There are amazing things that people do with their lives in this world, I've seen all kinds. It is among the greatest joys in my life to witness these things, especially of those who I love so much.
Enter, my wife, Ashley Crossman. A 5’ 4" stealth killer of all things awesome, she has traveled the world extensively; bared our son Aiden and a Ph.D. dissertation simultaneously and exactly on schedule; founded a very successful chapter of the non-profit Girls on the Run; perfectly bared yet another bundle of awesomeness (yes, I’m talking about you Parker!); swam, biked, and ran 1000’s of miles over years and 100’s of trainings & races in the U.S. and abroad; all while readily capturing the heart of this very humbled man again and again every single day in the same impeccably steadfast way she takes on the matters of life, work, marriage and motherhood.
Because she’ll accept nothing short of full super hero status, it is this time that, despite my own accomplishments, I am severely humbled at the impressive initiative, dedication, and performance that Ashley is taking on training for the Ironman Coeur d’alene. And while that would be impressive enough for anyone on Earth, there’s something a lot more profound about what she’s accomplishing.
In the racing world there is a term, Ironman Widow(er) or Ironwidow(er) and this is a concept close to Ashley’s heart, very close. In fact, her weight training regimen also includes carrying the burden of this drive to balance it all. Truth be told, she’s killing it there too.
It would be enough to write about the accomplishments and successes of Ironman training alone, we could add that to the pile of all the other accomplishments and let it take its place among the other great stories of all those who have attempted similar feats. However, there is something particularly exceptional when a person really kills it… with style.
I would love to puff up my chest and take credit as a supporting husband, having pride in all the suffering required to help create an environment she can succeed in, but the truth is I can’t. One can call me supportive for any number of very loose reasons, but in all honesty I don’t have to be, she covers it all. The concept of being an Ironman Widower is as foreign to me as child birth.
While I’m sleeping, she’s running. Before I get up, she’s also got the boys fed, ready, and off to school. She takes on the demands of her work schedule, then takes on the demands of the boys again. While I’m working late, she’s to bed early. When the boys and I are playing games on lazy Saturday and Sunday mornings, she’s biking 100’s of miles and swimming dozens more. But at any given time of any given day, I look up and she’s there, present, and available.
At times I know she still feels like she’s falling short, common symptom of those achieving excellence. The actual reality is, she’s so smooth that we don’t even notice that she is accomplishing the truly exceptional. In the true style of a stealth killer of all things awesome, her boys are going to stand at the finish line watching her blaze across and wonder where that came from and how the hell did that just happen. In fact, I won’t be surprised if she’s flying with arms outstretched in front, a cape is flowing down her back.