Worst Case Scenario: Triathlon Edition … And Don’t Let The Word ‘Triathlon’ Make You Think I Am Physically Fit In Any Way

In one week I’m doing another triathlon. And before you get all crazy impressed, ugly-ass pissed, or insanely jealous about the word ‘another’, I’ve only ever done one other one. So this will be my second … not my thirtieth. And they’re sprints … not those suicidal missions that the Hubs does. This is not to dismiss the dedication it takes to participate in one of these things. Because, trust me, there’s dedication. And by that, I mean maintaining the constant gnawing teeth and viciously scraping claws in the pit of my stomach worrying about whether or not I can even finish this thing, let alone not make a complete ass out of myself. Keeping those beasts in my stomach angry (as a form of motivation??) requires hardcore dedication. I wish I could say my dedication had been with the training, you know – the biking, swimming, and running, but … well, … I’m lazy at heart.

Whatever. You like me that way.

So instead of going for a run, or swimming my brains out, or biking a horrendously steep hill leading to a cliff several people have fallen off of in one last ditch effort to train for this thing, I’m going to write about it!!! Actually, I’m going to write about how I think this thing is going to go down … worst case scenario style. Does that work? Well, then don’t read it!! Jesus.

So Saturday morning … or is it Sunday? Shit. I should probably figure out what day the race is. Anyway, whatever day it is, I will have to wake up at, probably, 5am. This shouldn’t be a problem as I will have been up all night having massive stress induced diarrhea (PULLLEEASE! You’ve all had it!!). My ass should be nice and chafe for the bike ride. Fun!!  Did I mention the Hubs is doing this race as well? Oh yeah. It’s totally romantic. He finishes 5 hours ahead of me and then I cry my eyes out at the finish line we make out. Anyway, he’ll be having some kale, spinach, blueberry smoothie with a 10 pound bar bell mixed in while I shove a Reese’s Peanut Butter cup in my face … the big kind … because I’m gonna need the energy, people.

The Hubs will have everything packed and ready to go while I wander around looking for my bathing suit. Do I own one? What kind of back asswards idiot owns a bathing suit?! Oh, there it is! Fingers crossed it fits. Pretty sure I bought this one in high school.

I will then be summoned to the car by “military” Hubs … my favorite version of him. I have now peed 26.5 times and need to go once more. He is impatiently waiting. We need to pick up our friends who I conned into doing this thing with us. I am getting texts along the lines of “where are you?!” and “are you bailing?!” and “control your bladder for Christ’s sake!!”. Those are from the dog, actually, who has yet to be let out because I can’t walk away from the bathroom for more than 5 seconds.

I linger in the house for another 10 minutes in the hopes that someone will call us and tell us there’s been a death in the family … the only thing I can think of that will get me out of this thing.

No such luck.

It’s a half hour drive to the race, where I get to hear the Hubs being all happy, excited and positive. Bastard. These are the times I absolutely loathe him. I am curled in a ball in the backseat … willing myself to have a heart attack while quietly banging my foot against the seat in the hopes of breaking it.

Once we arrive and get all checked in, I will see all the women who are super young and fit and super old and fit and, in general, SUPER and FIT and stupidly SUPER FIT … while they stare back at me and try to understand. Baffled would be the main expression I see on others faces when their eyes meet mine. I keep my head down as much as I can … this ain’t a proud moment, peeps.

Race starts. Swim first. After 16 near drowning incidents, I drag myself out of the water. The volunteer team for the race has been notified of my bib number (#666) and I’m now being discreetly monitored. Someone sneaks a heart monitor onto me, but I don’t even notice … I’m eating a red velvet cupcake I hid in my transition bag.  It’s a little smushed and mangled from people stepping on my bag, but when has that ever stopped me?!

Bike ride!! Twelve and a half miles of pure SUCK!! Woohoo!!! The only thing keeping me on the bike is the pure terror that I will fall off and scrape all the Jergen’s lotioned skin off of my body (hey!  I take care of that skin!) … that and bang out all of my teeth. Good news, though! I have a helmet on, so my brain will be intact while top surgeons (or half-assed) put me through surgery after surgery to repair my disfigured body and also attempt to superglue my teeth back in.  Actually, that’s the kids.  I told them to bring Elmer’s … just in case.

Run! I thought I was exhausted BEFORE the race. Guess what! I’m dead on my feet. In fact, I no longer feel my feet. Do I have feet? I am doing my best not to crawl.  Run?  Hell! I’ll be thrilled if I can walk!!

I WILL run across the finish line, though (with the DJ cuing up “Clumsy” by Fergie … an ode to my speed and grace, or Damien Rice’s “The Blower’s Daughter” as an ironic tribute to the train wreck that I am) … even if it means puking up my Reese’s infused cupcake right as they take the finish line photo … in fact, right onto the Hubs, who has showered, dressed, received his award and penned a novel about his experience. He tries not to be mad that I got some vomit on the 200 page leather bound self-help book he’s written… bastard already got through the drafting and editing phases!

As I sit down to read “Adventures in Triathlons: How to Survive Your Partner’s Untrainability and Overall Laziness” I remind myself for the one billionth time that I will NEVER SIGN UP FOR A RACE AGAIN.

Crap. This may actually have been BEST case scenario.



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