Paragliding between peaks.

He came over for a beer this evening, he was depressed and listless; post event blues he called it.

I said why do you do it.

he said it is not a matter of choice any more. I have to do it. but each time it gets easier.

How is that I asked.

He said: Each event is like a hill. at first a small hill, steep but not very high. you climb to the top and it is a struggle. you spend a couple of hours at the top of that hill and then fall, tumbling down the other side. Landing with a bump. you look behind you and all you see is the wall you have fallen down, you look ahead and all you see is an endless plain but there is no option other than to start walking.

eventually after a few days you see in the distance a purple haze which in time makes itself known as another hill; larger this time and more challenging but your pace quickens and you relish the challenge of climbing it.

But again, after a couple of hours on the peak you fall to the plain on the other side and the long trudge repeats itself.

After a number of ascents and falls you learn to take a paraglider with you and instead of falling to the plain below after an ascent you glide towards the next peak landing closer and closer with each flight. Eventually you soar from peak to peak making good use of the thermals that rise from the plain below.

As long as you refrain from soaring, Icarus like, too close to the sun you can maintain this momentum... A series of ecstatic flights between heights, your ears filled with your own whoops of joy.

Nothing gets better than that.