I never would have imagined I'd ever become jaded about awards ceremonies.
Early on in Ace's and my relationship, I was startled to discover that a triathlon takes a whole lot more time out of the weekend for speedy people than for the rest of us - because they must wait around until the whole thing wraps up so they can get their medal or plaque. And in the beginning, I was tickled.
I felt like a special person just attending the awards ceremonies, and paid careful attention to looking casual and comfortable there, lolling around on the grass, so bored, like, of course, this is totally my crowd, when in fact it is nothing like my crowd. I have hierarchy issues and am not one to so much as make eye contact with my betters.
It's a funny thing, sport, the way it puts the talent and the wanna-bes into separate social spheres for what are mainly practical reasons. For instance, I may get along well with a fast cyclist, but I'd never meet them, because we ride at different speeds and would have no opportunity to talk. Whereas I think Ace conducts a lot of his socializing with certain people over the course of long bike rides and runs, and develops a set of fast friends through proximity as much as anything.
When I swam with the Masters set at Stanford, those of us in the slow lanes used to joke that the fast people had no idea who we were because they never looked South. This is mainly because the whiteboard on which the workout was posted (and the coach) were positioned next to Lane 1 (on the North side of the pool) so the 1:25 people had no reason to ever look down across the rest of us, bobbing and straining to hear the joke. We knew who THEY were, but they had no idea who we were.
There's also the factor that there's probably a lot more attrition among slower people, perhaps less dedication (maybe it's less inherently rewarding to consistently bring up the rear, maybe they have too much else going on in their life), a lot more people coming and going, and so the community of the slow is necessarily less tightly knit.
So I don't mean to suggest that fast people are snobs (which, no question, some are), but only to say that there is clearly an 'in' group, and that dating Ace has, for me, been an odd experiment in athletic social climbing. Suddenly I found myself sharing the joke (I had thought it was a joke but it actually wasn't) that someone had signed up for San Jose mainly because they were out of olive oil. And as pleased with myself as I was to do Boston and those national and world championships last year - they had the important secondary effect of making me feel a lot more comfortable around Ace's peers, like I was good enough in my own right to talk to them - to make eye contact.
And there's some chicken-and-egg aspect to it, as well. I got that roll-down spot to Clearwater in 2006 because I had tagged along to an awards ceremony with Ace - I got it just because nobody better qualified in my age group was there to claim it.
I took a step back from triathlon this year for a couple of reasons, one, I really wasn't enjoying it as much as I had. The looming events that had once provided really helpful and positive motivation to exercise had morphed into pressure that made me feel constantly inadequate. And two, let's face it, I wanted to go out on a high note, and 2007 was really an amazing year for me. (On paper, anyway. In terms of accomplishment and self-discipline I'm more proud of my first Ironman.)
I've discovered this year that I've lost my sense of awe with respect to the fast people. I've learned that being fast is a product of both natural aptitude and hard work, and that one can make up for a lack of the other to a surprising degree. So people's finishing times doesn't actually tell you that much about them, about how well-rounded they are, or about how full their lives are.
I realized I was in a different place when we were talking to a friend after the race and he remarked that he came in second. I had no idea whether he was looking for congratulation or commiseration. And I was neither impressed nor sympathetic, because I realized that the statement contained no meaningful information.
Anyway, I watched Ace finish up his "season" (he had done two races this year) by competing at Treasure Island Saturday. It was an entertaining race to watch, because, I don't mind telling you, he trained very little. He runs about 5-10 miles a week with Run Club, he rides his bike for a couple of hours on Saturday mornings if it's not raining, and he joins me at the pool on Sunday mornings if we manage to wake up in time. The big joke this past week was that he was 'tapering,' because he missed one of the runs.
On race morning, we nearly overslept as Ace hit his snooze button in his sleep until at one point I groggily said, "Don't you have a race today?" He raced his car up against surprisingly dense traffic for a Saturday morning, and fifteen minutes before his group was set to be in the water he had yet to register.
The announcer called out his name a few time at the start of his wave as a force to be reckoned with (because he had won last year) and Ace had the grace to wave sheepishly. I watched the first lap of the swim, saw him round the buoy and pause to sit up and look around in surprise that he was in the lead. As I angled the camera for his first lap of the bike, I chuckled as he passed me, asking, "how many laps?" Of course I told him the wrong number (thankfully he clarified with someone better informed). And then I was looking the wrong way when he ran past me on the final lap of the run. The announcer called him out again, because, to both our surprise, he won.
The organizers set the awards ceremony for some five hours after he finished. We killed time as much as we could - snacking and napping and getting free ten minute massages, but come on. After a couple hours Ace said we could skip it. I felt bad. I didn't have big plans, I could nap some more, it seemed ungrateful to bail on receiving a medal. But I was also irritated by the inconsiderate planning. Making people give up their entire day? To wait three hours in the rain?
Supposedly he'll get it in the mail.
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