Kim is still climbing that mountain, at the top of which she learns a valuable lesson about how to go on – FIT IS A FEMINIST ISSUE Leave a comment
by Kim Solga
(This is part two of a two-part post about Kim’s turning 50. CW: some talk about body image and weight, as a part of reflecting honestly on the aging process)
I was home from Jordan maybe a couple of weeks before Sam starting asking me to write a post about my adventures. I love to write and I love Sam so of course I agreed. I figured Sam wanted me to do a blow-by-blow of how awesome it all was, but I had another idea.
I booked that adventure in Jordan in September 2023, after dad’s death was in the rearview and things with mom were starting to settle down. It was supposed to be a cycling trip at first, and I was super keyed up about treating myself to what I was sure would be a really solid riding adventure. After all, I was a fearless cyclist, and the summer before I was still doing centuries with my club. But summer 2023 was not my best cycling season (no kidding Kim; your dad had just died and your mom had become your ward!), and by summer 2024 and in the wake of the crash, I felt something new.
I thought of the impending birthday riding trip, and I felt scared.
I decided the risk of becoming re-injured in the Middle East was too great. I swapped the riding trip for a hiking one that was classed as “moderate” on the adventure company website, and I began to feel confidence return. I’m a good hiker and I can climb with great endurance; I was sure this would be fun and only a bit of a challenge.
I needed new gear for the trip, so I took myself to my local outdoor shop in early September. I tried on a bunch of different hiking trousers; the ones in “my size” did not fit. By some margin. I grabbed larger sizes, fending off panic. When I found a couple of pairs that fit and looked good I began to breathe out again. But then, oh then, I had to do the swimsuits.
When I flew to Amman on 26 September, I was trepidatious. My body was now noticeably different to me; after the outdoor store experience I began scrutinizing myself in the mirror; my middle was bigger, and seemed to be getting bigger every day. I tried on a bunch of my lesser-worn clothes and quickly built a donation pile. I tried to breathe and reminded myself that when I was sharp in those black and white check trousers I was 43; it’s not unreasonable that they are not a good fit for me now. I made another pile of clothes to take to my tailor, and I assured myself Monty would make me both look and feel good in them again. Still, I cried.
On our first full day in Jordan, I learned that, with one exception, my hiking companions were about 30. One of them had completed an ironman only days before! Over breakfast the next morning, several of them were sharing mountain climbing stories; the Welsh trio were swapping hill-bagging brags. I realized that this was a super fit group; I was fit too, I once more told myself, but… I wasn’t 30 anymore. And I hadn’t been up a mountain in quite a while.
What if I couldn’t do this? Or worse: what if I could do it, but I was… slow? Held us up? Ended up the slower, older, odd one out?
Anxiety clutched my insides as we boarded the bus for our first destination.
OK, so a lot happened over the next few days. Two of the youngsters fell stomach-ill, affecting our pace and reminding me that everyone is vulnerable adventuring far from home. I kept up; I felt proud of myself. I also struggled with the rock-scrambling, of which there was more (A LOT MORE) than advertised. I turned my struggles into a joke, pretending they were an aberration for me; every new rocky rise sent my heart into my throat.
By the time we got to Mountain Day, me and myself had to have a talk.
You’ve got to make a choice, I reasoned. Up until now, you’ve gotten away (sort of) with pretending you’re still 30, and hiding the physical and mental pain that’s causing you. Sure, you’ve proved it: you can keep up. But why? What do you gain? And what are you losing?
That afternoon, in the back of the open jeep, barreling through the Wadi Rum desert, I told the two women I was riding with about my AnkSpon. About the bike crash. About how my left side hurt, pretty much all the time, and about how I’d initially planned to do the cycling trip but then got cold feet.
One of them, George, asked me point blank: Kim, are you scared of what we’re about to do? Are you afraid of the climb?
I said I was. And then I felt about a thousand times better.
By the time we gathered at the base of Jabal Umm ad Dami , everyone knew I was worried – and everyone knew to look out for me. I joked with Larry the Body Builder, incredibly sweet and unbelievably jacked, that it was a good thing he could bench press two of me with air to spare because, if I got into trouble, he was going to be my ride. He said sure, of course! As we rose into the sky I hung toward the back of the pack mostly, with different 30-somethings taking turns at my side. We still climbed in (what was for the adventure company) record time.
The feeling at the summit was, for me, exhilarating. Not only had I done the thing, but I hadn’t pretended it was easy. I’d asked if I needed a hand. I hadn’t asked us to slow down, but I knew that I could if I wanted to.
We took a bunch of goofy pictures, poised awkwardly on the narrow swell of summit rocks. We turned our mobile phones toward the Saudi border, trying to catch a signal. We ate dates and saluted Mohammed, who (holy crap!) climbs the mountain 3-4 times a week in high season and knew all the best ways down. We laughed at how much more fit he was than the rest of us.
I felt strong, and I felt free.
***
At the end of my two months away, I spent a week at the Plum Village practice centre in southern France. I lived in the nuns’ community, Lower Hamlet. We meditated together, ate in silence together, sang together, cleaned the dishes together, walked together, got lost on a hike together (really! The novice nun who had been there just a few days laughed with us as she told us she had no idea where we were), and much more.
We were present to each other, together. I’ve never felt more at peace, more in my whole self, in my whole life.
This is a typical reaction for first time visitors to Plum Village (I’m assured), but it also had a profound effect on me.
The peace lasted a couple of weeks; the memories will last longer. But not long after I landed back in Toronto, I felt the anxiety return with a vengeance.
A few days ago I was at the gym when I had a panic attack. We were rowing 1000m; I aimed for my “usual top pace” and freaked out when I realized I had come out of the block far too hard. My usual top pace was not my usual top pace anymore.
I got off the rower, stood in front of my barbell, and hung my head between my knees. I couldn’t find my breath; I couldn’t find my ground.
I couldn’t find now.
Later, the coach, Craig, reminded me that nobody is bionic; we all have to adjust, all the time.
And so I’m trying. I try hard each day to remember the lessons of my time away. Of being with the me of that moment; of adjusting myself to the needs of that moment. Of feeling the earth, the rocks, the sun, sky, and air. Of living the exhilaration of the moment, however it shows up to meet me.
It’s a daily challenge. It will be a whole life challenge.
