I Think I Have a Calf Fetish

This past weekend I did the Patriot 1/2 Ironman Distance Triathlon. I think with each race, you learn something about yourself. Because the distance is relatively long, you have plenty of time to strategize, suffer, laugh, get sick and more importantly, think.

As any competitive person, I am always checking out the competition. Who looks fit? Who have I raced against at other events? Who has a sweet looking bike with the sexy race wheels? Who are the cyclist and who are the runners? Most of this doesn't matter in the big picture. You race against yourself and the course. You control everything you do in a race.

Well, on my 13.1 mile run, I had a revelation. I think I have a calf fetish. First, get your mind out of the gutter and bear with me. Second, I have been told I have very nice legs...a pair that any woman would love to have. Third, I am referring to legs and not animals.

But, let me back up a little. As many of you know, when doing a triathlon, not only are we scantily dressed, but they mark our bodies with permanent markers. Your race number goes on the shoulder, your thigh and sometimes on your hand. Then, they ask you one question that most people hate to answer: "How old are you?" Not only how old you are, but how WILL you be on December 31st. (By the way, for the first time, I had to say "40")

The answer, my friend, goes on the back of your calf.

Tall, short, thin, fat, male, female, it doesn't matter, I am checking out your calf. Forget the bike or your team uniform, I'm secretly checking out that little number on the back of your lower leg.

Back to the run. As I was struggling along, I realized I never really talk with any one or look others in the eye. As I catch someone, I am looking one place and one place only, their calf. Are they in my age group? If so, I got 'em. If not, this old man is passing you!!

When I hear those footsteps creeping up from behind, I look straight ahead. As they pass, a quick, subtle glance down and to the right tells me everything I need to know. You are either my competition or someone I hope does well. That stupid little number on your calf is my driving force as I race to the finish line.

At the Patriot Triathlon, I heard those deafening footsteps. I was hoping he was some young buck who was just running me down. I looked down and to the right and there it was. The number "41"! He was kicking my butt with 2 miles left. I was ahead of him for 68.3 miles!! And now he catches me?

As hard as I try, I can't help looking at calves. Yes, there are many shapes and sizes. Some hairy and some not so much. Some defined and some just there. But they are all calling me to look at them. The tell me to go faster, not to worry, to push it or just hang on for dear life.

So, I guess unless USAT decides not to put people ages on their calf, I guess I will keep on looking, just like you do. Scary, but true.