By most accounts, my college roommate was a conservative fellow. He voted for Reagan, preferred playing the piano to partying and was usually asleep by 11:00 P.M. He appeared to be the embodiment of dullness and predictability. But one Saturday morning, while I was still in bed trying to determine the molecular weight of a can of Budweiser, he burst into the room with a smug grin on his face. “I just jumped out of a plane at 10,000 feet,” he said. “I’m going to do it again tomorrow. Wanna try it?”
I politely declined. I’ve never been that crazy about the idea of riding in airplanes, let alone leaping out of them. What if the guy who packed my parachute had a really bad hangover that day? What if I landed in the lagoon of a sewage-treatment plant and drowned? Hadn’t I read about that happening to someone a few years ago?
I think I know why my buddy did something so seemingly uncharacteristic, perhaps even foolhardy. He did if because it was uncharacteristic and foolhardy He needed to travel to the edge and dance on it for a while because his life was so otherwise boring and predictable.
Everyone needs some of that risk and excitement. After all, in terms of evolution, we’re been wearing suits and living in split-levels for only a speck of time. Most of our prehistoric past was filled with uncertainty, danger and extreme risks. The people who survived were those who thrived on those risks. We’re their heirs, and that need for a certain amount of risk is still strong in us.
I don’t need airplanes and parachutes to fulfill my adventure quotient; roller coasters do it for me. I get sweaty palms and a flip-flopping stomach just waiting in line. Being strapped in the seat is exquisite agony. By the time I reach the top of the first steep rise, I’m convinced that death is moments away. My heart is in my mouth through the entire ride. When it’s over, I feel…terrific. I’ve spit in the eye of fear, grabbed myself an energizing jolt of adrenaline.