the great leslie

The triathlon is Sunday. I'm so nervous; I've been giggling all day. Now, it could also be that a new 7/11 opened down the street from my office, and we all had slurpies, and I got a slurpie headache, and it was at the EXACT SAME TIME as my boss got a slurpie headache, and there were also slim jims and sweettarts. 7/11 really created some excitement here at the New York Sun. And it's Thursday, which is our Friday, and is thus the eve of the weekend.

But, also, everyone is talking to me about the race and I'm nervous that I will a) sleep through my 6:23 am start time, b) get elbowed in the mouth during the swim, c) crash on my bike, d) pass out during the run, or e) die (as suggested by the managing editor of the Sun: "It's going to be ninety degrees ... someone is going to die.")

I need to go to the bar, I think. To calm my nerves. That's what the NYC Triathlon handbook suggests. Or that's what it should suggest.

Last night I watched part of "Secrets of the Dead," a television show on PBS. This episode tracked one scholar's quest to unravel the myth of the Amazonian warriors from Herodotus's and Homer's writings.

Part of the quest was digging up graves. Archeologists found several Russian graves dating back to the Iron Age. And in these graves, women warriors were discovered. Or, rather, the bones of warrior women. As one of graves was undug, a cache of arrow heads fell out, which was immensely pleasing to those excavating the site, and the arrowheads (and the remains of the warrior) were quickly removed and cataloged. And I, not very scientifically, thought: "Those are the warrior's arrow heads! She's had them with her for thousands of years! You can't just steal them!"

(I was annoyed at this program because of the pomp of the scholar who'd been working on tracking the genetic line of the Amazonian women. When she discovered a genetic link to a nomadic tribe in Mongolia — she'd had the DNA of the corpses and the nomads tested and compared — and she made some reference to how the nomads had no idea of their lineage. And I just thought: "Yeah, they do. They've known the whole time. It's you that made the discovery. They had nothing to discover.")

But, and this is a question I've often asked myself: why do we bury the dead at all? Is it not, perhaps partially, to maintain the memory of a person, or even a people? Wouldn't the warrior priestess, who fought her whole life, presumably for what she believed in, want to be discovered, want everyone to know just how many arrows she earned in her life?

To rest in peace or to inform latter generations — even if it means the bones end up in some cardboard box somewhere? I don't know the answer. I only know I was saddened to see the warrior lose her arrow head, especially after so much time.

After my swim this morning, I got a bagel and coffee and walked to Riverside Park, where I was looking forward to eating breakfast on a nice, shady bench. But as soon as I unwrapped my whole wheat with scallion cream cheese, the wild life started to appear. Two squirrely squirrels all but attacked me and, I SWEAR, tried to steal my breakfast. One of them even jumped up on to my bench!

They pushed me out, and I went to another bench. Again, as soon as I brought out my food, birds were there, waiting for crumbs. Many people feed the animals in the park, which is why they are so quick to come up to any human with food. They aren't scared, and they won't go away. But, who can blame them? In New York, you have to take what you can get.

This is my brother, my father, and my grandfather, circa 1983. So Cute!

My friends Mary and Bryan move to Maine tomorrow. Their yellow Penske truck is probably all packed and parked in Carroll Gardens tonight, their last night in Brooklyn. They roll out in the morning, on their way to Portland, and an apartment overlooking the Casco Bay.

Mary and I went to Waterville High School together, in Waterville, Maine. She and I were doubles partners on the varsity tennis team. We also graduated from graduate school at Columbia on the same day, and we celebrated with our families that night at a little restaurant on the Upper West Side (Epices, where another high school friend, Cherie, worked for several years before she moved back to Waterville).

We had a drink in Brooklyn last week, Mary and I, and she gave me a present: a Maine state flag. I opened the plastic CVS bag and knew exactly what it was as soon as I saw and touched the dark blue nylon.

'Dirigo' ('I lead'), the state motto, arches over a pine tree and moose, with a sailor and a farmer on either side. Mary said her parents flew this particular flag over the state capital in Augusta on her 26th birthday. She has the word 'dirigo' tattooed on her wrist.

Bryan told Mary she couldn't have the Maine flag up in their Maine apartment, as she had in her Brooklyn apartment. And so she gave it to me (actually, it's more of a long-term loan).

This was a most touching gift; I love it very much. And I hung it above my bed, where it will stay until I have my own yellow truck to pack and drive home to the Pine Tree State.