Mothers, Mother's Day, and Multisport

I think my mother has been abducted by aliens.

Here it is, Mother’s Day, and I’m not even sure it’s my mother in there.

How can it be? Mom, show me your guts! (Well, that’s how Eddie Murphy got his best friend to prove his un-alienness in "Bowfinger.")

How can I be sure it’s really her when she says things like this to me: "I’m so glad you were able to do what you did out there at Wildflower. I’m so proud of you! It was about time you went out there and gave it a bloody go."

Huh? Remember what happens to Eddie Murphy’s Kit Ramsey in "Bowfinger"? How he’s sure aliens are after him, and all the stuff that Steve Martin and his crew of surreptitious filmmakers are doing around him only adds to his paranoia?

Time to remember Kit’s "Happy Premise Number One: There are no aliens."

OK, I better explain.

My mother was, until she finally retired in her 60s, an operating room nurse. Hard-core. No whining. But of course she was also a worrier, as most mothers are. I’m an only child. She was a single mother. You get the picture. I might complain about some little kid pain or teen angst and she would listen patiently for a while, then ask me if both of my legs worked and got me where I wanted to go.

OK, Mom, I get the picture.

She’s hasn’t taken to this triathlon thing at all. At first, she called it "That Athlon Thing." As in, "You’re not going to go out and do another one of those Athlon Things, are you?" But then, when the race was done, who was the first person to brag about how her daughter was a "Tri-Ath-A-Lete" but my mom? Who said she wanted the goofy Santa Barbara Long Course finish line photo for her birthday and nothing else?

You got it, my mom.

Well, I made a tactical mistake in the midst of my recent Total Body Meltdown. I told my mom. She listened patiently for a while, then asked if I’d thought of quitting. That would make the pain go away, right? After all, she told me, you’re a tall gal. You’re obviously not built for this stuff, all that pounding.

This has been the party line for a few years, and I’ve come to terms with it. In one head and out the other. Still, I felt obliged to explain, yet again, that I had no plans to quit, that I had found a sport I love, and we could really just not discuss it if it was causing her so much grief. See, I blame myself for even bringing it up most days.

Which brings me to the last few weeks. As I’ve started coming out of my meltdown, my mother has been changing. It’s terrifying and wondrous all at the same time. Who knew a leopard, at 72, could change its spots?

She was so happy I decided to go for it at Wildflower. "Well, it was about time," she said. "It was time to challenge those injuries instead of babying them along."

What?! Show me your guts!

The other night, I told her about a nasty crash one of our local bike shop owners just had, one that resulted in a titanium pin where you don’t want one. As the words were coming out, I thought, "Oh, bad idea. She worries enough already. Why tell her this?" But she knows this fella, and I thought she’d want to know.

She says, "Oh, that’s no biggie. He’ll recover." Spoken like a true veteran of the OR. I say, "You know, Mom, I think you operating room people have a distorted idea of the definition of a ‘biggie.’ Most people would call that a ‘biggie.’"

"Oh, painful for sure," she says. "But he’ll be fine. He’ll be able to get around just fine." Back to the both legs working thing.

I tell her, "You know, some days I’m just content to stay indoors and ride my trainer." I think this will make her feel better.

"Oh, a little bit chickenshit, are you?"

My head spun so fast I thought I’d fall down. What in the holy hell was THAT?

Was that really my mother, telling me to get out and enjoy life and ride my bike outside if I want to? And of course the truth is, it’s MY fear that keeps me indoors. So of course she was right.

So now I think she’s out there expecting me to do these things, and perhaps not worrying quite as much. And as she does that, she’s making me look my fear in the eye and push myself a little bit harder. Well, now, isn’t that something? Just like my mom.

Unless, of course, it’s not my mom.

I once missed a lunch date with my mom because I crashed my bike. I took most of the impact on my left kneecap. Once I got back home, I sat on the couch with a bag of ice, watching it swell and calling the restaurant to have them tell my mom I was "detained." She drove right over. Together, we watched the swelling lift my kneecap right up. Hmm, I said, think it could be cracked?

"I don’t think so," she said, poking around a bit. We watched some more. "You could get an X-ray to make sure. Want me to drive you?"

Then, she offered this memorable line: "You know, if it is cracked, it’s no biggie. You just go in with a wire and put the pieces back together."

It wasn’t cracked. I went on to Wildflower that spring with a nice little scar and a hilarious memory of my mother and me having a late lunch after a little jaunt to the ER.

So I don’t know what’s up with my mom, if it really is my mom. She seems normal in every other aspect, just not this one.

Then again maybe it’s my mom who really has the guts in the family—and she’s been showing me all along.

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