When I'm Sixty-Four

Steamboat Lake, Colorado. 8000 feet in elevation.

While staging for the swim leg at the Steamboat Lake Tri, I chatted with a 67-year-old woman named Kay. I know she was 67 because, like the rest of us, her age was inked in large numerals on the back of her calf. Unlike the majority of the competitors, however, she wasn't wearing a wetsuit. She told me that she'd begun mountain climbing in her forties and is now "addicted to 14s," and she began competing in triathlons at age 50. "I never want to grow up," she informed me.

I forgot to take my camera to the Steamboat Tri, so
here's a picture of my arm. Enjoy.

Kay and I had plenty of time to talk, since once again, my age division was the last wave, grouped this time with women over 50 (there were 5) and Athenas (women 150 pounds and heavier who don't want to compete in their age-mates). Being in the last wave has only one real advantage--you're not constantly being passed by hot-shot twenty-somethings on their 5-pound carbon-fiber bikes with fully-integrated MagicShift or whatever it is the whippersnappers are pedaling these days. Other that than, it sucks to begin last. If you are passed, you know you've lost a division place, or you've been passed by someone older or chunkier. And when you get to the end, all of the good food has been picked over and the speedier racers are packed up and leaving, without even apologizing for taking the last of the Clif Bar samples.

Ray Roberts State Park outside Denton, TX.
Scene of the sunrise swim.

At the Austin Couples' Tri, the last division--individual women--had only 20 racers. I'm a strong swimmer, but even so, it was lonely in the water and when the last ten of us reached shore, one lone volunteer remained to cheer us on. "Stand there and try to act excited," the race director probably told her.  At the Disco Tri in Denton, TX, the swim course was short and the final wave of women much larger, so I rarely felt adrift--quite the opposite. Surrounded on both sides, front and behind me, I was very nearly buoyed to shore. Also, my Lady Land was broached a few times by stray hands.

I prepare for competition.

Race preparation bores me, as do competitors who make a big show of their pre-competition  meal, their gels and lubes, the elaborate lay-out of their transition area, and their (often) overly serious, self-important demeanor. OK, maybe some of these folks are elite athletes competing for USAT rankings, but the guy warming up on his bike trainer prior to a nine-mile ride looked like an idiot. I have two race rituals, both borne out of superstition: 1) I won't wear or use any race swag until I've completed an event and 2) this summer, I wear the same shorts for every race because they are luckier than a unicorn licking a leprechaun. They are also about 8 years old and nearly transparent and I am going to be fielding some complaints at one of these family-friendly events soon. It's a good thing I only have one race left on this trip.

Pre-race sleep is not a ritual, but a requirement, and it's eluded me twice: in Austin, pool-goers at the Days Inn partied from 3-6 a.m. just outside my room, and the night before the Steamboat Race, when I awoke three times from dreams about, respectively, 1) baby-sitting my parents' pet chimpanzee named Frida, who wet the bed; 2) being a teacher in front of a class and having no lesson plan (there's not a teacher alive who hasn't had that one); and 3) oversleeping  for the race, waking at 10 a.m., and trashing my hotel room like a rock star. I also didn't sleep well last night because the Mormons in Vernal were celebrating their Pioneer Day with fireworks for hours and my dog was terrorized. But there's no race today, so I'll be fine after a nap.

Happy Pioneer Day!

My last race is in Layton, Utah, next Saturday, so I have 5 days to occupy before the event. The drive is short, although if it's anything like yesterday's trip from Steamboat to Vernal, I'll be bored out of my skull, making up games (Name That Roadkill) and spending hours determining which is better, hot Red Bull or hot Coke Zero. I'll listen to David Sedaris, talk to Frida (the dog, not the chimpanzee), wish I'd made some new playlists, and continue to dissect the idiocy of the Law and Order: SVU episode I saw the other night (a man is stabbed by his wife after he falls in love at a swingers' club with a woman who turns out to be a grifter in an incestuous relationship with her con-artist partner, who is also her twin brother. Ha. I think not).  If I get around to it, I'll think about triathlons. Maybe I'll come up with a new racing strategy or a plan for the rest of the summer. Maybe I'll think about what I'm going to try next. Or when I'm 50.