By Kathryn Snyder
As we approached the top of the mountain, I picked up my pace. My heavy and tired legs suddenly lost their resistance, and I began striding with great intention, the summit in sight. The bitter wind whipped at the bare flesh of my legs and face. The peaks are always the most dramatic. I didn't dwell too long at the benchmark, which signified the high point of Cadillac Mountain, at 1,530 feet. The moment at the top, where I looked down below me, seeing miles of rocks and millions of years heaving and pushing up through the ground, finally emerged to settle under my two feet. My tired and excited breath drummed up in my chest as I turned from the peak and shot forward on my toes.
Cadillac Mountain - Mount Desert Island, Maine
All I could see was the haze of the rocks beneath me as my two feet navigated the ravines of jagged ground. Too fast. My eyes shuttered open and close, attempting to focus, unable to keep up with the gravity tumbling me down the mountain. It's like a controlled fall, where all my faith and trust rests in the mesh of muscles, tendons, and bones just below my calves. The complex structures of my body held me upright as I rode the shape of the mountain's silhouette. I trust the mountain. I trust my body.
"What's the fastest time on this route?" I yelled to my sweetheart, my words pushing through labored breathing and high winds.
"You've got it if you want," he replied with a smile.
His words struck my heart, and I widened my stride, deepened my breath, and relaxed, embodying the confidence needed to maneuver the rocky, vertical maze.
As I look down at my feet today, I rub my hand back and forth across the protruding shape on my right foot. Nestled there sits an extra bone. Its unavoidable presence follows me around with every footfall. Hello there, I think to myself as I feel its tenderness from the fall days before. It doesn't cause any long term damage, simply jabs of pain on the occasion, but nothing to worry about the doctors told me. As my fingers fumble around the undulations of my foot, the lingering memories of years of discomfort and injury awaken.
I was a careless young-un. Like that time I was rollerblading around the house, zooming from the kitchen to the living room by route of the window streaked dining space. The midday light beamed into the room as I flew to the floor, having tripped on the threshold. Broken wrist and "bruised butt bone" is what I told everyone at school the following days as I dragged around the rubbery donut for my cheeks to squish upon. Protection for the fragile bone beneath.
I remember that one afternoon, standing over the railing of our stone balcony looking down on our yard. Contemplating the leap for but a moment. I threw myself off the ledge and toppled to the herbaceous rug beneath. I was six years old. Merely playing with my mortality. Or perhaps the new dog was getting all the attention, and as the small babe of the house, I simply could not have it.
For years I found myself tangled up in restricting strips of plaster. My wrist, my elbow, my ankles, the list goes on. What does it mean to be without care? I think young Kath knew. The way she would recklessly fling herself about the jungle gym as a four-year-old, or go speeding down hills without a thought. Monkey, they called her, for her acrobatic and playful nature.
Monkey
The experience of whizzing down a mountain is dreamy. The world breezes by me, my mind becomes blank. My body is forced to work at double time, calculating every step, taking into account each pebble, puddle, slippery root – all without a single thought reeling through my mind.
Halfway down the trail that day, I tumbled hard. My chest sunk, and I cried out, ending up in the bushes to the side of the trail. The bone in my foot pulsed with pain. Physical injury – being unable to move how I'd like to, being unable to express my energy physically – is one of my greatest fears. The rush of the race allured me too much, blinding me to any precautions, just like I was little, fearless Kath, exploring the limits of her body.
There will be no end to this exploration.
As I march up each mountain, I lose myself traversing the landscape of my mind, pondering what the high of the flight down will feel like. Across this inner topography, I also find myself stumbling through fears and anxieties. There is a lot of fear wrapped up in this experience of mountain running for me. Sometimes I wonder if I will be strong enough to make it to the top, or if my body will fail me, and I will be left disappointed and forced to turn around.
Living with a mother who became physically incapacitated at the young age of twenty through years of intensive ballet dancing, I have become haunted by the fear of my body breaking down and failing me as it has for her. And now, as my father's body fails him in the final years of his life, I am confronted again with the limitations of our physical beings.
Will my body leave me disappointed the way it has for my mother?
Will I still be able to accept who I am without having my body as a tool for expression?
Will I be able to cherish my body for what it is, however it may become?
I remember being young and going on walks down the street with my family. We would stroll to the end of the cul-de-sac, my sister and I putting along on our scooters. Slowly and carefully, my parents walked, cautious of my mom's frailty. These days I expect a lot from my body. If I can't run a certain number of miles a week or be prepared for any long hike or run, I am overwhelmed with a sense of inferiority. This is the burden I carry around with me, one which hides behind whirling, exhilarating flights down mountains.
There is so much beauty in my movement practice, my limit pushing, my quiet time, my engagement with the natural world. And for these things, I am eternally grateful. But sometimes I have to ask myself, what if I stopped running? Who would I be if all I could do was go for gentle walks, dance slowly, or have sweet stretching sessions? Would I still be the strong, beautiful, empowered, human I am, and the curious, playful monkey I've always been?
This is what I cling to these days, these fleeting thoughts of gentleness and positivity. Without this practice of heaving myself across spans of terrain, I wonder if I could look down at my body and say 'thank you.' If only I were to allow myself. Permission to be myself lingers in the distance of the trails.
Perhaps I am waiting for someone there to free me from my anxiety.
My mother calls me up to eagerly announce she has Plantar fasciitis. Chatting along about her multiple ailments, she wonders why her wrist hasn’t healed after falling off her bike weeks ago. In the background, my father teases mom for her weakness and inability to maneuver around their gated community.
"Oh yeah, mom definitely should have kept her balance better when that car whizzed by." The words stung my tongue as they exploded out of my mouth, and I wished my dad could have seen my eyes roll. I have always been defensive of her weakness.
Now more than ever, in this time of isolation, I try to hold mom's hand and nudge her forward, encouraging her to be who she is, reassuring her that I will be there along the way. Even in this time of distance and fear, as the reality of the pandemic keeps me many states away, my tone reaches through the phone to grasp at her frail fingers. I want to feel the softness of her manicured hands against my rough, plump ones. "You are so strong," I tell her sometimes.
Maybe at the end of the run, mom will be waiting there for me with her hand outstretched, ready both to hold me and push me along. Maybe at the end of the run, I will look down at my body and cry with joy because I know who lives within it. Maybe at the end of the run, I will remove my shoes and tuck them away for months or years. Maybe at the end of the run, I will find her.
About the Author
Kathryn Snyder is a Maine local who grew up on the Midcoast and currently resides at the base of the mountains on Mount Desert Island. When she is not in Maine, Kat can be found wandering around the States in her Prius named Julia, or in the countries of Latin America. Kat loves learning, being silly, and moving her body, however that may be. She often finds herself dancing and wiggling to music as part of her movement practice. Her life as a college student keeps her busy, but she makes sure to find time for a morning cup of coffee and weekly explorations of the island's beautiful trails.
