I’m a little distracted and scatterbrained today because I’ve been busy preparing for my first ever triathlon this Sunday. Or, more accurately, my biathlon. (The “bi” is because my friend Chelsea is doing the swimming part for me, not because I swing both ways.) (Although that’s something I’d definitely consider if one of the other racers is nice enough to give me a piggy back ride during the 5K.)
The reason I’m putting myself through this torture isn’t because I’m an elite athlete, or because I’m trying to challenge myself or even because I want to set a good example for my kids. No, it’s because I went to a party with a group of neighborhood women, drank too much wine and the next day found out they’d conned me into joining their triathlon team. Thank God they aren’t Civil War reenactors or I’d be gnawing hardtack and trying to assassinate General Grant with a rusty musket this weekend instead.
But even though I’m not much of a runner or a biker or a person who uses words like “hydrate,” I’ve still been trying to follow my daily training schedule of “Run Three Miles, Then Bike 12 Miles.”
Unfortunately, it usually turns out a little more like, “Sit On Ass and Screw Around on Twitter, Then Eat Licorice.”
Here’s some of my “training” from May 30th:
Yeah, I know that’s like a super hilarious tweet and all, but still. I’m not going to be laughing after I pass out on a hot Texas access road and have to have my padded bike shorts removed by paramedics with a crow bar, now am I? (Must remember to tweet that later.)
But even though I’m probably nowhere near ready to do this thing, you know what? You know what I’m going to do? I’m just going to suck it up and join my team at 6:30 a.m. for the race. (The team who, despite my repeated requests, refuses to accept a cool Tarantino-esque nickname like “The Vacuuming Vixens” or “Sassy Suburban Skank-Os.”)
Once I’m in the middle of the pack of two hundred fit women, I’m going to strap on my bike helmet that makes me look like the front man for Devo, choke down a gooey protein bar and loudly scream something all athlete-y like, “Let’s rock this joint out!” or “Good God, are my thighs ready to party or WHAT, people?” And then, after I’ve cycled 12 miles and run for three in the 100 degree Austin heat, I’ll take a big breath, draw upon all of my inner strength and try my very, very hardest to cross that wonderful finish line.
Without using the word “motherf&*@er” even once.
I’m pretty sure the swearing is a requirement. Hope it goes well…you’ll be thinking about signing up for another one before you even dry the sweat off your brow.
Neighborhood wine parties are EVIL. You’d think I would have learned my lesson after being conned into a January 1st Atlantic Ocean dunk after a few appletinis. Nope. I too have been conned into the Neighbor-lady-triathalon. My only saving grace is that I registered as a relay team, so I’m hoping to outsource all three legs. Come on over for some wine ladies … I’m looking for, at least a swimmer and a runner! Hope you had a great race and enjoyed some delicious GORP!
If they only had been thinking that they could save a few bucks and inject botox as well as any doctor…or perhaps brain surgery has been simplified after 500 episodes of House.
My legs fell off just reading about your triathlon. Good luck! (Bring duct tape. In case yours fall off too.)
I would sooner tattoo my kids names on my calves than do a Tri. I may even tattoo ‘motherf*cker’ on my calves before a Tri. But I give you credit, and I’d pay big money to hear you yell, “let’s rock this joint out!” In fact, in an act of solidarity, I’m going to scream it at 6:30am on the race day in your honor. But I’ll be in bed.
Good luck, Wendi. Drink lots of that hydration stuff, and don’t forget to stretch or your tendons will be flapping around like bike handle streamers.
Good luck! I feel for you. I too never would do the swimming part. At least you got out of that one. Can’t wait to hear all the details after the event.
So were you vertical by the end of the race? I can walk 3 miles, easy. I would collapse if I tried to run that far.
Hmmm… I don’t know. I think ‘motherf&*@er’ is completely appropriate to the situation.