Tatoo'd Ladies

There are worlds within worlds, we all know it, and we've always suspected that some of those worlds would astound us if we caught a glimpse of them down an alley one night, or surprised one in a sunny field, or, in Amanda and Liz's case, came upon one in full swing in the bus lot at 9th and H. The Trapeze School of New York, now in Washington, DC, is just such a world teeming with squads of clear-eyed, timber-thighed folk - lean as brisket, beaming from swings, beckoning like sirens.

Where do all they come from for god's sake? It seems there are worlds within worlds within worlds. Liz's teacher, Everett (which made her chuckle), was wearing nothing but Ray Bans, piratical hair, and, orange camo tights when he swung into view beneath her, storm clouds and sun boiling up 12th Street, and Chinatown wheeling over his oak-leafed bottom making her think of Death and pumpkins as he grabbed her well-chalked forearms, quietly said, "straighten your legs," and took her with him off the bar. At 24, he had spent six years in Israel training tigers.

The woman who signed us in, whose eyes were the color of Windex, had until recently trained dolphins in Baltimore. The girl with watermelon-pink hair and cannonball delts who winched us like freight hauling on pulleys yelling "Let the back-flip do YOU!" and "...Knees UP!....Release your HANDS...Arch BACK...STRONG hands...GOOOOOD!" was fresh (if you can call it that) from riding horses upside-down and bare-back in tiny circuses in Northern England. A woman at the gate sped along on a powder-pink Elite bike stand squirting Orange Vanilla Goo in her mouth with one hand and taking our waivers (it's nobody's fault but our own) with the other.

They're still calling the Metro stop "Gallery Place" for now, but A and L are feeling like Persephones just back from the Underworld. For P, one pomegranate seed, and you're never the same. For us, maybe it was the Goo.

Swim, Bike, Run: A Journey of a Thousand Miles

The Nation's Triathlon Claws its way Beneath the Memorial Bridge

Yesterday, we lined the rivers and roads joining the Lean, the Toned, and the Chicklet-Toothed whooping it up at the Washington DC Triathlon at 7 AM on Sunday 9/13.

Agog by the horrible purity, health, and beauty of the spectators and wishing I had a) not led a life so utterly rent by profligacy and sun damage, b)thought I would look "rakishly outdoorsy" with my hair this way, and/or c) could climb into my own naso-labial folds and hide.

Weirdly Nice Legs

But,blinded as I may have been by the gloss of hair and eye all around us, B (who is damned glossy himself) and I yelled "Go! Go! Go!" and beamed encouragement to the friends and utter strangers who made up the 7,000 people between the ages of 18 and 67 who swam the Potomac beneath the benevolent bulk of the Lincoln Memorial, leaping out of the river like salmon unzipping their wetsuits to bike 24 miles, slaloming through curves, glittering like herring schools in their alien-headed helmet as they all scythed through the Washington Monument loop. Then leaping off, running in, by the thousands! stashing bikes, changing shoes, and running the last six miles in a big generous loop that thoughfully toured the Smithsonian Castle, the Mall, the Reflecting Pool all under the dying elms and autumn oaks, smashing acorns that smell like earth now that it's September in Washington.

Heading out for the run, the last leg (In many ways. You can imagine.), people were setting off through the gate, chewing open Goo packets, gnawing oranges rind and all, sometimes just jogging along eating bananas bouncing along with the draped peel gently slapping their wrists. Some were trying to make their legs "stop doing 'bike'" and "start doing 'run';" some were really striding out of the gate, strong as big animals striding, upright like hood ornaments, and one guy plugged by taking tiny tiny shuffling steps and called out to the throng lining the road: "This is the only gear I've got. This is it. I'm in High," and away he went.

Every day has its ups and downs. Hearing him, I felt like even I could muscle out a triathlon, even though I have a hard time finishing a 5K right now and swimming in the Potomac only makes me think of words like "decomposition," "typhoid", and "missing teen." Poco a poco and a journey of a thousand miles, but it's hard not to panic. It is a fine thing to know your gear and love it.