He loved falling 150-200 feet to his death?
I bought a motorcycle about 15 years ago, to ride from Chicago to Nova Scotia and back with my best pal to celebrate our 40th birthdays. A calculated risk, for a special occasion. I planned to sell it right after the trip. I promised my wife I would sell it right after the trip. I did not sell it right after the trip. In fact, I still own it, 32,000 miles later.
When my wife realized I was about as likely to die on it as to sell it, she asked me if I went head-first into a semi trailer, “Can I tell people you died doing what you loved?”
I told her that if I was dead, she could tell people anything she wanted. But that it was more true to say, “He died doing one of the things that he loved.” The one of the things he loved that was most likely to cause him to never again enjoy any of the other things he loved.
Just as I’m sure Justin Bingham enjoyed a few pleasures in life beyond “canyoneering,” here are some of other things I love:
Golf, which, whenever I die, I will never play again. Baseball, too.
Body surfing, which I will never do again.
Booze and coffee, which I will never drink again.
My dog Eddie, who I will never pet again.
Many dear friends and family members, who I will never see again.
My wife and my daughter, who I will never see again.
Writing somewhat upsetting blog posts about death and dying, which I will never do again.
And so on, and so forth.
And the number one thing I love? Living! Which, if I crash my motorcycle—unless there’s a surprise twist at the end—I will never do again. So I ride carefully and think magically and acknowledge superstitiously under my breath at the end of every long ride, “Cheated death again.”
Of course, my wife was grasping at straws when she asked me whether she could tell people I died doing what I loved. That’s what we’re all doing, I guess, when people we love die—especially when they die doing something dangerous, or dumb. No one wants to hear the widow say, “Selfish bastard, I told him to sell that stupid motorcycle years ago!”
But God. Wouldn’t it just be better not to say anything at all at the wake, than to desecrate a whole rich life by saying something smarmy?
For much more on this subject, see Carlin, George (and my very favorite of his one-man shows):
Brian Jenner says
There’s a spiritual discipline by which we convince ourselves that we’re dead already. It’s the best way to live!
David Murray says
Also saves on groceries!