The sand at Lake Sammamish is a gift that keeps on giving
Growing old is a never-ending sequence of humiliating realizations.
I remember the first time someone called me “sir.” I’ve been too old to die young for decades. My oldest son will be able to race masters before I age out of my current race category. My ice axe and mountaineering boots are both more than thirty years old.
Yes, I am old, however, in my head I am still a bike racer. And in all my pathetic vanity I want everyone else to think of me as a bike racer also.
I’ve watched the Cyclocross season start with incredible personal ambivalence. I am excited for my racing brothers and sisters but I’ve been very happy to remain on the clean side of the course tape.
Last weekend Julie asked me if I still raced. I wouldn’t say I was offended but I would have felt better if she had assumed I was still racing. I did provide a predictably clever answer that implied I would race when the circumstances aligned.
It looks like they are aligning for this weekend.
Mud and rain are forecasted and I’m pleasantly excited. I’ll mount a pair of aggressive tires on the bike, dress in the costume and pin on a number so I can suffer like the desperate dog that I am. I will finish hypoxic, filthy and exhausted. I can’t wait.
At work I walked by someone’s desk and they offered me a donut from a big pink rectangular box of sin. I smiled and told them, “No thanks, I’m racing this weekend.”