The Waiting

As you may have read in the previous entry, I recently spent a long time waiting. I spent a long time waiting in places in which I didn't particularly wish to be.


A good chunk of my brainspace was consumed by feelings of anger, frustration, helplessness and the soupçon  of despair. At times, it took all my energy and patience to manage these emotions, especially while sharing the same experiences with my equally bewildered family.

We were waiting. Waiting to catch a plane, maybe. Or maybe waiting for something that would never come. It was an existential conundrum just to consider rolling out of the too soft bed every morning with nothing but a Pandoran suitcase and each other for comfort.

And although I wished not to linger, nor to be consumed any further by over-thinking our ill-fortuned displacement, I could not avoid relating this waiting to the time I've spent before races.

In a motel room, with nothing but a duffel bag, bike,  and my tri kit, I've spent many days waiting for the Saturday or Sunday race to come. Call it tapering, call the foreshortened bouts of  "race-prep". It was  waiting for the days and nights to pass. It was eating and drinking in restaurants that I normally would avoid - or taking food back to a strangely accommodating room to eat by the warm glow of network television.

Every waited day lead up to race morning to take that zombie-like walk to the still, dark waters of the lake that would shortly boil with the kicking of feet and flailing of arms. I'm challenged to see how this is any different from the daily routine we established in Chicago and London and Glasgow and Calgary.

The sole difference is, in race-season, the question is "will I be ready?". This differs only marginally from "will the airline be ready?" Does it not?

I continue to examine, analyze and interpret these experiences and thoughts. I marvel at my family's resilience, their good nature and drive, despite the onslaught of crisis after failure after calamity.

I still have a lot to learn.