Strong beats skinny every time

I love my body best when I'm harnessing its power. (And giving it trail mix.)

So, my belly, Sheila, and I (“sheilar-and-I”) went backpacking last weekend, along with another friend of mine. (A human one, not a body part one.) It was three-day, two-night trip through the Pemigewasset Wilderness of the White Mountains, featuring incredible views and—let’s call them “invigorating”—cold nights. I tagged three more of the peaks left in my quest to summit all 48 four-thousand-footers in New Hampshire. The loop was 29 miles in all, and on the longest day, I logged over forty-thousand steps on the ole FitBit.

As you might imagine, this sort of thing is not Sheila’s cup of tea.

Walking around the Tesco or to the pub is about the extent of Sheila’s exercise regime, although she did to a bike tour in Portugal once while there on holiday—massive mistake.

So, there was as you might expect, lots of salty complaining, which went from good-natured and jokey to downright pissed-off (ticked off? tockered off? snooker-snicker-snockered off? Help me, British readers) once the terrain got steep. The c-word was bandied about quite liberally.

But then, interestingly, Sheila got very quiet. In fact, I more or less forgot that she was even there.

Even as I was consuming calories at a staggering rate—trail mix, cheddar cheese, pepperoni, Corn Nuts (what, you don’t hike with Corn Nuts?)—I wasn’t thinking about Sheila’s doughy presence beneath the hip-band of my 27-pound pack. Instead, I was feeling totally blissed out by the scenery, the spruce-scented air, and what my body could do.

Here in my late forties, I’m fitter than I’ve ever been in my life. You could bounce a two-quid coin off my quads. (But don’t try bouncing it on Sheila.) As for all those calories I was mowing down on the trail: they weren’t a matter of indulging—they were fuel, baby.

And yet at the same time: I can’t deny it. For me, one of the big perks of hiking (which I do a lot of these days) is being able to eat pretty much whatever I want and not worry about it.

So, now, I find myself at the awkward position of making two sort of contradictory points:

1.) Hiking makes me feel strong and badass and appreciative of my body and all it can do—and way less focused on its imperfections. (I hope Sheila didn’t hear that. Although if she did she’d probably just roll her eyes and laugh. “Of course I’m an imperfect, you c*nt! We all are!)

2.) Hiking is a great excuse to eat like a truck driver—a red-blooded ‘Merican one that likes Corn Nuts, beef jerky and M&Ms goddamit—and not feel guilty.

But let’s focus on the first one, because it’s the one that’s actually more important. And healthy.

As I’ve mentioned, there was a period of time in high school when I was in a competition with myself to see how little I could eat while still having enough energy to function, all the while secretly hoping that some adult would notice how damned skinny I was, and worry, and take care of me.

‘Cuz I pretty much took care of myself—and often my younger brother, too—during my latter teenage years, while my parents were both very focused on new professional pursuits. AND I had a GPA in the stratosphere and did, like, all the clubs, and won all the awards. I was voted “Most Likely to Succeed” and “Parents’ Dream Child” in my high school yearbook. The second one (I mean, seriously, wtf kind of category is that?) made me want to develop a cocaine habit and bang the entire football team. But I didn’t, of course. Because I was a parents’ dream child.

Anyway. I can’t quite explain it, but being skinny was all wrapped up in this achieving and dream-childing. Being very thin was part of being very perfect.

And yet, I knew it wasn’t really healthy, or sustainable.

Then, the summer between my junior and senior years, I sent myself on a small adventure: I did a week of volunteer trail crew in the White Mountains with the Appalachian Mountain Club. There were about a dozen of us in the group, some Europeans, some Americans. (All adults; in retrospect, I don’t know if I really supposed to be there on my own, as a minor, but nobody asked any questions). We spent our days in the woods, gussying up the trails with clippers and hatchets and pick-axes, and then came back to the base camp where we ate a huge dinner and played cutthroat games of croquet.

That experience was the first time in a long time that I felt great about my body for the things it could do—not for its thinness. Hiking in the Whites is serious business, and you can’t do it running on fumes. You need fuel. You need food.

[Interjection: As I am writing this, one of my teen spawn and a bunch of her friends are outside in the yard shrieking songs from Phantom of the Opera, and I think it may get us exiled from the neighborhood.]

Did spending a week in the mountains cure me of my eating issues? No, not by a longshot. What I ate (or didn’t eat) continued to occupy more of my mental energy than would have been ideal for several more years. But the experience definitely nudged my priorities in the right direction.

And here I am 30 years later, still finding that it’s when I’m in the woods that I feel most fully in—and grateful for—my body.

Now. About #2: Relishing the opportunity to eat trail mix, PB&J, pepperoni-cheddar-Triscut canapés (“cairnapés” as I call them) and—afterwards—a big ole burger and beer without guilt?

Eh. I think as long as it’s not the primary reason I hike (it’s definitely not) it’s a pretty natural, and probably common, phenomenon. So you know what? I’m just not gonna sweat it or overthink it.

Sheila most emphatically approves.

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