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| Haley's "thumbs-down" says it all. |
By
week #43 of The 52/52 Project, the biggest lesson I’d learned by pushing myself
outside my comfort zone was the expectation is almost always worse than the
reality. Apparently though, the expectation can sometimes prove frightening enough.
While
I don’t have an actual fear of heights, I am terrified of the sensation of falling from high places. I hardly even quiver on the top of a presumably stable
skyscraper or bridge, but any structure that moves—or any experience that results
in my moving and potentially plunging downward—is generally a deal-breaker.
The
high ropes course at The University of Toledo’s Recreation Center is situated
forty feet above the ground, high above the center’s basketball courts. It includes a series of swaying ropes and
wooden swings strung from the three-story-high ceiling. The goal is to climb,
stretch, and step one’s way across this mid-air obstacle course. Presumably, a
harness and single cable prevents one from crashing to the ground. From the
online photos and description, it appeared intimidating. Possibly fun. Nope.
Just intimidating.
Yet,
because my zip-lining experience had proven to be way more enjoyable than
expected, I figured I’d hope for the best and push myself through this. I’d
grown braver and more open-minded. Possibly, I was just more stupid.
My
friend, Laura Maylene Walter, and her fourteen-year-old cousin, Haley, drove in town to join
me. Laura had done a high ropes course when she was fifteen, and it proved less
than a positive experience. At the age of thirty, she was willing—with great
reservation—to give it another shot. We thought we’d make a good match: two
chicken shits supporting each other through an agonizing challenge. And, young
Haley would surely provide the necessary naïve bravado to encourage us onward.
Our
litany of excuses to back out commenced as soon as we climbed into the car. We
should call it all off because poor Haley had a stomach ache. The parking lot
was crowded; maybe we wouldn’t find a parking spot. And, if we got really
lucky, the Rec Center office wouldn’t find the free guest passes I’d been told
were left for us. By the time we reached the center’s third level, we devised a
half-dozen excuses before we ran out of any viable ones.
Once
we filled out our waivers and took our place in the long line, we took a good
long look around. Every other participant appeared to be a college student.
Most were lean, muscular, and surely in the physical prime of their life. Yet,
to say they were struggling on the course would be an understatement.
The
online photos didn’t give justice to the terror. The challenge wasn’t just in the
height. It was obvious the course relied on both intricate coordination and great
upper-body strength in order to grab each consecutive rope, balance upon the
swing, and step to the next.
We
watched a young woman in a tie-dyed shirt attempt to step from one swinging
wooden beam to another. The swings were situated a couple of feet apart, but as
she stretched her leg from one to the next, the wooden plank kept rocking
further away. Over and over, she stepped and missed. She finally grabbed the
next rope and managed to secure one foot on the beam. She reached her second
foot over and succeeded in balancing her entire body on the wildly rocking
swing.
The
step onto the next swing proved even more challenging. As she tried to balance
herself, the swing flipped backward. She slipped off. The security cable
clipped onto her harness jolted her to a stop. She dangled and swiveled,
mid-air.
We
couldn’t watch her another minute.
We
turned our direction to a young man maneuvering his way across. He painstakingly
watched his footing, trying to catch hold of the next violently rocking beam, all
the while pulling his security cable along the way. His odds didn’t appear so
good.
He
paused and shouted to someone on the catwalk. “OK, this is why they make you
sign a waiver!”
I
turned to one of the attendants. “How often have you seen people slip off and
have to dangle there?”
She
shrugged. “Pretty often.”
We
observed the participants for nearly a half-hour, during which we subtly—without
even mentioning it aloud to each other—stepped out of line. But, we knew we had to make a decision. The
time had come to take flight or to flee.
“This
is way worse than the one I did when I was fifteen,” Laura said. “And I was in great shape then. I’m not sure I
have the physical strength to do this. And, I might puke in my mouth from
terror.”
I
nodded in spasms. “Yeah, and I’m even more worried about the coordination
required. Because I have a whole lot of none.”
I
realized that was the true deal-breaker for me. I could—although reluctantly—handle
airplanes, zip-lining, and hopefully my upcoming hot air balloon ride, because
those relied on the skills of a qualified pilot or technician. Left up to my
own inadequate coordination, I was fairly certain I’d be S.O.L.
“Honestly,”
Laura continued, “I’m pretty certain I’d have a panic attack midway through.
What then? When you’re halfway through and can’t take another step, how do you
get down?”
Our
panicked eyes met.
The
disclaimer for the high ropes course specified only that participants be at
least fourteen-years-old and four-feet-ten-inches. I was safe by thirty-eight
years and two inches. But those requirements didn’t take into consideration my
stubby legs and arms or my chronic clumsiness. And I was fairly certain the
terror of these recreational gallows would take twenty years off my lifetime.
I
made my decision. “I can’t do it. I just can’t. I’m sorry.”
Laura
sighed in relief. I turned to Haley, who had remained fairly quiet. “What do
you want to do?”
She
raised her hands up in the air. “Not this! This should be illegal!”
The
decision was mutual. We agreed this was a disaster just waiting to happen. Those
swinging ropes might just as well have been wrapped around our necks.
Over
the past ten months, I’d made it through forty-two of fifty-two new challenges.
This was the first I’d failed to see through fruition. As we crumpled our
waivers and headed downstairs, my failure troubled me. I hung my head. “I can’t believe I couldn’t go through with it.”
"Maybe we could just Photoshop ourselves in," Haley suggested.
Laura
patted my back. “You failed at one. Look at it like a narrative arc in a story.
There always has to be one really low point, one major conflict for the
protagonist. And this was yours.”
From
a writer’s view, she had a point. And, maybe there was more to it. Perhaps acknowledging
our limitations is an essential part of self-discovery. We may learn just as
much about life and about ourselves by discovering our weaknesses as well as our
strengths.
Besides,
the evening wasn’t a total loss. Being there together to watch the participants
and imagine our own agony and defeat, while my cohorts spewed out some terrific one-liners, proved pretty enjoyable. Quite likely more fun than if we’d
actually gone through with it. I’d never simultaneously shuddered and laughed
so much. And, as a bonus, we survived to be able to say we’d failed.
I never stepped a foot on one of those treacherous swings.
But, damn
if it wasn’t the best experience I never had.
What constitutes failure and success? Do we get points in life just for showing up? When's the last time you failed and felt OK with it?
