Other tests were more involved. For one that measured how our competence was affected by our circadian rhythms, two plastic things that looked like bolts were taped onto my forehead and chest while an arm cuff monitored my vitals. I had to go out for a burger one evening looking like Frankenstein. For a balance test, I was first wired with sensors and trussed up in a harness, then asked to stand on a small platform looking at a picture of the horizon. The scientists had me tip my head backward and forward while they moved the horizon scene or the small platform to see whether I’d lose my balance. Or my lunch. (I came close.)
Between all the tests, debriefs and media interviews, there was very little downtime. I felt slightly detached and observational; consciously engaging seemed like work. I felt oddly withdrawn.
I was back on Earth, but not back to my life on Earth. For the first month or so, I was at JSC most of the day, even on weekends. Helene packed healthy lunches and drove me back and forth until, after three weeks, my doctor agreed that it was safe for me to get behind the wheel.
Working back up to a normal workout took a lot longer. I spent two hours a day with the rehab specialists, who eased me back into exercise using equipment such as a floating treadmill: I wore a pair of rubber shorts that zipped into a big rubber balloon—by inflating it, they could control how much of my weight my legs needed to support while running. I started with about 60 percent, which matched the pull-down force that the shoulder and waist bungees had provided on orbit.
After two months, when I finally got the okay to go for a run outside, my legs felt heavy and slow, and I could feel my insides sloshing around as I awkwardly, clumsily pounded along. My cardiovascular response, too, was disappointing: my feet were still apparently top priority for blood flow, and my forgetful veins and arteries were still in no big rush to pump anything up to my lungs and head. I realized that for at least six months I simply wouldn’t be able to do activities that might involve sudden cardiovascular demands, like water-skiing or team sports. Aside from anything else, my bones couldn’t handle any shocks or stresses. After returning from the ISS, one astronaut had an innocuous fall that nevertheless resulted in a broken hip—I didn’t want to add to that particular database.
About three weeks after landing, Tom and I headed back to Star City together for the traditional official Russian debrief and ceremony. For him, it was the last leg of the multi-year journey that was Expedition 34/35. For me, it was the last leg of a 21-year career as an astronaut. Months earlier I’d told the CSA that I was retiring, and shortly there would be a public announcement.
The journey to Star City, then, felt both comfortingly familiar and a little strange. Packing, flying, being picked up at Domodedovo airport in Moscow by Ephim, a smiling, slightly devilish long-time friend and driver for NASA—I’d done it all before, many times, yet the knowledge that I might not do it again changed the experience. After Ephim dropped us at the NASA townhouses, my comfortable, no-frills home away from home for so many years, I actually felt … free. I hadn’t been completely on my own, and in control of my own schedule, for a very long time. Years, maybe. There were no doctors, no family, no trainers, just the pleasantly selfish simplicity of being responsible only for myself. Tom and I both commented on the decadence of it, then happily left one another alone. I walked around the pond, read quietly, caught up on email unhurriedly. It felt … enjoyable.
Ephim had told me that Roman had bought a new car, so I was prepared when he turned up in a gold BMW convertible the next morning. It was clearly a reward he’d promised himself in return for all the time away, and an earthly pleasure I understand well: I have two convertibles, an old Thunderbird and a newer Mustang. Roman and I grinned at one another, two middle-aged men unashamed of our predictability.
Our technical debriefs later that day were straightforward and perfunctory, since Roman had already gone over all the details with Roscosmos. The trip was really more an opportunity for the three of us to thank and toast old friends—the instructors and trainers who’d worked with us for years, helping us get ready—as well as a photo op. We were presented to the media for a Q & A in Russian, followed by a lot of smiling and joining of hands to oblige the photographers. There were more journalists there than usual because it was a big day in the history of space flight; we were also celebrating the 50th anniversary of Valentina Tereshkova’s flight: she was the first woman in space. Along with my friend Alexei Leonov, the world’s first spacewalker, she joined our crew to pose for pictures in front of Yuri Gagarin’s statue. I couldn’t quite fathom this unlikely juxtaposition of my heroes and my own recent history, and filed it away as one more amazing event to revel in now and try to figure out later.
Our visit culminated in an awards ceremony in a long, too-warm hall filled with instructors, DOR staff, Roman’s family, NASA management, Roscosmos and Energia bosses, local politicians and many youth groups. One by one, people came forward to honor our crew with short speeches, handshakes and gifts: plaques, watches, books and endless, enormous bunches of flowers. Tom, Roman and I each had our own table just to hold all this stuff, and by the end the tables were overflowing. Tom and I gave our flowers to the ladies in the DOR office and turned the pricey gifts over to NASA management, who put it all in storage, just as the president does with his costly gifts (government employees can’t accept expensive presents, but we were allowed to keep a few small items).
After I’d said my goodbyes and we were sitting in the NASA van, I had a very strong feeling that I would never be back in Star City. Suddenly, I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to seek out my friends and colleagues all over again, to hug them once more and relive all the experiences we’d shared. I wanted to do something to elevate my departure from mere leave-taking to big event, which is what it was for me. A chapter in my life was over. But instead, I sat quietly in the van, melancholy as the so-familiar faces and places eased out of view, but mostly grateful. Russia had been good to me.
Back on the other side of the ocean, the mood was jolly, celebratory, hectic. The prime minister of Canada invited me over for a visit. I was the Calgary Stampede’s parade grand marshal, an honor especially given the city’s Herculean efforts to clean up after a devastating flood in time for the annual celebration. There were parties in Houston and Montreal, where the CSA is headquartered. I shook hands, gave endless interviews, felt stronger every day. I packed up my desk at JSC, and we boxed up everything in our Houston home; we moved back to Canada amidst a swirl of flattering articles and tributes. The “Space Oddity” video had opened doors, musically, and I performed for large crowds at big events. There were so many requests, I had to come up with a form letter politely declining speaking engagements and endorsement offers. It was exciting. It was exhausting.
And it was, I knew, ephemeral.
Who was vice president three administrations ago? Which movie won Best Picture at the Oscars five years ago? Who won gold in speed skating at the last Olympics? I used to know. These were big events at the time, but soon afterward, they were largely remembered only by the participants themselves.
A space mission is the same. The blast of glory that attends launch and landing doesn’t last long. The spotlight moves on, and astronauts need to, too. If you can’t, you’ll wind up hobbled by self-importance or by the fear that nothing else you do will ever measure up.
Some astronauts do end up mired in the quicksand of bygone celebrity, but they are the exceptions. More than 500 people have had the opportunity to see our planet from afar, and for most of them, the experience seems to have either reinforced or induced humility. The shimmering, dancing show of the northern and southern lights; the gorgeous blues of the shallow reefs fanning out around the Bahamas; the huge, angry froth stirred up around the focused eye of a hurricane—seeing the whole world shifts your perspective radically. It’s not only awe-inspiring but profoundly humbling. Certainly it drove home to me how nearsighted it would be to place too much importance on my own 53-odd years on the planet. I take
great pride in what our crew accomplished while we were on the ISS, especially the record amount of science we completed and the fact that Tom and Chris Cassidy pulled off an emergency spacewalk. But in the annals of space exploration, we’ll be lucky to merit a footnote.
This is not to say that space travel has made me feel irrelevant. In fact, it’s made me feel I have a personal obligation to be a good steward of our planet and to educate others about what’s happening to it. From space, you can see the deforestation in Madagascar, how all that red soil that was once held in place by natural vegetation is now just pouring into the ocean; you can see how the shoreline of the Aral Sea has moved dozens of miles as water has been diverted for agriculture, so that what used to be lake bottom is now bleak desert. You can also see that Earth is a durable, absorbent, self-correcting, life-supporting place that has its own problems—natural ones, like ash-spewing volcanoes. But we make matters infinitely worse through poor stewardship. We need to take a longer-term view of the environment and try to make things better wherever we can.
I feel a sense of mission about this that I didn’t have before I went to space, and people who know me sometimes find it exasperating. Recently a friend got frustrated with me because while we were out for a walk, I kept stopping to pick up trash, which slowed our progress considerably. This turns out to be one of the little-known aftereffects of space flight: I now pick gum wrappers up off the street.
Understanding my place in the grand scheme of the universe has helped me keep my own successes in perspective, but it hasn’t made me so modest that I can no longer bear applause. I bear it just fine, and actually get a kick out of the hoopla around launch and landing. Still, I also know that most people, including me, tend to applaud the wrong things: the showy, dramatic record-setting sprint rather than the years of dogged preparation or the unwavering grace displayed during a string of losses. Applause, then, never bore much relation to the reality of my life as an astronaut, which was not all about, or even mostly about, flying around in space.
It was really about making the most of my time here on Earth.
Some people assume that after going to space, everyday life on Earth must seem mundane, lackluster even. But for me, the opposite has been true. Post-flight, I feel the way you might feel after a really interesting trip you’d been planning and anticipating for years: fulfilled and energized, as well as inspired to see the world a little differently.
A high-octane experience only enriches the rest of your life—unless, of course, you are only able to experience joy and feel a sense of purpose at the very top of the ladder, in which case, climbing down would be a big comedown. Suddenly, there’s no more applause, and you’re facing the stark reality of having to take out the trash and deal with the imperfections of daily life.
The whole process of becoming an astronaut helped me understand that what really matters is not the value someone else assigns to a task but how I personally feel while performing it. That’s why, during the 11 years I was grounded, I loved my life. Of course I wanted to go back to space—who wouldn’t?—but I got real fulfillment and pleasure from small victories, like doing something well in the Neutral Buoyancy Lab or figuring out how to fix a problem with my car. If I’d defined success very narrowly, limiting it to peak, high-visibility experiences, I would have felt very unsuccessful and unhappy during those years. Life is just a lot better if you feel you’re having 10 wins a day rather than a win every 10 years or so.
One of the accomplishments I’m proudest of has nothing to do with flying in space or even being an astronaut: in 2007, my neighbor Bob and I built a dock at the cottage. A decade-old disagreement with the previous owners of our cottage had led to two exactly parallel, increasingly dilapidated docks, bizarrely separated by a 1-inch Do Not Cross zone that exerted a strange, magnetic pull on my aging dog’s foot. Bob and I set out with the manly goal of making some minor repairs ourselves, to save a bit of money. Our loving wives made frowny faces, raised their eyebrows and asked, “Are you kidding?”
Thus inspired, we decided to raze both docks and start over, welding together a single, mighty superstructure you could land a small plane on. All we had to do was buy out a lumberyard, rent a barge, hire a pile driver and labor from dawn to dusk throughout our summer holiday. As with building the docking module for Mir, we were solving a long-term problem and uniting two previously warring parties, and the experience was just as rewarding and satisfying—maybe even more so, because the task was self-appointed and completion depended solely on our own skills and ingenuity. Building that dock felt like the best job in the world, and I still view it as the crowning achievement of that year, when, by the way, I was also NASA’s Chief of Space Station Operations in the Astronaut Office.
The truth is that I find every day fulfilling, whether I’m on the planet or off it. I work hard at whatever I’m doing, whether it’s fixing a bilge pump in my boat or learning to play a new song on the guitar. And I find satisfaction in small things, like playing Scrabble online with my daughter, Kristin—we always have a game going—or reading a letter from a first grader who wants to be an astronaut, or picking gum wrappers up off the street. Because of all of this, plus the fact that at NASA I got so much experience climbing down the ladder, I wasn’t afraid to retire.
Endings don’t have to be emotionally wrenching if you believe you did a good job and you’re prepared to let go. When the Shuttle program was winding down, reporters repeatedly urged me to go public with my private pain: “We know you’re sad about the end of the program, but just how sad are you?” I wasn’t sad at all. I was extremely proud. I was part of a team that flew the Shuttle 135 times and used it to put the Hubble telescope into orbit, to build part of Mir and to help build the ISS. Along the way, we recovered from two devastating accidents, the Challenger and Columbia disasters. After Columbia, so many people said it was time to mothball the Shuttle—what was the purpose of going to space again, why risk lives? But somehow, despite the media’s simplistic focus and all the naysayers who had no knowledge of the issues but plenty of opinions, we prevailed and the Shuttle flew again, safely. The complexity of the project we needed the Shuttle for was astonishing—the Station’s design wasn’t even complete when the first pieces of the ISS launched—yet we did it. So there’s no reason at all to be sad that the Shuttle era is over and the spaceships are in museums. They were great workhorses of space exploration, and they served their purpose.
I view my own retirement the same way. I did the best I could and I served my purpose, but the time has come to move on. Unlike the Shuttle, however, I am not destined for a museum, and as it turns out, that’s my own fault. Several years ago, a museum in British Columbia wanted a plaster cast of my face to place on a dummy (insert witty comment here). Along with the instructions in the package, they sent a helpful note that said, “It’s not rocket science.” So Helene and I cracked open the kit. It had green goop for my hair, eyebrows and moustache, pink goop to spread everywhere else on my face and plaster strips to hold it all together. But despite a thorough team briefing, it was pretty much a disaster. Helene plastered over my nostrils, so we nearly had a fatality. The goop set too quickly and the plaster didn’t stick to the goop. The mask crumbled. And after lying on the floor in a pool of chalky mud, I got an ear infection.
I decided not to attempt a redo, recognizing that perhaps this was not meant to be. Anyway, a faceless dummy is actually the perfect symbolic representation of one of the most important lessons I’ve learned as an astronaut: to value the wisdom of humility, as well as the sense of perspective it gives you.
That’s what will help me climb down the ladder. And it won’t hurt if I decide to climb up a new one, either.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
THIS BOOK HAS BEEN REALLY IMPORTANT TO ME. The process of writing it helped cohere many disparate memories, thoughts and events not only on paper but within myself. To be able to hold it in my hand, a tangible product of my choices in life, is akin to a birth, and
feels near miraculous.
More importantly, however, I am grateful for the way it has aligned so many people, friends and family, in working toward a common goal. Many of them don’t even know how much they contributed, as they were consulted only in my memories and in self-reflection on how they helped shape my beliefs.
There is no way to thank everyone, as the caboose would outweigh the train, so I cherry-pick those most precious and accept the inevitability of forgetting someone key and dear.
My family gave me unending support, stories, guidance and permission. I have dedicated the book to Helene, as there is no one more deserving and beloved. To Kyle, Evan and Kristin, who grew up with a passionate, focused, regimented and largely absent dad, the Colonel says thank you. I am hugely proud of each of you, and brag on you to everyone. My parents, Roger and Eleanor, passed their values on to me and trusted me with them, especially when I insisted on pursuing the vesper that became the reality of space flight. The soaring heights of this life found their foundation in you. Brother Dave—who traveled all the way to Baikonur just so we could play together one last time before launch—your music is with me everywhere and always.
Good people often select themselves. Rick Broadhead, your joy, understanding and tenacity make you a formidable friend and agent. Elinor Fillion, I have appreciated your practical assistance and moral support every step of the way. Kate Fillion, you have been through my words so many times, you truly, scarily know me. It’s an intimacy that conductors must have with new scores, seeing and hearing the sound of the music before the first note is ever played. You are legend.