Harley and Me (28 page)

A young climbing pro, Anna Pfaff, teaches my class. Like most of the instructors, Anna has established a reputation as an ice-, rock-, and alpine-climber who spends months each year trekking and climbing in Nepal, Patagonia, and throughout the Rockies. My fellow students include another middle-aged woman who recently moved to the Ouray area to work on her ice-climbing skills, and three men, two of whom are surgeons. There's a connection, I see again, between those who like to take risks. I shouldn't be surprised when I learn that our teacher is also an ER trauma nurse.

Anna is patient and gentle as she explains the “syllabus.” First, we'll climb just a small way using only our crampons without the benefit of ice tools at all. She demonstrates how, when the points of her crampons are securely planted, she can stand and rest comfortably along the face of a frozen waterfall. No hands necessary. She wants us to learn to trust our legs, to see how vital their strength is.

The next exercise is to climb with only one ice tool, to learn how to securely place the pick and to realize we can get by with less security than we think we need. That one centimeter of penetration is all it takes to hold me. I recall the massive sequoia trees and how one undamaged centimeter of bark running up the tree's trunk is enough for it to survive and thrive. Soon, after we've worked on the one-handed technique, Anna says we now can use both tools.

She notes that men tend to overrely on brute arm strength. “Women, on the other hand, learn early on to trust their legs because they know they're never going to have the same kind of upper-body strength.” Women tend to excel at ice-climbing because many have studied dance or possess excellent balance, poise, and flexibility. They can do moves that men will never be able to do. The only way a man can execute the same maneuvers is to compensate with brawn. But for newbies, that can be a mistake. Anna sees it all the time: Men start climbing and relying on their arms to pull them up. So
much work! So much wasted energy! While at the same time, a much smaller woman will pass all the guys. “Don't be one of those guys who think he can power his way up,” she calls out. “Use your legs.”

We pair off and belay each other. I work on my tripod position: two legs firmly planted, supporting me, one ice tool reaching up. Two feet, one arm. Two feet, next arm. When I sustain this rhythm, I move smoothly. However, I do not look down. The ice routes surrounding us are filled with other classes; about 40 percent of the students are women. This is one sport where men do not have much of an advantage. I am getting higher and higher. Punching the points of the crampons, it feels as if my feet have superpowers, holding me in place on the vertical ice wall. Little spurts of exhilaration keep me company as I climb.

The thing I have to monitor with ice-climbing (like motorcycling, parenting, dating, and life as a whole) is how anxiety can make things much harder than they need to be. When I get scared, I tend to hold on too tightly and deplete precious energy. The solution, many propose, is to relax, simply loosen my grip.

A climbing magazine article by Brian Rigby observes that stress itself is usually the culprit. I know from my own life that when I'm uncomfortable with anything (and this goes beyond ice-climbing), I experience a stress response, which in turn creates physiological changes. My heart rate and breathing increase. I switch from the slow-burning aerobic system, which runs primarily off stored fat, to the faster anaerobic system, which is primarily fueled by carbohydrates. My core body temperature rises and I sweat. Adrenaline provides sudden bursts of energy and mediates these changes.

If the only time I experience this stress response is at the height of exertion, then the adrenaline burst is productive and necessary. But my anxiety and fear elicit these changes long before I ever leave the ground.

Anxiety is the enemy. Increased mental stress causes this whole adrenaline-boost package to get to work. Novice climbers (novices
at anything) begin a task with their systems already stressed, experiencing the same physiological state that more advanced athletes encounter only during difficult passages. Instead of moving smoothly through the easier parts of a climb and reserving my stamina for the tougher pitch, I waste precious energy.

This premature release of adrenaline causes my body to rely on carbohydrates for fuel, which in turn creates an increase in blood lactate that causes muscle burn. My endurance evaporates, my resolve to continue dies, I feel fatigued when, in reality, I haven't yet done anything
that
demanding.

This is normal, I have to remind myself. It does not mean I shouldn't continue, only that I'm spending a lot of energy on anxiety. And this anxiety sends my body faulty signals about how hard I'm working and creates the sensation of premature fatigue. Though my actual strength might be unaffected, the increase in body temperature signals me to slow down so that my core temperature can decrease. Everything in my chemical makeup tells me I need to stop.

The lesson applies beyond the waterfall of ice. If I focus on lessening my anxiety, then I will reduce all the negatives associated with it. My metabolism will edge back toward burning fat, my core temperature will cool, and I will experience the climb (or whatever else I might attempt) as a realistic interpretation of its actual difficulty and my abilities. I will live my life more fully.

So what are we to do about this? As newcomers to whatever activity we select, we cannot just will ourselves to have zero anxiety. But we can learn to recognize that anxiousness and try to manage and understand it. As I continue to face new challenges that scare me and gain confidence in one pursuit, that emboldens me in other realms. Nothing is wasted.

Plus, there are ways to manage the terror. First, I can identify the source of my anxiety. Am I afraid I'll fall? Okay, I can practice falling on the route to assure myself that I'll be all right. Does it freak me out that others are watching? Then I can climb when fewer people
are around. Am I doing something I know I'm not yet prepared to do? If that's the case, I can stay within my limits until I feel ready to move forward.

Next, I need to give myself permission to fail. The more pressure I put on myself to perform, the greater my anxiety. When I give myself permission to fail and remove my own self-imposed goals, I'm more likely to succeed.
Lessen your expectations
has become my new mantra.

Third, I can practice. According to a 2007 applied physiology study, simply repeating a climbing route just one time decreased anxiety by 16 percent. Repeating it numerous times reduces anxiety further. (I liken this to making pancakes. You know how the first one is always kind of thin and pathetic and not as yummy as later ones? My early efforts on any given day are early pancakes. As I get increasingly comfortable with what I'm doing, my ability to relax and let go of anxiety will increase.)

For some people, creating rituals before and/or after difficult activities can help. My son, when dealing with a severe anxiety disorder in high school, would reward himself with Skittles for making it through each class. I sometimes light a candle before sitting down to write a difficult passage. We may laugh at such superstitions, but they often work.

Finally, it's helpful to keep in mind that the stress I'm experiencing is an adaptive response. We experience these physiological changes because they're intended to increase our strength, focus, and drive, giving us the energy we need to succeed. If I'm anxious, I can concentrate on how the stress response is going to help. It focuses me, energizes me, keeps me on my toes.

Brian Rigby, the author of the climbing magazine article, cites his own experience as a rock-climber. Over time, as his level of anxiousness eased, he says he rarely gets stressed. He is also able to see when his ego is pushing him to do something he's not ready to do, or when peer pressure nudges him beyond his skill level. He reminds himself that the experience is not about the outcome of a climb and that
failure just means he's pushing his limits and learning new things. “I am still in a battle with my ego which drives me to perfection, but the good thing is that now I have tools to work with my inner chatter,” which means that he's able to focus on progression instead of perfection.

Though I was not so thrilled about falling at Point Dume on the beach, as I climb now on the ice in Ouray and find my rhythm, I discover reasons to be grateful for that experience. I know that if I fall, my belay partner will catch me. I know that if I ride my motorcycle five thousand miles across the country and back, the road will bring me home. If I paddle an outrigger canoe across the Sea of the Moon, scuba-dive off a remote Pacific atoll, or leave the security of marriage, I will land on my feet. If I try to build a relationship with a new man, not knowing how or if things are going to work out, I believe I can recover from whatever heartbreak might be in store. And I can open my heart to whatever joy might be lurking in the possibility of couplehood. I need never again stay in an unhappy relationship simply because I'm too afraid to strike out on my own.

As a result of these passages, I have come to envision the entire universe as a benevolent system that has me in a kind of climbing harness and continues to tether me on a safety line. I can make poor choices, reaching too far, not getting my crampon in deep enough, misjudging the ice's stability. Yet I know that the harness is there and the rope will catch me.

I consider all the tough lessons that have made this fact evident to me. I add them up. The still-unfolding divorce, the death of my father, the suicide of my friend's teenage son just days before little Ronan died from Tay-Sachs, the car accident with the ninety-one-year-old man, the tears I've shared with my children as we've navigated a new family structure. And before those challenges, there was the mental illness and then death of my mother, a teen pregnancy, my son's near drowning, J's pulmonary embolism that almost killed him, the foreclosure that cost us our house, my son's anxiety disorder.

The list goes on. Because this is life. We're here to learn and expand and grow. The only way that happens is when life challenges us. Unlike what many of us think, life isn't about finding a safe place, getting all our details nailed down, and then holding it all, like a tableau stuck in time.

It's about chance and risk and failing better.

And yet, for the first time, I finally feel the tug of the rope that keeps me anchored, the sense that some kind of higher power, some God, the universe, whatever you want to call it, some compassionate and generous force is belaying me, keeping an eye, and is there to catch me when—not
if
—I fall. And that allows me to fly.

•
    
EPILOGUE
    
•

Security is mostly a superstition. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.

—HELEN KELLER

Rebecca rides my motorcycle while I drive my car the thirty-six miles east of Los Angeles to Claremont to meet up with neuroeconomist Paul J. Zak. I'm driving so as not to “contaminate” my blood before he can take a baseline reading. He's going to test my blood, before and after riding, for three hormones: oxytocin, testosterone, and ACTH (adrenocorticotropic hormone, a fast-acting stress hormone that's a precursor to cortisol).

I follow Rebecca eastbound on the Foothill Freeway and get a chance to admire my elegant dame, Izzy Bella. As she moves poetically through traffic, I realize I am not the same person I was three years ago when I first cautiously lowered my weight onto a motorcycle. I approach life with a new kind of zest and enthusiasm. I feel emotions more keenly than before, even the tender and excruciating ones. According to researchers at Stanford University, the human body replaces itself with a largely new set of cells every seven to ten years, and some of our most important parts are revamped even more rapidly.
Whether it's replenishing lung cells, shedding skin, or sprouting new hair, the human body is in a state of constant flux and change.

If my recent experiences are any indication, my psyche is going through a rejuvenation, too.

Change of some sort would have been inevitable. The fact that I have transformed in ways that please and make me feel more whole as a human, though, is due unequivocally to this grand venture into risk taking.

Risk, as a concept, has a hard time of it in our thoroughly preplanned society. Yet taking risks is central to who we are as humans. If you're like me, though, you may have bought into the philosophy that settling your life and planning to the utmost what your future holds is what we should strive for. Most regard this as the ultimate badge that we are grown-ups.

It's time to reconsider that myth.

• • •

When I meet Zak, the first thing he does is apologize for not hugging me. He's a well-known hugging advocate and claims he can prove that embracing a person for twenty seconds can increase oxytocin levels and make both parties feel better and more predisposed to trust. Since we don't want to spike my oxytocin level, then, no hugs until the blood work is done.

He sends me into a quiet room where I sit alone for ten minutes. This is to “quarantine” me from any social interaction I might have with Zak, Rebecca, or Zak's research assistant that could influence the results. He then takes the “before” blood sample and sends me out into the parking lot to ride my motorcycle for about twenty minutes.

I ride along a portion of historic Route 66. Compared to Los Angeles traffic, it's a quiet stretch of road along the foothills, and as I zip along, I enjoy the scented oils from the eucalyptus trees and a feeling of being in command of my bike. I encounter only a few cars and the ride passes without incident.

When I return to the little Craftsman house that's been converted into the Center for Neuroeconomic Studies, Zak takes another blood specimen. Before we say good-bye, he feels it's okay to indulge a big bear hug.

• • •

Months pass and the results finally come in. According to Zak, they make an amazing amount of sense.

My oxytocin level is up 18 percent after riding the bike. I remember from Zak's book that he took blood samples before and after the vows at a wedding. While my oxytocin didn't elevate quite as high as the bride or the bride's mother, I'm on par with the groom. Either way, it's a sizable increase.

ACTH, the fast-acting stress hormone, is up only 8.3 percent, which means I'm a very relaxed rider. Zak is amazed I had such a nominal increase while on the bike. He'd expected to see a 30 to 50 percent increase from such a focused, strenuous activity. “This is evidence that you are ‘one with the bike,'” he says, “like it's an extension of your body and you feel natural using it.”

The testosterone numbers are equally interesting. My pre-ride test established a baseline of 18.5 nanograms per deciliter (ng/dl), what would be expected in the midrange for women my age. But after riding the motorcycle, my testosterone actually dipped to 15 ng/dl. We are both surprised.

“Why did it fall?” he asks rhetorically. “We know you weren't stressed, which can reduce testosterone levels.” He thinks that one possible interpretation is that I was so relaxed that I didn't need to show off or preen.

So, I ask him, what's the major takeaway?

“As you hypothesized, it seems like riding your cycle is a social activity from the brain's perspective. We don't know about others, but for you, for that particular ride, your brain was receiving positive
social information from those around you, which is the only way your brain makes oxytocin, other than birth, breastfeeding, or sex—all of which I'm pretty sure you didn't do during your ride!”

“But wait,” I interrupt. That doesn't seem right. I didn't feel social or aware of other people on the ride at all. I bring up the hypothesis we'd discussed a year earlier, about the moving shapes in the You-Tube video and having a relationship with the bike. Does he think that theory no longer holds?

“Did I really say that?” he laughs. “It's either brilliant or stupid, I'm not sure which.” He's going to have to think about it.

If that's not the reason, I speculate, maybe my level jumped because I'm having a relationship with myself. Maybe oxytocin increases when one is authentic and present with one's self.

While that's a supposition he's heard before, Zak says it's difficult to test experimentally. Scientists in the last twelve to fifteen years have seen that the only way to cause the brain to make oxytocin is to have a positive
social
interaction, something that requires the participation of others.

Still, it's possible, he says. “We can't rule it out.”

He's quiet for a bit. I can almost hear the gears turning in his mind. “What I said last year, about the moving shapes? It sounds sort of smart.” His voice begins to rise as he puts the pieces together. “If it's the relationship with the bike, it makes total sense. You're relaxed. Your stress level's dropped. The drop in testosterone is small, but yes, you're one with this machine. It's as if you're having a relationship with it, a bonding experience.”

All the markers are there, he tells me. It's like you are sitting on the couch holding hands and watching TV with this machine.

The human brain, he tells me, is in a very real sense, a lazy organ. It gives us systems meant for one purpose that can be used for others. We evolved this oxytocin-based care and nurturing system to raise our young. But it also manifests with animals in that pained feeling we get when we see a bird fall out of its nest, or the way we feel calmed
when we pet a cat or play with a dog. There's no reason this same brain system couldn't develop a relationship with a dynamic machine that moves, takes us places, that we have experiences with.

When the results first came in, I tell him, I posted them on my Facebook page. A number of people wrote to tell me how confirming the information was. One said he'd been trying for years to explain to people the feeling he gets while riding and no one got it.

“Holy crap: That's cool!” Now Zak's really animated. “It gives us a little more confidence that's the right interpretation.”

He thinks it through out loud. “A motorcycle is moving and can create a very intimate experience. There it sits, between your legs, an intimate a part of you. It responds to your commands. And the motorcycle is more than just the bike itself. A rider is connected to a community of riders.”

As such, he decides, it's not inconceivable that a person might have a bonding (therefore oxytocin-spiking, dopamine-enriching) experience with a motorcycle.

But there are caveats. We did this experiment on only one rider on one particular day. As the rider in question, I was aware of the results I was hoping to see. It's far from a scientific trial that can prove anything, but it hints at an explanation. Despite the lack of methodical validity, it's enough evidence for me.

Oxytocin is an amazing molecule that helps humans in a multitude of positive ways: increasing generosity, putting us at ease, reducing social fears, decreasing pain, and acting as an antidepressant. Oxytocin naturally enhances a sense of optimism, trust, mastery, and self-esteem.

But here's the cool part: I get to create it in my own brain. Thanks to cooperative brain chemicals and the wonders of neuroplasticity, and thanks especially to my motorcycle, I have become a new person.

But risk itself gets the true credit. Without the risk that got me on the bike in the first place, I would likely be deficient in oxytocin, in all kinds of positive brain chemicals, deficient in my full response to this life I've been graced with.

Perhaps it's time we redefine risk to include its upside. We know that risk is not just the possibility that something bad or unpleasant will happen, but the certainty that something new and unexpected will occur. Our brains and bodies are biochemically programmed to thrive on change. Challenge will open up and show us a new side of ourselves. If, as science has demonstrated, all the cells in our bodies are made new every seven to ten years, it make sense that our brains, our psyches, our self-images might undergo a similar transformation. In my own case, I feel like I'm almost halfway through that complete transformation.