I am not the world’s most active person.
Given a choice between rappelling down a mountainside and watching Gerard Butler do it, I will choose the latter. Especially if he’s shirtless. Especially from the comfort of my living room couch. Especially with popcorn.
That said, I recognize that admiring the work of Mr. Butler’s stunt double won’t do anything to help shed the extra pounds I’ve put since hitting 40. Nor will it help me break out of this social bubble I’ve created for myself in Winston-Salem, North Carolina .
Fortunately, I have a partner for that.
Dave doesn't care much for my bubble. So he encourages me (sometime gently, sometime not-so-gently) to “MOVE !”
And being the ever-responsive, and loving partner that I am, I move. Sometimes.
I’ve done pretty well. So far this year we hiked, kayaked and swam.
Last night, we zip lined.
Zip lining, for the uninitiated, is the act of harnessing ones’ self to a trolley which rests upon a steel cable. Said cable is attached toward the top of a tower of certain height. One then leaps from said tower, rides the system at some speed toward another tower some distance away. There, said cable is attached at a somewhat lower height.
Those who, like me, are less-than-physically active may react with fear to some of the words I’ve just used:
- Leap
- Height
- Speed
Fear is what I was struck with last night.
With the assistance of Living Social, I’d purchased two tickets for Dave’s birthday at a local zip line park.
[Let me say here that they did a fantastic job! I never felt unsafe, our guides were authoritative yet fun, and the facility seems well-maintained. Still, there’s nothing a park, nor a guide can do to make a 70-foot tower seem like anything less than 70-feet high.]
In all, our group was 10: two guides, us, a gun-ho 30-something couple who told us they “compete for first” (ugh), a 20-something couple who’d recently taken up hang-gliding (hate them), and a woman with her adorkable teenaged son (all 5’9 and 90 pounds of him). This was A-Dork’s birthday present as well. A present “Mom” was hoping would help cure his fear of heights. We'll see.
For me, “fear” didn’t manifest itself immediately. The first thing I felt was “hot.”
It’s the harness. Once they strapped me in, I felt like a WWII paratrooper about to embark on a mission for the allied forces in some second-tier John Wayne movie.
Approaching the first tower, I mentally moved forward in time. Now, I was a reality TV contestant about to participate in some immunity challenge on Survivor: Redneck Mountain
Reaching the top of the tower, however, the “oh shit” factor dropped like a lead weight into my bowels.
While I’d envisioned the harness, the helmet, and the graceful gliding among the trees, I’d somehow blocked out the fact that in order to set that all in motion, you have to jump off something. Something high. And that after that, the only thing preventing an egg vs. floor situation is a cable no bigger around than my thumb.
“Oh, shit,” indeed.
So I elected to do what generations of cowards before me have done: go last.
Dave, just ahead of me, was a trooper. After his first few runs, he was letting out a ceremonial “woo hoo,” much to the enjoyment of all around.
It was also after the first few runs that it became apparent that A-Dork and I were in a league of our own.
When zip lining, you see, it’s important to build up and maintain a certain amount of speed. Momentum helps you get from Point A to Point B.
Lose momentum and you can stop short.
It seems his fear of heights got the better of him and A-Dork was the first to have to pull himself in. (I didn’t see it, of course, I was still at the back of the pack.)
I was the second.
For my first few runs actually, I’d been going too fast. Nearly crashing into the platform and taking one of our guides down with me.
“You keep on doing that,” he said, “and you’re going to wind up breaking an ankle.”
Okay, think I. That is not going to happen.
So I attempt the fine art of “braking.” Braking is done with your dominant hand. During the ride, the hand rests atop the trolley. Braking is achieved by resting it behind the trolley, on top of the cable. However…
“Grasp the cable too tightly and you risk ripping your arm off,” we’d been warned.
Well, guess who had surgery on his dominant shoulder last year.
I did.
So…
Fear of Heights, plus
Fear of Speed, plus
Fear of Broken Ankles, plus
Fear of exacerbating a bum shoulder, equals
Mark stopping short on his next run.
Toward the end of a typical run, the cable angles up slightly to slow you down as you reach the platform. Stop short on that upward angle and you will start rolling backward, thus increasing the amount of space between you and the platform.
Which is what I did.
Thinking fast, I reached up with my “good” arm and grabbed the cable. I say “good” because my non-dominant/left shoulder has suffered nearly as much trauma as my right. But the left one was not operated on last year.
And yes, with this, my “good” shoulder turned out of its socket.
I’ve been dealing with this for years and know that if I angle my arm and/or body a certain way everything will pop back into place.
Easier said than done when you’re dangling 50-feet off the ground.
Still, it popped back in and thus began the process of pulling myself home: sore shoulder over repaired shoulder; sore shoulder over repaired shoulder.
For six feet! The longest six feet of my life!
It was probably about halfway there that I started wishing I was A-Dork. All 90 pounds of him.
But no, I’m all 200+ pounds of me.
I won’t say that ultimately standing on that platform left me with any great sense of accomplishment. Relief is more like it.
Followed by dread.
You see, since ours was the last group of the night, our guides were “treating” us to extra runs. Extra-long, extra runs.
Later, as we were being unhooked from our harnesses, Dave asked A-Dork if this had helped with his fear of heights.
His response, “Not at all.” But he smiled.
As for me:
Did I enjoy it? Absolutely!
Will I do it again? No friggin’ way.
In the meantime, I’ll rest my shoulder while Dave does the yard work.
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