Sticks and Stones

This isn't directed at any one person or particular incident. It's simply a distillation of my feelings to the negativity I've received over the years from judgmental passers-by who sneer at my size, elitist endurance jerks who don't believe in sharing the sport with people like me and the anonymous asshats who send snide little emails and private comments calling me things like "selfish," "fatty" and "goddess of uglyness." [sic]


So. You think I'm fat. And ugly. And don't belong in this sport. Or, apparently, life in general. And you get a kick out of saying so while hiding behind the anonymity of the internet.

***

Maybe you're the anonymous asshat who's wittiest comment to date has been "wow, you're really fat." Or are you one of the guys who sits on the beach and talks loudly about how fat girls shouldn't be allowed to wear bathing suits?

Well, I'm sorry you feel that way. Saaay... are you busy? I'm thinking you've got some time on your hands, seeing as how your afternoon plans seem be sitting making fun of other people. How about we go for a little swim? See that buoy? No, dear, that's the starting line. Squint a little and look at the middle of the lake. Yes, THAT one. Race ya...

What's that? You can't swim? So, what you're saying is all you know how to do is sit on a sandy towel and cultivate a nice case of skin cancer. Well, that's a shame. I guess I'll see you after my workout. Yes, it's a mile loop around that buoy. And ya know what? If I'm feelin frisky I'll do two. You're more than welcome to join me.

***

Maybe you're the guy from the bike shop who made a crude comment about the size of my ass and tried to sell me the biggest, thickest, tackiest spring-loaded gel seat in the store after I spelled out what kind of racing bike I ride and the exact kind of saddle I was shopping for.

Or maybe you're one of the beer-swilling porch-sitters, poking your buddy in the arm, pointing and laughing as I ride by.

Doesn't matter, I say let's go for a ride. Go ahead, finish your beer while you dust off the ol' bike. I'll wait. Let's keep it short - 20 miles or so? How's about I meetcha at the top of that hill?

Yes, THAT hill. Yes, on your bike.

So, what you're saying is you've never tried to grind up an 8% grade into a 20 mph headwind in 95 degree heat with your heart rate spiking over 200? Well then, let me show you how it's done.

***

Maybe you're one of the shirtless gazelles who snicker as you lap me on the local trail. Or one of the jerks who doesn't believe I deserve to call what I do running because you and your long-ass legs happen to be able to walk faster than my 5K pace. Maybe you're even one of those asshats who publicly proclaims people like me shouldn't be allowed to sign up for races.

You know what, how about you spend a 5K in my shoes? I ran my first mile at 120 pounds overweight, but I'll make it easy on you. How about we strap a 40 pound bag of dog food around your waist and see how fast you can hoof it around that trail now? And don't slow down to walk up the hills! You wouldn't want some asshole to laugh at you for needing a break.

NOW. Do it after a swim and a bike ride. In 90 degree heat. Oh, and you better carry your own damn water because the aid stations will be out by the time your ass gets there.

Yes, that's what it feels like for me. Except double the extra weight. And yes, I still stick with it. Now tell me I don't deserve to fucking be out here.

***

It would be a simple thing for someone as soft-hearted and sentimental as I to turn these people, these incidents and these attitudes into a personal crisis of faith. A never-ending, confidence-sucking drama that would leave my poor Pollyanna spirit sobbing and broken-hearted and incapable of going on in the face of such opposition.

And there was a time when I might have done just that. In fact, I'd be lying if I said I still didn't have moments of weakness. But they're just that - moments. And not a one of them has had a thing to do with the black outpourings from the anonymous asshats of the world.

My dark times will never again come from a petty external source. I'm stronger than that now. I believe in myself, and in my self-worth and the only one who can hurt me is me. If I disappoint myself then I'll deal with the consequences. But I refuse to allow anyone to affect me, to shoot poison arrows declaring I've failed to meet some private standard they clearly have some issue with themselves.

I'm choosing not to get angry with these people. I choose instead to be grateful for their assistance in my metamorphosis. They only empower me and strengthen my resolve.

I pity them, and the sad lives they must lead, if their pleasure comes from showering others with pain.

So I say to them all: if it makes you feel better, then judge me. Say what you like. My response will always be "meet me at the starting line." You name the race. I'll see you at the finish with a handshake and a cold bottle of water. And I'll do it in spite of a chronic illness, two bad knees, a bum shoulder and a baby at my breast.

Whether or not the clock says I got there first, I'll still have beaten you.

Because I'm stronger than your random acts of hate, and your words have no power over me.