TALES FROM THE BARSTOOL
By: Clint Lien

Mid-Life Crisis

I'm currently in the throws of a mid-life crisis. It's not so bad though. I don't think much harm will come of it. While other men in my position usually quit their jobs, turn to drugs and alcohol, leave their wives and hook up with women half their age, these are not really options for me. I'm a writer (read unemployed), I'm not married and 19-year old girls don't interest me too much. Dating someone young enough to be my offspring strikes me as more than a little creepy, and then there's the little matter of conversation. What would we possibly have to talk about? I've already tried the drugs and alcohol thing but lacked the constitution to indulge beyond moderation, and I don't have a wife to leave. She had the good sense to leave me seven years ago. So I have opted to go another route and, with little forethought or reflection, I signed up to do the Ironman Triathlon. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

For those of you who don't know, this is the survival event that you've seen on Wide World of Sports with the competitors crawling across the finish line while their bodily fluids flow from every orifice and rabid fans shout and cheer like Romans in the coliseum. The difference here is they really seem to want you to survive. The contest consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike ride and a full marathon run - 26.2 miles. You must complete the event in less than 17 hours in order to get an official time. Not too many people have died doing it and the few who have, mostly expire in the swim. 1,500 to 2,000 swimmers plunging into the drink at the sound of a canon makes for some hyper-anxiety and more than a few kicks in the head. The winner of the race will be showered and on a flight back to wherever he lives before I cross the finish line so, with that in mind, I won't be one of the brave in the front line. I'll let the crowd disembark and then set off. With that, I'll avoid the obvious hazards.

Committing to this has made for some changes in my life and the jury is still out as to whether they're good or not, but my gut tells me they are. In fact my gut has had a lot to say on the matter. I've dropped twenty pounds since I signed up for the race more than seven months ago. I know that sounds great, and I'm glad for it, but I must say that one of the reasons I decided to do this damn race was to increase my cache (remember, this is a mid-life crisis thing). It was August of 2001 when I signed up for the Penticton Ironman. I was thirty-eight years old, single, overweight and spending too much time in bars. I figured getting into this would be a brilliant way to remedy most of these concerns. So now it's a half a year later and like I said, I've lost twenty pounds. I'm spending less time in bars and I'm hanging out with some great looking women. So what's the problem? First of all, the only person who noticed that I'd lost the weight was one of the guys down at the bar. He made the assumption that my reduction in stool time and my loss of weight was due to a health concern. He bought me a two-pound bag of licorice. I'd biked an hour and a half that day. I ate the licorice.

My clothes don't fit any more. I feel like some kind of Gen X kid in his baggy jeans. I'm just missing the skateboard and the goofy goatee. So the weight loss hasn't gotten me any modeling offers, but maybe another twenty pounds will get the phone ringing.

The fact that I'm spending less time at the pubs introduces the dilemma of where to find the inspiration to write this column. After all, it is "Tales from the Barstool." I suppose I could change it to "Tales from the Bicycle Seat," but let me tell you - three hours on a bike seat does not inspire literature: a hot bath and gel pads maybe, but not much else.

And what about meeting some nice fit young lady to cure my singleness? That's not working out so well either. It seems I've joined the wrong triathlon club because, while they're a great bunch to train with, they're all half my age and I've already addressed the issue of dating...uh...teenagers. These kids call me sir and cheer when I finish a work-out - not because of my great time and Herculean effort but, I suspect, simply because I survived. The few gals who are closer to my age - by this I mean within a decade, have far finer specimens to choose from than me. The fellows in the club could all get work with Michelangelo. So I'm still single and, dammit, I'm still 38.

Oh well, as far as a crisis goes, this is a pretty good one. I'm enjoying the journey and I'm looking forward to race day. I'm actually giving some thought to doing the race again in 2003. I figure I'll have some experience under my shrinking belt and I'll be forty. That puts me into the old guys age group and I bet you I could do pretty good there. By then the crisis will have passed and I'll do the race just for the sake of doing the race.

Reactions? Comments? Write me at barfly@netlistings.com