Sidelines or the Back of the Pack?

Over the past thirteen years, I've spend a fair amount of time watching my kids exercise while I am on the sidelines.  I often thought of the fabulous shape I'd be in if I exercised while they were, but sadly, I rarely did.

Given that I am often a spectator, when I get the chance to participate, I do.  While under no circumstances would I join the Boy on the soccer pitch, there are other activities where I don't want to sit and watch the rest of my family have fun.  And yet, my participation is becoming more challenging as everyone gets older.  The kids are becoming more capable and more courageous, and I worry if I am in good enough shape to keep up.  The kids are becoming exponentially more athletic, whereas my improvement curve is fairly flat.  I also worry about injury.

My mom told me once when I was young never to marry a man who likes to watch sports on television.  My dad will occasionally watch a game, but he is not the type to plug into whatever game is on, knowing nothing about squash or caring about Northwest Missouri State's basketball team.  So I took her advice, which seemed wise at the time.  My husband doesn't watch much television at all, which is fine with me.  The downside is that my anti-couch potato husband refuses to sit still.

My adrenaline junkie husband encourages the kids to try new things, mostly because he wants to try them, too.  Last summer, we went to Whistler.  We went zip lining, downhill mountain biking and white water rafting.  (When I suggested canoeing or trail biking, I got raised eyebrows for a reply, suggesting those activities were for wimps.)  I got a little nervous about all of these things, but sucked it up and was a good soldier.  Ironically, the worst part was the Grouse Grind, a hike up a mountain outside of Vancouver, B.C..  I thought it would be fine given it did not require a helmet, a harness, elbow pads, a pre-activity safety lecture, and/or an insurance waiver.  The night before our ill-fated hike, we went to a very nice restaurant.  The waiter was in his mid-thirties and looked relatively fit.  British Columbia is an outdoorsy kind of place, and it seems that many people ski, hike, bike or participate in some other kind of outdoor activity.  This waiter seemed to fit the profile, so I asked him about the Grouse Grind.

"There is no way I would do that again.  I did it once and I almost died."

Great.

So, we did the Grouse Grind the next day because my anti-couch potato, adrenaline junkie husband insisted.  I was feeling a mix of curious and nervous, but figured I would take it slow.  I was mostly worried that my knees would give out midway or I'd have a stroke, and then I'd be stuck.  The Grouse Grind is one-way uphill trip.  The path is narrow and heavily trafficked.  Once you are on, you can't go back down.  Once you make it to the top, you have to take a gondola down.

So we get to the Grouse Grind, and you can see from this picture who is excited to do this and who couldn't care less.

I stopped to take a picture at the beginning of the hike and they were gone.  I didn't see them until about halfway up.  I ran out of water, and I called Jack and asked him to wait for me.

I was left in the dust out of the gate on the Grouse Grind.

"But I don't know where you are.  How can I wait?"  Grrrr.  You aren't suppose to leave your hiking companions.

The next line was even better.  "I had to keep up with the Boy."  Nice.  Even though it was true, it was not cool that he blamed it on the Boy.

"Where is my daughter?" I asked.

"I don't know," he replied.  Strike three.

I will have this conversation forever recorded in my mind and will use it in case I ever need to call a divorce attorney.  "Your husband left you in the dust on the Grouse Grind, lost your daughter and blamed it on your son?  Excellent.  Tell me what you want..."

I was pissed.  I asked him for the car keys and seriously considered leaving him in Canada and driving back to Seattle when I got to the bottom.  But I didn't.  I was just super mad.  For twenty four hours until Jack conceded he was wrong.  Why was I so mad?  This was supposed to be a family vacation, which means it was for everyone in the family, not just the super athletic.  It also became very apparent that I was now the weak link, the slow poke.  Me, the one who created this family, was now forgotten and shuffled to the back of the line.

Eight months later, we were back in Canada, this time skiing at Whistler.  I am a fairly mediocre skier, but I enjoy it and am content skiing blues and greens at a slow pace.  I am not a big fan of skiing too fast or out of control as I don't want to get hurt.  I've see five year olds crash and then bounce up like nothing happened.  I don't think I'll be that lucky.  We have twenty some odd steps to get up to my house from the street.  A broken leg, sprained ankle or twisted knee would mean spending a few weeks at the Silver Cloud Inn down the street while my family did all of their own cooking and laundry for a few weeks.  Plus, I was to ski another day.

That wee tiny green dot on the left side of the slope is Jack.  The kids are already probably already at the bottom waiting for us.

So I have to decide: would I rather be in the game, in the slow zone, and the worst player on team McGuire, or would I rather be on the bench?  While I am skiing the blues and greens, my family will ski the black runs on the same lift.  They will occasionally venture off to steeper runs, while I stay in my comfort zone.  They were off on the Whistler Bowl, some crazy steep run, while I was having a mocha at the lodge.  Which is fine with me.  I know my limitations, but that isn't going to keep me out of the game.

It also helps that Jack is joining me at the back of the pack, left in the dust by the kids when it comes to skiing.  Already, they are both better than us, and there is no way for us to reasonably catch up.  He knows this.  "There will soon come a day when they will have to do the steep stuff by themselves," he said, tired and a little scared after the Whistler Bowl.

I'll welcome him to join me for a mocha.

Me on the Dave Murray downhill run, skiing back to Creekside.  Jack documented me on a black run.  Yes, we both have the same color ski jackets.   For the record, I got mine first.