Am I a Sourdough?

Back when the gold miners were pouring into Alaska in the 1900's those who lived in the state long enough to toughen themselves to its remote location, wilderness, and inclement weather considered themselves Sourdoughs.  It was sort of a status symbol among Old Timers to be called a Sourdough as opposed to a measly, know nothing Cheechako, a newcomer to the Last Frontier.  Even today, especially in politics, you'll hear people flaunt "a lifetime Alaskan" or "lived in Alaska for 35 years" like that in itself will swing the vote in their direction.

Even though I've lived up here for 18 1/2 years skiing, snowmachining, boating, fishing, biking, camping, hiking, building cabins, etc., I've never spent a lot of energy concerning myself as to whether I was a Sourdough or a Cheeckako, until this past winter. Seeing as I was whipping myself into decent shape, I decided to do a Half Ironman triathlon (1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run) and after exploring options, I concluded the amply named Sourdough Triathlon in Fairbanks, AK was the race that worked.  It was a cheap entry fee, convenient as it the only one of this length in the state, and I liked the name, Sourdough Triathlon.  Little did I realize its name would haunt me.  About a month ago, I ended up with two flat tires in the pouring rain because I crossed the road and hit a pothole, while avoiding some dogs that I was afraid off.   As I was sitting under a big cottonwood changing out my tires and whining about the rain, cold, big mean dogs, I couldn't help but ask myself, "Am I a Sourdough?"

I went over to a friend's house to practice swimming
in a cold lake and taking the wetsuit off.

Whether I'm a Sourdough Triathlete, I guess I'll find that out on Saturday and in the meantime, I'm crossing my fingers for no mean dogs or flat tires!