I'd Regret Going Up and Regret Going Down, So I Chose the Regret With a View

"Marry, and you will regret it; do not marry, and you will also regret it; marry or do not marry, you will regret it either way. Laugh at the world's foolishness, and you will regret it; weep over it, and you will also regret it; laugh at the world's foolishness or weep over it, you will regret it either way... Believe a woman, and you will regret it; do not believe her, and you will also regret it... Hang yourself, and you will regret it; do not hang yourself, and you will also regret it..." – Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or 4:30 a.m., January 3. Leidongping bus station. The temperature had dropped to minus five degrees Celsius. I was wrapped in an emergency blanket, shivering. My left knee was most likely IT band syndrome, and it hurt like hell every time I bent it. My right Achilles felt like acute Achilles tendinitis flaring up. If I pushed off even slightly wrong, a sharp pain shot up like an electric current. At first only my left leg had a problem. To ease the pain, I'd instinctively shifted all my weight onto my right foot. The result was obvious. I'd only meant to limp on one leg, and now both legs were locked in a contest of pain, neither one giving an inch. According to the original plan, once I'd climbed this far, I could switch to the cable car up to the Golden Summit. But the moment I reached Leidongping, I wavered. It's a 2.5 km walk from the bus station to the cable car. For me at that moment, that short distance might as well have been an uncrossable chasm. Five kilometers there and back wouldn't just drain what strength I had left. It could make the injuries in both legs spiral completely out of control. The distance itself wasn't scary. What really scared me was life after I got down the mountain. I thought about an earlier hike. After 23 km, I came down with plantar fasciitis and Achilles tendinitis at the same time, and for the first two days even walking around was torture. The painful memory of my life falling apart came back to hit me. If I didn't make it up this time, I could always come back. The mountains will still be here. Trading long-term pain and hassle at home for one moment of completion just wasn't worth it. I turned to Jiahua and said, "I don't want to go up. If I walk those 2.5 km, my legs will probably be wrecked by the time I'm down." Jiahua's legs weren't feeling great either. Seeing how down I was, he agreed to give up. But just as we were getting ready to retreat, my thoughts started churning again, beyond my control. We were already standing at Leidongping, only a two-minute cable car ride from the Golden Summit. We'd come all this way. I'd already walked through agonizing pain for two or three hours. If I turned back now, wouldn't giving up at the very end drain all that suffering of its meaning? If injury builds up through quantitative change, would one more hour of walking really tip it into a disastrous qualitative change? As for when I'd come back next time, who knew? After all these years, this was my first time standing here. Honestly, I had no special fixation on the Golden Summit. But that's where this trip's finish line had been set. I turned it over in my head for a long time, and in the end I gritted my teeth and decided to go up. I said to Jiahua, "Let's go. Up." The road to the cable car was much gentler than the mountain trail before. It was still dark, but at least there were lights along the road now, their dim yellow glow spilling onto the path and adding a bit of warmth to the cold night. Jiahua and I walked one behind the other. My feet kept moving, and my mind kept replaying the decision. After all that thinking, the core of it came down to one word: regret. If I didn't go up, I might save my legs, but I'd regret backing down right at the finish line and letting all my effort go to waste. If I went up, I'd reach my goal and bring the trip to a proper close. But the price was more pain, and when I got home and struggled to get around, I'd regret pushing myself too hard right now. Whether I went up to the Golden Summit or not, it all pointed to the same word: regret. The moment I stepped onto one of the stairs, it suddenly clicked. That's probably just how life is. Most choices come with hidden risks, and hardly any option leaves you completely satisfied from every angle, with no regrets at all. A lot of the time, what we call "not making a choice you'll regret" really just means picking the one mess out of two that you can better live with. In the end I chose the Golden Summit. One reason was that I wanted a photo standing at the top to put a stamp on the trip. The other was that I was banking on luck, betting my legs wouldn't fall apart completely because of this stretch. It was a lot like the dilemma in The Moon and Sixpence. Strickland chooses painting and gives up his stable life, emotion turning its back on reason. From a rational point of view, I should have gone down and protected my body too. But Strickland went to Paris, and I went to the Golden Summit. Maybe at certain moments, our choices are all pulled along by this ghost of idealism. When I finally stood on the Golden Summit, it was full daylight. The snowy view in front of me was beautiful. It wasn't as breathtaking as I'd imagined, but in that moment, the weight lifted off my chest. I'd regret going up, and I'd regret going down. Since regret can't be avoided, I might as well choose the regret that lets me see the view.