Scott Larson Hello. My name is Scott Larson, and I lost my beautiful young wife to triathlons.
Figuratively, of course. Her heart still beats strong. I know this because she frequently checks her pulse, writes the results in a little book, and charts them. Which is but one of my many concerns. She cleans her bike with a toothbrush. We own a dozen water bottles, none of which I am allowed to drink from. She worked out for over six hours today.
Our cupboards are filled with the latest supplements, energy shakes, and carbo-pastes. The only way I’m ever getting a taste of home cooked pot roast, is if it becomes a Gatorade flavor. Summer weekends are spent traveling to remote corners of Iowa, Minnesota, and Wisconsin to race like-minded fanatics. And don’t even get me started on that &^*#$^ bike rack.
I should have seen it coming. She was a team captain and all-conference track star in high school. She ran two years of cross country in the Big Ten. She always bought running shoes two and three pairs at a time. Any prospective new hairstyle had to pass the crucial ponytail test – only those that ultimately passed proved not to distract nor prove cumbersome to her athletic endeavors. Her mom still jogs steadily and her dad runs marathons at age 45. Yep: I definitely should have seen it coming.
But I digress. Please allow me to take you through a typical race day; this particular competition occurred on September 18th, 2005. We roll out of bed at five a.m. to a breakfast of fruit (in packaged bar form of course) and drive north to Devil’s Lake, across Wisconsin’s Dane County countryside. The cows are still sleeping (as we should be). Soon a parade of automobiles trails us, protruding handlebars and bike tires silhouetted against the rising rural sun.
We arrive on the race grounds at 7:15 a.m. Since we had been in such a rush to get there, I assume the race began at 7:30. I remark to my wife that she was handling the tight time frame unusually well. She replies that it is only because her heat did not start till 8:30. I scan the parking lot for guys that look like divorce lawyers. Unfortunately, all I see are a few dozen dudes that look like gym teachers.
As the anger fades, I tend to my spousal race day duties. I carry the gear to the transition area, which is coed this year. I find myself amid a sea of spandex, which I find deeply disturbing. Triathletes come in all shapes and sizes, but in Wisconsin predominantly one: extra large. Fortunately for my sake, swim caps, goggles, sweat suits, and nerdy computer watches quickly unite the masses in an androgynous sea of genderless stretchers.
I retreat to the viewing area. There is a table with juice and snacks. Officials scan the crowd for mischief. Giant speakers blast classics ‘Groove is in the Heart’ and ‘Pump Up the Jam.’ No one makes eye contact or talks. It is all strikingly like one of my sixth grade dances. And, much like then, I am lonely and awkward, waiting for the girl of my dreams to give me some attention. . . . As the race starts, I know my wife is off to a better place. For the next 1:27:40 she is in her own little heaven. What is that old adage for the suddenly graceful? Like a fish in water? That’s my wife. And a fish on a bike. And a fish in a foot race.
She ends the morning just happy enough with her time to assure that we will stay for the awards ceremony. I look down at my watch. Yikes. And still surrounded by men in spandex. I remind myself not to look below shoulder level until I’m a few counties away.
Later I find some other triathlon widowers to talk NFL football with as our wives run their cool down laps and spit. As we all wait for the race results, my wife and I share a turkey sandwich and a spoonful of noodles provided free for racers. Such generosity towards those of us who paid the $60 entry fee!
We leave the park at noon, each of us hot and salty. Me from the sun and the near empty pretzel bag I have been rationing all morning. My wife… well she is literally covered in a salty paste from a morning full or physical exertion. But she has a huge smile on her face, one that I won’t see again that day… until her afternoon bike workout…
So why is this a good thing? Why do I let the triathlons continue, even defending them to concerned family and friends? I’ll tell you why. Because that eight ounce plaque my “participant” just won is worth its wait in gold. It’s a genuine get out of jail free card for all of my absurd sports habits.
Though I put up with a lot, the result is that I can escape to the gym for two hours of pickup basketball a day. I can deposit a weeks worth of my own soaked workout clothes in the closet hamper and find them laundered and folded by Monday. I can finally buy the fancy air filled sneakers my parents never allowed. And my wife even shows the same token interest in my sports that I flash towards hers (with questions such as “Do the Bucks still have the guy who looks like an “alien” and “What do you mean the Bears quarterback got hurt again?”).
One of the best things about sports is how limitless its boundaries are for those who enable each other. I mean, my apartment might be covered in more sports bras than a moose foraging through a sorority house, but it’s a small price to pay. Can you read a Sports Illustrated on an anniversary getaway? Could you leave a movie date early for the second half of a TNT NBA doubleheader? I can. Thanks to a great wife, and the great equalizer: obsessive sports hobbies.
Scott can be reached at scott.larson@atomicsportsmedia.com. © Copyright by Atomic Sports Media, Inc. |