You Did Good, Papa. I Got a Chipper Sandwich, See?
I went to Idaho last weekend. Like previous Ironman experiences, it was big and grand and memorable. I was fit. I was ready. I was excited. The race didn’t turn out how I wanted. There were good aspects, but mostly, I bombed out.
After traveling all day and night Monday and then working on Tuesday, I rode straight to the tribe’s diving meet after work. I was behind schedule and as it turned out, arrived too late. It stung. It was a totally avoidable mistake.
The pool sits atop a hill. It is an eighth of a mile and about a seven percent grade to get up the hill. I churned with all that I had to drag my aching body and my commuter bike up that hill. At the top, I rode straight to the fence, peered through and saw that there were teenagers diving already. I was too late. And, I was dizzy so I layed down right there in the driveway.
I’m not sure how long I sprawled on the asphalt. I was disappointed and sweaty and mad and, I was dizzy. Tobias came out. He played with my helmet and the blinky light. Then he announced, “You did good, Papa.”
There was a pause. I asked what he meant. I had missed his dives. I had barely gotten around the second loop of the run in Coeur d’Alene. He held the pause. Finally I opened my eyes and he held up his ice cream treat. “I got a chipper sandwich, see? And, you did good. We saw you do a summersault at the end. Mama laughed. It was funny.”
It was worth it. Every painful step.