Airplanes. They used to be mean freedom. Now, they mean consequence. Well, they represent consequence. They used to mean escape. Back when I lived with my parents, back when I rented a room for $150 a month, back when I could touch everything I owned from my bed. Now, well, a plane doesn’t bring freedom, it brings dread and stress and worry and concern. I fly, but I’m not flying.
A couple of glasses of wine, Manchester by the Sea (good, but whoa, far from uplifting), a son at home crying, a wife at home holding the load. That’s life, I guess. How many times have I written those two words, that’s life. So many times. When I was just starting out, riding and writing, writing and riding and now, so many years later, actually, understanding life. Well, understanding it better. We’ll never understand it.
Three hours, 38 minutes to go on this flight from Washington Dulles to London Heathrow. My 15th Cheltenham, they’ve come in different shapes and sizes – the Hunter’s Lodge, four of us to a room, Best Mate, Kauto and Denman, to Valdez in the Arkle to this year, well, who knows what this year brings. The trip, any trip, used to mean freedom. Now it means, consequence. Maybe that’s not the right word, maybe I’ll come up with the right word after a few hours of sleep, after the wine has passed, after the light has gone off and come back on, sometimes the right word comes, sometimes it doesn’t.
I yearn for the feeling of freedom. Though, I think it’s gone. Once you have a child, there is no freedom. I’ve never felt free since Miles burst onto this world in 2008. Never free again. Life is better, no doubt, but it’s not free. On some of our saunters (John Muir’s term for a walk in the woods) perhaps, a moment of freedom, but they come with consequence too, the time away from something I should be doing. Although, there is nothing a father should do more than saunter – really, a walk and talk, simply spending time with their child.
As I left today, Miles whimpered, an audible, noticeable, heart-breaking whimper. It’s his spring break, he’s got a fever of over 100, his trip to Birmingham cancelled, his mother stressed over a new riding ring, a bathroom renovation, a father who’s 95 and an impending snow storm. Surely, she doesn’t feel freedom either. Miles notices it all. I’m usually the one whimpering as I leave – Saratoga every summer, Cheltenham every March, hell, an afternoon at the races. But this time, Miles was the one stifling tears, clutching me tight, looking away when the time to go had come. Maybe it’s the fever, maybe it’s the age, maybe it’s something else, guess, I’ll never know. I held him tight, clutched him like a tree in a storm.
The seatbelt warning just came on, the old man in the middle seat to my right fumbles with his; I haven’t buckled mine. Guess I should. Miles would want me to buckle, seven days between goodbye and hello. I used to love a plane ride, a trip, a jaunt, an excursion, an escape. This one feels nothing like any of those. I don’t know why, just know my son was crying when I left. That pretty much shackles any freedom. Yes, I’ll land tomorrow, bound off the plane, kick jet lag to the side as George and Candida Baker, Pat and Val Murphy and all the rest of my Cheltenham family welcomes me back aboard the ride. We’ll laugh, we’ll gamble, we’ll revel, we’ll enjoy four days of sport. We’ll be in the moment, as much as I can be these days.
