HOLLY THE IMPOSTER

I’m having an athletic identity crisis. Am I truly a triathlete? For a number of reasons—both sports-related and otherwise—I’ve been on the injured list for the better part of the past two years. “Frustrating” is one word I’ve uttered more than a few times. It’s not the only F-word that’s frequented my vocabulary, but it’s the only one fit to print.¶ My only race of 2011 was a 70.3 in December, during a brief injury-free stint. In 2010 I raced Ironman Canada, but my two lead-up races were pre-planned DNF’s; I nursed an injured foot right up until go time in Penticton.»

INJURIES HAPPEN. BUT HOW DO YOU DEAL WITH THE PSYCHOLOGICAL

FALLOUT WHEN YOU SO STRONGLY IDENTIFY WITH BEING A TRIATHLETE?

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BY HOLLY BENNET T

CONFESSIONS OF AN AGE-GROUPERCONFESSIONS OF AN AGE-GROUPER

62 AUGUST 2012

Let me tell you, it’s hard to slink out of T2 undetected by cheery spectators. Everyone is eager to help and asks, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” Yet all you want is to disap-pear and lick your wounds alone.

I long for those summer seasons of yore when I raced near-ly every weekend, with barely time to rinse the urine from my wetsuit before pulling it on again. Sure, I can swim a lot and ride a little at the moment, but the label “duathlete” doesn’t do anything for me. I feel a significant void. I can’t bear to look at my running shoes. They’re like a photo of an ex-boyfriend—

tucked deep in a closet, too painful to face.

In the months since my last race, I’ve aged up without realizing what happened. I’ve stopped registering for races entirely until my current injury is resolved. Instead, I simply flush crisp dollar bills down the toilet. At least I get a cool visual of my money go-ing to waste. I walk my dog on my favorite running trail, longing to pick up the pace while instead I pick up his “presents.” Every now and then, feeling nostalgic and empty, I eat an energy gel just for kicks.

Oh, woe is me. I could drone on about my mis-fortune, but my foot isn’t

going to heal any faster. Instead, l may as well pinpoint the positives. Injury is part of being an athlete, after all—right up there with saddle sores and decreased libido. And so I’ve found some activities to occupy my downtime and fuel my competitive fire; perhaps they’ll help you when you are injured, too.

World champion Julie Dibens, currently recuperating from a double dose of surgery, recently told me to focus on what I can do, rather than what I can’t. Like shopping. Shopping is something I can tackle with incredible en-durance. If only stores were open for 17 hours straight! Read—more than Triathlete magazine. When I train hard, my attention span goes soft. I last 10–15 minutes max (just long enough to read the cover story) before falling asleep. Now’s the time to break out Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Or, if that’s too daunting, at least I can manage Chrissie Wellington’s A Life Without Limits.Get ridiculously good at Words With Friends. I would have ranked myself an elite amateur before this latest ailment, but now I’m unstoppable. If there were a WWF World Championship ring I’d be wearing it—no matter that my rivals are so mentally taxed from training they don’t stand a chance. I’m confident that this is the only competition where I’ll ever crush four-time Ironman champion Mary Beth Ellis. Did you know that “liger” is actually a word?

Yes, even lame-duck lemons can be turned to lemonade. And while I’d much prefer to merit an electrolyte-replenishing sports drink, lemonade’s not all that bad.

64 AUGUST 2012

I LONG FOR THOSE SUMMER SEASONS OF YORE WHEN I RACED NEARLY EVERY WEEKEND, WITH BARELY TIME TO RINSE THE URINE FROM MY WETSUIT BEFORE PULLING IT ON AGAIN. SURE, I CAN SWIM A LOT AND RIDE A LITTLE AT THE MOMENT, BUT THE LABEL "DUATHLETE" DOESN'T DO ANYTHING FOR ME.