I have a confession: I used to beat young boys. Now, I realize, in this post Jackson era, we're all a bit sensitive whenever the the words "young boys" come up so I'll be quick to clarify. It was a long time ago and we were all on bicycles, but the fact remains, I beat them and probably crushed their spirits a little.
It sometimes happens in life that we're at the right place, and more importantly, the right time, to have a chance for success at something we otherwise wouldn't. It was like that with me and mountain biking. as a little pre-teen boy I raced BMX bicycles, racking up a small shelf of cheap, plastic trophies and one broken hand riding my brother's hand-me-down Mongoose, wearing camoflage pants from the army surplus store. I wasn't very good, mostly because I didn't really practice and I wasn't aggressive enough to fight for the corners. Then, in the spring of 1986, a $400 dollar savings bond I'd won in a grade school writing contest matured, and I went shopping for a new bicycle. Instead of buying a freestyle trick bike as I'd planned, I walked out of the store with an aqua green Univega "mountain bike" a new type of bicycle that had just been invented in Northern California with fat tires, a flat handlebar and a wide range of gears for climbing hills.
My timing was perfect. The bike became my constant companion, ferrying me everywhere I wanted to go, including long rides into the hills behind my house. As I rode, I grew stronger and faster and the next summer, at the age of 14, I entered the second annual Mammoth Mountain hill climb and Kamakazi downhill race. I was one of the youngest in the class I rode in, racing against riders in their 20s and I didn't place all that well. That changed two years later, as the popularity of the sport grew and the junior class was born. For one glorious summer, I won almost every race I entered. I was good, I was fast, but mostly, I was lucky. As a 16 year old, I was near the top of the small, under 17 junior class, racing mostly against a tiny handful of 13 and 14 year olds. Before the start of the races I would rest my forearms on my handlebars staring coldly straight ahead with occasional sideways glances at the pre-pubescent racers who had the misfortune to be in my class. At the crack of the start gun I took off, leaving them in my dust on the first climb. Their spirits broken, they could only race for second. After a few races I'd established my reputation and I enjoyed the crestfallen looks on my competitor's (and their mother's) faces when I showed up at the races and took my bicycle down off the roof rack.
This year, at the age of 35, after a couple of active, but non-competitive decades, I decided to follow through on a dream of racing in a triathlon or two. I had managed to stay in reasonable shape through the years, commuting by bike to work a few times a month and going to the climbing gym once every couple of weeks. I looked up the age categories; I would be at the young end of the 35 to 40 year-old age group. I was in much better shape than the mid 30 year olds I knew, better shape even than most people a decade younger than me. I couldn't help but smile as I filled out the entry form for my first race. This was going to be fun.
Pulling up to the check-in area at the XTerra EX2 Off-road Triathlon in Rocky Gap State Park on July 11 it was quickly evident that the average population I'd measured myself favorably against does not race triathlons. Looking around, I felt soft and pudgy, all 160 pounds of me. Strolling about the registration area were chiseled, toned, super athletes of all ages and the ones in my age category were among the fittest looking. My hopes of quickly reclaiming my former glory as a junior racer faded. Still, maybe I could be fifth or even third, if everything went well.
The next morning, gasping for air, I thrashed in the water along with 150 other men in my start wave, all of us wearing bright green rubber swim caps and goggles. My heart was pounding and I couldn't get a full breath into my lungs, much less settle into the normal freestyle stroke that I'd practiced in the pool over the past two months. "What was I doing here?" I thought. I wanted to quit and the race had just started.
After my dismal swim I rode a fast (for me) mountain bike leg and an okay run. My time at the finish was good for 14th place out of the 39 racers in the old timer's, 35-40 age category; hardly a podium finish. As I rested and refueled among the super athletes at the start/finish area, I wondered why I was putting myself through the hardship and time of training and the lactic acid pain and oxygen debt of competition, just to get beaten by 13 other guys at least as old as me. It isn't a question I'm willing to answer with some clichéd, pop-inspirational slogan. Maybe I'm just bored? Maybe I'm just trying to relive some egotistical dream of winning, thereby setting myself apart in a tiny way from the rest of the billions of people on this world. Based on the surging registrations at races of all kinds, I'm not the only one. When the survival of the fittest is mitigated by modern conveniences and technological advances in health care that keep us alive when we'd otherwise perish, maybe we're all just trying to live out some of the primitive struggle that once governed us all.
It will be a long time, if ever, before I stand on any of the tiers of a winning podium. With some diligent training through this coming Fall, Winter and Spring, maybe I'll be counted among the fit people, feared by the newbies. It's more likely that I'll have to wait until the numbers thin again to the low single digits like they were two decades ago in the junior class. Maybe the 65-70 year olds aren't really that fast? I have a feeling 30 years will go quickly at this pace.
Who do you think is the best athlete in your country?
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