On one of my trips to Oregon a few years back, I had the pleasant experience of taking a winter hike up a mountainside, along a trail designated for cross country skiers, snowmobilers and snowshoers alike. I was accompanied by a gentleman who was only there to spend time with me; he really wasn't into fitness of any kind at this stage of his life. I, on the other hand, had been working out three or four times a week; doing a combination of weights and running on a treadmill as well as eating exceptionally well and taking several natural source supplements to aid my health kick. And I had been doing this for the previous three years or so.
My friend not only was not interested in fitness or good nutrition, he also had a heart event two years earlier which resulted in his having a stint put in one of his arteries. He was grossly overweight and still had not really radically changed his lifestyle.
We looked like a horizontal Mutt and Jeff.
Just so you understand I was really the best candidate for getting up that mountain with very little effects or trouble.
It was a beautiful, sunny day. We motored up to the ski lodge, which was about 4,000 feet above sea level, parked in the parking lot and got out of the car, planting our feet firmly on the ground. All around us were skiers coming and going, either carrying their gear and skiis or slaloming along the grounds with skiis still on. Just above us, the main hill showed two or three trails, full of more skiers of all shapes and sizes. I was exhilirated and took in deep, gulping breaths of the clean, cold air. Noticing it was getting late in the afternoon, I urged my friend to join me on a hike up the aforementioned trail, before the sun went down.
He agreed and so we set out.
All along the trail, there were markers that read the elevation. As it turned out, this came in really handy. Up we walked, at times steeply with concerted effort, but most of the time with great ease. At least for me. But we went slowly, to my frustration, because my friend kept wanting to turn around and go down again. He was bored and out of breath. Understandably.
I kept telling him if he did more of this kind of thing, he wouldn't find it so hard the next time. If it had been up to me, I would have practically run up that mountainside. And I rubbed it in every time he whined, too. I was merciless.
Up, up and up we went. 4,250 feet, feeling good. 4,500, still feeling good. 4,750 feet, my friend was still whining and I was still doing really well.
And then it happened. At 5,000 feet above elevation; which turned out to be my personal magic number for oxygen deprivation sickness.
I started to get really giggly and talkative, verily running off at the mouth about just about everything I saw and some things that just seemed to suddenly spontaneously come to mind. At some point, after that as we continued to walk, more slowly now as it didn't seem to matter as much to me anymore, my friend looked at me sideways and suggested we go back down the mountain so I could clear my head.
I felt like the first time I got drunk in university and someone poured whiskey out of a wine skin down my throat from about two feet above me as I lay, prostrate, on the floor of my dorm common room.
I guess you could say I was drunk. Pie eyed in fact. Out of my keester.
And loving it.
I am happy to say when my friend who had the heart condition, ate a steady diet of Big Macs, fries and shakes and had a belly that would shame any long haul driver in the whole U.S. of A. was not affected, I was suitably impressed.
He stayed relatively sane throughout the whole thing and patiently escorted me down the hill to a reasonable elevation where the higher oxygen level kicked in and, I am happy to say, my drunk ended with nary a sniff of a hangover.
On the drive home, as he laughingly reminded me of my silly behaviour on that hill, he told me he had an athletic heart.
It figures.
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