maneuverable racing shells. Hoping for a chance one day to tempt ruin and step in.
Jessa, for the past few days I’ve been thinking about the necessity of “tempting ruin” at any age. People often think of teenagers testing boundaries, doing what they shouldn’t just because it feels good or just to see what will happen. In 2011 David Dobbs wrote a story for National Geographic about how neuroscience confirms the need for risk-taking behavior in teens, and engaging in novel, potentially dangerous acts might aid in the increased flexibility and sophistication of a brain on the cusp of maturation.
But I just saw an eighty-year-old friend perform in a play, and could see the benefit of her tempting ruin in her increased swagger in mind and body. Although her mobility is somewhat limited now, she successfully navigated some steep back steps to reach the parking lot. As she settled into the passenger seat of my car, she said, “And now you know who I hang out with.” She was speaking of her fellow actors who ranged in age from their early twenties to their late eighties. People who have worked as dentists, librarians, stay-at-home moms, and musicians–all lovers of risk. People who benefited by being in a play in ways that I didn’t when I chose to be merely a spectator.