The Weight of the Matter

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It’s the first thing you think about in the morning. And the last thing you think about at night. Like carrying an anvil on your shoulder, it’s impossible to ignore. A black cloud of burden – heavier through the day, through the week.

You walk into your bathroom in the morning, out of habit, flip the toilet seat and stand there. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Finally, enough to fill a Dixie cup, maybe a bottle cap. It’s the color of apple cider. You strip. Take a deep breath. Step gingerly on the scale, removing your finger from the ledge like you’re trying to balance a feather on a toothpick and stand there, looking at the number. The cold, hard slap of a number that consumes you. You’ve lost a quarter of pound during the night. That’s it. Your mouth is dry, like after a hard night’s drinking, but you haven’t been drinking. Your stomach is flat, concave, missing. Brush your teeth, spitting out the toothpaste, then you take a sip, just one quick sip of water, savoring it.

A cup of tea, black, for breakfast. Out the door to gallop horses for the morning, trying to take your mind off the task. As it gets closer to Saturday, you add on the layers, Gore-Tex worked best for me. Plastic bags from the dry-cleaners worked, punch three holes, tuck in your pants, go to work. Your hands start to come up as the pounds go off, your patience wanes, you try to ignore it, simply rise above, rise above. Each set seems to take longer, the walk from the tack room for a new bridle and saddle towel feels like the Bataan Death March.

An energy bar and a coffee for lunch. Maybe a banana in the afternoon. A vegetable dinner, splurging with a bagel or a piece of toast. I should have listened to my mom and eaten more protein. Should have hired a nutritionist. Actually, I did, he told me to eat less, do more and handed me some pills. They made my heart race, I stopped taking them.

Flipping when you had to, when you lost your mind and gorged, a ravishing need to satiate. Milk shakes coming up cold, after they’ve gone down.

Running hours and hours in the afternoon, feet slapping off the macadam, calories burning, pounds slowly, ever so slowly, sliding away. Your mind wishing for more energy, your muscles wishing for an end to the torture. Questioning what you’re doing to your body, your mind. 

Only riding on the weekends, it was impossible to control.

By the end, it was a 10-pound shift from Thursday morning to Saturday morning. Wake up Thursday, 152. Wake up Saturday, 142. Sunday, back to 152 or more. On race mornings, wake up and wonder how you’re going to beat the scale six times – well, 12, six out, six in – instead of the races you are to ride. You wonder how you’re going to get through the day. Up in the dark, drive to BWI, fly to Nashville for the Iroquois Steeplechase, rent a car, drive to the races, walk the hurdle course, the timber course, tack up the first horse, ride a race, get a lift to the barn to tack up the second, ride the second, the third, fourth, fifth…then 3 miles in the Iroquois. Parched. Sip Gatorade during the day, not too much, just a sip, it’s all water weight now. Sip it. Don’t gulp it.

The days when you got hurt, crumpled in a heap, checking your body parts, moving your feet, your legs, arms, head, your body throbbing, getting lifted into the ambulance, your mind thinking about what you were going to eat, wishing you could stop for a bowl of cereal on the way to the emergency room.

Reading about Joseph O’Brien’s struggle with his weight brought back memories, torturous memories. He’s fighting a serpent with a thousand heads.