Terrified of Heights and Nik Wallenda
Without Prejudice
He balances on leather ballet shoes, a man crossing the Grand Canyon, all my nerves, my terrific fear of heights, comes to the fore and I tell myself to look away, look away. But like an insect pinned to the wall, my eyes can not move, and I am mesmerised, feeling sick. He walks a cable a fist size thick, placing each foot in front of the other. High winds swaying the cable but he keeps on, resolutely and the world hold its ultimate collective breath.
Far below the Grand Canyon, coloured in ochres and browns a slight speck of green dotted through. A lone man on a cable with a balancing pole and nothing else, no harness. At this point I think a small parachute would be handy, but no such object is strapped to his back. A man in deep concentration, focusing only on the next step. I wonder what is he thinking ? Is he calling on his God, his faith, his fears loosening his bowels and causing his stomach muscles to clench.
Half way he thinks of his Grandfather and he kneels down, suspended hundreds of feet in the air, genuflecting and steadying himself, rises and walks on. Millions of people all over the world holding their breath, suspending their fears, suspending their belief, the thought of him falling and crashing to the ground, uppermost in our minds.
He walks on, a comic of a Charlie Chaplin walk, both feet steered to walking duck like, turned outwards. There is beauty and awfulness mixed together in a sheer determination to just get across. And it takes 22 minutes. 22 minutes of fear, bravado, derring do, heroics. He must be praying, blotting out the height, the fear, the awesomeness of his surroundings. Tuned only into his body and the cable, his bravery entering into his body via his feet. Every nuance of the cable felt through his black leather slippers, the thin fabric transferring the metal feel, the twined metal cable.
His family, friends, the Press, others watching from the ending, their fingers entwined in their mouths, their hearts thumping dully, echoed into their ears. It's almost a palpable thing, that fear, that longing for him to be safe, to make it, to achieve and I can see posters now, tacked to the walls of teen boys and girls labelled. Achieve, inspire, don't fear. I am in awe and feeling nauseated at the same time, my fear of heights spurting like acid, and washes into my stomach.
He is there, near the end and runs the last few metres, feet splayed outwards, gaining him less slippage, the metal under his feet. He is over, it is over, the world watching sighs in relief. No body tumbling in to the canyon, broken and crushed if he falls. It is impossible but it has happened. One man, one hero, one wire.
He balances on leather ballet shoes, a man crossing the Grand Canyon, all my nerves, my terrific fear of heights, comes to the fore and I tell myself to look away, look away. But like an insect pinned to the wall, my eyes can not move, and I am mesmerised, feeling sick. He walks a cable a fist size thick, placing each foot in front of the other. High winds swaying the cable but he keeps on, resolutely and the world hold its ultimate collective breath.
Far below the Grand Canyon, coloured in ochres and browns a slight speck of green dotted through. A lone man on a cable with a balancing pole and nothing else, no harness. At this point I think a small parachute would be handy, but no such object is strapped to his back. A man in deep concentration, focusing only on the next step. I wonder what is he thinking ? Is he calling on his God, his faith, his fears loosening his bowels and causing his stomach muscles to clench.
Half way he thinks of his Grandfather and he kneels down, suspended hundreds of feet in the air, genuflecting and steadying himself, rises and walks on. Millions of people all over the world holding their breath, suspending their fears, suspending their belief, the thought of him falling and crashing to the ground, uppermost in our minds.
He walks on, a comic of a Charlie Chaplin walk, both feet steered to walking duck like, turned outwards. There is beauty and awfulness mixed together in a sheer determination to just get across. And it takes 22 minutes. 22 minutes of fear, bravado, derring do, heroics. He must be praying, blotting out the height, the fear, the awesomeness of his surroundings. Tuned only into his body and the cable, his bravery entering into his body via his feet. Every nuance of the cable felt through his black leather slippers, the thin fabric transferring the metal feel, the twined metal cable.
His family, friends, the Press, others watching from the ending, their fingers entwined in their mouths, their hearts thumping dully, echoed into their ears. It's almost a palpable thing, that fear, that longing for him to be safe, to make it, to achieve and I can see posters now, tacked to the walls of teen boys and girls labelled. Achieve, inspire, don't fear. I am in awe and feeling nauseated at the same time, my fear of heights spurting like acid, and washes into my stomach.
He is there, near the end and runs the last few metres, feet splayed outwards, gaining him less slippage, the metal under his feet. He is over, it is over, the world watching sighs in relief. No body tumbling in to the canyon, broken and crushed if he falls. It is impossible but it has happened. One man, one hero, one wire.
