Widows and Orphans

If you read my last post, you know that I was petrified that my wife was going to share her cold with me.  Well she hasn't, yet.  Directly, anyhow.  But my 8-year old daughter, Talia, seems to have just come down with the bug.  I went to check on her last night and I found her sleeping in bed with a Kleenex shoved up her nose.  When I told her about it this morning, she suggested that she must have fallen asleep while blowing her nose, and then asked if I threw it away.  One day, perhaps, my children will regain their faith in me...  And also maybe enough sensation in their nose to be able to tell whether or not there is a tissue stuck inside.

I haven't come down with the cold, yet, but karma did bite me in the leg last week.  A nagging soreness in my left ankle/Achilles heel is beginning to make me a little nervous.  My running is temporarily suspended.  Though, I suppose, this is a good week, if there is such a thing, to be nursing an injury.  It's a recovery week, meaning, my training schedule is quite light.  Oh, yeah.  Did I forget to mention that it's also been snowing all week?  Yeah, the final week of April and I woke up with more than just a dusting.  I can't ride outside in that.  Do you have any idea how dirty my bike would get?  Yes.  A good week, if possible, to sustain an injury.  So, now just over a month away from my first triathlon ever, and I'm hoping and praying desperately that this little pain dissolves better than the powdered calories I put into my water bottles.

When Rachel and I were in Lake Placid over the summer, watching the Ironman, we noticed that practically every athlete seemed to have a uniformly dressed entourage.  "Team Gary" or "Team Tanya" were all wearing brightly colored t-shirts, displaying team pride and making themselves more easily identifiable to the athletes they were supporting as they raced by.  After I declared my intention to compete in an Ironman, Rachel decided that team shirts would have to be made. 

"Team Pig Vomit" already has an eye-catching, neon logo for the team uniform.

With a couple, shorter, training races coming up in late spring, early summer, I decided to have a few sample shirts made.  Printed on neon green, Team Pig Vomit cheerleader jerseys are certain to capture my gaze as I mosey along the course.  But I also felt it was important to customize each shirt for each of my primary supporters.  Before the Ironman, I'll be certain to make a shirt for my nephew, Noah, with "Pig Vomit In the Flesh," or "Team Mascot" printed across the back.  And while I haven't figured out the wording for each member of my family just yet, I didn't have to think hard to find the right caption for my wife's and daugthers' team shirts.

While in Lake Placid, I noticed more than just a few team shirts declaring something like, "140.6 miles until I get my son back," or, "Have you seen my husband?  He left a year ago and said he'd be back after this race."  So, carrying on the IronJew theme, Rachel will wear IronWidow on her shirt, and the girls will wear IronOrphan.  When I showed Talia the sample shirt that managed to fit better on Elly, she said, "That's sad."  When I asked her if she wanted her shirt to say something different, she responded, "No.  It's funny, too!"  And then she demanded I find a pixelated font to support her recent obsession with all things pixel. 

Honestly, I don't believe I've allowed my training to usurp too much family time.  But even family time has been flavored by Ironman.  I'm certainly less energetic some days than my family would like.  I stretch my sore muscles in the darnedest places.  I try and get home by a certain hour so I can get adequate sleep before waking up early to train.  I can be ornery after a hard day's training, and anxious when new pain develops in my body. 

I cannot underestimate the sacrifice and commitment that my family has been forced to make for my silly goals.  In a way, my children have never known any different.  As long as they've been alive, I've been training for something.  In a way, Rachel doesn't know any different.  As long as we've been together, I've been training for something.  But more than that, Rachel knows and understands me better than anyone in the world.  And she knows that my goals, and my training, and my crazy routine, and my races all keep me sane.  -ish.  She knows that this is just who I am.  I don't know if she loves me because of it, or in spite of it.  But either way, I owe them all.  So once this Ironthing is over, I plan on giving myself back to my family.  At least for as long as they can tolerate me.  Which may be only as long as it takes to travel back home after the big day.