Day 13: Pain
By the time I saw the tree it was too late.
There was only a couple hours left of sunlight. I had just gotten off at the top of the mountain, strapped on my board, and was headed down the slopes on my last run of the day.
The rest of my group was scattered across the mountain doing their own thing. Our plan was to meet at the café at 5pm, get a cocoa, and head home.
So on my last run, I was by myself.
About a quarter of the way down, I took a turn off the groomed snow and headed into the woods. It was much more beautiful in there, and quiet. The snow was deeper and softer. And it made me feel like I was on an adventure, hundreds of miles away from civilization.
I wasn’t the first one who’d had that idea. I was following someone’s tracks. Someone had already ridden through here, and thankfully, that meant I couldn’t get lost.
But then I hit the tree.
It was such a wimpy little thing. Just a baby tree in the forest of full-grown giants. But it was sticking out of the snow at just the right angle, and that’s all it took.
It stretched out across the tracks in front of me, and before I could change course, my leg crunched into it and I came to a dead stop.
I had never broken a bone before. But I knew right away that’s what happened.
With my foot still strapped into my boot, I wiggled my leg. The small bone next to my shin clicked back and forth.
Uh oh.
There I was. Alone in the woods, three quarters of the way up the mountain, knee-deep in snow. No phone.
I was shocked and a little scared. But instead of pain I felt strangely… excited.
I was going to make it down the mountain. I knew it. And I was going to get myself there, broken leg be damned.
So slowly, bit by bit, I scooted my way through the snow and out of the woods, back onto the plowed snow where others could see me.
And I kept going. A minute or two at a time. And then I’d sit down and rest. A minute or two on my feet, riding down the mountain. Then a minute on my butt to recover.
All the way down to the base of the mountain.
Now, I’m not saying I would do that all over again. But when I look back on that experience, it’s nothing but good memories.
Even in the moment, it was strangely fun. It wasn’t tragic, or scary, or even miserable.
Honestly, I was proud of myself. I felt tough. Able to take care of myself. I discovered what I was capable of when stakes were high.
But the more I think about it, I don’t think I can really take the credit.
When I broke my leg up there on the mountain, I didn’t choose to block out the pain. I didn’t deliberate on it and decide it wasn’t helpful to focus on the negative parts of the situation. I wasn’t trying to be stoic, or optimistic.
I was just trying to survive.
I didn’t numb myself to the pain in that moment. It wasn’t a conscious choice to feel exhilarated rather than scared.
I have my body to thank for that. It knew what to do. It knew I was in danger. And it knew I was in no position to deliberate myself to safety.
Sometimes I’m prone to thinking that we should always be as sensitive as possible. That if we’re wearing a mask, or armoring ourselves in some way, we should do our best to shed those barriers and feel what’s going on underneath.
But the truth is, sometimes being numb is the only way we can survive.