#26.2 Stickers & Other Things To Let Go Of

Maybe that’s why people have stick children on their windows and put 26.2 stickers on their bumpers.  I too want to wave it around for everyone to see.  Look!  Look what I did.  I raced a marathon!  I created a monster that can’t control his two year-old self in the cereal aisle at Kroger.  I’m fit, awesome and my buns look hot in cycling shorts!

But that’s exactly what I’m doing.  I’m trying to hang my hat on something.  Problem is, hanging your hat implies being done and I’m far from that.

It’s still the desktop background on my computer, the picture from Cyclocross Magazine of me finishing 30^th place and on the lead lap at the 45-49 Masters Cyclocross World Championships.  It’s my lei from Iron Man in Kona. It’s my baby.  It’s my 26.2. 

I don’t want to come off the high.  I like being him.  Still riding the buzz of the pink bike, I’m having a hard time entering another race.  I want to stay the guy whose last race was Worlds.  They always say, “You’re only as good as your last race.” 

So, I want the stick figures on my back window to show a skinny husband and wife on bikes, two cats, our 6 other bikes, the outlines of all the countries and states where we’ve vacationed and the logo from the 2012 Cyclocross Masters World Championships in Louisville.  Look!  Look what I did!

But, that’d be idiotic.  The meaningful moments of my life couldn’t fit on ten rear windows and the schmo behind me pulling into a Walmart parking lot cares as much about Cyclocross Worlds as I care about why he's pushing a cart full of Sudafed.  We don’t exist to impress other people.

However, while it’s not impressive, a cart full of Sudafed does sort of identify you, and not as someone who has a really stuffy nose.  Same goes for the 26.2.  It says you’re a long distance runner and probably look good in shorts.  And, that “I Heart CX” sticker says the driver likes racing weird bikes in the mud. 

Rico!

If that’s so, that’s not saying much.  This is precisely why I don’t have a tattoo.  One day you put a 26.2 or etch rainbow stripes on your arm and the next thing you know, you’re forever locked in the past like the football tossing Uncle Dork in Napoleon Dynamite.

We’re more than that.  Lives can’t be defined by stickers and tattoos.  So, while your 26.2 sticker, his IM tattoo and my World Championship finishers medal are good keepsakes and reminders of who we are and what we can achieve, there’s no good reason to cling to that one shining moment in fear that you can’t have another.  Mementos should keep you looking forward not back.  

Go out on a high note?  Whatever.  That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.  Sign me up for another bike race.  Even if I finish DFL, maybe I will try trail running.  Even if it was a good showing at the World Championships, an ear piercer of a high note, I don’t want to go out on it.  I’m not done.  Life is a symphony, not a song. 

Addicted To The Massage Stick Torture

You want a terrorist to talk, give him a spirited rubdown with one of these massage sticks.  I bought one of these over the weekend at the expo for Cincinnati’s Flying Pig Marathon.  Gitmo officials listen up.  Trust me.  Put away the water boarding bucket and blindfold.  Get yourself a massage table (with hand and foot restraints if you feel so inclined) and one of these puppies.  Then go gather up the worst of the worst for a sensual massage.  No doubt you’ll have Osama’s home address and an invitation to a cave dinner party within twenty deep strokes of the right calf muscle.

“Ow.  Oww.  Oh!  Ha ha ha!  Owww!” was the exact quote of my wife Sunday night as she rolled out a wicked mooglie in her left calf.  I nearly blew the soda I was drinking out my nose as I laughed at her.  “Well stop,” I said.  She was writhing, half laughing and crying at the flood of lactic acid hurt she was putting on herself.  I didn’t think of it till now, but maybe I should’ve tried to pry a secret out of her.  “Did you throw away my ratty jeans in 1998?  You know the faded bell-bottom ones with a bandana for a knee patch?  They didn’t just disappear now did they?  Huh?!  Did you throw them away?”  I have suspected for a long time now, regardless of what she says with those big brown puppy dog eyes, I cannot just lose a pair of pants.  No doubt, I could’ve brought the conspiracy to light.

After only 2-3 days, we’re already addicted.  The massage stick works (and for the record this is not a paid endorsement.)  Just like a masseur with a good set of meat hooks can work a knot out of your muscle, the stick seems to do a pretty good job of working out the lactic acid and the nasty muscle lumps.  The only real problem is that you have to inflict the pain on yourself.  No lie it hurts so bad that tears will well in your eyes and you’ll have to stop to pound the couch cushion with your fist.  Then you’ll stand up and be amazed at how good you feel.  That’s the moment, like a Somali chewing Khat, you’re hooked.

I spent the better part of the day patching the lawn and pulling weeds on Sunday, vacuumed the stairs and then went out late in the afternoon for a two-hour fast paced hilly beatdown ride.  Normally the yard work alone would lay me up for 3 days with gimpy hamstrings, but after a bout with the stick I felt good enough to go for a mountain bike ride yesterday. 

However, you have to respect the stick and its allure.  Even after a day or two, you’ll start using it all over your body, contorting yourself like a yoga master to get ever little hitch out of your muscular system.  You’ll leave it on the sofa and give yourself a rub down during 30 Rock commercial breaks.  Then the first warning sign will appear.  You’ll consider buying another, so you can have one at work.  After that it’s only a matter of time before you’ll be in a 12 step program for those with stick addiction.