Dr. Trekking & Mr. Hyde

Almost every day, at noon, I head out into the forest. I have a route of about seven hundred meters of elevation gain that, round trip, takes me two and a quarter hours. The climb, on foot—tangled path, track, tangled path, track, and track—to the house in Vallicrosa. On the way back, I run along the stretches of track. Many years ago, I got used to walking and running in the full sun, and unless the temperature climbs into the 40s, I do it without much suffering. Worse than that: I find it enjoyable to burn. It has the advantage that at these hours—from one to three-fifteen, or from two to four-fifteen—no one calls. On the way back, I have lunch in five minutes and get to work. Before leaving, I've been writing until the last minute.

The problem is that I can't leave without a cell phone because I'm caring for someone with a level 3 disability. I have to know what's going on at all times; they have to be able to call me and send me WhatsApp messages. The problem of adrenaline junkies isn't talked about enough. When I arrive, I'm relaxed and work wonderfully. But when it's almost time to leave, I can't concentrate and I'm completely out of my depth. The critical moment is those two and a quarter hours. On the way up, I think—often about work—with catastrophic results. I get stuck in circular reflections on imaginary grievances, I magnify problems that aren't so real, the FAI anarchist in me comes out, and since—oh!—my cell phone is constantly on, I start sending inflammatory messages. On the way down, I relax a bit, and although I still cause some problems, it's less serious. When I'm home, I remember the message I sent and think: "What the hell are you doing?"

They need to be able to call me: the problem of adrenaline junkies is not talked about enough.

From the outside, it seems funny, but I suffer a lot. Aside from the fact that I spend my life apologizing to people who haven't done anything to me. The solution I come up with is to have a cell phone so I can go out into the mountains with just my home phone number and WhatsApp, which doesn't allow me to send anything to anyone. Another solution is the Swedish multimedia and audio streaming service provider. I turn to it to play music that's relaxing or not relaxing, and I can sing it at the top of my lungs, like people who sing la-la-la-la when they don't want to hear something they're being told. I don't want to hear the inner voice that's nagging me: "Write him a WhatsApp and tell him to go to hell." The Swedish multimedia and audio streaming service provider runs an ad between blocks of songs that drives me hysterical. It says: "Your Swedish multimedia and audio streaming service provider accompanies you in your routine like your running shoes." "You bastards! Why have you turned music, which was meant to liberate you, into a routine? What a disgusting society this is: conservative, crushed, sold out!" At that moment, if I bite myself, I'll poison myself and die right there.