Snowboarding. A passion of two halves.
Riding again. Ben Wyvis, Scotland, 2018. 5 years after my last powder turns were made and with a setting sun, I kick up some, shallow, but dry, pow pow.
Identity and loss.
A short story of addiction, attachment and identity crisis.
I spent a large percentage of my life following my passion. On November, 15th, 2000, 8 months after leaving school, I moved to Tignes in the French Alps. From a young age, I had dreamt of living in the mountains, among like-minded people, while progressing at my favourite sport. I was a snowboarder, and I suppose, given that I am thinking of going riding tomorrow that, I am still a snowboarder - I just no longer live in a ski resort, nor do I have the luxury of riding, unrestricted, every single day. But back then it was a solid part of my identity. An absolute central part of my life. Everything revolved around snowboarding, where will I be riding this season? What country do I want to visit? Where’s the best snow? What new tricks will I learn? Will I be able to leave this job in November? Will the boss be mad at me if I leave?
Some lessons need to be learnt the hard way and when we don't listen, the body keeps the score.
Summers were spent working in hotels, saving hard, and mountain biking or skateboarding when I had a little extra energy in-between shifts. Winters, on the other hand, were usually spent, riding 6 - 7 days a week on the mountain (excluding injury days, bad weather days, and of course, those cruel and painful hangover days of my mislead youth).
Snowboarding inspired me to travel, I spend winters living in France, California, British Columbia, and New Zealand. I also had the pleasure of traveling to Austria and Italy to take part in competitions. For 3 years I even worked back home at my local mountain, Cairngorm, in Scotland as an Instructor. While every season had its uniqueness, the common theme was that I loved the community, the friendships, and the late nights of drinking and chatting. I particularly enjoyed my time in Tahoe, California. I lived in a house with the most exceptional crew of friends and had ski passes for 3 mountains, Sierra at Tahoe, Kirkwood, and Northstar. It was a carefree and wild time. I embraced everything about this lifestyle. I find it hard to explain just how intoxicating it was. For anyone who has lived this life, you will understand.
When I had my first serious knee injury at the end of the 2010 season, I ended up in the psychologist's chair. I was distraught and anxious. I felt totally at a loss, completely confused as to who I was or what I would become if I were to lose snowboarding. My identity was so fixed on the image of snowboarding that I literally could not imagine a life without it. To me, snowboarding was who I was and what I was. I had no idea where my life was to go without the endless pursuit of it. I had no other direction, no other passion, no other love. Snowboarding, and skateboarding, too, were my absolute soul motivators in life and without participating in them I felt disconnected and low in spirit.
“To say that my world fell apart, would be an understatement…”
Snowboarding, in particular, came with other joys, the fresh clean air of the mountains, teaching and coaching - which I often got great meaning and enjoyment from, building jumps, the jaw-dropping panorama, the friendships, the hype, the stoke, and anticipation of powder days with friends and then watching those same friends make their mark through untouched, fresh, crystallised gold, hooting and blasting echos of joy with each big turn. And of course, lest we forget, the celebratory après-ski drinks when victory over the mountain was taken with tricks landed and turns made - yes, those raucous nights of punk rock music or hazy all-nighters in European discotheques were the crowning jewel atop an epic day spend ripping with friends.
But, despite all this wonderful glory, I was on a slippery trajectory toward hard rock bottom, I just didn’t see it coming because the drug, and life choices sending me there, were the same things I felt I needed to keep my sense of place and meaning in the world. Snowboarding was becoming both a blessing and a curse, or rather, my relationship with it was. There were multiple factors, as there so often are, that played into my body “failing me” but I think it is quite clear, in retrospect, that I was an addict to sport. No different from any other drug, the only difference was that mine was socially accepted and even respectable.
I will leave the psychological reasons for my deep attachment to my identity for another blog, another time. But suffice to say, it gave me a sense of self, a sense of worth, and a feeling of belonging in the world. It also made me feel as though I had something that might have, to others, seemed vaguely impressive. Anyone who has an ounce of low self-worth will vouch for the fact that having an attribute or perceived quality that appears remotely impressive is an attribute worth clinging to. It’s no surprise I was so obsessed with the sport, on hindsight it seemed to make up 99% of who I thought I was. Who could put down such a large chunk of themselves, worse still, who could cope with having it taken away, literally, overnight?
Well, that is exactly what happened, in February of 2013 and right when I needed it the most, the rug got pulled out from under me. To say that my world fell apart would be an understatement. I mean, it was already falling apart, I just couldn’t see it. Indeed, the age of responsibility was dawning, I was turning 30 and the stitches in my disorganised tapestry were rapidly coming undone. Pressures were mounting, questions being asked, a family to appease, careers, moving country… hell, moving continents, settling down, the whole shebang. It was happening and I was not ready. That is why at the exact moment I lost it, I also needed it the most. But life had its agenda, and my snowboarding, to my utter shock, was no longer going to be a part of it. Some lessons need to be learnt the hard way and when we don't listen, the body keeps the score.
As a world of physical pain ensued, I gripped and grovelled for meaning and a physical solution that would take me back to the life I had. I don’t mean to appear melodramatic here, but this is the hard reality of attachment, identity, addiction, and the fear, anger, and grief that lays just millimetres below the surface of it all.
To be continued…
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Warm wishes
Duncan