GSC

I've always said I would never be one of those parents who would push their child into a sport or hobby, and then cart them from competition to competition, from practice to practice, spending hours on the road, eating while trying to find the local track, gym, or skating rink. Not that I don't want my children to be successful, but just because I did not want to be one of those moms who could only talk about Johnny's success at the latest football clinic, or Missy's endeavors at the Boston Ballet summer school, while neglecting basic things like housecleaning, laundry, and the other family members.

And I have stuck to that promise. Sort of anyway. May God bless our children, but neither one has shown any kind of interest (or ability, actually) in becoming the next Lance Armstrong or Eli Manning. Since they are more likely to become the next Gene Simmons or random tormented artiste, there are really no worries there. No, what's interesting, is that as of about a year, I am the official sponsor to my husband's endeavors in the Georgia State Mountainbike Championship. And when I say official, I mean official. When he filled out his paperwork, he had to put down a sponsor, and since he's yet to find a local Krispy Kreme or Starbucks to give him money for his attempts, he put down little old me. It's very cute since it means that every time he wins, I'm just waiting for them to call out his name, and add; "Sponsored by...uhm..his wife."

But in reality, it means that I have become the mom, or well, wife, I did not want to be. I travel to almost every single competition, to keep my husband company, and help him out with directions, to provide moral support, the necessary nutritional supplies, and medical assistance. We have extensive discussions about energy bars versus gel packs, recovery methods, and training schedules. We spend inordinate amounts of time at the local bike store, and I am proud to say that I can now tell you, in detail, about the pros and cons of both hardtails and full-suspension bikes. We have spent the past months travelling to every corner of the state, sometimes turning the races into little weekends away, and at almost all occasions, leaving before the crack of dawn. I'm starting to recognize the other athletes and their spouses, and after our loved ones are done racing through the woods, we sit together and discuss their achievements, training schedules, and compare their chances at a medal. It's just like those moms I used to see at the hockey rink, discussing their sons' chances of making a college team, or those moms at the ballet school, who would debate which girl was most like to make Clara this year.

And you know what, it's really not as bad as I thought it would be. We've travelled to some of the prettiest parts of the state, and much to my delight, the mountainbiking crowd probably consist of the most liberal, live-and-let-live, let's go hug a tree people I have yet met in Georgia. We're actually heading out to another one tomorrow. It's only a ninety-minute drive, but because husband-dear is in the first wave, we will, once again, be leaving at a ridiculously early hour. It will be hot, insect-ridden, and I just know that the organizers will once again take two hours to get the results out, but I'm sort of looking forward to it.It will be a shame when the season ends. Maybe it's not too late to get the kids into soccer yet.