The Calf Stalker

            I am not sure what kind of appetite you have right now, but if it’s huge, turn this off and read it another time.  I don’t want to be the cause of its demise.

            I stalk people’s calves.

            It’s a horrid, horrid habit.  I wish I didn’t have it.  But luckily, I only have it during triathlons.  And even more luckily, I only do triathlons 3 times a decade. 

            This latest one was tremendous.  I am going to have to say *SPOILER ALERT*I finished it, and I didn’t break.  But actually, finishing a triathlon where only the last quarter of a mile of the three was in the sun was a great feeling.  Breezy, shading trees by the lake for the first 15/16ths of the run portion!?  Yes please. 

Add in a guy running in crutches with only one leg, and you could even call that last bit inspirational.

            I truly felt a breath of fresh life.

            A race can do that.  I don’t care if you’ve never done one or are afraid of not placing well.  I think everyone deserves a spot out of their comfort zone to zizz up their lives a little.  You truly deserve to do a race.

            There are benefits.  On this race, I made a lot of friends.  It’s true, mostly all we said was, “Passing on the left,” and, “Good job, keep it up,” but in that respect, the friendships I made were simple and uncomplicated.  There’s no threat of any one of them being offended by my stance on guns or babies, for example.  Ahhh, breath of fresh air. 

Breathe, America.  Simplicity is running forward.  Biking forward.  Swimming forward.

            So yes, back to the calves, and me, their stalker.  Everyone has a Sharpie date at the start of a triathlon.  Someone with a Sharpie writes your race number on your shoulder and your lower leg, and your age on the other leg.  I have several theories as to why this is, but only one of them is suitable for printing: it’s to make me go faster.  Not because these numbers are on ME , but because everyone else is advertising now what AGE group they fall under. 

            And I stalk their calves to see if I should pass them or not.  Straining forward in the bike seat, or leaning forward on the run, I must see: are they worth sprinting past?

            Now in some cases, the answer is no.  I mean someone could be in my age group and CLEARLY have me outclassed in either bike status (cost in the thousands? Forget it, you go ‘head!) or body fat. 

            Contrary to how crass this sounds, I am NOT REALLY judging people during a race.  Because I KNOW for a fact that less body fat means that person’s body is more efficient, and so, they most likely will “smoke” me.  Regardless, I am encouraged again… to eat more carrots instead of muffins (MUFFINS! STEALTH ONES!) so that I can BECOME… faster and stronger.

I suppose this would be a good time to mention The Vegetarian Viking.  I am telling you.  There is always one Intimidator in the race.  By this one, I was so scared: had the height, not the bulk, just MADE OF SHEER MUSCLE.  I felt like I should fashion one of those aforementioned carrots into a hammer, like Thor’s, and carry it as defense along the ride.  Bad choice – no carrots around – but I was still scared.  I resolved two things: 1) Avoid the Viking.  2) Become the Viking. 

            To satisfy your belief that I CAN be superficial, though, I will toss you one thought.  I did get really upset when I saw someone passing me in the outfit I had wanted to purchase.  The material is silky smooth, thick enough to be flattering, and some combination of blue and purple.  This is how it went, in my head.

            “Hey, she’s passing me.  HEY!  SHE HAS ON MY OUTFIT!!!!!!!!!!  GRRR, MUST PASS.”

For these and other reasons, my competitive edge, lately happily softened out by beautiful cozy cuddling children, was sparked anew.  I can thank people’s calves for that.  The stalking never stopped, the whole hour and 15 minutes.  I was constantly evaluating what place I’d be in.  I even printed out this year’s age group results, for what I call Frameable Motivation.  I’m taking a poll: should it go on the fridge or bathroom mirror?

I am certain no one was afraid of me this year.  I came out of that lake a hot mess.  I wiped my face and my hands turned brown.  I fancied calling myself the LakeMess Monster while I biked those 9 miles through town.  I am pretty sure the guys with the six-pack trying to cross the road that Saturday morning (WHAT?!  – it’s NOT beer thirty!) weren’t smiling but laughing at me as I yelled, “Good morning!” but who cares.  At least my teeth looked whiter: swimming in a lake saves you $269 of Zoom treatments!  Who knew!

Looking back, at least the water was nice and warm… in 80 degree air.  And at least on the top two inches the water was clear… yellow.   And I couldn’t see much below me but I did hope I would have the energy to wave at the rescue boat if I should succumb to my panic…. From leaches?  Snakes?  WHAT is scraping me (another swimmer trying to get by, phew!)?!  Ewww, what did I just SCRAPE (someone’s unshaven legs, oh thank heaven I shaved this morning)!?!?

            Yeah, the swim sucked.  The bike was okay – far fewer people passed me than on my last triathlon (primarily because I had the right kind of bike this time AND I trained on it more).  The run was glorious because it was the end.  Many mentioned that it felt like time had slowed down on those last three miles, but my goal was to finish, and I did, and so I can’t complain.

            Not even about the Vikings and leaches and snakes, oh my! 

                                             Flexing my calves for YOUR benefit,
                                                                                #139, Age 36