By W.G. Reid (B.M.O.C.)
And Everyday "I Consider Myself-Self-Self-Self The Luckiest Man-An-An-An On The Face Of The Earth-Rth-Rth-Rth."
"I'm small, but mighty." That's how my wife describes herself. She says it with aplomb but it is always within the context of a jest. Just a silly platitude revealing nothing more to the unsuspecting than that she has a sense of humor about her self. This is true. It is also true that she is physically small by most standards. My tiny kitten. Five foot nothing and 105 lbs. Cursed with an unassuming cuteness, winsome demeanor and always having to be in the front row for the class pictures. Being seen if not always heard. Happily resigned to 'official scorekeeper' so she could hang out with her more athletic friends. She married, devoted her life to her two daughters, had a long career as a dental hygienist, a number of over indulged cats - and then change.
Why? Who knows? I didn't know her then. I guess you're thirty-nine and then forty and your kids are off with the car. Your choices become yours to make again. And maybe the sudden luxury of that made her careless. After all, if you've done everything right for a lifetime, shouldn't there be an age where you get to be stupid about your life again. As Bernard Malamad said, 'The life we learn with and the life we live with after that.' Maybe . . . she felt it was time for someone else to keep score.
The change was not without pain and consequence. By the time I came along she was well into it her new life. It included running triathlons. She was definitely not a scorekeeper. She had already run three triathlons and numerous five and 10ks. It showed. She had the figure and vitality of someone half her age. Did I take it seriously? Not really. Everyone was running. It was the new tennis. The fountain of youth for the generation who "hoped they die before they get old." If that sounds too Gen X, you're right - I'm a little younger than my wife. It was her thing. Secretly, I chalked it up to vanity or desperation. You know, "The new thirty is forty." Yeah, right. Whatever.
Now zooooom. It's been eight years. My wife is 50. She has run 60 races. 12 Duathlons, 4 Triathlons, 8 Half Marathons, 8 Marathons and numerous 5 and 10 kms. I watched her train for six months through an IT injury to prepare for the Walt Disney World Marathon. She had to walk three-quarters of it - but she finished. She ran last year's Boston during a nor'easter that was so bad they almost cancelled the race. Sometimes, rarely, I'd break out of my REM sleep to catch her rising out of our bed at 5:30am in the dead of winter to do her morning run. "So this is what it felt like to live with Lou Gehrig. Poor, poor Eleanor Twitchell.", I'd say to her. (She didn't get it. Eleanor was Lou's faithful and devoted wife made famous by Teresa Wright's portrayal in 'The Pride of the Yankees.')
Was I supportive? Yes, mostly. Was I Eleanor Twitchell? Not always. Sometimes I'm sure I undermined her efforts a little by telling her what I thought: she was crazy, she could miss just one day, it's not safe to run at this hour, it's too cold or too hot, those shoes are only six months old?!, etc. I'd tease her about her latest new accessory. (Ack Traks !? Come on). I'd pout a little until I thought she felt the requisite amount of quilt for spending another Sunday with her running group. Hey, I'm a funny, sensitive, caring hunk - but I'm also human. And...well, I didn't always get it.
So I watched her rise every morning in the dark to run, accepted her daily exercise routine as a part of our life, waved goodbye as she headed off with her mates to another marathon, and stood by as she struggled back from sprained ankles and torn ligaments. The first time she qualified for Boston, it finally clicked for me. Think about it. The Boston Marathon is like the Super Bowl or the World Series. It is the premiere international race for professional marathoners. It is the only sport where technically anyone can compete. On the same day, on the same field as the best in the world. And my wife was running in it.
I could see it in her eyes. I can't explain it without torturing you with puffy adjectives and insufferable platitudes that will reveal more about the dangers of mediocre writing than anything I could add to what Ring Lardner and a thousand other sports writers have already said. All I know is, for all the love and intimacies I share with my wife, in that time I am on the outside looking in. I am Eleanor Twitchell on the sidelines. She is Lou Gehrig. It is her own space and time and reward. The heart and soul of my wife is given over to the heart and soul of an athlete. It is a beautiful thing and I am at once filled with pride and envy and joy for what she has worked so hard for.
And when she says "I'm small but mighty.", I will sometimes quietly and knowingly add to whomever's listening - "She is, you know"
*William Reid is not a real doctor and any information or counsel provided within the contents of this blog are strictly for entertainment purposes only. The term 'gay blade' is not what you think and you should immediately find a quality dictionary and look it up.
