A visit to the Guru

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      The Guru teaches us that we must follow our own path, make our own journey, not be distracted by the movement of others.

 

I thought of these wise words when I was made redundant. I decided to use the opportunity of having a few thousand in the bank and no commitments. I would go to India, to meet the Guru in person. I would tell him my story, hear his wisdom.

 

Then I thought about his words some more. ‘We must each make our own way’.  I will go my own way, I thought, I won’t hop on a plane, my visit to the Guru must be more than a holiday. I will turn it into a challenge, into the ultimate feat of human endurance. I will run there.

 

My idea wasn’t as insane as it may sound. I’ve been running all my life, ever since childhood. My father always encouraged me; we would go out for long runs, dad cycling along beside me, barking instructions, as if he were my personal trainer. I’ve done over 50 marathons, I run at least 60 miles every week and consider myself to be in the perfect state of physical fitness.

 

I googled the distance: 4,000 miles.  I made a few preliminary mental calculations; if I ran an average of twenty miles per day then the journey would take 200 days. I counted the money in my bank account. I could just about afford to do this. I would have to make every penny count, I certainly wouldn’t be able to rent hotel rooms, would have to make every meal a budget. No fancy restaurants, no restaurants at all in fact, I would have to live off the cheapest food I could find.  

 

I planned the route. It took me through Europe, Belarus, Russia, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Turkmenistan, Afghanistan, Pakistan and finally to the Guru’s home town in India.

 

Normally a trek like this would take months of planning. Organising visas flexible enough for my route would, I knew, prove next to impossible. Instead I emailed the Guru, or at least the staff in charge of the Guru’s website, asking if they could supply a letter from the Guru, saying that I had been granted an audience and would be passing through the various countries listed. The Guru’s team emailed back from the official email address, expressing the Guru’s personal support for the quest. They even cited a phone number to ring in case of border emergencies.

 

I saw my doctor to get a range of vaccinations. When I told her my plan she was clear: she thought I was crazy, my body would never endure a period of sustained running like that and, if was going to go ahead, I should at least do it for charity. She rattled off a list of medically-related good causes.  I laughed at her cheek, but knew I would never delay my run long enough to raise sponsorship.

 

Within just over a week I was ready to set off. I took as little as possible, just a few changes of clothes and very little else. I changed all of my money into US Dollars, a currency that is acceptable anywhere on the planet, plus a handful of Euros to get me through France, which doesn’t consider itself part of the planet.

 

For sleeping I bought an inflatable bubble. The bubble is perfect for long journeys, superior to a tent, it folds up and fits in a rucksack and weighs next to nothing. When inflated, it’s perfect: soft to sleep on, roomy, waterproof. The only thing you have to watch out for is sleeping on top of hills, or steep slopes, as the bubble does allow you to roll around, and people have been known to wake up dozens of miles from where they went to sleep. Or die. Neither of these are ideal.

 

I ran the short distance to Dover, hitched a ride onto a ferry (I was on a very strict budget and people are surprisingly willing to give lifts). I hit France and determined to get out of France as quickly as possible. I ran 50 miles that first day, and 40 the next. I was soon well ahead of schedule. I didn’t worry about pacing myself, I was determined to get to the Guru, to fulfil my life’s course, to seek his guidance.

 

Food and drink proved less of a problem than I had anticipated. Water could be had for free at any restaurant or cafe. Sometimes I had to help myself, stealing a drink from the sink in the toilet, but more often than not the owner was impressed by my story and more than happy to let me have a glass of tap water, free of charge. Many offered me free meals.

 

I discovered that the sandwich has conquered the world and was available pretty much everywhere I ventured. Other forms of bread-based snacks proliferated, though the pasty seems not to have ventured east of our shores, I never encountered a single one on my entire journey. 

 

I was surprised to find that people would join me en route, for short distances, take photos of the two of us running. These weren’t the Guru’s followers, just people I passed. But somehow, on some subconscious level, they understood the significance of my journey and wanted to share part of it with me.

 

I blogged about my journey, after all I needed something to do when I wasn’t running. At first I had very few followers, but word of my quest spread. People who I met en route would look me up on line and become my followers. They tweeted about me. Local newspapers also picked up on my effort, which spread to national papers, even TV news. I became an international celebrity, in the throw-away nature of today’s celebrities.

 

I wasn’t dressed properly at all. Though I had waterproofs I had packed nothing to protect me from the cold of Poland, Ukraine and Russia. However, the public proved my saviour again, I was given thick goat’s fleeces and shawls to cover me, for no charge. It made running more difficult, as did the ice and snow, but I was too determined to care that I slipped and fell every few metres. I got up, brushed off the worst of the snow and carried on until I fell again.

 

I had been warned that passing through borders would be difficult. In fact the few sensible friends I had spoken to about the venture all warned me off it, for reasons too numerous to mention, amongst them being the problems for a westerner crossing through Kazakhstan, Pakistan, Afghanistan and Turkmenistan. At worst I could be arrested as a terrorist suspect or spy, ending my life rotting in a foreign prison cell, festering to nothing in the stench of a thousand petty villains.

 

But I trusted the Guru. As I approached the borders I spoke to the people I passed and the people running with me, and become expert at identifying the weak spots, borders barely patrolled. Thus, many borders I simply ran through without stopping. When I did have to pass through some form of customs, I showed the email from the Guru. Though many had not heard of the Guru himself, the nature of a religious quest was universally recognised and, after showing them my blistered, bloodied feet as further evidence, I was nodded through with a smile.   

 

In Ukraine I stopped for food in a café I had read about in a tourist guide. Apparently the café was famous for the regular joke obituaries published in the local paper, such and such a person died after enjoyed a hearty last meal at the café. It seemed a strange reason for recommendation, but it would be something new to blog about, other than my sore feet. The café owner spoke fluent English and when I explained my journey to him he immediately called over a colleague, the one who wrote the obituaries. I explained the nature of my quest and he promised to get my obituary included in the local paper. He emailed me a link a few days later, which I had translated. “Henry Morris died from sheer exhaustion after running 2,500 miles from England to Luhansk to enjoy a hearty meal at Café Boris.”

 

My blog had attracted a certain amount of attention amongst the Guru’s followers, and as I neared his home city I was joined by several dozen of His supporters for the last few miles. It became quite an event, with people mobbing the streets to watch us pass. I spoke nothing of the language, but I knew what they were saying.

 

Members of the Guru’s entourage were waiting for me as I approached the temple. “The Guru has granted you an audience,” one of them said.

 

“What now?” He nodded. So there was no time for me to wash and change.

 

“Go as you are, wearing the sweat of a 4,000 mile run. The Guru has no time for people who hide themselves away behind images.”

 

He led me through the temple in my running shorts and sweaty vest.

 

There he was, the Guru himself, clad in a long purple robe, which, matched with his grey beard and straggly hear, made him look more like a wizard from a fantasy book than a real life religious leader.

 

He smiled at me as I approached. Clearly he had heard of my journey and, maybe, was even a tad inspired by the effort I had made to reach him. To my surprise the Guru spoke good English, with a heavy accent as if the words had had to pass through a thick noodle soup before they could reach me, but clear and comprehensible.

 

He looked me up and down, all over, as if he were assessing my value. In particular he looked at my feet. My tight budget had not allowed me to buy a replacement pair of shoes; as a result my feet were covered in what can only be described as shoe remnants, my feet clearly visible beneath, bloodied, bruised and blistered.

 

Eventually he readied himself to speak.

 

“You need a new pair of shoes,” he said. “You must always wear good shoes, it’s important not just to protect your feet, but to give support and guidance to your body.”

 

And that was it, with those words my audience was over, he was guided to his next appointment.

 

I had run 4,000 miles to be told I needed new shoes.

 

I did as the Guru advised. His words were wise. I went straight to the nearest shoe store and bought a new pair of running shoes, ready to begin my journey back. I bought the best shoes in the shop, knowing that they would have to last me 4,000 miles.

 

When I arrived back home I knew with total certainty what I would do with the rest of my life. I got a job in a shoe shop. I would preach the Guru’s wisdom. I would be there for everyone seeking spiritual and moral guidance in their choice of footwear.

 

So don’t worry that this pair is a bit more expensive than that pair. Try them on. They fit perfectly don’t they.  Let your feet make the decision for you, it is them that will have to live with your choice.