A phone conversation last Thursday morning:
Mom….you wanna do a triathlon with me?
Texan, will you please get my bike out of the attic?
Seems my girl Sprout will go to ANY lengths to leave her toddler and infant home with the hubby on a gorgeous Saturday morning. She’s just barely birthed a baby and now she wants to do a triathlon. If she can do it, why can’t I?
I’ll tell you why. I’m no longer 30 years old. Oh, I exercise….swimming (slowly) almost every day, spin classes several times a week and a little weight lifting. I enjoy being active. But lately, it’s been tough because of my unwanted house guest.
Arthur painfully takes residence in my hands, elbows, hips and feet. Stiffness, throbs, creaks and rust inhabit my body. A daily martini of OTC pain relievers with a double olive of joint lubricants keep me moving. Damned Arthur.
My girl Sprout is strong, sturdy and athletically-built. I’m a waif and don’t possess a single fiber of fast-twitch muscle. Meet the original tortoise.
Getting up at 5 am on Saturday is fun. We met up in the dark parking lot and unloaded our bikes and other gear.
Noticed a sad friend on the pavement.
We organized our transition area with our gear and headed for the pool.
The swim was in the pool….easy-peasy. Yes, I entered the pool from the big, red slide. The water level lowered noticeably after splash-down, as I swallowed most of it. Right before I made my way down the party slide, the Sprout cheerfully chirped,
Hey Mom, you’re the oldest person here!
Being calm and deliberate facilitates efficient swimming. It took a full lap to get my hyperventilating-self under control. Almost quit, but pulled myself up the finish ladder alive.
Made it to the transition area to get ready to bike. Nerd alert….put my visor on under my helmet. Wasn’t thinking straight. Wore my arm brace. If I fell, I was not going to re-break my left arm. Sped off like the wicked witch of the west.
Enter transition area (very carefully), dismount bike, take off helmet and get ready to run! Whoop!
However, something very sinister happened while I was on the bike. Someone replaced each leg with a hot strand of spaghetti. Giant cinder-blocks where my typically nimble feet had been. The next 3.1 miles were a clunking hot mess.
Started out walking/limping as fast as I could. Then the self-talk kicked in.
Hey Kathy. Look at that tree up there. You can smoothly jog to that tree, can’t you? Anyone could jog to THAT tree! Do it!
That’s how I drug my hot pasta legs and cement feet around the run course. There was no one behind me.
The Sprout did great. She’s totally amazing. A champ.
Have I mentioned the difficult bathroom choices one must make when trying to be super-fast during a triathlon?
It was great fun and a happy way to spend a Saturday with friends. I kicked Arthur in the face! There may be lots of BINGO in my future, but not this day. Take that, Arthur!
Did I mention I was last? Should that matter? I was the only female in my age division. Isn’t it all about the journey, not the destination? The nobleness of the effort?
In the end, only one person’s opinion matters.
No, I’m not talking about God. But, Dog,
Not for a triathlete, Doxy.
Creaky-yet-wonderful love to all.