Riccitello

Sometimes I ride to forget. It’s not hard to do. When I ride, I think about only the ride . . . the whole ride. I think about the road, the hills, the wind, the speed, the burning. For a little while I forget everything else. It’s not bad to forget a troubled day, a missed deadline, a missed opportunity.

For better or for worse––and I’m not complaining––triathlon has been the major part of my life for the last 18 years. Now that I find myself in the "twilight of my career," as a friend called it, I’m trying to forget my love of triathlon. Maybe if I forget, it will make the transition to another life and a "real job" easier.

So I head out for a ride. A long ride, so I can forget for a little while, and think only about the ride. It’s just that today when I ride, I can’t forget, I can only remember.

I ride the hills and I remember St. Croix. It’s hills, the beast, the heat, the people, the beauty, the finish line.

I ride harder, attacking the hills. Maybe the sound of my breathing will drown out the memories.

It doesn’t. The harder I ride the hills, the more the memories rush back. I remember the Metcalf Mauler and my first big win. I remember the France Iron Tour and the Alp d’Huez. I remember the hills of Lake Pleasant; finishing second to a legend, Scott Tinley, in my first race as a professional; wondering if it was possible that I actually did well. I remember Nendaz, Switzerland and the sound of cowbells clanging in the distance as I climbed for 40 kilometers through some of the most beautiful country one could imagine. I remember Mt. Lemmon, where I learned to love the hills.

The rain comes, and I ride on for hours hoping that maybe the rain will wash away the memories. Instead, they come flooding back.

I remember Boston. Sprinting in the pouring rain for two hours and being beaten at the line by the smallest of margins, thankful to be one of the few finishers with all my skin still on my body, and wonderfully happy to know that I pushed my body beyond what I had previously thought possible. I remember The Firecracker Triathlon and literally plowing through the remnants of a summer monsoon. I remember pedaling unprepared through a wet cold day. Pedaling until I was literally too frozen to turn over the pedals. Sitting with all my bike clothes on, helmet included, under a hot shower inside a health club and shivering uncontrollably for twenty minutes, ignoring the stares of curious club members, and laughing out loud at my inability to unbuckle my helmet, fingers and arms frozen, and pull my shirt over my head. Laughing as I moved from the shower to the Jacuzzi, sitting in that hot water, still clothed and helmeted, until a buddy unbuckled my helmet and pulled my shirt over my head.

I ride home in the sun, and the memories burn brighter than ever. It seems in one instance I remember so many things: the countless battles with my competitors, battles with the elements, battles with inner demons, battles with myself, triumphs and defeats, indescribable happiness, nearly unbearable sorrow, new friends, new cultures, new toys. It’s almost overwhelming. So many memories fill my head that I feel I might explode.

I stand in the shower washing away the ride, trying to wash away the memories. Memories that are making it awfully hard for me to realize that the future will provide me even more memories. As the steaming water hits my neck, I wonder why it’s so hard to see past today.

My wife comes home and we talk. She has a way of helping me feel better. She reminds me how lucky I am, and how good and relatively easy my life has been so far. She tells me changing is difficult, but that’s what life and maturing are all about. She tells me the changes I’m making will bring about even more memories, so I must embrace the future and look forward to new memories. There’s so many experiences I’ve yet to have.

At the end of the day, I lie down to sleep, but sleep won’t come. Only this time it’s not the memories keeping me up; it’s the future. Tonight, my wife also told me that I’m going to be a father. For the first time in a long time, I’m able to think past today, think about something other than myself. I think about the stories we will tell our child and the things we will teach our child. I wonder what our child will teach us. Will I be a good father? Will we have a boy or a girl? Will my wife scream nasty things at me while she’s in labor? I wonder so many things, but as I lie here in bed and look back on my day, I realize I know two things for sure: I’ve had a great life, and it’s only going to get better.