Page 30 - the NOISE APril 2013

F*ck ... I stare at my bone... F*ck ... is my bike ok?
I remember when I was a teenager, reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I put the book down when I learned how its goal was to break the cycle of pain and pleasure. It explained that for as much pleasure you receive out of life, it’s inevitably followed by an equal amount of pain.
While I concurred with that philosophy, the idea on “breaking away” from it lost me. I made up my rebellious teenage mind that I wanted my life to be about the attainment of feeling as much as I possibly could, to embrace life on all of its diverse levels.
Just how much pleasure can I stand? How much pain can I en- dure? became my mantra. What happened to me in Utah that April gave me the chance to decide if I really meant that, or if I just thought it sounded cool.
I had fallen head over heels in love with riding the previous year. A friend had taken me out, and I swear I had spiritual ex- perience my first ride. On this total clunker hardtail with no granny gear, I rode up a mountain, sure it was going to make me puke. Then we hit the single track, and I was bouncing over the rocks, my mind free. Completely immersed in the moment, I became one with the earth. I survived, beaming. Even with my sore tailbone, I knew what I wanted to do with my life.
I went out the following week and impulsively bought a bike that cost more than any car I’d ever had, the linear part of my brain screaming, “What are you doing?” — my heart paying no heed. I rode whenever I could, feeling my life transform as ev- ery part of me got stronger. I felt more alive than I ever had. The pleasure I got out of riding woke up my heart in a way nothing ever has.
Then this amazing opportunity came to me — pack all my stuff in the car, hit all the stellar riding spots from Arizona to the East Coast. Live for the summer at a resort that had a downhill run, rent free. How stoked was I? I figured I could work the mini- mum amount and just dedicated my life to my new found love, the perfect summer, and the perfect life, right?
The first stop was Gooseberry. Talk about a total playground — swooping and sliding in the pure stark beauty of the desert. I was having the time of my life. I saw a climb before me and charged it — What’s the worst that can happen on a climb anyways, when I’m going like 4 miles an hour?
I found out, not making the final lip of the climb, I went down on the wrong side. On a sharp inhale, I came to the realization my foot was dangling from my leg, my fibula glaring at me in the setting sunlight.
“F*ck!” really was the first word that popped into my head. And all joking aside, my bike really was my next concern followed by the crushing realization that my perfect summer plan had just been smashed along with my ankle.
Then the reality of the situation set in. I was in the middle of
nowhere, the sun was getting low, and by the looks of it, my foot had nothing solid attaching it to my leg. It was disgusting. Every time I looked at it, the pain amplified.
It’s been my greatest lesson in how my mind has the exorbi- tant capacity to f*ck with me. It went into hyper drive — every worst case scenario flashing through my mind simultaneously.
It looks so bad every time I glance at it, the pain intensifies 100 fold. I can feel the panic, and pain start to course through every cell. I do the only thing I can think I can do: pray. Interestingly, I don’t ask for the pain to go away, I don’t even ask to get me out. What I ask for instead is help to keep my cool, probably because I know I’m so close to losing it ...
All of a sudden, I remember a thought I had had years ago when I was going through hard times: that I could handle any- thing if it was just for a moment; and really, when you get down to it, that’s all life ever is. So the equation therefore equals: I can handle anything. That’s the theory anyway.
For this it worked. I started to breathe deeply again. I stopped trying to run away from the experience and instead went into it. I got out of my head and into my body, even though my eyes and head were telling me it was the last place I wanted to be. When I got tantric with my injury, I discovered it wasn’t nearly as excruciating as I had been making it. It was hot and throbbed, and there was definitely pain involved, but nothing that in one moment I couldn’t handle. The technique worked so well I didn’t need morphine for three out of the five hours it took to get me to the hospital. The last two I needed some help — a girl can only stay tantric for so long after all.
After surgery, I was in more pain than I’d ever experienced be- fore. The 10 days I was in the hospital, I maintained a decent drug induced optimism. My first question to my surgeon had been about me getting back on the bike. While he looked at me a little strangely, he assured me the riding would be great rehab as long as I didn’t fall. He apparently never mountain biked.
In the hospital, I’d have the scene play over and over in my mind: I’d fight back by picturing myself making the obstacle. The first thing I did when I got out of the hospital was jump — well, climb onto on my bike. I was sure that was all I wanted to do still. I’d heard all these break stories from car accident to shower slips and decided that I was blessed to at least get hurt doing something I loved. I remember the thoughts of embracing the full spectrum of life. I had every desire to get back on my bike as soon as possible.
One month later: “I’m selling that f*ckin’ bike!” Something I’d never in a million years thought I’d ever hear myself say. I had the paramedics laughing when loading me onto the stretcher, because my main concern was how my bike was going to get out. Now after a month of constant pain, once in a while get- ting an hour of sleep before waking up to my toe nails feeling like they were being pulled off, the whole romantic idea of “full spectrum” was starting to wane.
I decided to take a trip up to my dad’s before I sold the bike. The woods had always helped me gather my equilibrium.
Sitting on the porch, my dad tells me about how he and his girlfriend have just read this statistic on how indoor cats live years longer than their outdoor counterparts. It had become an area of contention between them whether the cats would be al- lowed to roam free. She was in the mindset that they should stay indoors and gather a few more years, my dad on the other hand was of the persuasion that they should have a few more experi- ences.
“Better to risk getting hurt and be free than live your life safe in a box,” he said. “Kinda like with you and that bike of yours, huh?”
I left the farm knowing I’d be getting on my bike again.
I had to laugh at myself the first time I got on the bike in a parking lot and was shaking. Remembering the things I used to ride down, and now here I was flat asphalt and trembling. I felt like I was way ahead of the start line, not only emotionally, but physically as well.
About 15 minutes on a stationary each day was about all I could handle before my ankle began screaming at me. I had to constantly remember not to allow my fear to win out and box me in.
I wrote on my bathroom mirror a quote from Nietzsche: “The secret for harvesting from existence the greatest fruitfulness and the greatest enjoyment is to live dangerously!”
Slowly, I began to grow back into a mountain biker. So many times I wanted to throw my bike down; a few times I did. Yet, ev- ery time I did something that frightened me, I felt like I got a part of my spirit back.
| Cat Sullivan is a massage therapist who knows her backtrails. starider88@gmail.com
30 • APRIL 2013 • the NOISE arts & news • thenoise.us