Sometime around May of 2010, I was standing in the general manager’s office of Equinox Westwood. I had just gone through the employee time trial for a shot at winning an entry in the prestigious Escape From Alcatraz Triathlon. My bike wasn’t calibrated exactly right, and my overall time slid below the national top 25 that would have gotten me into the race. I was begging this guy to understand what I was saying, that I was completely screwed by the computer (which was very true), and even rode the leg again on another bike to prove it. I was begging him to do the right thing, because I deserved it, because I needed it, because I was convinced that racing Alcatraz would somehow change my life. Somehow, I got in.
It’s May again and I’m about to go back to Alcatraz, the very thing that started it all. This year, to make damn certain there was no confusion on my invite, I somehow pulled in the Equinox National #1 time the night before the LA Marathon. That means a couple of things. First, after some TOUGH races, it was nice to see my name next to a number like that. Second, and far more important, it means that everyone I beat is hopefully saying something to themselves like I’m going to beat THAT fucker, especially the guy who lost by 1 second. I hope he’s pissed. I hope I can find him out there, shake his hand and then battle him. Honestly, all I’ve ever wanted to be in this world is THAT fucker, so it should be a fun, fast race. I need one. I’m really looking forward to it.
My whole life, I’ve been a somewhat high level athlete, but an athlete second. There has always been something else driving, something else incendiary inside. In the past, I’ve looked back on stretches of my life and deemed them not acceptable against the standards I’ve set before destroying my collected comfort by stepping into new worlds, usually about a dozen at a time, before returning, winding my clock, and starting anew. I mention this because Alcatraz has made me peek over my shoulder, wrap the year into a single box, and examine. It’s been a serious 12 months.
But I don't support indulgent satisfaction. Or falling off. Ever.
