Hey, wait, what about the race?
So there I was in the lodge, projecting myself past all these kind but injured folk right up to wearing the gold medal on the podium in the winner’s circle. Then came the announcement … “Racers, good luck; and please now head up to the course.” Well, up on the mountain, my empathy for these poor people was modified, too. As racer after racer whipped through the gates, my presumptuous pride shrunk like a Polar Bear Club member’s member shrinks in a winter’s frozen lake. And I, like an uninjured Achilles, was about to get cut down to size.
In my first-ever adaptive race, I left the starting gate feeling very unprepared for that first turn. But after a very slow start, I began to find my rhythm. I navigated the start of the second of my two tournament runs with ease, and nearly split my time in half. I was adapting. Just as I’d done during my two months of recovery in the hospital, my return to home and family life, and my pursuit of the very real mountain of goals I’ve laid out for myself.
So, sitting back in the lodge, lunching and congratulating the racers for their yeomen’s efforts on the course … imagine my Kafkaesque shock when I heard my name being called to the medals podium.
It’s true—miraculously … or not—I had taken bronze in the men’s open division. Neither gold, nor last, but somewhere in the middle. What a great metaphor for my life, right here, right now. Somewhere in the middle, walking briskly and steadily from near-death to euphoria.
I wore that bronze medal for a week. Thank God the folks at work already consider me an enigma shrouded in dismembered manic mystery. That’s just the way I like it.
Next Event: Making Limbonade
Photo courtesy of the author
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