I don’t really want to run away from everything. But I’m disappointed to realise I’m no longer able to do so anyway. We all have the instinct for fight or flight. Fleeing civilisation to try your luck in the wild is the most extreme expression of the second option. Somewhere, deep down, we’re hardwired with the false security of this last resort. Or perhaps it’s just me. Either way, I’ve reached the sad conclusion that, in my case, it’s not possible.
I started thinking through how I’d do it. Right, I’m off, I decided, hypothetically. Hmm, what to take with me? Well, there’s my eyesight to consider. Just take my specs, or some contact lenses, too? I’ve only three weeks’ worth. How do myopic soldiers manage behind enemy lines? There must be a way.
Then there are my meds. Blood pressure, reflux, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, cholesterol and so on, all neatly arranged in coloured pill-sorters. My knapsack would be rattling with them. And what about when they ran out? Can you wander into a pharmacy and say: “Sorry to bother you, I’ve gone off grid. You couldn’t do me some lisinopril, could you?”
Then there are my compression socks. I can’t manage without them, for my troubled left leg. Swells up something rotten if I don’t wear them. I’ve only got eight, I can only get them on prescription and it takes ages for them to come. And how many pants and socks would I need?
Oh God, I forgot about my orthotics. Even using them religiously, I’m a slave to the corn on the outside of my left foot. It’s agony, I tell you. Out there on the wide, open road, I’d be hobbling into the sunset. I suppose I could take the battery-powered foot filer, but that’s still more weight. I’ll have to ditch the knapsack and go for a rucksack instead. And perhaps a wheelie bag, too.
Mustn’t forget tweezers, as I’ve got a rose thorn in my finger that needs shifting. Also, my nasal hair growth accelerates in springtime. And I’ll need to pack my ointment for treating fungal toenails. They’re all but cured now, but I can’t risk a flare up after all the work I’ve put in.
Maybe I could shed all this medical paraphernalia and be just fine. But I doubt it. I’ll just stay put and acknowledge that I’m too nice to fight and too old for flight. I’ll make my peace with that.
• Adrian Chiles is a broadcaster, writer and Guardian columnist
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