Pour One Out for My Dead Homie

Forgive me for getting choked up about the demise of my stopwatch.  It was a Father's Day gift from Alisha a couple of years ago.  I've replaced its battery twice, and in recent months I've held the band together with a succession of rubber bands.  (The band is not replaceable. Thanks Timex for your eco-consciousness.)  The start/lap button is so worn down that if I push it wrong, it will spring out of its casing.

To some, a watch might seem like any other tool of the trade -- a water bottle, a pair of shoes, or swim goggles.  When they break or wear out, you simply replace them.  But the stopwatch is the only tool that accompanies me on every workout -- running, swimming, and biking.  It has recorded some of my greatest athletic achievements: a 5:35 mile, a 19:07 5K, and a 67:18 10-miler.  It has also recorded some bitter disappointments: an olympic tri 12 seconds slower than the previous year, and a swim split that didn't improve despite months of work.  But my stopwatch is objective, fair, and merciless. 

It's my only true competition in every event.

It was the alarm that woke me up every morning for two years.  It was my cookie timer, my bread timer, and my "time-out" timer on many occasions.  It was a quiet signal to strangers in the conference room that I was a weekend warrior.  It held my wedding ring during my swims so that I didn't have to worry about the ring falling off my cold fingers.  I have used the sharp point on the buckle to open Christmas packages, pop balloons (sorry kids), and turn screws.  It has been covered in mud, mosquito repellant, sunscreen, and baby slobber.  It has prevented me from developing skin cancer on a gleaming white halo around my left wrist.  Its soft blue glow was always there for me in the darkest of nights, ready to tell me how late I was.

And so my Ironman watch recorded its last split today -- my second-fastest mile swim ever.  Another rubber band can't fix you this time, my friend.