In nine days I leave for Greensboro, North Carolina, to compete in US Masters National Championships. Aden will race alongside me while Rob and William compose our cheering section and driving team. From Denver to Greensboro we fly over 1,400 miles and, more problematic, two time zones. Prepping for 6:30 a.m. warmup and an 8:00 a.m. meet start on the East Coast has required rolling my alarm back from 7:00 to 5:30 here in Denver, a shift my body resents with every fiber.
Each morning I drag myself from bed to silence the alarm before it pulls Rob beyond his going-back-to-sleep threshold, trying to convince myself this adjustment matters—that acclimating somewhat to Eastern time before competing will make a difference. After six months of demanding training in the gym and pool, I refuse to let sleep deprivation or jet lag compromise my events on day one.
This morning I sprawled on the TV room floor wrapped in the purple afghan Aden made for me, struggling through PT exercises for hips and back, wondering if more sleep would serve me better than this forced adjustment. Rob thinks rest trumps everything, but I have nightmares of flopping in my 50 fly—first event on the first day—because my creaky joints, foggy brain, and fast-twitch muscles are still sleeping while I'm supposed to be racing.
Here's what I know: with all the weighty troubles splashed across headlines these sunny spring mornings, a swim meet represents nothing more consequential than a family reunion and a chance to test whether short, fast reps and heavier weights have actually made me faster. I'm chasing my fastest Masters times, or at least my fastest in a decade, despite the betrayal of aging. The pursuit feels simultaneously urgent and absurd—serious enough to warrant 5:30 a.m. alarms yet trivial against the backdrop of global crisis.
But perhaps that's the point. We need these pockets of meaning we can control, these small arenas where effort translates to measurable outcome. We need family road trips and the particular nervousness that comes before stepping onto the blocks. We need to care about small things while the world burns, not as escape but as tether—proof that ordinary life persists, that we can still chase personal goals while holding awareness of larger suffering.
At least the early wake-ups gift me extra morning hours for writing, cleaning, PT, and planning—small victories that accumulate like training yards in the pool. And possibly a nap after lunch, which at my age might be the real competitive advantage. In nine days I'll stand behind the blocks in Greensboro, William and Rob somewhere in the stands, Aden in her own race nearby. The alarm will have done its work. The training will speak for itself. And for a few days, we'll inhabit that strange space where something as inconsequential as a swim race feels like the most important thing in the world—because we've decided it matters, and that decision alone is enough.
