Try, Tri, Again

The latest in my series of “What does not kill me (or get me mugged) makes me stronger” adventures was the Sigourney Tri in July. This sprint triathalon included a 330 yard swim, 5.4 mile bike ride and 2.02 mile run. I'm always on the look out for something new and different, and I figured, Hey, why not? What could possibly go wrong?

This kind of thinking only occasionally leads me to disaster.

I enjoy these kinds of physical challenges because they give me plenty of time alone with my thoughts. I usually I don't pay much attention to myself, but there's something about running (or biking or swimming) that forces me to actually think about what I'm thinking. I gotta say, there may be a good reason why I tune myself out most of the time.

My race number, or how old I felt after the race.

The first “Oh, so this is what could go wrong” moment hit as we were lined up according to our estimated swim times. I used to be a lifeguard and I used to be on my college's swim team (small college, smaller team, bathtub-sized pool), so I estimated that I was a slightly faster than average swimmer. (Besides, being completely honest about my 5K pace time always puts me behind the walkers. It was my turn to be optimistic.)

Please note I used the past tense when referring to my swim experience. I am convinced that most former athletes (or former anythings) tend to underestimate the importance of the term “former” when given an opportunity to brush off those skills.

Regardless, I found myself lined up on the pool deck between a current lifeguard and her high school-age friend. My confidence was already beginning to ebb when these girls started questioning their ability to finish the swim.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong,” I thought. I could drown or I could get lapped by the 20 people following me. My internal monologue for the swim was pretty simple: “Stroke, breath, don't drown.” Words to live by. All three of us survived, and none of us were lapped.

The transition from swim to bike went pretty smoothly, although I may have wasted valuable time double checking to make sure I wasn't removing my sports bra along with my swim top.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.” The sight of my codfish-white belly probably traumatized enough people.

The 5-mile bike ride gave me plenty of time to think. I realized that while I like riding (moderately) fast, I don't like turning corners (even moderately) fast. After watching the riders ahead of me lean (dangerously far) into the corners, I tried to console myself with the old “it's not a sprint it's a marathon” platitude.

Then I remembered it was a sprint triathalon.

Eventually I reached a zen-like peace with being passed by young men with tree trunk-sized calves, curled over the handlebars of their high-tech racing bikes. My competitive spirit kicked and I picked up the pace as we neared the turnaround point. I even managed to pass someone myself. (So what if he was only 12 years old, and wobbled all over the place.)

I started to enjoy the thrill of riding fast, and the rush of the wind in my face. I felt free! I felt like I was flying! I felt like I was hardly pedaling at all!

Because I was hardly pedaling at all. I was going down hill. And what goes down hill must eventually go back up....

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

By the time I made it back to the park to leave my bike and start the run, my butt cramps had butt cramps. I wondered if I would be able to unclench long enough to get off my bike, or if I would have to run with the seat stuck between my cheeks.

“Oh, so this is what could go wrong.”

The second transition was even smoother than the first, and I was able to dismount without disrobing.

So, this went wrong.

I had hoped the run would be my strongest part (relatively speaking) of the event. And it might have been. If it wasn't for the swimming. Or the biking. Or the swimming and biking. As it was, I ended up doing a “Lego” run, going block by block. By block.

But I did keep going, and I did finish (24 seconds slower than I really hoped to finish). And it didn't kill me. And I did have fun.

And I am going to do it again next year.

Because anything worth doing just for fun, is worth doing 24-seconds faster.

Carpe Di-Cave

Early summer descended on Eastern Iowa packing all the heat and humidity usually reserved for much later in the season. In this weather, the corn shoots skyward, and the weak are culled from the herd until only the hardiest Iowa natives are left to complain about the weather.

The Princess and Little Prince had retreated to the cool solitude of their bedrooms, perfectly content to relax and stare at their smart phones in air-conditioned comfort. (“We needs the charger. Must recharge the precious.”) But underneath it all, I could tell they were longing for some quality, enforced family fun time.

It was time for a Mom-tervention.

It was time to pry them out of their man-made, air-conditioned, soft and cushy caves

and take them to some nature-made, naturally cooled, drippy and muddy real caves at Maquoketa Caves State Park. The King declined the opportunity, citing work deadlines (and lack of air-conditioning).

I had been to the caves as a kid – we made frequent trips to the area to visit relatives – but The Princess and The Little Prince had not. This trip was a chance for me to share old memories (which they loved – not) and create new memories (which I loved – totally).

Part of the reward for not selling off your children when they were pre-teens, is having them develop into people you actually enjoy spending time with. While The Princess and The Little Prince can, individually, be mutes, when they are thrown together in a car they become Laurel and Hardy. Their schtick began before we even left the house:

The King (from his air conditioned throne): Be sure to wear sunscreen.

Princess: Did Sacagawea wear sunscreen? Did Herbert Hoover?

Prince: And he became president!

Princess: And had a sport named after him! (http://www.hooverassociation.org/newsevents/hooverball/hooverball_history.php)

For more than an hour, I listed to their constant back and forth, covering everything from family trips (“Hey, remember that time you told The Little Prince it was time to go, and we searched the house for him for like, 30 minutes, because he thought you really meant it was time to go and he was waiting in the car? Good times.”) to my driving ability (“Are we lost yet? Are you sure we're not lost yet?”).

Gramma Anna at the caves, 1936

For the record, we weren't lost (yet), although I never did find the little wooded, copse my Grampa liked to point out as the spot where my Gramma Anna once hiked her skirts (literally) to answer nature's call. That historic location seemed to move each time we traveled those roads, but Grampa's delight in telling the story – and Gramma's adamant denial – never did. There's a slight chance hyperbole runs in my family.

Eventually we did make it to the park. I didn't remember it being quite so popular, but that day it was overrun with 20-something year-old hikers and rock climbers (“I think they're high on more than nature.”) and families with little children.

At times I watched wistfully as the parents held their child's grubby little hands, or boosted them up onto some of the small rock formations, arms outstretched to assist if needed, but giving them the chance to explore their independence.

Meanwhile I panted, trying to keep up with my little angels, letting them lead the way over rocky trails and trees, and cringing as they insisted on climbing to the highest points they possibly could. Every so often The Little Prince would scout out a trail, only to 

tell his sister it looked “a little sketchy.” They would silently lock eyes for a moment, then The Princess would smile and shout “Parkour!” and off they would scramble over mossy boulders, muddy logs, and loose rocks. This is why we say that when The Princess becomes the voice of reason, you know you're in trouble.

Still, there were times when the littlest hikers out parkoured us. While The Royal Procession picked our way cautiously across the creek (again), tottering on the slippery rocks, one intrepid 8-year-old sloshed right past us through the ankle-deep water. (In our defense, it was muddy, it looked much deeper, and it was cold.)

Fat Man's Lament

In between the daredevil feats of climbing, tentative spelunking, and creek fording failures, The Princess and Little Prince turned their comedy routine to a variety of topics:

The beauty of the park – “You know you're from Iowa when you learn to pronounce methamphetamine, but not aesthetic.”

The natural features of the park – “Fat Man's Lament? I thought they said Bat Man's Lament!”

Philosophy – “We have to cross the river again?” Me: “It's a creek.” “It has potential!”

In the end, the joke was on me:

“Why didn't you tell us to wear old shoes?” “Why didn't we bring flashlights?”

Me: “Because I didn't think I'd be able to get you out of the car.” Honest.

(Sharing an incredulous look.) “Why not? This is the best place ever!”

Parkour!

The New Normal

It's not the same.

The world did not stop when Mom died and sometimes that just seems so unfair.

Instead life kept rushing forward and I tried to keep up, tried to pretend nothing had changed. But of course it has.

Something – someone – is missing.

There is a hole in my life – bigger, deeper than before.

This is the new normal.

But every day is a new normal.

Things change, in big ways and in small, all the time. We adapt. We change. We accept.

Eventually.

When Mom first started to fail I would get so angry.

“Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” I would think, all full of Dylan Thomas and daughterly angst. “Do not go gentle into that good night.”

My rage was big, and loud, and physical, and angry.

And exhausting.

And useless.

Now I realize she did rage.

But her rage was small, and quiet, and peaceful, and accepting.

And a blessing.

Her rage wasn't a fight to avoid change like I wanted, but a fight to accept change. To face the end with dignity and grace.

She raged against the dying of the light by accepting the limits of physical change, but not letting it change who she was inside.

She made the most of what she still had. And she could still make people happy.

She could care. Smile. Laugh.

At her burial, as the minister said those last few words, as we said our last good byes, we accepted the physical change in our universe – her passing would leave a big, black, sucking emptiness where her body used to be. (Was her ever-shrinking body supposed to make that empty spot smaller? It didn't.)

But the emotional change, the emptiness in my heart, how could I accept that?

An ice cream truck approached from down the hill, the familiar notes of “Turkey in the Straw” ringing cheerfully across the quiet cemetery.

The air under the funeral home's tent, stifling with heat and sorrow just a moment before, changed, vibrated with barely suppressed giggles at the absurd juxtaposition.

“Dorothy would be the first one at that truck, buying us all ice cream,” said my friend-family-sister Sue.

We laughed aloud in recognition and relief.

And acceptance.

Because that is exactly what she would have done.

Exactly what she would want us to do.

Make the most of what we still had: each other.

Make people happy. Care about them. Ask about them. Listen to them.

Smile.

Laugh.

Buy them ice cream.

Accept the new normal.

Terminus Elegaic

Terminal.

What an awful word.

Termination, terminate, terminus.

So cold and detached.

“Concluding.” “To form the end of.” “To put an end to.” “To stop.”

Stop.

Stop, stop, stop, STOP!

STOP!

I'm not sure how, but I had managed to delude myself into believing that “inoperable” meant just that and ONLY that: "not able to be suitably operated on."

And then they use the “T” word.

As if the “C” word wasn't scary enough.

But scary is one thing. Scary is an emotion. An overpowering emotion. A tidal wave of fear that pulls you under, holds you immobile until self-preservation takes over – fight or flight – you rocket to  the surface, lungs burning, and explode into action.

Tears, laughter, memories, vows, plans.

Action.

But terminal.

Terminal is a big, black, empty space.

It is the absence of feeling.

Nothingness.

Terminal.

And yet....

“To put an end to,” “to form the end of...”.

“Close to causing death...”.

“Forming the end or extremity...”.

“An end...”. Not the end.

“Either end of a transportation line or a main station on it...”.

“A connective point (on an electrical circuit)...”.

All life is terminable.

But if this is an end to one station, a connective point....

Then there must be something else.

We are not losing her. She is going on ahead of us.

This is an end. Not the end.

Not nothingness.

Not emptiness.

There is still time for bravery, courage, fighting, hoping. Living. Loving. Epiphanies.

Actions.

Action.