I sent my sister Leigh – short for Shirley – a link to the most recent column from one of my favorite Aspen columnists. Aspen, despite having a population of just under 7,000 (17,000 in the whole county) has two daily newspapers. Each of which apparently makes enough money to keep a stable of weekly columnists on board. The Daily News features Johnny Boyd, who wrote for the Snowmass Sun (an even smaller town) for over a decade, chronicling his continuing interest in the intersection of resort town economics and the plight of its worker class. His insistence that people actually both live and work in Snowmass (his home town) and Aspen, and should be therefore accorded more rights than the itinerant billionaires who see our high mountain valley as a private playground they have purchased, often gets him into rhetorical hot water.
Roger Marolt, a fourth generation valley resident who now lives in deed restricted (ie, affordable) housing in Snowmass Village, has TWO weekly gigs, one with the Sun, the other with the Times. He uses his Sun column to document his deep love for powder skiing and mountain biking, and all things outdoors. The fact that he can actually write coherently endears him to me all the more. For the “big city” paper, he keeps up a continual needling of the pretensions of locals and visitors alike.
Lately, though, I find myself drawn more to The Princess – Allison Berkley Margo. She is a befuddled observer of her own maturation, with periodic stops to climb the Ridge at Highland Bowl, and shred the bejezzus out of that cornucopia of avalanche chutes high above Castle Creek.
Apparently, last week was her father’s 72nd birthday, and she went to Steamboat Springs to visit and celebrate. Turns out, the guy, in her view, is an exercise nut: “His thing is going further, longer and sometimes faster. If you are not half dead and out of food by the time you get home, you haven’t gone far enough.” She then fills out the portrait with his exploits as an ex-marathoner, current road cyclist, and recent skate skiing convert. She includes enough references to gels, electrolytes, his CompuTrainer, and Hawaii to make me sit up and take notice. And best of all, she does not display to mix of disdain and confusion that mark most encounters between endorphin junkies and the more rational members of society: “…nothing makes me happier than seeing my dad pushing himself along that grueling, snow-covered track with a steady stride, his arms and legs working to keep that big heart of his full and strong. Whether it’s his steel will or his tiny, muscular body or both, he’s 72 years old and still skating through life. Forget about over the hill — for Dad, it’s all about the climb.”
So I sent that link to Leigh, and she comes back with what at first seemed a non-sequiter: “[That] reminds me, why are you not so excited about having us come to Tahoe for the Ironman? Do you not want us to come? We have a free place to stay, people to see besides you, and we thought you might like a peanut gallery.”
I have no memory of her enthusing about going to Tahoe, with Craig, t watch me race the inaugural Ironman there on September 22nd. But she seem a bit miffed that I had rebuffed her, so I quickly tried to make amends.
“I am excited anytime you want to hang out where I am. I just didn’t see the race itself as much of a draw. I didn’t get your view of it as a vacation for yourself. I didn’t want to have to be the center of attention. That’s cool and sufficient for Hawaii, I guess, but not elsewhere. I can be a part of the party in Hawaii, but before a qualifying IM, I’m all business, so can’t be a host. So as long as I don’t have to worry about you, and you can deal with me being focused on my thing, sure, come watch.”
She and Craig have twice come out to Kona to be a part of my posse there, and I was concerned she might think the same rules apply for a regular IM. In Hawaii, it’s party mode, celebrating the end of a journey. In the other IMs I do, I am totally self-centered, worrying only about the minutiae of getting ready for race day, and precisely how I am going to make it through 140.6 miles of swimming, biking, and running faster than anyone else my age. That doesn’t make for a very friendly or talkative brother.
She goes on to say, in reference to The Princess’ father, “…I love her obvious affection for her father, and she’s smart and quick, but, really, you may be exercise obsessed, and to the rest of us it sometimes looks crazy, but you have a GOAL – her father just seems crazy, or, okay, obsessed. Or, maybe your races just make it appear not to be crazy and obsessive? Hm …”
I suppose when someone has know you literally all your life, they might be expected to have a bit of insight into what makes you tick. That might be why siblings have such a wary relationship. It’s all about Ends and Means, I realized. Back in the 90s, when I was Medical Director, trying to guide a multi million (billion) dollar enterprise, I certainly spent way more time doing obsessive, difficult things in support of that goal, than I have ever done as an athlete. I’m sure I seemed over the top to those not engaged as I was in the end result, but I didn’t focus on how hard I was working, only on whether Group Health and its medical staff would continue to be a going concern. Same thing with training for an Ironman. While I get some enjoyment out of biking for, say three hours followed by a steady run of 5 miles, there is really no reason to do that much unless it is getting me ready for a race which means something to me. All those hours and hours of training – maybe 2-300 for an Ironman – end up being lasered onto a relatively brief and unmoving time and place, The Race.
As I concluded to Leigh, “See, what I’m obsessed about is not beating myself up thru excessive “exercise” per se, but the end result, the race.” It’s another twist on the second most common question I get asked as a triathlete, “Which one is your favorite sport?” My answer: to me they are not three separate sports, but one, called Triathlon, and my favorite part of that is when I’m racing. Not getting ready, not after it’s done, but while it’s happening. That’s when I feel most alive, and that’s why I do all the stupid “exercising” – training – to get ready for it.