Autobiography of a Body
Friday, July 27, 2007
I watch myself on the screen. I am eleven. I am wearing a red, one-piece bathing suit. I stand on the diving board, waiting for my sister to get out of the way so I can dive. And while I wait for the ten year-old me in the video to dive, the grown me inspects, painstakingly, the prepubescent body standing on the diving board — the same legs, same arms, the same pear shape I have now — dissecting and disapproving of each part in isolation, and as a whole.
As long as I can remember, I have done this — scrutinized my cheeks, my chin, my shoulders, my arms, my butt, my ankles, and my thighs in photographs, in home videos, and in storefront windows or anywhere else I catch my reflection.
I have never liked the image reflected back. Until the other night.
It was after one of my tough mid-week days. Four hours. Run, swim, and bike all after a full day at work. Stepping out of the shower, I caught sight of my reflection in the foggy mirror. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I didn't immediately start dissecting my flaws.
Instead, I thought something along the lines of, "Well, would ya look at that!"
The undertaking of Ironman is fueled by daydreams and demons. My daydreams consisted of crossing that finish line to pulsing music and cheering, knowing that I had just done the previously-unthinkable. Of long, horribly-hard workout days. Of proving I could.
The demons are trickier. We go back a long way, me and my demons. And as hard as they are to live with, they're even harder to give up.
One that contributed to this undertaking is that I seem to always be really, really good at certain things, but never the best. In track, throughout high school and college, I was never last or even close to last, but I was also never first. In ski racing, I won plenty of high school races, but at Mid-Ams and Junior Olympics I never won a race. I never won a state championship. Always top ten, or top five, or even runner-up, but never number one. And in horse showing, same thing. World Show qualifier, but no top ten jacket (which I still hope to — and can — change eventually). As I've grown older, I've come to terms with this. Sort of.
I recognized that I am not fast. I recognized that I may never be. So I decided to just go longer. 10ks were no longer enough. I had to do a marathon. And then another. Then finishing a marathon wasn't enough, because I still wasn't all that fast. So I'd go longer still. Harder. And that's where Ironman came in.
The other demon-daydream that's harder to acknowledge is tied to that ten-year-old me in a red bathing suit. The me that's never been happy with my 30-inch inseam legs when standing next to my sister's 32-inch gams. The me that's always been told I look like an athlete when all I ever wanted was to look like Kate Moss.
As hard as it is to admit to, part of Ironman has been the hope that my body would be transformed into something skinny and ripped. Because, after the obscene amount of hours spent pedaling and running down the road, or trying to catch water — stroke after stroke — in the palm of your hand, for more than a year — after all of that, how could I not be?
And another part of this whole thing — a much, much deeper darker part, I think — has been this: if my body can't get itself into Kate Moss shape, then I'm going to kick its ass. Hardcore. As in Ironman hardcore. Because if it's not going to be attractive, then it damn well better be effective as hell.
Unfair? Absolutely. But my body has refused to quit on me. And it has deserved to. After an ACL/MCL reconstructive surgery on each knee. After the pounding I gave it during the Green Bay Marathon that resulted in some weird twisted pelvis problem that manifested itself as super-painful bursitis. After a winter of 6+ hour interval rides on the trainer and 18 miles on the treadmill. After jumping into Ironman training with no triathlon base to speak of. My body deserves major props.
I realize that I've been hard on it, and I'm starting to come around, to be proud of it once in a while.
While at Sundara the other weekend, the masseuse asked me if I was a swimmer after she finished working on me, because I had "really developed" traps. I started to say no, but then I said, that I guessed I was and explained the Ironman training.
Being very pleased with me (and my traps) I told Chief of Stuff, "She thought I had jacked traps!" So ensued a short discussion of if I look any different after a year of body ass-kicking. CoS said no.
Now, mind you, CoS was not born yesterday, and he has been through the ups and downs of this year with me. This year where I lamented nonstop about my seemingly ever-expanding glutes and quads after beginning an intense cycling regimen (and the resulting ever-tightening jeans phenomenon). Where I got all obsessive after a doctor's appointment last winter where they put me on the scale only to discover that I had gained — gained! — six pounds, after all that working out and everything. And again, a few months later, when I subjected myself to the same torture at the Y, finding an extra two pounds added to the tally.
And at first, when he said, "no," I wasn't very happy. Not with him, but with me. With this body of mine that was supposed to be ripped and skinny by now. But then I calmed myself.
Because the focus now isn't on what this body of mine looks like, but what it can do. And what it can do lately is ride 120 miles in on-again/off-again pouring rain by itself. Swim two miles comfortably. Take a needle to the hip joint like a champ, and run that night. Bike 50 miles, then run four, then bike for another hour and a half, and then run another four miles — all in one day. Fit in a three or four-hour workout after working for eight hours and being dog tired, every week. And take all of that in stride. No complaining. No whining. No talk, just action.
As I stepped out of the shower the other night, as I caught my foggy reflection in the mirror, I was finally happy with what I saw. And for the first time in so very long, if not ever, I didn't care. I didn't care about the cellulite on my legs, or my stomach — slightly less flat now than in years gone by. I didn't care about the length of my legs or my too-muscular arms.
Looking at this body of mine, I was proud of my jacked traps and accepting of its imperfections. Because regardless of what it looks like, this body is a machine. It's a player. Dedication, determination, sticktuitiveness? All of the above. It's doing things that it never would be able to if it was even remotely model-waifish. It's handled everything I've thrown at it and more. And that — that is more impressive than any pair of size zero jeans.
Posted by Erin 11:15 AM
I am the same way. And I never really looked at it with your perspective. But maybe I will. It definitely makes me feel better.
;)
You are damn right it is!!
Keep it up!
Kelly