Turning on yourself

How deeply am I patterned?

Not long ago I was out on my bike, exploring the woods of Shotover, just outside Oxford. Tucked away in a corner of the forest, I came across an elaborate set of lovingly crafted runs, trails and jumps. It was as if someone had sculpted the earth like putty, carving out giant scoops to make a ramps, drops and banked descents, that curved like giant serpents through the trees.

I was like a kid in the proverbial sweet shop. Moreover, it being midweek, I had it all to myself, so I didn’t have to worry about embarrassing myself in front of people who actually have some skill. I spent an hour or so zipping around, linking one loop to another, finding my favourite runs and generally having a lovely time. And, unusually for me, I noticed I was getting tired before I had an accident, and managed to quit whilst ahead.¹

On the way home, with the feeling of moving through the sculpted land still in my body, I noticed something about the sensations of the previous hour - namely that turning left and turning right felt quite different. Turning left felt solid and clean, as if I were on rails, whilst turning right was sketchy, fragile and thin.

This asymmetry felt familiar and I realised that it is much the same when I skateboard or ski. This makes some sense - all three are dynamic downhill activities where you use your body (and some lovely kit) to harness the speed that gravity gives you and enjoy pulling a few G’s. The fact that I am stronger on one side, less flexible or well co-ordinated on the other, creates a pattern that shows up in different (but related) physical contexts.

But if this is true physically, I wonder how many other patterns there are in me that aren’t just physical? Patterns which cross from one context into another but about which I don’t even notice unless I pay close attention? Do I habitually warm to certain kinds of people, movement or speech and cool towards others? Do I only listen for certain kinds of detail, or interpret someone’s gestures or tone of voice in one way or another, simply because of some long forgotten episode or genetic predisposition? What role do these patterns play in the creation of my own experience? And what might I do about them?

I notice that my immediate response is to think I should work on them. To focus on, pay special attention to, or practise the equivalent of ‘turning left’ (something I used to do when I skied regularly). To get ‘better’ - whatever that might mean at the thing that does not come so naturally. And yet I wonder? If these patterns show up faithfully over the course of more than half a century, crossing seamlessly and invisibly from one activity to another (like turning on a bike or a skateboard) how realistic is it to think that I could ever change them?

Maybe I should just accept them and get to know them? Maybe all I am is the sum of all those patterns? Perhaps the rails I ride when turning right and the vulnerability of turning left are both just part of who I am?

1. In the interests of full disclosure, I did have one fall on the way home, but this was because at one point the front wheel sank axle deep in mud and stopped dead, leaving me to cut a slow, gentle arc over the handlebars. But I was only going walking pace so that doesn’t really count...