Its Possessive

As I continue muddling through this mentally difficult yet enjoyable period of time, that I realize is truly a luxury experience to have (to paraphrase effendi, if you aren't struggling just to survive, only then can you bask in your own mental gyrations), I find myself thinking a lot about triathlon and particularly Ironman, as it's been a big part of my life for the last 7 years.

I still vividly remember crossing the finish line at my first Ironman. I had heard all this hype about how happy and proud you feel. I felt none of that. In my head I was saying what the hell was that? I was happy it was over, but I just couldn't process anything more than that. It was just a thing I did.

Six years later, at my most recent Ironman finish, I can honestly say I knew what the hell it was, and yes, I was happy it was over, but in a way I wanted to keep going in that place in my head.

What is that place? It's that deep, dark core of myself that only those brave enough to attempt real intimacy (not the "I live with you and have sex with you and exist in a modern society" kind) with me will ever know, because it's not something I can put into words.

I may be a lot of things, but I am not an Ironman. I do Ironman distance races. They are just a vehicle to drive myself to that place that I love so much. Where I can escape my physical self by appearing to do something so physical.

So this Saturday I get to go there. Without crowds. Without medals. Without someone shouting (it's a lie, anyway), "You are an Ironman." Now if someone wants to come out and shout at me, "You are Sheila!" I would really believe that!