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You’re
pushing 50. Suddenly you realize that
running of any kind could make your uterus fall out. Forget about sprinting up and down the field
in ‘adult soccer league’ – that’s best left to those audaciously fit Brazilian
expats. Our bodies are beginning to stretch
and break at the tiniest hint of exertion. Full recovery from an hour of extreme exercise
takes time, a tub full of ice and four Advil.
Let’s
face it, our halcyon days of high school sports are over. It’s time for plan B.
Plan
B does not mean limiting yourself to race walking, bowling league and kegeling
just yet. Sustained activity might be beyond our reach, but there are still things
that our aging bodies can handle, like bungee jumping and zip lining. Rest assured; you can still do anything that
involves a harness or includes the word ‘meditation’.
I
admit that these new ‘sports’ aren’t really sports at all, since you aren’t beating
someone to a pulp with your superior skills.
But this is how you’re going to get your thrills now that your knees
have given out and your rotator cuff injury prevents you from shaving, (which
makes you look, and smell, like a French grandma).
I’ve
been trying some of these ‘alternative’ sports, but I’ve found them
lacking. I’m too claustrophobic for scuba
diving; rock climbing gives me wedgies; and ballroom dancing is better on TV. Nothing quite clicked until I stumbled upon winter sailing - or as it is more commonly
known by the wacko participants, frostbiting.
The
sport of frostbiting is ruled by a bunch of certifiable middle aged guys who race
their little dinghies (no euphemism intended) around in circles during the
coldest months of winter. They pretty
much sail in any weather – blizzard, fog, sleet, etc. They capsize, get rescued, and then do it
again.
This
is a hard core sport for people with more than one screw loose. How could it not be a hoot?
Here’s
how. The first thing I did after joining
the local fleet was go out to buy some gear.
This is an understatement. To
frostbite, you need the following: a dry
suit, dry gloves, dry boots, wool socks, sock liners, endless super-thermal base-camp
layers, multiple hats, a face mask for the really bad days, and a Sherpa to
carry you off the dock. Hint, if the
label has the words ‘waterproof’ and ‘to -5 degrees’, buy it. You won’t be sorry.
While
it is mostly men who frostbite (their frontal lobe is less developed), women are
always welcome to join up. In sailing
circles, the more people you can beat, the better, small children and women
included. Title IX has nothing to do
with it. Once you’re on a boat, you’re
all equal.
There
are many reasons why so few women choose to frostbite, in addition to the ‘aren’t
those guys nuts?’ excuse. Women don’t do
‘cold’ as well as men, despite the fact that we are generally better padded. Nor
are women compelled, like men, to get out of the house on weekends or go stir
crazy.
Women
are by nature stylish, and this is one ugly sport. Don’t expect to look cute. Or even female. Fully outfitted frostbiters look like Neil
Armstrong. I can understand how the lack
of pretty colors and prints could turn some women off. (But not the ones who want to brag about the
crazy tactical gybe during a pile-up at the leeward mark!)
Then
there’s the bodily function conundrum. There
is no way to pee once you are sealed into a dry suit. Women like to pee at will. It is one of our first
amendment rights. Women frostbiters have
to be able to hold it for about 4 hours.
This wouldn’t normally be a problem, but when a woman knows she can’t
pee, all she can think about is peeing. (Road
trips are agony.) This distracts us from
what we should be thinking about, which is beating the pants off the guys.
Frostbiting
is not a spectator sport, and women like to show-off as much as the next
guy. No one is going to freeze their
tail off on the dock just to watch an event from 300 yards away. But despite the lack of roaring fans and NBC
coverage, frostbiting is still oddly gratifying. There’s that survival high you get when you sail
out the other side of rogue 30 knot gust, or simply finish a race.
Then
there’s the post-race euphoria. If I can
still walk off the dock and into the bar at the end of the day, I feel like a
million bucks. Once I peel off my sweaty
layers and jump into a hot bath with a BIG glass of wine, I feel even better. And if I’m a really lucky woman, my husband has lit the fire and done the
laundry.
Now
that I frostbite, I finally understand why guys play golf on the weekend-
camaraderie, fresh air, and drinking. But
in frostbiting, you also get a heady, life-affirming rush. Golf? Eh,
not so much.
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