In his seminal surf memoir Barbarian Days, William Finnegan calls Will Rogers State Beach 鈥渘ot a proper surf spot.鈥� Chris and I assess its conditions from the lip of the parking lot, blissfully oblivious to what, exactly, makes a surf spot 鈥減roper鈥� or 鈥渋mproper.鈥� It鈥檚 an overcast Monday morning, the wind is low, a typical five degrees cooler than my side of L.A. We are flanked by mountains to the north and the Santa Monica Pier, cloaked in fog, to the south. Modest, crumbly waves peel off the break. Monday mornings mean busy freeways and empty lineups. A smattering of surfers bob just beyond the whitewater, greedy for mediocre waves.

鈥淥h, yeah!鈥� says Chris, earnest as ever. We鈥檙e two lifelong city kids and L.A. transplants who met in a writers鈥� group about five years back. 鈥淭hese conditions are perfect.鈥� In fact, the forecasting service calls them, 鈥減oor to fair.鈥�

I, a poor-to-fair surfer, agree with Chris. But the conditions don鈥檛 actually matter. I鈥檓 not really here to surf. On this particular morning, my Google Calendar is blanketed in one large, blue block: 鈥淕RIEVE.鈥�

My brother, Zach, died from Leukemia when he was 31. Today is the four-year anniversary of his death. Zach鈥檚 Death Day 鈥� or, as my parents call it, Zach Day, apparently unable to stomach the middle word. In a surreal and unpleasant twist, I have grown older than my older brother, now 34.

Over the years since he died, I鈥檝e found I am unable to predict my emotional status on Zach Day, or on his birthday, or holidays, or Ash Wednesday鈥攈e died on Ash Wednesday, so as Catholic luck would have it, I get a bonus anniversary to grieve each year. On such days, I will either a) lie in bed with the feeling of a ton of bricks on my chest; or b) carry about my day normally, carrying near-crippling guilt for the fact that I am not lying in bed with the feeling of a ton of bricks on my chest. For this particular Zach Day, I thought ahead. I鈥檝e opted for neither. Instead of waiting to see whether I鈥檓 smothered by sadness or guilt, I will face my trauma head-on.

The plan is this: I will go surfing. I will stare out onto the water and think only of Zach, the unjustness of his early passing, the randomness of blood cancer, the cruel reality of watching a young man become an old man with horrifying speed. Yes. Today, I鈥檒l find meaning in the ocean, as humanity has done for millennia. And when I return to my corporate copywriting job tomorrow, I will be healed鈥攐r at least have accomplished enough healing for Q1. How convenient that my company offers bereavement days in its benefits package.

As we embark on the pre-surf ritual鈥攚restling into wetsuits, waxing boards, warming up with rushed sun salutations aside buggy piles of cold seaweed鈥擟hris asks why I took the day off work. I tell him, using 鈥減assed away鈥� as my euphemism of choice.

鈥淢mm,鈥� says Chris. He furrows his dark brow and lets the information hang in the air. Chris鈥� self-described brand of comedy is, 鈥淣ot the funniest guy in the room, but the funniest guy who answers emails promptly.鈥� Unlike many comics, he knows how to be a human being. 鈥淢mm.鈥� We both let the moment hang, not forcing it, before we move on to his two-month-old son鈥檚 new habit of defecating only when held in his mother鈥檚 arms.

The first task of surfing is paddling out to the lineup. This requires relying on my upper body to cut through a series of waves breaking in my direction. As a person who, as documented in this very publication, cannot do push-ups, this is hands-down my least favorite task of the sport. But staring misty-eyed at the water while considering mortality won鈥檛 hit from the beach like it will from the surf lineup.

I heave my belly onto the board and paddle. I form my palm into cups and extend each arm toward the horizon, one at a time. In front of me, I watch a wave enlarge, tighten, peak, then fold and become whitewater. When we collide, the wave is largely foam, slackened. I splash through it, horizon-bound. Paddle, paddle, paddle. I reach the impact zone, which is the area where the waves are breaking and crashing down鈥攖he goal being, not on me. Another wave mounts ahead. I feel a swoop in my stomach as I crest it, then slide down its backside, safe.

A third gathers. My shoulders burn as I surge head-first into the wave 鈥� I鈥檓 going to need to pick up more speed to make it through this one unscathed. 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 a smarter, less chaotic technique that real surfers use to avoid getting crashed on. I know this in theory. 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 a way through the wave, or under it, I鈥檓 told. The thumbnail of a YouTube video entitled 鈥淗ow To Turtle Roll鈥� flashes into my mind, then crackles and fizzles. All that remains is the faint sound of the instructor鈥檚 Australian accent. The wave reaches its thunderous peak (two to three feet鈥斺�減oor to fair鈥�), the height of its force, then crests immediately to my left. I鈥檓 completely fucked.

鈥�…AUR, NAUR…鈥�

I have no choice. I bail off my board and plunge into the ocean. The wave hits the water just above me in a violent clap and rushes beach-bound. It yanks my 9鈥�6鈥� Rockin鈥� Fig with it, which yanks my ankle toward the shore, which in turn yanks the rest of my body toward the shore. The wave slackens and releases my board and I emerge for air, gasping.

I鈥檝e come to define my life in terms of before and after Zach鈥檚 death鈥擝.Z.D. and A.Z.D., respectively. I began surfing about one year A.Z.D. It was mid-pandemic and I had to do something. But even three years into the sport, the whole ritual still feels like cosplay. I grew up in Chicago, where surfing seemed like some absurd, make-believe event in the fantasy land of California. Saying things like 鈥渙ffshore winds鈥� and 鈥淚 dinged my board鈥� makes me feel like the quirky sidekick in a Disney Channel Original Movie. And seeing dolphins? Forget about it. Not real life.

Zach certainly never surfed in his 31 years on Earth. Even if we鈥檇 grown up in California, he wouldn鈥檛 have surfed. For all his savantlike recitations of Premier League stats, Zach wasn鈥檛 exactly a jock himself. He was a maniacal Cubs fan, a dive bar evangelist, a Lollapalooza teen. I was all those things once, too. Indeed, it has always felt impossible to disentangle my brother鈥檚 identity from the city of Chicago itself. But I couldn鈥檛 stand living in my hometown forever and moved to LA. Who is Surfer Grace, and what did she do with Chicago Grace? He never knew this part of me, the poor-to-fair surfer part of me, and he never will. I got to grow up and older than him. I now have the privilege of being pummeled by the ocean.

After a humbling paddle-out, I eventually make it to the lineup, where Chris is waiting. He starts chasing waves like a Labrador would a Chuckit. But for me, the official mourning process begins. I look out onto the Pacific: Wow. So much water. Really makes you think. About, uh, where we go, or whatever.

But I鈥檓 distracted. A 13-year-old Drake verse blares through my head. I squint, and let a perfectly rideable wave pass. Then another. I think of intersections in Chicago鈥擣ullerton and Ashland, North and Wood, then Clark and Wellington, where that sex toy shop used to be above Flub-a-Dub Chubs. Zach has been dead for four years. What鈥檚 changed since then? I wrote a book. I moved in with a girlfriend, then out. I got a dog. I got a sweater for my dog, a raincoat for my dog, and a Barbie-branded jean jacket for my dog. I got a car and drove it across the country, then went into lockdown. I count five COVID inoculations since Zach died. I count six outfits for my 25-pound dog since Zach died.

I should be sad out here, staring into the blue-gray sea, under the overcast skies. I specifically dedicated this time in my Google Calendar to being sad. More rideable waves pass. I should be thinking deep thoughts, contemplating the unjust brevity of my brother鈥檚 life. I am instead laughing to myself about the sex toy shop above Flub-a-Dub Chubs.

Unfortunately for my unfocused grieving process, straddling a surfboard in a 3/2 millimeter wetsuit in February gets cold, quick. I have to get out of my head and move, or I will die. No, I won鈥檛 die. But equally consequential: I will waste a rush-hour drive to the West Side. I have to at least try to catch a wave, if for no other reason than to skirt mild hypothermia. Enough of Flub-a-Dub Chubs. Enough.

I spy a mound of water building, drawing nearer to me. I wheel my feet counterclockwise like a mallard and whip around to face the beach, slap my belly to my surfboard, spine curled in Sphinx pose, and paddle. Paddle paddle paddle. My traps pinch as I stare toward the sand, fixated on the stray trash can to the right of the lifeguard tower. Paddle paddle paddle. I feel my body rise as the wave reaches me鈥�

Paddle!!! Paddle!!! Paddle!!!

Then, boggy and mushy, it passes underneath me, continuing on toward the beach.

鈥淪O close,鈥� Chris says with the enthusiasm of an American Youth Soccer Organization coach. I鈥檓 unsure whether he realizes he鈥檚 lying. I prickle at the support, a little embarrassed, but grateful.

I chase another wave; I miss it. I try the next. And the one after that. I try every little blip of water that approaches my board, determined that this time I鈥檒l get it. This is the wave. It鈥檚 just a numbers game, right? But my longboard simply isn鈥檛 hooking into the wave. You know when you catch a wave because you feel it. Your board glides; something just makes sense. I鈥檓 chasing that feeling, that clarity, that ease; I鈥檓 chasing it desperately. But wave after wave鈥攁nd the thing about the ocean is, there will always be more waves鈥擨鈥檓 flopping. To my right, an eight-year-old (who should be in school) rides a wave all the way to shore.

The problem is, I鈥檓 forcing it.

The challenge of surfing, it turns out, is not in riding the wave. It鈥檚 not about the pop-up. This was a slight relief to learn, as someone with the upper body strength of a late-in-life Ruth Bader Ginsberg鈥攊mpressive for, you know, an 80-year-old cancer patient, which I am not.

Surfing is an art of observation. Most non-surfers imagine the hardest part is either the pop-up or constant and inescapable shark attacks. In fact, surfing is about timing. To succeed in this sport entails staring out into the ocean and reading the waves: to see a swell form and be able to gauge if it will be rideable, when it will be rideable, where one must be to ride it, the direction in which one must ride it, and whether, if I hustle to the right place at the right time, I鈥檒l even have enough gas left to catch it. All of this, calculated in a matter of seconds. Or even in just a moment. And then you pop up.

To a novice, surfing appears to be a sport of fortune-telling. To the able, it is a sport of a hundred little calculations all done at once. To the seasoned, it is a sport of simply reading and reacting, not thinking at all. The waves go from something to be feared to something to be conquered to something to be worked with, to be integrated with, to accept as is. Today, I am somewhere between failed fortune-telling and over-calculating.

I watch Chris glide down the length of a wave, all the way to the beach. I throw a semi-ironic shaka sign in the air (Who is Surfer Grace?) to congratulate him from afar.

I start to let waves pass. I grow more discerning. The right wave will come, I just need to look for it. I鈥檓 not a strong enough surfer to chase waves and meet them at exactly the right moment, but maybe I will be one day. For now, I just observe. And when the right wave comes, it鈥檚 modest yet strong, accumulating speed and strength, but not too much. She鈥檚 right for me. I wheel around to face the shore, my longboard a bucking bronco, then paddle.

And then, be it by Poseidon鈥檚 grace or my own burgeoning surf prowess, I feel my board lock into the wave. I鈥檓 part of the wave. I can鈥檛 control its speed or size, only how I ride it. For about six whole seconds I glide鈥攕teady, fast, moderately in control鈥攂efore unceremoniously losing my balance and tumbling into the sea.

I look back at the lineup. Chris is going fucking mental. If you鈥檙e ever feeling insecure, I recommend befriending a new dad. They tend to be lovestruck by life itself.

Today is the anniversary of Zach鈥檚 death, but it鈥檚 not a day I feel overwhelmed by grief, no matter what my Google Calendar says. Maybe tomorrow will be. Or maybe some random day in June will be. I won鈥檛 Conquer My Grief in today鈥檚 surf session. I鈥檓 not even sure grief is a thing to conquer. It鈥檚 a thing that moves, a thing I am just learning how to move with. I will have my whole life to learn how to contour myself to its moving shapes, when to push through, when to bail, when to use it to my advantage.

Instead of staring pensively out into the ocean in forced contemplation, I will try to catch waves. I search for the small miracle of my longboard hooking itself into an unbroken wave. And when I find it, I hold onto the feeling as long as I can.

The post What鈥檚 the Right Way to Grieve My Brother? I Try Surfing. appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Last week, I texted a doctor friend a photo of my banged-up face, with the听question: 鈥淪o, do you think I need stitches?鈥� It had happened hours earlier, during my fifth-ever surf lesson. After briefly catching a whopping one-foot wave, I toppled off my board and into the Pacific. My body somersaulted like it鈥檇 been thrown in听the washing machine, along with my massive foam surfboard. Before I could cover my face, I felt it鈥�THWACK!鈥攁 plastic fin to my eyebrow. I surfaced, dizzy, and touched my temple. The cut bled dramatically, as head wounds do, more bark than bite. As I paddled back to the beach, I heard a 12-year-old boy bobbing nearby yell, 鈥淲hoa! Holy shit!鈥�

Surfing, I鈥檓 gathering, is 90 percent learning how to read the ocean and听alter your actions to accommodate it. In no other sport does the track, court, or field听change as the ocean does, on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment basis. Bleeding from the face felt humbling. Not just because the wave that caused it was one foot tall, nor because a 12-year-old clocked it. But because it reminded me how insignificant I am, barely a drop in the Pacific Ocean, completely subject to its whims. Maybe it was the blood loss-induced dizzies, but as I dragged my board to the beach, I felt听like I鈥檇 lost my sense of self. It was听freeing. I have a suspicion Alison Bechdel would understand the feeling.

Bechdel is known for her cartoons, particularly and , rather than her athleticism.听But her latest book,听, out this week, makes a strong case for the intrinsic interconnectedness of creativity, spirituality, and an elevated heart rate. As detailed in the new graphic memoir,听Bechdel has spent her 60 years on Earth trying every solo sport and workout fad under the sun. She鈥檚 dabbled in swimming, running, karate, downhill skiing, cross-country skiing, cycling, yoga, hiking鈥攖he list goes on. Bechdel doesn鈥檛 discuss surfing in her book, but I鈥檝e been channeling her athletic enthusiasm during my recent morning beach trips.

The book opens with an introduction from present-day Alison, and then we jump back to baby Alison in the hospital, immediately whisked out of her mother鈥檚 arms. Bechdel was born in 1960, so each decade of her life fits neatly with a new calendar decade. The Secret to Superhuman Strength is divided up accordingly. We follow the writer through her adolescence, through her years writing in New York, cartooning in Minnesota, and eventually settling down in Vermont. This memoir intersects with Bechdel鈥檚 others鈥�Fun Home is about her relationship with her dad, and Are You My Mother?, her mom, both of whom play supporting roles in this book. We meet Alison鈥檚 girlfriends (lots of them), her workaholic tendencies, and her anxieties over .

Each of these life stages is explored through the lens of athletics and the outdoors. In her first year of college, Bechdel proudly scales a 20-foot wall intended for team-building exercises all by herself鈥攚hich, she realizes in hindsight, planted in her the (false, damaging) idea that she didn鈥檛 need anyone but herself, a resonant theme through her 50s. After her father dies by suicide, Bechdel copes by plunging her physical and emotional energy into training at an all-women鈥檚 karate dojo.听As Bechdel dives into the stress of writing cartoons full-time in her 30s, she runs up and down a Vermont mountain while on deadline, simply to retain some sense of control.

Sure, The Secret to Superhuman Strength could stand alone as an entertaining look back at the rise of various American workout trends. But it鈥檚 much more than that, as Bechdel鈥檚 running, cycling, and skiing serve as a听backdrop for her own spiritual and creative development. In her 30s, Bechdel moves to rural Vermont, where her obsession with work ravages her sleep schedule and bleeds into her relationships. 鈥淚f I had to choose between only riding downhill or only riding uphill for the rest of my life鈥攁n existential question that I pondered often,鈥� Bechdel writes of road听biking in Vermont in her 30s, 鈥淚 would take the uphill.鈥� When a girlfriend asks Bechdel what life might look like if she weren鈥檛 always metaphorically riding uphill, Bechdel tells her: 鈥淚…I wouldn鈥檛 deserve to exist?鈥� Many endurance-oriented readers might relate.

With this book, Bechdel establishes her place in a long line of progressive thinkers who have sought spiritual growth via physical activity. Bechdel bounces between her own biography and those of other prominent writers whose passion for exercise and the outdoors informed their creative lives: the Romantic poet , who took weeklong, solo walking tours, abandoning his wife and children to do so; , the Transcendentalist who often escaped the hustle of Cambridge, Massachusetts,听to stroll in nature; and Beat writer Jack Keroac who, in his semi-autobiographical novel , finds Buddhism while climbing Matterhorn Peak (named for its sort-of resemblance to the Matterhorn in the Alps) in California鈥檚 Sierra Nevada.

In intersplicing听her story with the greats鈥�, Bechel situates herself in the Jock Literary Canon. (She鈥檇 hate that I听called her a jock鈥攕he rejects the term in the book鈥檚 introduction鈥攂ut, come on. You wrote a full book about working out, you鈥檙e a jock.)听In her words, physical activity听has always 鈥渁fforded me the illusion that I might somehow stave off death.鈥� It鈥檚 common knowledge that , but Bechdel isn鈥檛 being so literal. Through rigorous movement, she鈥檚 always trying to find the fix that鈥檒l unlock something within her鈥攁nd make her whole.

It鈥檚 clear Bechdel has put Kerouac鈥檚 experience, as detailed in The Dharma Bums, on a spiritual pedestal. The novel follows Kerouac and the poet Gary Snyder climbing and camping on Matterhorn Peak, discussing Buddhist ideology, escaping city life, and finding unexpected serenity in the expedition. 鈥淭he fact that they did this back before it was really a thing has always entranced me,鈥� says Bechdel early on in her book. Indeed, this is her M.O.: find her Matterhorn, write her Dharma Bums. She ran laps around her central Pennsylvania听town听in the 鈥�70s, when jogging was barely a thing; she practiced yoga in the 鈥�80s, before there was a CorePower on every corner; she did bodyweight workouts in the 鈥�90s, as they grew into fashion. With each new workout comes a new flicker of hope in Bechdel: maybe this will be the thing that fixes me, maybe this will be my Matterhorn.

You shouldn鈥檛 read The Secret to Superhuman Strength if you鈥檙e actually looking for the secret to superhuman strength. No new way of working out brings spiritual ecstasy. Towards the end of the book, Bechdel and her wife, Holly, climb Matterhorn Peak. And wouldn鈥檛 you know it? They don鈥檛 achieve nirvana. In fact, the closest Bechdel gets to enlightenment is one afternoon early in the book, in her early twenties, enjoying Central Park on magic mushrooms. 鈥淚 could see that my self鈥攖he self indicated by my driver鈥檚听license, encased in this skin, thinking this thought鈥攚as not real,鈥� says Bechdel. 鈥淚 knew that I鈥檇 had glimpsed into the true nature of things.鈥� She鈥檚 always trying to chase that feeling. Sometimes, she almost gets it back, but it always fades.

Despite slicing my face open on a fin, I鈥檝e spent the past week scouring Facebook marketplace to buy a used surfboard. I鈥檓 hooked on the new sport. While I hope it doesn鈥檛 only come via face injury, I鈥檓 chasing that same athletic euphoria that Bechdel does throughout The Secret to Superhuman Strength鈥攖hat sense of losing myself to my own sense of utter exhaustion, to however nature is feeling that day. Reading Bechdel鈥檚 book during my early surf days has injected a sense of existential meaning in my pursuit. Perhaps I, too, can be a part of the Jock Literary Canon.

The post Alison Bechdel Seeks Enlightenment via Fitness appeared first on 国产吃瓜黑料 Online.

Dr. Alex cradles a woman鈥檚 face in his hands. He stands behind her, in a white T-shirt, his scruff covered in a face mask (an atypical look for him, even in a pandemic), the heel听of his palms fastened just below her ears. The woman sits, eyes closed, and admits she鈥檚 nervous. It鈥檚 her first time getting a chiropractic adjustment. Dr. Alex, casual, kind, tells her to relax. Then it happens all at once, in a single, swift motion: Dr. Alex twists the woman鈥檚 neck. It sounds like he鈥檚 stomped on bubble wrap.

She laughs. 鈥�Wow.鈥�

鈥淛ust like the videos?鈥�

鈥淥h, my god. It feels different,鈥� she says. 鈥淏etter.鈥�

I watch, hunched over my iPhone, my shoulders curved forward, my dowager鈥檚 hump growing more irreversible, my spine increasingly resembling the shape and fortitude of a balloon dog with every passing day. As I鈥檝e come to do since mid-2020, I scroll to the next video. And then the next. And then the next.

Dr. Alex is one of the big players of my pandemic-era internet obsession: Chirogram. Chirogram is a subsect of social media sites, including Instagram, YouTube, and TikTok, where chiropractors post videos (go with me here)听of听themselves performing spinal adjustments on patients. The doctors worth following听mic up听their patients鈥� backs, capturing that oh-so-satisfying crack-crack-crack听of each adjustment. Chirogram videos span anywhere from six seconds to 60 minutes听and range from detailed explainers to super-cut compilations.

I promise you I鈥檓 not the only sicko logged on to this realm听of the internet. Dr. Alex boasts 227,000 followers on Instagram听and 2.1听million on TikTok (totals that pale in comparison to 鈥�,鈥�听who has 3.4听million TikTok followers). , for example, is a 41-minute back-cracking compilation video听that has tallied听over 5.8听million views on YouTube. The hashtag #chiropractor has four听billion views on TikTok. Chirogram is, in other words, a thing.听

Each chiropractic internet persona has their own flair, their own favorite adjustments, their own bedside manner. (Though听by and large听it鈥檚 a mostly male, very bro-like听cohort.) Dr. Alex has a casual, flirtatious vibe听and specializes in what he calls 鈥渢he magic hug,鈥� where patients let their skulls hang into the crook of his biceps, and then鈥�crack! 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 , an American expat in Sydney with a confusing transpacific accent, a gray Weimaraner,听and easygoing, best-friend vibes. is the down-to-business New Yorker: he makes basically no small talk with patients, apparently relying on the element of surprise to increase their neck rotation by 15 degrees each visit. Personally, I love 听who cracks ankles (something he calls a navicular bone HVLA adjustment? OK!).听 is more of a long-form guy; he straight-up records entire sessions with patients for YouTube, where he boasts 1.8 million subscribers. One chiro I follow adjusts baby spines, slowly, carefully, with basically no audible cracking.听And then听there鈥檚 ,听who gives back-relief tips to the tunes of Megan Thee Stallion. Chirogram has everything.

I should mention that I鈥檇 never actually been to a chiropractor prior to my descent into Chirogram. Honestly, the whole thing seemed a little scammy to me. And also: What if I go to get my neck adjusted and the doctor, I don鈥檛 know, accidentally paralyzes me? That fear isn鈥檛 really warranted, but it鈥檚 true that chiropractic sits somewhere between standard and alternative health care. Chiropractors aren鈥檛 medical doctors, but they鈥檙e not acupuncturists, either. (Chiropractors don鈥檛 go to med school, but they do become 鈥渃hiropractic doctors,鈥� thus the use of the title doctor.) This field of complementary care, which deals with manipulating the musculoskeletal system鈥攅specially the spine鈥攚as developed in the U.S. in the late 19th century. It鈥檚 over the past few decades, and many studies have affirmed chiropractic鈥檚 effectiveness in relieving lower-back pain, particularly in tandem with听modern medicine.

Some chiropractors today听create听viral content to promote their businesses鈥攁nd chiropractic care in general鈥攕ituating this trend at the bizarre American intersection of health care, capitalism, and social media. Dr. Sayegh (a.k.a. the King of Cracks) told me via听Instagram DM (where else?) that he started posting adjustments during the first COVID shutdowns of听2020听as a way to stay connected with followers while his offices were empty. (He posted his on April 6, 2020, and created the King of Cracks Instagram account about a month later.) The videos became a way, in the King鈥檚 words, to educate the public about chiropractic care听and to entertain听followers.

I鈥檓 a writer, so I spend most of my days looking at my laptop or a notebook, pandemic or no pandemic. But the past year has necessitated an increased amount of听screen time, even for me: more time contorting my body so I look slightly better on Zoom, more nights scrolling aimlessly through Instagram because there鈥檚 so little else to do. I was primed to fall into Chirogram, and I fell for it听hard.

First, there鈥檚 the ASMR of it all. For the uninitiated, 鈥攁utonomous sensory meridian response鈥攊s the soothing, tingling sensation many people get from listening to , like whispering and tapping and the crinkling of paper. Chiropractors say producing a loud crack听isn鈥檛 integral to achieving back relief, nor is it an indicator of an adjustment鈥檚 effectiveness. The crack is, however, integral to the virality of Chirogram. The phenomenon hinges on that satisfying, audible crunch of the body听and the ASMR response that many viewers (including me) get from it. I鈥檓 not big on other, more popular ASMR-inducing sounds. But there鈥檚 something about Chirogram that gets me, that generates a calming sensation鈥攅ven a sense of relief鈥攚hile watching others get their backs adjusted. Those听cracks听sound听so good that they also feel听good.

ASMR isn鈥檛 a sexual thing (for the most part)听and neither is Chirogram, but there鈥檚 certainly something pseudo erotic about the whole subgenre. Many, many patients call their adjustments 鈥渙rgasmic鈥� in videos. 鈥淒oes anyone else have a VIRGIN SPINE that you鈥檇 love to let me get my hands on?鈥� Dr. Cody asks in one caption.听One YouTube video, titled听鈥�,鈥澨齭ounds particularly pornographic, but I promise听it鈥檚 just 11 minutes of a routine chiropractic appointment.

As a marketing strategy, Chirogram seems to work. The King of Cracks鈥� TikTok account has gained 2.4 million followers in less than a year, and Dr. Sayegh tells me his practice has gotten 鈥渕uch busier鈥� since he started posting adjustment videos. He鈥檚 not alone in having hyperenthusiastic followers. Posts on popular chiro accounts are littered with comments from users declaring, 鈥淚 NEED THIS!!!鈥� Random Instagram users threaten听to buy flights to Australia on nearly every one of Dr. Cody鈥檚 posts. Patients in videos (including one six-year-old in a Dr. Alex clip) often cite TikTok or Instagram as their means of discovering this new chiropractor, or for inspiring them to get their first-ever chiropractic adjustment. I mean, it worked on me.

After about three months, I鈥檇 watched so many chiropractors adjust so many joints on so many strangers that my body ached for adjustments of its own. First听I bought a laptop stand to bring my screen parallel to my face while working. Then听I realized I needed a Bluetooth keyboard to help unscrunch my shoulders. Then a听mouse, a mousepad, a听big blue exercise ball.听Then I asked my girlfriend to tell me to roll my shoulders back whenever she noticed me hunching听over. I started doing yoga鈥攁 lot of yoga. And finally, after watching so many Chirogram adjustments that my eyes nearly dried out, I bit the bullet and scheduled an appointment with a chiropractor. My insurance didn鈥檛 cover it, but no matter. I longed for听the relief I saw in those videos. I knew that the satisfaction of watching viral crack content was just a sliver of the relief I鈥檇 feel. It was like I had a song stuck in my head, and if I just listened to it, I鈥檇 be free of its grasp.

My chiropractor, Dr. Matt, had major Dr. Cody vibes, minus the Weimaraner. I explained that I鈥檇 experienced pain in my lower left back for years now, a hang-up from an old track injury, and that it often flared up after working out. He popped my midback and听twisted my lumbar spine鈥攖he whole dang thing,听just like I鈥檇 seen on Chirogram. Yet听the most cathartic release of the visit wasn鈥檛 when Dr. Matt cracked me like a glow stick. It happened at the top of the session, as he听laid a heating pad on my lower back. Glancing听at my car keys, which I鈥檇 tossed on a chair in the corner, Dr. Matt asked,听鈥淒o you like your Subaru?鈥�

鈥淚 do,鈥� I said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 great. My girlfriend and I drove it cross-country this summer, to North Carolina and back.鈥�

Several seconds passed, and I could see听Dr. Matt weighing听whether to make The Joke. I knew it was coming. I always know when it鈥檚 coming. 鈥淜ind of a clich茅, being a lesbian who drives a Subaru, eh?鈥� he said.

I laughed politely, like I鈥檇 never heard that observation before. But of course I had:听the main thing about being a lesbian who drives a Subaru is fielding jokes about being a lesbian who drives a Subaru. Still, in the middle of a pandemic, it felt so fucking good to be roasted by a gay听stranger for being a lesbian who drives a Subaru. It was like he was a friend鈥檚 friend at Akbar, half drunk and grasping for something easy to laugh over, treading water until his crush came back from the bathroom.

Appointments with people who work with bodies feel so magically, instantly intimate. Chiropractors fall into this category, as do masseuses, personal trainers, and physical therapists. It鈥檚 not just the feeling听of an unfamiliar hand on your body, but that the hand understands听why you walk and ache the way you do. It鈥檚 startling to meet someone for the first time, exchange a few words, and then have听them听read your body like a book. Such experts can make assumptions about our unique aches and听pains based on such little information: When I move your elbow like this, does your shoulder hurt? If I twist your hip like this, is it easier to lift your knee? So few people know the ins and outs of our bodies鈥攚e often don鈥檛 even know them ourselves鈥攖hat it鈥檚 easy to mistake this immediate knowledge for connection. But really, they鈥檙e just trained professionals who didn鈥檛 flunk organic chemistry and are paid to know听how human bodies work.

The thing I鈥檓 so drawn to in Chirogram isn鈥檛 the crunch of bones听but the casual intimacy between doctor and patient. These aren鈥檛 just videos of people getting their spines adjusted, but footage听of two people who don鈥檛 really know each other having a nice time together. God, it鈥檚 so satisfying to watch! Remember casual intimacy? Remember clicking with a friend of a friend at a party, or joking with someone in line for the bathroom, or seeing a friend鈥檚 full face from less than six feet away? In the past year, my social circle has dwindled. I have maybe, maybe two social engagements per week, all of which are outside, the vast majority ending by 9 P.M., and very rarely do they include anyone I鈥檝e never met. On the occasions I opt for in-store shopping instead of curbside pickup, masks make it hard to spark听natural chitchat with strangers in stores. All of these restrictions are necessary, minor inconveniences in the scheme of the past calendar year. But the midwesterner听in me misses talking to strangers. It isn鈥檛 musculoskeletal manipulation that I need, but feeling like I听know someone I鈥檝e听only just met. And also, maybe a deep-tissue massage.

I haven鈥檛 been back to Dr. Matt for a few months. (My last appointment was on my birthday; I got cracked as a treat.) Not because my spinal adjustments didn鈥檛 feel phenomenal, or because my lower-back pain has fully gone away, but because out-of-pocket chiropractic care ain鈥檛 cheap鈥攐n average, it鈥檒l run you around $65 per session.听I do, though, still regularly donate hours of my precious, one-time-only听life to Chirogram. Only听now听I鈥檓 begrudgingly aware that the relief I鈥檓 looking for isn鈥檛听going to come all at once, with a swift crack of the neck. It鈥檒l happen听more slowly, vaccination by vaccination, reopening by reopening. In the meantime, I鈥檒l keep doing yoga. And fine, I鈥檒l try to cut back on screen time.

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Only a few people have seen the entire听National Park Service system, and听only one of them has seen each and every one of the 419 NPS sites consecutively: . The 33-year-old is wrapping up his three-year trek across all 50 states and five U.S. territories on April 29, at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, D.C. For most of the trip he鈥檚 been living out of the听converted windowless van he听dubbed Vanny McVanface (鈥檚 land-bound cousin). Unfortunately, McVanface couldn鈥檛 make it to Guam, Hawaii, or any other islands; but otherwise, McVanface and Meyer have traveled from sea to shining sea, from Acadia National Park on the Maine coast to Rosie the Riveter/World War II Homefront National Historic Park in Richmond, California.

罢丑别谤别鈥檚 one hitch that could extend Meyer鈥檚 trip completion听date, which is that the number of official NPS sites is a moving target. There are still nine that have been legally designated as public lands but haven鈥檛 technically become sites yet for various reasons, and could gain NPS site designation any day. Eight sites have been added since Meyer started his trek in 2016, and he鈥檚 visited those too. So theoretically, Mikah could be lacing up to traipse the Lincoln Memorial, then get a press release that there鈥檚 a brand-new national monument in Mississippi he still needs to see.

Meyer began his three-year journey on April 29, 2016, the 11th anniversary of his father鈥檚 passing. Meyer, who鈥檚 from Lincoln, Nebraska,听had started taking road trips around the end of every April to remember his dad, a Lutheran pastor who loved a long drive. In 2011, he and a friend drove to the Grand Canyon, which sparked in Meyer an urge to visit every NPS site. For Meyer, his father鈥檚 early passing鈥攈e died suddenly, at age 58 of cancer鈥攚as also a wake-up call. 鈥淚 wanted to do something that would inspire other people and share this lesson I had to learn the hard way,鈥� says Meyer. 鈥淗ere I am at age 30, not knowing when I鈥檒l die, and I鈥檓 gonna take this time to complete one of my life goals because I might die younger than I hope.鈥�

That鈥檚 how it started, anyway. Meyer鈥檚 dad is still the inspiration for听the trip, but over the three years, Meyer himself has become a noteworthy figure as a gay outdoorsman.

Mikah didn鈥檛 expect he鈥檇 become known as a gay outdoorsperson, because he didn鈥檛 expect being a gay outdoorsperson would be all that unique. His search for corporate sponsorship highlighted how rare LGBT public figures are in the outdoors world, even as recently as 2016.

Meyer had been saving up since that first Grand Canyon trip in 2011. But even with that, national parks experts estimated he鈥檇 saved only about one-fifth of what it would take to complete the trip. But Meyer made the leap of faith to start the trip anyway. Or, as he characterized it, a leap of naivet茅. Meyer assumed he鈥檇 have no problem getting sponsorship money based on the concept of his trip, as 2016 was the 100th anniversary of the NPS and he鈥檇 be breaking a world record. 鈥淚 thought, I鈥檇 just look up whoever the 鈥楪ay Bear Grylls鈥� is, see who sponsors him, and reach out to those people.鈥� But there was no Gay Bear Grylls.

Despite that fact, in the year leading up to the trip, Meyer took several meetings with marketing officers and CEOs of outdoor brands and nonprofits in search of 听sponsors. He found that after promising conversations, the companies would suddenly cut communication. Meyer speculates this was due to being what he calls 鈥済ay on Google:鈥� a quick internet search of his name yielded results that indicated he was queer. He did get one outdoors nonprofit to partially support him. But 11 months into that sponsorship, he got a call informing him that his contract would be terminated immediately because he was posting too much LGBT coverage on his blog and social media. (Meyer is not legally allowed to say the name of this nonprofit.) 鈥淢y worst fears did happen,鈥� says Meyer. 鈥淢y assumption was, to be outdoorsy in America does not mean to be gay.鈥� After getting dumped, Mikah did his best to mask his queeness on his social media鈥攏o rainbow flag, no mention of sexuality, just a guy enjoying the great outdoors鈥攊n hopes that such discretion would attract sponsors. But still, no one called. 听

So Meyer got creative. Before the trip, he had been working as a professional singer at the Washington National Cathedral鈥攈e has a Master鈥檚 in music and voice performance鈥攕o he began to perform at churches on the road. He鈥檚 now sung at over 150 churches across the states. 鈥淚 have an entire show now where I show pictures from the parks and my travels and tell stories from the road and sing in-between,鈥� says Meyer. 鈥淚t鈥檚 kind of like a Dolly Parton concert.鈥� And it worked鈥攁bout 90 percent of Meyer鈥檚 funding comes from individuals who hear听his stories. The shows kept Meyer鈥檚 expedition alive.听

About eight months into his trip,听Meyer starting getting messages from gay outdoors enthusiasts, park rangers, or other NPS employees saying things like, 鈥淚鈥檓 gay and I love the outdoors and I鈥檝e never seen anyone like you.鈥� In early 2017, Meyer got a message from a closeted gay teen on Instagram, thanking him for his visible queerness, and for inspiring him to be extraordinary. This was a turning point for Meyer. 鈥淚 wiped the tears off my smartphone, and at that point I听said, 鈥楨ff it! The outdoors companies aren鈥檛 sponsoring me anyway. This kid needs me, these other people need me.鈥欌�� So he started posing with the rainbow flag frequently and enthusiastically.听He starting advocating for queer representation in outdoors brands. The message of the trip morphed from a simple carpe diem to an attempt to create the outdoorsman role model he couldn鈥檛 find before.听

Meyer will unveil a complete ranking of all the NPS sites on once his mission is complete.听But he said his favorite sites were the most unique: 鈥淵ou can see snow-capped mountains a lot of places in America. But you can鈥檛 experience something like Badlands National Park anywhere else.鈥� Meyer particularly loved sites that weren鈥檛 over-crowded or over-Instagrammed, so听he often prefers national monuments to the more-hyped national parks.听

While the trip itself may be ending, Meyer wants to continue traveling, exploring, and inspiring young LGBT kids to do the same. 鈥淚 want to keep doing travel that breaks stereotypes, and show people this openly gay outdoorsman who they thought likely didn鈥檛 exist.鈥� Meyer says in this journey he鈥檚 found what is called in the Lutheran church, his vocation: that career where his greatest talents meet the world鈥檚 greatest needs. His pastor father probably would鈥檝e liked that.

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Let鈥檚 get the big thing out of the way: mushroom coffee tastes pretty much the same as regular coffee. I drank only for two weeks straight and I can vouch for its palatability. I wouldn鈥檛 call myself an aficionado, but I鈥檝e consumed coffee pretty much every day for the past decade. And mushroom coffee is fine! It doesn鈥檛 taste like a cup of steamed chanterelles, I promise. It is not poison.

On a usual day, my brain is essentially scrambled eggs before my morning mug. I thought this was very adult and cosmopolitan of me until I was about 25, when I discovered that I get splitting headaches when I skip my fix. Addiction, even when not so crippling, never feels emotionally good. I also wondered if coffee was partially to blame for my ever present generalized anxiety.

I initially heard about mushroom coffee in 2018, from targeted Instagram ads and clickbait-y .听(For the uninitiated:听it鈥檚 a blend of regular ground coffee and powdered mushrooms鈥攜es, there鈥檚 real coffee in there.)听Four Sigmatic attributes to their product: it can help you focus, make you less jittery, support your immune system. They also claim it can even improve your sleep habits and give you more energy. All this piqued my interest.

According to Four Sigmatic鈥檚 (very hunky) founder, , mushroom coffee鈥檚 roots date back to 1940s Finland. When rations ran low during World War II, , native to Scandinavia, as a substitute. Four Sigmatic, founded in 2012, was the original modern brand and remains the most popular, but other companies including and also brew their own fungi java. Four Sigmatic sells of mushroom-blended products, including ground coffee and lemonade. I decided to go with the ground dark roast, which includes lion鈥檚 mane and chaga mushrooms. Because, honestly, mushroom lemonade is a bridge too far.

I tried to think of my two-week switch as the healthier version of something I already do鈥攔ather than seeking to introduce an entirely new good habit, or totally kick a bad one. Could this mushroom drink keep a habitual coffee drinker alert听without tasting like garbage? Could it really make me less anxious and jittery? I was ready to find out.

Unfortunately, the major difference between mushroom and regular coffee is something I learned the hard way: the mushroom variant has about half the caffeine. I definitely could have read this on the website before I started my two-week shroom spectacular, but, well, I didn鈥檛.

By around 4:30 P.M. on days one and two, I felt like I鈥檇 been run over by a train. My eyelids weighed like Volkswagens on my face. I wanted to fold my entire body inside my laptop and never emerge. Truly, all I craved was a nap, and maybe death. I had a date on day two! So around 6 P.M., I made an extra pot of coffee to prevent my body from hurtling听directly into a REM cycle at the bar. Thankfully, that worked.

On day three, exhausted, I checked the bag again. I discovered Four Sigmatic recommends three tablespoons of coffee per eight-ounce cup; I鈥檇 been using one tablespoon per five-ounce cup. (Mr. Coffee 鈥渃ups,鈥� as marked on the pots, are actually five听fluid ounces each; the standard cup measurement is eight听fluid ounces; a mug holds ten听fluid ounces.) I did a little math, and to brew my three daily mugs of coffee, I should鈥檝e been scooping about 11 tablespoons. That meant on days one听and two, I was getting about a quarter of my normal caffeine intake. So I adjusted accordingly, and things improved from there: I felt awake, alert, and occasionally anxious鈥攏ot all that different than when I drink fully caffeinated coffee.

According to Four Sigmatic鈥檚 the caffeine cutdown is one of mushroom coffee鈥檚 main appeals. Halving the caffeine of regular coffee, they say, can give you an energy boost without disturbing sleep cycles. But caffeine, in itself, isn鈥檛 necessarily bad for you鈥攗nless you鈥檙e overdoing it. 鈥淐affeine has actually been shown to improve focus, energy, and wellness,鈥� nutritionist Abby Langer told me over email. Too much caffeine can cause issues including sleeplessness, jitters, and stomach problems. While Langer concedes that reducing caffeine intake could help sleep cycles, she adds that鈥檚 only true 鈥渋f you鈥檙e a person whose coffee habit is affecting their sleep.鈥�

According to the , 400 milligrams of caffeine per day is a perfectly fine amount for the average, healthy adult. That鈥檚 four eight-ounce cups of (non-mushroom) coffee per day, 32 ounces total. Things get dicey, per Mayo, around 500听to听600 milligrams in one day鈥攖hat鈥檚 when insomnia, irritability, upset stomach, and racing heartbeat can occur. Of course, the exact tipping point varies from body to body. According to a , a coffee and espresso consulting company, the average American coffee drinker consumes about 3.6 cups of coffee per day. If a major benefit of mushroom coffee is simply that it has less caffeine, it seems suspiciously like a well-marketed solution to a problem that doesn鈥檛 really exist.

Then there鈥檚 the much-touted fact that chaga mushrooms are adaptogens, a category of medicinal herbs. Adaptogens are the latest trendy supplement in beauty products, and , they鈥檙e a part of . Some studies suggests adaptogens have anti-inflammatory properties that can help relieve stress, but there really hasn鈥檛 been enough research conducted to say so conclusively. Four Sigmatic claims that the adaptogens in its coffee can make us feel less jittery, a normal side effect of drinking caffeine. But Langer explains that most adaptogen research has been conducted on animals, or on cells in labs鈥攕o it鈥檚 not clear whether those benefits translate to humans. Langer says she sees lots of companies making 鈥渙verblown claims鈥� about chaga and adaptogens. 鈥淲ith chaga, there鈥檚 really no compelling evidence that it has significant health benefits,鈥� she says.

Four Sigmatic also says mushroom coffee may support digestion, thanks to the prebiotics and polysaccharides found in the fungi, which 鈥渕ay contribute to the production of healthy bacteria in the gut.鈥� Langer confirms prebiotics are great for gut health, generally speaking. 鈥淎lthough,鈥� she adds, 鈥渨e just aren鈥檛 sure how much prebiotic is in this product,鈥� nor how much is necessary to see benefits or effects in our bodies. Sounds like another toss-up.

Superfoodly, a site that offers detailed breakdowns of supposed health foods, took an in-depth look at mushroom coffee鈥檚 in 2017. It听ultimately concluded,听鈥淲hile the medicinal or health benefits of the coffee remain speculative, the vitamin D2 is good for immune system support and the low calorie count is a boon for weight loss.鈥� I鈥檓 not terribly concerned about what my three-calorie cups of coffee are doing to my pants size, but I suppose if you鈥檙e actively trying to lose weight, more D2 couldn鈥檛 hurt.

During my test, I generally felt the same on mushroom coffee as I do on regular coffee鈥攋ust a little sleepier during the day. I didn鈥檛 notice any changes in my actual sleep habits, focus, or energy level. Some days I felt jittery, some days I felt a little anxious, but those moments seemed to be unrelated to the coffee I was drinking. (In the interest of journalistic transparency: I did fart a ton on day one.听But it鈥檚 unclear if that was caused by my switch to mushroom java and an attendant boost in my gut health, or simply a result of the gobs of Super Bowl dips I鈥檇 downed the day prior.)听Overall: not life-changing.

Health benefits aside, it鈥檚 also worth noting that mushroom coffee, like many wellness-oriented products, is really expensive. Four Sigmatic goes for $21.50听per 12-ounce bag on Amazon, compared with听$5听for the same size bag of Starbucks house blend.

If you鈥檙e trying to cut down on your caffeine intake but can鈥檛 kick the ritual, then sure, make the switch to mushroom coffee. (Or, if you鈥檙e one of those people who鈥檚 always says things like, 鈥淐offee makes me so jittery!鈥� when your deskmate goes out for a Starbucks run, maybe give it a shot for your coworkers鈥� sanity.) But until the science backs up the claims from Four Sigmatic鈥檚 marketing team, I鈥檓 going to stick to my tub听of Kroger听breakfast blend鈥攁nd, of course, to the $5 latte I feel pressured to buy when I鈥檝e been camping out on my local coffee shop鈥檚 Wi-Fi for hours, thank you very damn much.

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Becoming an Eagle Scout takes serious commitment. Only about 4 percent of Boy Scouts acquire the 21 merit badges and survive the intense review process to reach the elite level of outdoor stewards. Unsurprisingly, the Eagle Scouts count some impressive and hardworking men among them, including Neil Armstrong, President Gerald Ford, and Steven Spielberg. Here鈥檚 another name you can add to that exclusive list: , the viral drag queen who dances atop mountains in six-inch-heeled boots.

Pattie Gonia made her debut on Instagram in early October. Within a month, she gained more than 30,000 followers, and for obvious reasons: She鈥檚 hilarious and captivating and consistently manages to not fall off the side of a mountain in those six-inch heels. (If there isn鈥檛 already a Boy Scout badge for that achievement, there should be.) In one video, the 6'10″ Pattie twirls her trekking poles on top of a mountain to Fergie鈥檚 鈥淟ondon Bridge.鈥� (Fergie has seen the video.) In , geotagged at Brokeback Mountain, she gets sexy in a cowboy getup in front of some unenthused horses. For Halloween, she hiked in full drag as . The self-proclaimed 鈥渨orld鈥檚 first backpacking queen鈥� is officially here.

The character鈥攚hose name is a pun on the California-based gear brand, though she has no sponsorship or formal connection to it鈥攊s portrayed by Nebraska-based photographer and Eagle Scout Wyn Wiley. Earlier this year, he and his friends were brainstorming drag names, and a friend tossed out the name Pattie Gonia. An avid skier, thru-hiker, and rock climber, Wiley thought the idea was too fun to pass up. His upcoming trip to the Continental Divide would be Pattie鈥檚 grand debut. He once did a drag performance as Ginger Snap (he鈥檚 a red-headed photographer鈥攇et it?) and still had the boots, so he dug them up. 鈥淚 just packed in the boots and was like, 鈥楾his does not make sense at all. I have no room in my pack for these.鈥欌�� Wiley doesn鈥檛 do entire hikes in Pattie鈥檚 boots, as the human ankle was not created for such a feat, but he always treks a portion in them.

So how did Pattie blow up so quickly? Wiley boasts more than 75,000 followers on his 鈥攈e鈥檚 a professional wedding and portrait photographer and videographer when he鈥檚 not climbing mountains in heels鈥攚hich gave Pattie a solid platform from the get-go. But Wiley attributes her popularity to something a little more magical than Instagram analytics. 鈥湴粘蟊鸢疴�檚 a queen inside everyone,鈥� he says. 鈥淚 think Pattie is the voice inside telling people they should just go for it. Live unapologetically.鈥�

Drag culture is as mainstream as it has ever been: is now an Emmy-winning household name, and his ubiquity is only trumped by that of drag slang. Drag鈥檚 appeal reaches far beyond gay men, and to that end, Wiley estimates about half of Pattie鈥檚 followers are women under the age of 30. But he also cites Pattie鈥檚 unconventional look鈥攈er being in nature and mixing up feminine and masculine attire鈥攁s a point of interest. 鈥淚 think if I just walked onto the scene as Pattie as just a classic drag queen, I don鈥檛 think it would have as much engagement,鈥� Wiley surmises.

Wiley posted that first Pattie Gonia video to his personal account with the intention of it being a one-time thing. But given the enthusiastic response, he decided to build out the character, if for no other reason than to make people laugh. 鈥淧attie Gonia is fun, first and foremost,鈥� Wiley says. 鈥淚 feel like social media sucks so much life out of us. If we can have a place where people can have a good laugh or be encouraged, I think I want her to be there.鈥�

Beyond that, Wiley鈥檚 ultimate goal is for Pattie Gonia to inspire more people to spend time outdoors, particularly those who have historically been excluded from the outdoor community, including the LGBTQ community, people of color, and fat folks. Wiley hopes to achieve that goal by leading groups of novice hikers as Pattie Gonia, getting sponsors to provide gear for those who can鈥檛 afford it, and amplifying the work of others who have been campaigning for inclusiveness in the outdoor community for years. He particularly admires the work of Jenny Bruso, founder of Unlikely Hikers, a Portland-based group that leads hikes for the underrepresented outdoorists.

On a more personal level, drag is a way for Wiley to explore his more feminine sides. 鈥淚n my normal life, I鈥檇 say I鈥檓 pretty straight-passing,鈥� he says. 鈥淏ut when I put those boots on, it feels like a girl when she puts on mascara for the first time鈥攊t unlocks a different side of you that you haven鈥檛 seen before. I think femme is important. I think masculinity is important. I think it鈥檚 all inside of us.鈥�

For Wiley, nature also contains both a femininity and a masculinity. Outdoorsiness often has a butch connotation鈥攔oughing it and rolling around in the mud isn鈥檛 stereotypically girlie. (Of course, the act of enjoying the outdoors has no gender, but living in a patriarchal society means unwittingly assigning gender roles to all sorts of inanimate things.) As Pattie, Wiley aims to buck that clich茅 by shining a light on the femininity that he believes has always existed in the outdoor world. 鈥淚 just got into rock climbing this year, and you can masculine your way up a wall, but there鈥檚 no beauty in it,鈥� he says. 鈥淭he people I look up to at my rock climbing gym who are so graceful about it pull from all the feminine aspects鈥攊t鈥檚 like watching ballet happen on a wall.鈥�

Ultimately, Pattie Gonia is here to unleash the hiker, skier, and rock climber in everyone, regardless of gender. 鈥淚t takes a freakin鈥� boss-ass bitch to climb a mountain, no matter whoever you are,鈥� Wiley says. 鈥淕irl, guy, no matter where you are on the spectrum, it鈥檚 awesome.鈥�

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One Thursday evening last summer, my personal trainer, with a wild look in her eye, whipped out a red resistance band. 鈥淚 thought of a genius way to help with your push-up problem,鈥� Andrea (not her real name) told me, grinning with the cockiness bestowed upon so many lesbians in their early twenties. She slid the red band over my head and around my waist, then instructed me to get into push-up position. I did, nervous about where this was going.

We鈥檇 been training together twice a week for four months, and I still couldn鈥檛 complete a full set of standard push-ups without breaking form or giving up. I was an athletic kid growing up: I played soccer until I could no longer deny my coordination deficiency, then ditched that for track and cross-country. But the push-up had always eluded me. At age 27, my metabolism had done an Irish exit, and I decided I wanted to learn how to lift properly. I figured getting a trainer would be the best way to attain real upper-body strength. And overall, I鈥檇 achieved that goal. I鈥檇 been bench pressing and reverse pulling my way to self-confidence, but push-ups were still my white whale. I would always give out after seven or eight鈥攍eft like a sad, half-dead fish flopping around on the deck.

Thank God I had Andrea, a 22-year-old divorc茅e (yeah) whose diet consisted primarily of Muscle Milk and McDonald鈥檚. She stood over me, holding one end of the resistance band wrapped around my middle as I struggled to simply hold the push-up position. 鈥淥kay, let鈥檚 start with ten.鈥� I did, and for the first time, I completed a full set of push-ups in perfect form, chest bouncing effortlessly back up with significant aid from the giant rubber band. I felt like the ultimate sub in some kinky, workout-centric foreplay that I had somehow consented to, for the entire gym to see. It was deeply demoralizing in the moment, but the second it was over I felt like I鈥檇 come one step closer to achieving my fitness goal. My face burned with embarrassment and pride. It was complicated.

Andrea was my trainer for about ten months at a no-frills, second-floor gym that didn鈥檛 hide how broke it was. The owner would send weekly all-caps text blasts to its members鈥�RENEW NOW FOR 6 MONTHS FOR JUST $180! or LABOR DAY SALE! ONE YEAR MEMBERSHIP FOR JUST $360!鈥攖hat all came out to about $30 per month. (I shouldn鈥檛 have been surprised when, one Monday in February, the Chicago Police Department entered and instructed sweaty gym-goers to cease pumping iron because the business was being evicted.) The training sessions, too, were pretty cheap.

Andrea had a spindly, athletic frame and a swagger that I had some version of when I was 22. (She also had short hair, dyed light purple, with the gym鈥檚 initials buzzed into the sides of her head.) I didn鈥檛 request Andrea as my trainer because I was into her, but I did request her because of how she looked. Everyone else at the gym presented so aggressively heterosexual that I felt overwhelmed, like I wasn鈥檛 supposed to be there. But for being two lesbians spending 100 percent of our time together all sweaty, in kink-adjacent apparatuses like the resistance band/push-up situation, I cannot overemphasize the complete lack of sexual tension between Andrea and me. We simply weren鈥檛 each others鈥� types. Which is to say, I wasn鈥檛 hot enough for her鈥攖hank God.

In our first session, Andrea and I chatted about our athletic histories. When I told her I ran track, she nodded and asked, 鈥淵ou sure you didn鈥檛 play, like, softball or rugby or basketball?鈥� I didn鈥檛 have a purple buzz cut, so she was trying to suss me out. I grinned. 鈥淥h, you mean the gay sports? Unfortunately, no.鈥� She spent the remainder of our months training together trying to convince me to join her rugby team. If the gym hadn鈥檛 been evicted, I may have eventually joined.

A friendship quickly developed from there鈥攊f you can really be friends with someone you pay for a service. We were both born and raised in Chicago in gigantic Catholic families, but the surface-level similarities ended there. I grew up in an affluent north side neighborhood, Andrea in a now-gentrified Puerto Rican neighborhood on the west side. I was that clich茅 white-girl-with-bangs-studying-queer-theory-at-liberal-arts-college lesbian, and she had an associate鈥檚 degree and part ownership in her own gym franchise. For what Andrea lacked in Judith Butler familiarity, she more than made up for in bodybuilding wisdom. She often pointed out hot girls at the gym in a bro-to-bro kind of way, and I鈥檇 say something like, 鈥淗aha, hope she has a nice sense of humor.鈥� She鈥檇 roll her eyes at me. I hide my feelings under a coat of sarcasm, and Andrea possessed an earnestness I envy.

Andrea spoke with certainty, a feigned wisdom beyond her years that so many folks do in their early twenties. It鈥檚 an age where we feel we鈥檝e experienced enough to know the way the world is, but not enough to feel overwhelmed by the diverse complications of adulthood. It turns out an injection of 22-year-old cockiness was exactly what I needed. Especially at the gym.

Within months, I realized Andrea looked up to me as a sort of big-sister figure. I was an old, boring 27-year-old, basically geriatric in her eyes, with the wisdom of an ancient sapphic tree. 鈥淥h God, so much has happened since I saw you last,鈥� she鈥檇 say at the beginning of each session, before absentmindedly instructing me to do some deadlifts. Her chatter ranged from the high stakes (sharing updates about her family in Puerto Rico post-hurricane) to the low stakes (what to get her girlfriend鈥檚 dad for Christmas鈥攏ot a fishing shirt that read 鈥淢aster Baiter,鈥� at my begging) to the adorable (stories about her four dogs, cat, and ferret). It was a welcome distraction from the mess that is me trying to do push-ups. In exchange for my ear, Andrea showed me it鈥檚 possible to have muscles in your back.

One session in December, Andrea led with a loaded question: 鈥淲hen do you know when someone鈥檚 not really your friend?鈥� I was so charmed! From someone with such confidence and swagger, this was such a childish, intimate question. It has such obvious answers for kids鈥�bullies aren鈥檛 your friends, your friends are the people who always have your back鈥攖hat get obscured over time by the complications of adulthood. She gave me more context: Andrea had become close friends with a client, to the point of training her at no charge. Now Andrea suspected the client was only using her for free training sessions and weed. (Andrea lives a lifestyle that only 22-year-olds can pull off while maintaining 1 percent body fat.)

I told her to cut the client off, with a firm explanation that she needed to be paid for her service. We volleyed back and forth. Andrea didn鈥檛 want to lose the client as a friend. From someone who鈥檇 literally been married鈥攁 level of commitment still overwhelming for me to consider as I approach 30鈥攊t was surprising to hear Andrea wrestle with the definition of genuine friendship. I, in very motherly form, told Andrea, 鈥淪he鈥檚 not your real friend if she treats you like this.鈥� Condescending? Maybe. But something even grown-ass adults need to be reminded of from time to time.

Gyms are a strange bastion of intimidation. Jacked dudes grunting with every rep, stick-thin blondes waltzing into yoga class, leering eyes everywhere. It鈥檚 easy to feel bad about your body in that setting. Growing up playing sports, I was really only used to working out with other girls, typically at the same level of fitness as I was. That security blanket doesn鈥檛 exist at the grown-up gym. Being tethered to someone who presented as gay as Andrea did made me feel more confident at the gym, like a safety-in-numbers thing. Queer folks routinely have to carve our their own space in heteronormative communities for this reason, at work or school or even within extended families. Turns out my hole-in-the-wall fitness center was no exception.

LGBTQ folks often talk about their 鈥渜ueer family.鈥� Being gay isn鈥檛 just about finding someone to date. It鈥檚 about building that family, the friendships that instill themselves into your bones and allow you to love yourself. Queerness makes way for connections much more far-reaching and meaningful than simply the romantic or sexual.

I鈥檇 be romanticizing if I claimed Andrea and I made our way into each others鈥� queer families. But until the landlord sued the gym for $200,000 in overdue rent, my trainer and I did bolster each others鈥� lesbian identities. I paid her, and she showed me how to deadlift; I gave her romantic advice, and she made me feel confident having a queer body in a largely straight space; I told her how friendship works, and she put me in a giant rubber band so I could actually do a push-up. It felt a bit like therapy. You feel like you鈥檙e creating a meaningful relationship with a person over the course of an hour, sharing your deepest darkest secrets, and then the session鈥檚 up鈥攁nd you fork over the cash.

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About every other week, I have the same dream: I鈥檓 on a hazy, hillier version of my college campus, and I still have another semester of school to complete. With that semester comes another season of indoor and outdoor track. Spoiler alert: It goes very poorly.

Sometimes it鈥檚 September, other times January, but the dream always drips of first-day anticipation鈥攖hat intangible feeling of a fresh start, when you show up and learn whether your off-season training was enough. Teetering on the edge of opportunity, I鈥檓 excited for new semester. But I鈥檓 also anxious, knowing I鈥檓 getting my ass kicked today. I get to practice, and because I鈥檓 my real-life age of 28, I鈥檓 woefully out of middle-distance shape. I have to complete some workout involving fast 200s and 400s on an indoor track, and I can鈥檛 do it. I invariably think to myself, 鈥淚 could鈥檝e been training for this. What have I been doing since graduation鈥攕itting on my ass?鈥� Even in my dream spikes, I鈥檓 sluggish and pudgy and weak, like the air is molasses and my muscles have melted off my bones. 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 no one yelling at me, just an internal pressure鈥攖he knowledge that I will never be able to move my legs like I could six years ago. My teammates always smoke me. I wake up and start the day off-kilter. This has been happening for about the past three years. Jesus, did track really mess with my brain this much?

Running dreams, for runners and plebeians nonrunners alike, are totally common and take myriad forms with boundless interpretations. Most of us have had at least one during our sleeping lives. 罢丑别谤别鈥檚 the common slow-motion running reverie, where you鈥檙e trying to move forward but can鈥檛鈥攖his apparently indicates a lack of self-confidence. Then there鈥檚 running from something (you鈥檙e afraid to confront a real-life problem) and running toward (which represents a childlike fear, a need to be carried). If you鈥檙e running from a thief or a killer, in particular, this apparently means you鈥檙e going to solve your current problems, which doesn鈥檛 really track for me, but sure.

I don鈥檛 believe in the all-knowing power or even potent symbolism of dreams. Trust me, I鈥檓 not above the occult鈥擨鈥檒l try to decipher your sun, moon, and rising signs within ten minutes of meeting you. But dreams, to me, are simply our mind鈥檚 way of sorting through recent events, refiling the cabinets and schlepping the boxes of our brains from one end to the other. In our sleep, we get a glimpse of our brain鈥檚 rather chaotic rearranging routine. But the sheer consistency of these track dreams, both in content and timing, sticks with me.

It鈥檚 very common to have anxiety in the nights leading up to a big race. An eagerness to PR, just like the anticipation of an important test or interview, morphs into taking a final for a class you never attended with your jaw wired shut. But this isn鈥檛 the kind of stress dream I鈥檓 talking about. The extent of my current racing schedule is an annual fundraiser 5K, which entails jogging three miles and then striding/bounding Super Mario鈥搒tyle for the last 160 meters. All things considered, the dreams are pretty realistic鈥攊f I had to, for whatever reason, compete in a season of collegiate track, I鈥檇 be absolutely destroyed. The mere thought of being asking to complete 3×200-400-200 at goal 800 pace makes me want to dry-heave, then wet-heave until I dry-heave again. Assuming that鈥檚 enough heaving to get out of doing the workout. I haven鈥檛 raced on a track since I graduated college; these days, I just run to stay in shape. (Oh god, am I a jogger?)

Which is to say, considering its minimal role in my current life, these dreams aren鈥檛 actually about track. Competitive track and field is not, at this point in my life, what gives me anxiety. Rather, track represents my recurring sense of dread. Perhaps these dreams are, in part, flickers of nostalgia lapping at the back of my brain鈥擨 miss competition, and my teammates, and prancing around the dining hall in spandex shorts post-workout, a habit I鈥檝e lamentably aged out of. But mostly, they鈥檙e a place for my latent anxieties about work, love, and the future to run endless laps around my brain.

Competitive running and anxiety have always gone hand-in-hand for me. About ten minutes before every cross-country race in high school, I鈥檇 throw up. The seven varsity girls would be on the line, doing strides, and I鈥檇 feel a lurch鈥擨鈥檇 stride over to a garbage can, barf, and stride back to the line. I鈥檇 feel more centered, like I had just physically shed my pre-race jitters. It was objectively gross and probably deeply unhealthy, so just be happy you didn鈥檛 know 17-year-old me. My point is that pre-race dread takes on all kinds of forms for each runner and often becomes its own little ritual. I kicked the puke habit in college, when I decided distance running was boring (and too hard) and pivoted my energy to middle-distance track, which I was better at anyway. But that pre-race anxiety never let up, regardless of distance: the stomach-churning buzz from heart to fingertips, when you know you鈥檙e about to be in a lot of pain and find out whether your best is enough.

Around age 20, I started feeling that pre-race unease during times other than pre-race. In the off-season, or in the middle of the night, or on a gorgeous fall afternoon, for no discernable reason. I started discovering the ways in which anxiety was debilitating to my life in late college and the years following graduation. I鈥檝e since gotten it under control with medication and therapy. But I鈥檓 an Irish Catholic Scorpio, so I don鈥檛 exactly wear my insecurities on my sleeve. Instead, twice a month, I wear them in the form of Nike spikes on an indoor track in my sleeping mind, and also I鈥檓 maybe running on Jell-O or I鈥檓 underwater or something.

Part of why I fell in love with track as a teenager is the sport鈥檚 reliance on numbers. Success is black and white. Did you hit your goal time, mark, distance, or not? There aren鈥檛 judges or refs making bullshit calls; there鈥檚 only a sliver of room for subjectivity in the sport. And while cross-country running has hills and mud and a giant log right before mile three that you have to hurdle, track is just a track (shush, steeplechasers) and a click. I used to think that was such a beautiful metaphor for life鈥攜ou get out what you put in. Now I realize that such crystal-clear metrics are a rarity.

Six years out of competition, my subconscious is using the simplicity of track against me. 鈥淩emember this?鈥� it roars, in the form of the fuzzy, nostalgic wash of Massachusetts winters. 鈥淩emember when success was clear-cut, and you鈥檇 figure out whether you鈥檇 succeeded that week in less than two and a half minutes?鈥� Little did I know, half my life ago, when I started running competitively, that this sport would rattle my psyche well into adulthood.

Now I鈥檓 approaching 30, and measurements of real-life success couldn鈥檛 resemble a track PR any less. What is success, even? Having a job that satisfies me, one that pays well, or one that does both? Is it having a stable relationship, or a solid friend group, or Twitter likes? Is it a 401(k), or a Roth IRA, or, at the very least, being able to articulate the difference between those two things? Is quantifiable success achievable when I sort of have all of the above things, or just half of them at 100 percent? The answer, of course: No such recipe exists. But that realization hasn鈥檛 quite clicked yet with my dream-state self.

I guess somewhere, deep down, I probably miss the candor of working my entire body to its limits, when it felt like every organ in my body was about to fall out of my butt. You know, when things were easy.

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