So, here I am blogging in the company of my dedicated team member triathletes. Feel like a square peg in a round hole, but that’s me—I take the off-season OFF—and do everything else instead. Trust me-- it is nothing but fun.
First, I would like to congratulate each and every one who toed the starting line at SOMA. You did it. Trained, planned, sacrificed, focused, made adjustments to family, work, and mental status, dug down deep when you had to, groaned and moaned for that last ounce of commitment.
You.
(Yes, you)
MADE. IT. HAPPEN.
Congratulate yourselves.
As they say—everyone is invited to the dance.
The kicker is --not everyone makes that choice to get out there and do it.
Pirate: BUMMER and MORE! I am so sorry about the mechanical. I would have felt the same way, but not have acted with such grace. How absolutely and utterly frustrating, especially when it was beyond your control. Having the support of so many people who cared—now that is irreplaceable. Finishing a half? Yes, you can replace that one. Loved your post.
Hartley: Congratulations on your first half. I know that not finishing must have really been difficult. Taking care of an injury is priority, and you did right, by not pushing yourself beyond what your body was telling you. I know there will be other half’s. Even though you didn’t finish, I’m guessing you learned some valuable lessons that will only make the next one better. My first was an experiment, my second was a race!
GG: Kudos for listening to your true self and not bowing down to ego or perspectives outside of yourself. You probably avoided some real damage to yourself both physically and mentally. I think what you did was the strongest choice of all. You will get your heart again and that will be the best race of all. I know you know this. We’ve both been there when it all comes together. Now, that’s having FUN.
SWTrigal: Congratulations on the race of your triathlon career. Wow. Breaking your PR by 27 minutes. Finishing in the top third (give or take a hair) of your age group. GREAT bike time. I see Age Group accomplishments in your future. Go out and get ‘em—I know you can do it.
Mr. S. Baboo: Great PR time! Looks like a great race. Way to allay the demons of IMAz. Think a PR more than makes up for the upcoming loss of your Clydesdale status? Bet you do! Looking forward to the race report.
Now, as I said, I’m kind of a square peg in a round hole. Always have been. My time is complete with hula and Tahitian dance, rock climbing, reorganizing my body (working on healthy joints and tissue), reorganizing my mind (yup, need to grind it up now and then), reconnecting with old friends, supporting my forever T on his journey through law school (YES—HE POSTED!!!) living the life of a domestic diva to the extent that I am able, cooking (a lot) and, as always, figuring out “there” from “here.”
I don’t have a minute to spare.
Recently, and briefly, I did attend my 30-year high school reunion.
There was so much energy, I didn’t want it to end
It was poignant and fun.
Disconcerting and life affirming.
There were only a few people that I recognized outright—the rest had “changed” enough that I had to look at their nametags and ask questions.
I didn’t have enough time to meet and talk with everyone.
Unfortunately, I limited myself, by being too shy to approach those that I didn’t know at all, and intimidated by a few others.
Funny enough, I was snubbed by a few—but maybe they were too shy also (OK-- I really don’t believe that…)
I missed the picnic the next day and I’m sorry I did. My sister had house pipe plumbing problems, Hachi the giant dog had to be walked on a beautiful wooded hilly trail, and I hadn’t gone to bed until 4:30 am the night before—bad planning on my part.
I wish we all could do it again next year. Really.
This—coming from the one who didn’t “know” anybody, and who had a heck of a time in high school.
The best part of all? Reconnecting and connecting with some of the greatest people: Charlie and his wife Karrie, Lisa, and Karen Q—thank you for such a warm, funny evening—rescuing me over and over again…. Mike B. (Charlie’s friend), Christine, April, Tim A., Aneeta, Scott and Denise, Iana, Tori, Nicole V., Robt T from NJ, and the RN whose name escapes me, and everyone else I talked to. Gillie--you get honorable mention.
YES, I had fun.
Life IS fragile and brief.
Make the most of it.
And,
WOW (kapow!),
people are great.
Showing posts with label Tribute. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tribute. Show all posts
Monday, October 29, 2007
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
James Quinn: The Death of a Cyclist
This past weekend, Mr. T volunteered his time to drive support for the James Quinn Memorial Bicycle Ride. He packed up his truck with extra wheels, tubes, tools, and pump, and rode as sweep and mechanic at the tail end of the ride.
He fixed innumerable flats.
He saw bikes of every age, model, and level of decrepitude—from department store mountain bikes with rotten tires and fraying brake cables, to high-end road models that hummed up the hills.
He saw people of every ability, including the woman who looked as if she had never ridden a bike in her life trying to go up Tramway with her hands in the air (?), and the man who tried to go up Tramway by zig zagging across the yellow line in the center of the road—until he was told him that if he didn’t stop doing that he would be pulled from the ride for endangering himself and others.
Nob Hill Velo showed up, including their juniors, as well as Sports Outdoors, KHS, BikeABQ, UNM Cycling, and the New Mexico Velo Sport.
83-year-old Gus the Pig Farmer came out because his wife saw it in the newspaper and made him do it, pacemaker and all.
The Bernalillo County Sheriff Department sent 5 cars, and the Albuquerque Police Department sent 3. There was police escort front, side, and back—every which way you looked.
The ride attracted at least 200 cyclists.
All riding in tribute and in support. As a way to raise awareness, some in anger and protest, and as a way to show a recently widowed young woman and grieving family how much they cared.
James Quinn arrived in New Mexico less than 2 months ago. He came with Ashley, his wife of 15 months, to attend the UNM Law School. On September 15th, he was riding with his wife toward Tijeras on Old Route 66, when he was hit by car and killed. He died at the scene. He was 28 years old.
The outpouring of support on this recent Saturday morning was overwhelming. James Quinn’s wife, sister and mother were present. There is still a lot of anger and controversy over this most recent cycling death. And concern over the increasing number of bicycle deaths and injuries. The accident occurred on a straight stretch of highway that each of us has ridden innumerable times. It’s a reminder to please be careful.
My heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of James Quinn.
He fixed innumerable flats.
He saw bikes of every age, model, and level of decrepitude—from department store mountain bikes with rotten tires and fraying brake cables, to high-end road models that hummed up the hills.
He saw people of every ability, including the woman who looked as if she had never ridden a bike in her life trying to go up Tramway with her hands in the air (?), and the man who tried to go up Tramway by zig zagging across the yellow line in the center of the road—until he was told him that if he didn’t stop doing that he would be pulled from the ride for endangering himself and others.
Nob Hill Velo showed up, including their juniors, as well as Sports Outdoors, KHS, BikeABQ, UNM Cycling, and the New Mexico Velo Sport.
83-year-old Gus the Pig Farmer came out because his wife saw it in the newspaper and made him do it, pacemaker and all.
The Bernalillo County Sheriff Department sent 5 cars, and the Albuquerque Police Department sent 3. There was police escort front, side, and back—every which way you looked.
The ride attracted at least 200 cyclists.
All riding in tribute and in support. As a way to raise awareness, some in anger and protest, and as a way to show a recently widowed young woman and grieving family how much they cared.
James Quinn arrived in New Mexico less than 2 months ago. He came with Ashley, his wife of 15 months, to attend the UNM Law School. On September 15th, he was riding with his wife toward Tijeras on Old Route 66, when he was hit by car and killed. He died at the scene. He was 28 years old.
The outpouring of support on this recent Saturday morning was overwhelming. James Quinn’s wife, sister and mother were present. There is still a lot of anger and controversy over this most recent cycling death. And concern over the increasing number of bicycle deaths and injuries. The accident occurred on a straight stretch of highway that each of us has ridden innumerable times. It’s a reminder to please be careful.
My heartfelt condolences to the family and friends of James Quinn.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Michael Reardon
Sometimes, I am struck by the munificence of humanity, moved to tears by unremitting or undeserved compassion, struck by those who are larger than life, who give of themselves with an expansiveness of the soul, whole-hearted enthusiasm that comes from a place I admire but rarely emulate.
Sometimes, I am struck by the end of a life that shouldn’t have ended. A news story about a 77-year-old cyclist killed while riding his bike on a city street. A young soldier with PTSD who commits suicide. A man and a mountain, repeated so many times, with the mountain the victor.
Michael Reardon was both larger than life, and a life that shouldn’t have ended. I was introduced to him through controversy, a round of letters questioning the veracity of his accomplishments, published several years ago in a climbing magazine. Struck and influenced by the vehemence of the letter content, I, too, thought he must be the poser that was alluded to over and over again. For a brief while, I had the armchair enthusiasts lip curl of cynicism whenever I saw his name in print. For a brief while only, thankfully, because the force of his personality, bursting from the written page, was enough to make me dubiously doubt the naysayers, and then to do a complete turn around in admirance of this cocky, beautiful, elemental, rebellious life-force.
Michael Reardon was a climber who performed his craft no holds barred, passionate and heart felt. And, from what I’ve read, he lived his life the same way. I haven’t climbed much recently, due to an almost absurd concentration on the sport of triathlon (Christmas ‘06 futzing up slabby granite in Texas hill country. Prior to that, summer ’05, watching my climbing buddy and forever partner, cartwheel flip off of greasy volcanic rock in a muddy, humid tropical jungle, feeling the pop of a piece pulled, yarding in rope faster than my brain could keep up, and the thankful catch), but I keep up with the sport in a loose, armchair fashion. Michael was somebody who could make my heart beat a little faster, not in the way that I used to feel when I devoured teen idol magazines in the early 70’s, but his enthusiasm for life just seemed to jump off the page and right into my being. He reminded me of Kenny Souza, who raced 1980’s biathlons with the same rock star mien and the same lion’s mane of hair.
If I am any indication, Michael gave to the common man.
His life wasn’t defined by what I or anyone else thought of it. He lived uncensored and unfettered. There are other people like him, who have touched my life merely by living their life to the fullest, but they don’t happen everyday. That individualist can drive you a little nuts, but it may just be that person who gives you something that you’ll never forget. A munificent force of character. A munificent force of life.
Michael Reardon was a free soloist climber, a professional, one of the few in the world. He would climb up rock walls without a rope, without protection, without any way to stop a fall, if a fall should happen. He solo’d crazy hard, and lived just as crazy hard. He believed in himself one hundred percent.
Michael Reardon was born in 1974. He was educated in philosophy, political science, and law. He worked in Hollywood and was passionate about filmmaking (Casper, Richie Rich, Cabin Fever are ones that have name recognition).
Michael Reardon was married to his best friend, and was a devoted husband and father.
On July 13th, 2007, he was hit by a rogue wave and swept out to sea while on the coast in Ireland. He is missing and presumed dead.
Sometimes, I am struck by the end of a life that shouldn’t have ended. A news story about a 77-year-old cyclist killed while riding his bike on a city street. A young soldier with PTSD who commits suicide. A man and a mountain, repeated so many times, with the mountain the victor.
Michael Reardon was both larger than life, and a life that shouldn’t have ended. I was introduced to him through controversy, a round of letters questioning the veracity of his accomplishments, published several years ago in a climbing magazine. Struck and influenced by the vehemence of the letter content, I, too, thought he must be the poser that was alluded to over and over again. For a brief while, I had the armchair enthusiasts lip curl of cynicism whenever I saw his name in print. For a brief while only, thankfully, because the force of his personality, bursting from the written page, was enough to make me dubiously doubt the naysayers, and then to do a complete turn around in admirance of this cocky, beautiful, elemental, rebellious life-force.
Michael Reardon was a climber who performed his craft no holds barred, passionate and heart felt. And, from what I’ve read, he lived his life the same way. I haven’t climbed much recently, due to an almost absurd concentration on the sport of triathlon (Christmas ‘06 futzing up slabby granite in Texas hill country. Prior to that, summer ’05, watching my climbing buddy and forever partner, cartwheel flip off of greasy volcanic rock in a muddy, humid tropical jungle, feeling the pop of a piece pulled, yarding in rope faster than my brain could keep up, and the thankful catch), but I keep up with the sport in a loose, armchair fashion. Michael was somebody who could make my heart beat a little faster, not in the way that I used to feel when I devoured teen idol magazines in the early 70’s, but his enthusiasm for life just seemed to jump off the page and right into my being. He reminded me of Kenny Souza, who raced 1980’s biathlons with the same rock star mien and the same lion’s mane of hair.
If I am any indication, Michael gave to the common man.
His life wasn’t defined by what I or anyone else thought of it. He lived uncensored and unfettered. There are other people like him, who have touched my life merely by living their life to the fullest, but they don’t happen everyday. That individualist can drive you a little nuts, but it may just be that person who gives you something that you’ll never forget. A munificent force of character. A munificent force of life.
Michael Reardon was a free soloist climber, a professional, one of the few in the world. He would climb up rock walls without a rope, without protection, without any way to stop a fall, if a fall should happen. He solo’d crazy hard, and lived just as crazy hard. He believed in himself one hundred percent.
Michael Reardon was born in 1974. He was educated in philosophy, political science, and law. He worked in Hollywood and was passionate about filmmaking (Casper, Richie Rich, Cabin Fever are ones that have name recognition).
Michael Reardon was married to his best friend, and was a devoted husband and father.
On July 13th, 2007, he was hit by a rogue wave and swept out to sea while on the coast in Ireland. He is missing and presumed dead.
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