As I write from my desk chair with an ice pack on each thigh, I am reminded of a quote attributed to Albert Einstein: “Two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity, and I’m not sure about the universe.”
Most certainly, in this case, the stupidity is all my own.
I am a bicycle racer. It’s a habit that began when I was 19. Young and strong with a need for speed and not nearly enough money to race motorcycles, I opted instead for human-powered cycling, and it’s been a good fit.
My wife is a runner. It’s a talent Kristin discovered after she took our teenage daughter to pick out a new set of trainers for cross country practice and ended up with a pair of her own. (I have since learned it is impossible for two women to go shoe shopping and arrive home with only one pair of shoes.)
Twenty years and dozens of pairs later, Kristin’s shoe habit continues to fuel a running career that has garnered a rack full of medals, thousands of photos and endless stories to prove how “fun” running can be.
This is where the stupidity comes in. I have been a constant supporter and witness to Kristin’s great achievements. When she laces up for a marathon, I am typically right there beside her in the line to the port-a-pot holding her sunglasses, iPod, and fancy little belt full of energy gels and tiny water bottles while she does her anxious stretches. Once the racing begins, I retreat to where I belong, the seat of a bicycle, upon which I crisscross neighborhoods of the host city to cheer on my racer from random street corners.
After the race comes a big party where every runner mugs it up with their pals while downing a burger, sipping a cold beer and recounting “crushing that killer hill at mile 19.” I’ve witnessed this celebration too many times not to wish it for myself.
Kristin sensed my weakness. She knew that a little nudge toward the right race, in the right place, with the promise of the right reward would push me over the edge.
“Hey, John, come look at this,” she said from her computer one evening. “It’s a trail race down in the state forest in November, where you get a cool beanie and a big bowl of soup at the finish. You should do it with me.”
In a moment proving Einstein’s wisdom, I acquiesced. I am now bound by love, honor and my own stupidity to jog, hike and eventually crawl 10 miles through the November forest for a stocking cap and bowl of bean soup. I’ve got all of eight weeks to train for it. Based on my humble beginnings, it’s looking like two full months of iced thighs. My stupidity is clearly infinite!
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.
