Bodies, eh? We’ve all got one, haven’t we? It’s one of those things all people have in common — and which has all kinds of implications for how we interact with the world; indeed, implications for the universe and everything in it. But let’s not go too far down the road of phenomenological theory, which could not be less engaging for an opening paragraph.

Instead, let’s work off the basic idea that we are born with a body, and this body is the vehicle in which we we grow and move about the world, and which mediates our experience of that world via the limitations of its mere five senses. In short, we are our bodies, and therefore, unsurprisingly, our bodies are us.

As I say, there’s a complex interplay between the flesh-and-bone mechanism we inhabit and the consciousness within. Think of, say, marathon runners: scientists tell us that our bodies can store about enough fuel in the form of glycogen, to propel us at a run for about 30km. Once it’s depleted, though, the body starts sending urgent messages to the brain, saying, “stop now — you’re out of fuel.” These messages are received in the form of pain and a plummeting mood — a condition known as ‘the bonk’, or ‘hitting the wall’.

The problem here is, of course, that the marathon comprises 42.2km, so there’s still a way to go when you bonk. While it is possible and necessary to take on sports drinks and the like for a quick sugar top-up, that’s not enough to stop those signals. What’s needed is for the runner’s brain to override those signals and force the body to carry on, drawing on fat and even muscle tissue to fuel its progress.

This internal dialogue is not something we think about much in day-to-day life. Just like we don’t dwell lingeringly on the workings of household hot-water heaters until we step into the shower and experience a frigid torrent instead of the expected steamy spray, we don’t expend much energy on contemplating the minute workings of our bodies until something goes wrong.

I mean, we do maintain a certain ongoing low-level dialogue with that slightly achy knee or suspected cavity in an obscure molar; but it’s hardly at the forefront of our minds at all times, is it? But when we have a boo-boo, or are ill, the frailty of this complex mechanism is suddenly revealed to us — often with negative ramifications for our sense of the order of things. It tells us we are mortal; that without this body, we are nothing.

So here we are, perennially unsure about whether we are a complex bag of electrochemical reactions, or is there a ‘ghost in the machine’ — a consciousness or soul that is separate and somehow elevated, in charge of the body and directing its movements? Well, nobody knows, but this doesn’t stop philosophers and their like from endlessly debating the details.

But like I say, what can really swing the pendulum in favour of the electrochemical camp is when you suffer some kind of physical setback, like a dose of Covid, say, or a traumatic injury. There’s nothing like the sight of one’s own blood, for example, to remind the complacent inner being that we are sustained by a massive network of veins, arteries and capillaries ferrying oxygen and nutrients to our 30 to 40 trillion cells.

All these processes take place in obscurity, behind a veil, as it were, where light has never shone and mystery rules. That is, until recently, when medical imaging technology has become so advanced that illness or injury provide an opportunity to reveal what has ever been hidden — our very own insides.

Which (at long last) brings me to my point here today. Having fallen off my bike just before Christmas and fractured my ankle, I have been afforded an unparallelled opportunity to glimpse parts of me that have never seen the light of day.

First, you get the x-rays.

Already, I am somewhat fascinated and also more than a little repelled. Not only do these images confirm that I am unexceptional in that I have bones (which look a lot like everyone else’s bones), but am simultaneously unusual as the freakish proportions of my uniquely tiny feet are revealed. Yes, the science can only uncover what’s there, right? Well, sure, but having confirmation is kind of weird.

But the real revelation comes with the MRI scan. Unlike the x-rays, which provide a kind of ghostly two-dimensional impression, magnetic resonance sorcery gives an uncannily clear view in detailed relief. It’s not 3D but wow, it’s close.

You can see how the fibula cracked like a sapling down by the ankle bone there.

Another thing that reminds you that your body is something subject to the banal laws of nature is the ministrations of surgeons and nurses and the good people charged with fixing this rickety structure.
“It’s a common injury,” said the surgeon in an effort to reassure. Well, he might see quite a few, but it’s the first I’ve experienced.
“Let’s have you on the dunny” (or words to that effect), said the nurse one morning, reminding me firmly that the machinery continues to grind along when one peripheral part is temporarily out of whack. So there’s no point being all prim and proper about it.

And to top it all, the methods we use to get those minor setbacks mended are another reminder of our corporeal aspect. Your orthopaedic surgeon’s skillset includes some distinctly mechanical ones. Not to disparage, but they do have to get on the tools to create the conditions for healing. Just look at these screws, that plate, the metal button holding sutures across the back of the ankle — it’s like so much Meccano, isn’t it?

I could go on and on in this vein (no pun intended), pontificating on the crutches needed to support one’s skeletal scaffolding when a piece of it can’t be used, or the ludicrous boot of rubber, nylon and velcro that immobilises the broken bits until they glue themselves back together, but the point’s been made, I reckon.

The thing is, even when you’ve had a good gander inside yourself via the wonders of modern imaging tech, you’re still not much further forward in understanding the mysteries of the inner being. Those huge humming machines are close to useless when finding out why, say, you’re grumpy or euphoric, or have a tendency toward inappropriate laughter. Yes, I hear there’s a functional MRI (fMRI) machine that can see which bits of the brain light up when stuff happens in there, but . . . so what? It doesn’t tell you why, does it?

Finer minds than mine will no doubt spend billions of person-hours trying to work these things out, but I’ll hazard we may never know. Not that it won’t be interesting to try — but for amateurs like me, it may be enough to confirm that yes, there are bones and stuff in there. It’s reassuring to know that by most definitions you are human. It’s a good place to start, anyway.

(And yes, the bike is fine, thank you very much. That’s really what most people want to know.)