Body of Work

Trying to harmonize in the key of Rage Against the Machine

First, there was a tight corner taken too fast. The distracted driver not watching the road. Then, the head-on collision - between my pinky toe and the bed frame. My toe turned strawberry red and doubled in size before I blinked.

When a charged FUCK flew from my mouth, that one word was doing a lot of work.

Fuck the pain.

Fuck I just finished six weeks of rest for a bone injury in my knee.

Fuck not again.

Fuck my goddamn body.

---

My body and I have been having issues for a while now.

It started with mysterious knee pain nearly a year ago. Since last February, I’ve been on a rollercoaster of injury and false starts and misdiagnoses. Each bump and setback has been accompanied by more and more resentment for a body that refuses to heal.

Then, there are the hiccups that have popped up while trying to cross-train through said injury - a tweaked shoulder from swimming, an angry adductor from biking. No matter how conservative I am with movement, my body keeps going back to niggle city.

And, there also seems to be a growing disconnect between me and the skin and bones I live in. I keep walking into walls (and bed frames), punching closets while getting dressed, shutting car doors on myself. The other night, I had a hardcover book perched on my chest. When I aggressively yanked up the comforter for better coverage, it sent the book flying into my face with the force and precision of a military missile.

It’s like we’re trying to sing a duet and I’m belting out an off-key version of Mariah Carey’s We Belong Together while my body is scream-shouting Rage Against the Machine. No one would believe we’re meant to harmonize. To live in synchronicity.

---

When I was training for my first Hardrock, I knew I needed to do more than log miles and vert to get ready for the 100-mile run, which is known for its wild terrain and 33,000 feet of climbing over sky-high mountains.

I recruited my personal trainer friend to help me strengthen my mountain running muscles. I got regular massages, where my girl, Tanya, would turn my worked body into putty. I sat in the hot tub after long runs, slept more than eight hours a night, and went to yoga at least twice a week. When I caught myself in the mirror during warrior pose, I saw well-defined quadriceps and glutes that were getting harder by the day. I’d sink into the stretch and feel how my body was both strong and cared for.

I once wrote a story about a guy who collected cars, including one he bought at a fundraiser for my nonprofit client. He built entire structures that were strategically designed to house his beloved vehicles: temperature control, protection from the elements, not a kernel of dust in sight. Each car got more-than-regular maintenance and piles of TLC to keep it in pristine condition.

That’s how I treat my body when I’m training for a big run. I need it to be able to cover 100 miles of mountainous terrain, so I give it anything it might need to do that. I don’t question any expense, any effort. My body is worth it.

---

Eight days after I walked into my bed, I was in my therapist’s office, rehashing the toe incident and bemoaning the relational issues I’m having with my body. This distance that’s grown between us.

“When was the last time you got a massage?” my therapist asked. “It feels like your body could use some care.”

I sat there and stared back.

I didn’t want to say what immediately popped into my head: I haven’t done anything to deserve a massage. It’s been months since my body could handle enough volume to merit one.

---

One of my earliest athletic memories is wanting to trade bodies with my teammate. She was a ballet dancer with Swan Lake limbs and a whisper of a waist. Her bathing suit revealed nothing but a flat stomach. I couldn’t suck in my belly enough to feel comfortable walking around the pool deck in a speedo.

My swim coach tried to preach the value of fueling our athletic pursuits over thinness. He’d bring Snickers to practice and order us to chase our hardest workouts with a cheeseburger. But it was a losing battle in the age of “bikini bodies” on magazine covers, and I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.”

I learned to want a different body, a thinner body, and that desire stuck with me well after I hung up my cap and goggles. It didn’t help that I got into running during the era of “racing weight,” when size was paramount and everyone subscribed to the belief that PRs hinged on fewer pounds.

I hated that no one would say I looked like a runner, so I tried to contort my body into something it wasn’t. I was undernourished and overtrained. And no matter how fast I ran, I could only see the way my waistband pressed into my soft side waist. The thighs that took up too much space in my shorts. I struggled to love the body I ran in.

Part of what helped me heal that relationship with my body was appreciating it for what it was capable of. For turning my gaze away from my waistline and towards all the things I could do with my own two feet.

Finish marathons and 100-mile races. Climb bigger and bigger mountains. Run across the state of Oregon. Summit the most massive volcanoes in the Pacific Northwest. Ski down couloirs that looked as steep as a vertical wall.

Mile by mile, hill by hill, run by run, I grew love and appreciation for my body.

---

Lately, when I see someone dancing or sprinting or doing cartwheels in the playground across the street, it feels like I’ll never know that kind of freedom again. I’ve forgotten how it feels to move with abandon. To jump and trust your body to catch you.

That is not the body I know right now, that’s not a body I’ve known for almost a year, and sometimes it feels like I’ll never get it back.

If I think about it for more than a second, I can feel grief pooling, pressing against the wall of my chest.

So, I push that thought away. Push that ache away. Push my body away.

---

I found a pair of Great Horned Owls that live in a grove of evergreens near my house. I can’t actually see their nest through the dense pine boughs but I can picture it.

Great Horned Owls are not nest builders. They either steal nests from other birds, usually hawks or ravens. Or, they find a nice cavity to tuck into. And they often swap homes from season to season. Using a nest until it’s tattered and nearly unlivable before upgrading their digs to a newer model.

The other night, I wandered through the meadow at dusk to listen for their hoots, but was met with silence. I wondered if they’d moved on. The season hasn’t changed but maybe they’d found somewhere better to live, at least for a night or two.

I thought about how I’ve been in a season of physical uncertainty for almost a year now. A season of endless frustrations and limitations. Of being a little too quick with a fuck my goddamn body when it bumps into another something.

It’s not a season I wanted. It feels like a winter where the sun’s never strong enough to burn through the fog that settles over everything, so thick you can feel it in your bones.

But there’s no moving nests between seasons for me. No stealing someone else’s and calling it my own. This body is my one home, through every season, every state of health or injury, every summit or setback.

I don’t know where my owl friends ended up that night. But before I went to bed, I found the number for a massage therapist. I hope the sun burns through the fog soon, but whether or not it does, this home of mine needs - and deserves - some love and care.

Thank you for reading Trail Mix. If you want to read more of my writing, you can check out my book, To the Gorge. And, you can subscribe to Trail Mix for more stories about life and running, dispatches from the wilderness, and essays about how it all collides.