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.”
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