For a good while now my (edit: ex) boyfriend has been badgering me about why I don’t race bikes, he being a completely obsessed race nerd and I being more on the explorer side of things despite my fitness and skill levels being race-quality (if I do say so myself). I even have to utilize threats to keep him from shaving his legs – I tell him that if he starts shaving, then I stop. So far this has resulted in an uneasy stalemate, but he’s still got his manly fuzz. And I – well, draw your own conclusions.

Anyway, the racing. I tried to explain to him that my competitive sports days are long over; my having dedicated the first quarter century (and more) of my life to pretty intense sports competition has made me lose taste for the whole thing. Or so I said.

Over the last two weeks we’ve done a road biking race and a team multi sport race. At one particularly intense moment in the multi sport race my other half observed “I notice you get a little competitive.”

Um. Yeah. And that’s why, for so long, I didn’t race. I didn’t need the increase in blood pressure. I saw no reason to torment myself with hard training, high hopes, disappointing results, hope-exceeding results and the accompanying must-repeat-performance-and-do-even-BETTER pressure.