the wussy report

I've been reading a bunch of articles this evening, written by people who have gone out on some of these "primitive skills" survival/adventure courses. And frankly, the exercise has me feeling like a bit of a wuss.

Earlier today, I was talking with my friend, Camille, about the difference between imagined and physical limitations. Most people set their boundaries within their own imaginations, and believe them to be real, unbreakable limitations. Beliefs are powerful things, and can be deeply ingrained. For many people, challenging the body is more a matter of challenging the brain than it is about physical strength and endurance.

For many people, anyway. I've been kind of the opposite.

My father is an athlete. So was his mother -- at 101, she's very much alive, but not as active as she once was. My father owned a sporting goods store when I was growing up, and he ran the marathon regularly -- whether it was official race day or not. He took up cycling when I was a teenager. I practically grew up in a canoe and on a sailboat, thanks to his passion for water sports. Now in his 60s, Dad has a Bowflex machine, goes fly fishing, and plays tennis nearly every weekend.

And then there's me, daughter of the jock. The dancer.

For years, I couldn't understand why I could -- and often still do -- dance for hours, but have to fight hard to run five miles. I could hold my own on short sprints, but paid for them later. I tried a variety of different sports, and invariably had to give up each one of them. I kept telling myself it was all in my head. I just needed to push harder, deepen my resolve, dig in. But I still couldn't keep up with my father. The harder I worked, the sicker and more exhausted I got.

I figured I was just lazy, or afraid. Pretty silly, considering my friends and family know me to be one of the most determined and active people around, and fears are just boundaries I've not yet broken through. Afraid of drowning, I got my SCUBA certification. Afraid of looking like an idiot, I belly danced on MTV. Afraid of heights, I've tackled multiple ropes courses. Afraid of heights, I tried skydiving. Afraid of heights, I took up rock climbing. Afraid of heights.... well, apparently I'm stuck with that one.

You get the idea.

I kept pushing and challenging myself, and my body kept refusing to comply. I ended up pretty much flat on my back every time. I had problems with heat exhaustion, and even went hypothermic in the Bahamas. I have tendencies toward hypoglycemia and migraines. I still told myself it was all in my head. I just needed to keep pushing.

It wasn't until I was 27 that they found the valve problem in my heart. Okay, so maybe it wasn't in my head.

This is not something that's going to kill me, or that even compromises my health -- the absolute worst case scenario is that I may need a valve replacement when I'm older. But this does place limitations -- real ones -- on what my body can and cannot be reasonably expected to do. Changing my brain can't change this.

I don't have much to complain about. Mine is an attractive body -- fit, healthy, easy on the eyes, graceful. Functional, but with limitations -- and damned difficult to live with, when my genes are screaming at me to launch into full jock mode.

It was after the echo-cardiogram that I gave up the idea of taking up mountaineering, because mitral valve prolapse syndrome leaves me vulnerable to altitude sickness. I do still hike and dance, and often have greater endurance than most. Kayaking is acceptable as long as it's not a multi-day activity. Rock climbing is a stretch, but might be workable. But I have to be careful of what yoga poses I choose -- placing my head below my heart is a surefire recipe for seeing stars and getting seriously nauseous -- and will likely have to invest in a full dry suit or get used to wearing multiple thermal wetsuits simultaneously if I want to keep diving. Distance running is out of the question.

This evening, these personal accounts of surviving survival school frankly have me salivating. Could I survive for seven days in the wilderness with nothing but a blanket, a canteen, and a knife? For fourteen days? Longer? From the standpoint of the psychological challenge, very likely (or, I'd like to think so). It would be a test of my mettle, resolve, and character, and I can be relentless in pushing my own growth. My life is a testament to this -- that which does not kill me makes me stronger, in everything but the physical.

But then I also have this body to consider. I don't think I could get a rental.

I tried a similar wilderness course the summer before college. I lasted a week before I got packed out, my body having given up the ghost. I blamed it on the fact that I'd had dental surgery ten days before hiking in -- and had discovered a violent allergy to codeine during recovery. Not the smartest move, but now I know there was more to it. I was in tears as I left. I wanted to complete the course, but I could barely stand. I felt like a complete wuss.

So maybe survival school is not for me. That makes me feel sad. It also makes me want to go hike something, disappear into a sweat lodge, or climb a rock wall.... find some other physical challenge I can tackle, before taking on the other psychological hurdles that remain. I will not be a wuss in my own life.