Before I get into the down & dirty of Xterra coverage, I need to say a special thank you.
Yesterday I received the news that I woman I love dearly, Barbara Waugh, passed away. I knew to expect this news any day, as she was battling a cruel cancer and had exhausted all treatment options. Yet being prepared does nothing to soften the blow of that final pronouncement, nor does it lessen the sense of disbelief.
I embraced Barb like a second mother (which is saying a lot, because my actual mother is pretty darn incredible). We met only a few years ago, but her impact was immediate. Barb taught me, above all else, never to take myself too seriously, to latch onto the humor in life and ride it out for all it’s worth. She was goofy and playful and never shy, willing to walk on the wild side if it inspired a good laugh. The first time I met her was at a party at her son’s house, where she begged one of his handsome 30-something friends "Take off your shirt!!" I’m sure she was fully armed with dollar bills, had the striptease progressed.
Barb accompanied us when her son and I traveled to New Zealand to compete in the 2005 Ironman. It was there she earned the title of IronMom, coddling and caring for us and cheering like mad on race day. As I headed out on the bike course, climbing the brutal steep hill out of town, there was Barb running up beside me shouting "I love you Holly!" I actually had to choke back tears, overwhelmed by her support. Heading into the run, there was Barb again, this time flanked by an army of drunken Kiwis whom she had enlisted to chant each of our names. It didn’t matter that they were there to support a different racer, Barb had turned them into our personal cheer squad for the day.
I really don’t think she ever understood the appeal of pushing our bodies and minds through such an event - in fact I think it worried her greatly - but regardless, there she was, sharing in our nervousness, excitement and accomplishment. Her own nerves were evidenced by the video footage she shot of the swim start. It had a nausea-inducing shakiness that rivaled the Blair Witch Project. She was so excited once the race got going that she dropped the camera to her side and, forgetting to turn it off, entertained us all with an hour or so of prime asphalt close-up.
At the post-race awards banquet, we were slightly dismayed by the meager ration of one wine bottle and a smattering of beer cans per table. Determined to give us an adequate celebration, Barb paid the very young children who were assisting the caterers for each additional can of Foster’s they could pilfer from neighboring tables. We ended up with more booze than we could possibly consume. She also told each of these young boys and girls, regardless of their name, that she had a brother or son or daughter named the exact same, giving them a unique connection to this kooky blonde lady from America. Dishonest, perhaps, but then again haven’t we all lied for beer at some point in our lives?
I’m at a loss for understanding Barb’s early death. It goes against everything I feel in my gut about the rightness of the world, trusting in fate and embracing that which you cannot control. Instead I can only fathom her life, and what it taught me about time and significance. I think about how often we triathletes obsess on the minutiae of minutes, our detailed splits, the time on the finish clock, pushing for a PR. Sure, time can be important, but it can also be meaningless, particularly when considering someone whose time was cut unfairly short. At the end of the day, does it really matter if you race a 9:59 Ironman compared to a 10:01? What’s more significant is the journey along the way, how you carry yourself, who you inspire, who you make laugh and smile. What matters is the lasting effect of a life well lived, regardless of when the clock stops.
So thank you Barb. My life is brighter, my smile wider from knowing you.