Riccitello

I just participated in the last triathlon where triathlon was the main focus of my life. No, I'm not retiring. I'm just de-emphasizing the role that professional triathlon plays in my life.

This is not to suggest that I won't remain a competitive person. I've never been one to shy away from competition. My attitude has always been that no matter what the activity––football, Frisbee, bowling, checkers, driving, cleaning house, partying, eating, fishing––I can beat the person who proposes the challenge. It doesn't bother me too much that 95 percent of the time I'm wrong. It’s the challenge, the fight, the competition––that's what I love. It's what I thrive on. I'll never give that up.

So anyone who wants a piece of me, here I am. All you triathletes out there who I've been spanking all these years, now's your chance to get even. I' m gonna be a working man soon. I'm gonna be a father soon. I'm not going to have all day to train anymore. And even though I don't nap––sleep's a waste of my time––I wouldn’t have time to nap anymore if I wanted to. I'm gonna be a regular guy, and the way I see it, that gives me the right to race other regular guys.

To make it a little easier on you, I'll probably put on a few pounds. You clydesdales out there better hope I don't put on too much. But if you want a piece of me, you too can call me up. I'll strap some lead weights on my ass and we'll go race.

No one is immune. There is no category anymore. Man, woman, child, dog or cat, old fart or young fart. If you want to race, I'm your man, baby.

Just yesterday, in fact, three days after I competed in my last triathlon (where triathlon was the main focus of my life) I had to whup on some old, gray-haired dude. I was riding easily out of town, minding my own business. I'm cruising up this hill, and this old dude catches up to me. I looked over at him and asked, "How's it going?"

He looked over at me, didn't say a word, and launched a vicious attack. He dropped me. Unfortunately, he then caught a red light, which allowed me to catch up to him. We were sitting side by side at the light––he still hadn't said a word to me––and I looked over at him. He looked back at me with wild, eager, and strangely familiar eyes. Almost instantly I realize where I've seen them. Every morning I look into the bathroom mirror. For the better part of 20 years, I've stared into the same eyes without thinking or realizing what they were saying. Now I know. Three days removed from my former identity, I realize the message my eyes were conveying to all who've looked into them for most of my life. The message was clear. This guy wanted to challenge himself. He wanted to compete.

I asked him if he wanted to race, and he silently looked me in the eye and gave me a wicked smile. I said to him, "Are we on, or what?"

He sized me up one final time and said, "I’ll race."

I can honestly say that while I'm rarely the instigator, and never the "half-wheeler," I have always lacked the self-control to back down from an outright challenge. And while this gentleman made no verbal challenge, his eyes and actions said it all. If he hadn't hit that red light, he would have finished his ride content with the fact that he'd spanked some young poser punk. I don't mind getting passed by people when I'm riding, or jogging around the park, but this guy was pushing buttons. He was prodding. He wanted a reaction. The response that automatically streamed from my mouth was, "I’ll race you from here out to the Monument [about 5 miles]."

He said, "All right. Say ‘Go.’"

Having already explained my lack of self-control, you'll understand why I could not resist the opportunity to talk a little smack before we commenced. Keep in mind that I talk smack to everyone, not just old dudes. I' m an equal opportunity smack-talker.

"How about I give you a head start, me being young, and you being all old and stuff."

"I don’t need no @*$#‘ head start!" he shot back.

"All right then, say ‘Go.'"

"You say, ‘Go,’ sonny!"

That’s when I said "Go," and proceeded to kick his wrinkled old ass.

After he caught up––which took quite a while, I might add––he said, "You’re pretty good for a youngster. Did you used to race competitively?"

"Yea, I did," I said, referring for the first time, of what I’m sure will be many times, to my career in the past tense. It sounded weird, but I'll get used to it.

"Thanks a lot," he said. "I needed that. I don't get to race much any more. Maybe I'll see you out here again sometime."

"I hope not. You had me worried there for a while."

"Yea. You know, I don't usually get warmed up for about ten miles or so. I'm more of a long-distance guy. A couple more miles and I might've had you."

"Well, I was only using my right leg." I replied. "Next time I might have to use both."

"I was only using my right leg, too," he said, "and I’m left-legged."

"All right, then. I hope I’ll see you out here sometime."

"You certainly will. You better keep up with your exercising, sonny."

"You just worry about yourself, old dude. I'll be ready."

It’s funny how these things happen. Three days out, and I'm reminded why I became a professional triathlete. My love of pure competition guided me here. Three days out and I'm reminded that it will never leave. Competition is everywhere, and the best part is that I don' t even have to seek it out. It will find me. And it doesn't take much. Win or lose, 12 short minutes of hammering gave two people a healthy dose of satisfaction.

I realize, however, that I won’t have as many opportunities as I've had in the past to compete. That's why from now on, I'm gonna take it where I can get it. If that means spanking some old dude . . . so be it.

It's all relative, I suppose. The young guys kicking my butt the past couple of years certainly won’t be cutting me any slack in the future. And I know the rest of you out there won’t hesitate to spank me when you get the chance . . . especially the clydesdales.

But let me just tell you one thing. It's not going to be easy. You may walk over, but you're gonna be limping back.