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.