Mourning fading body markings

My race #176.

I hate to admit it, but I become a little sad when my body markings from a triathlon begin their inevitable fade.

After all of the race belts, heart rate monitors and ball caps have been stripped from us, clean, dry clothes have replaced our damp, sporty tri suits and we've moved on to watering the vegetable garden instead of a state park lake watering us, those markings continue to serve as that last reminder that can still cling to us of what we've just accomplished.

During my post-race shower, I do lather-up my arm and calf where a race volunteer painted my race number and age, respectively, on my skin at 6 a.m.; I just don't work hard to completely remove the ink, scrubbing a little less on those spots than on the rest of my body.

Me speaking at a Chamber seminar.

Then, I make sure to at least wear a sleeveless top - a skirt, too, sometimes - to the office the following Monday. "Oops. I thought I got all of that off," I'll say with feigned alarm and indignity after a coworker will have pointed out "some black stuff" on my arm.

They'll now, of course, know to no longer do that.

What that temporary, numerical, black ink does for me after I've switched back to news girl Monday morning, is remind me of something unique and cool I did over the weekend. It reminds me of how different I am in this regard than most people I know; a state of being I used to be frightened of, but one I now warmly embrace in large part because of this sport.