bad days

There are those people on social media who are happy and smiling and always motivated to “do hard things” and “get after it.” And they end up on podiums and qualify for championships and have legit abs and triceps and glutes so powerful they could probably crack an acorn with their buttcheeks.

And then there is me.

This photo sums up this entire blog post.

I often feel like I suck so hard at triathlon that it’s comedy. You’d think that since I’ve been doing this shit since 2011 I would have actually developed – oh, I don’t know – some remote level of skill, or even just basic coordination. But I am the person who somehow manages to totally faceplant simply trying to get on my bike. (And no it wasn’t moving. I just fell for no reason and then bled in public and passersby were concerned and it was horribly embarrassing.)

I would also like to point out that my half marathon PR is from 2011 – yes, that is eight years ago – and since then I just seem to be running slower and getting injured more frequently. (I’m also really good at tripping on absolutely nothing while running. Maybe my true calling in life is to be a professional faller. Is there a Kona for clumsiness? Because I would crush that shit.)

And I cannot even tell you how frustrated I am with swimming right now (yes, this is like a complete 180 from how I felt in November). It's like no matter how hard I work and how many hours I spend in the pool and how early I get up for masters (seriously, why are all masters swim programs at like 6 a.m.?), I still can’t consistently break 2 minutes/100 yards. Yeah, every once in awhile I’ll surprise myself, but for the most part, nothing has changed speed-wise. (And I guarantee you it will be even worse in open water because once I am in that tight-ass wetsuit in a murky lake thinking of sea monsters and submerged disembodied limbs, all semblance of form is completely and totally forgotten.)

I went to a stroke correction clinic in January and spent half a day getting my stroke filmed and then subsequently picked apart by a classroom of people (now that was a humbling experience and I will be forever haunted by horrible images of myself executing what can only be described as the flop-flail of desperation). I am now constantly doing endless painful drills to attempt to correct everything I have spent my entire life doing wrong in the pool (and believe me, there is a lot).

A screenshot from the stroke analysis: I immediately see five things that are wrong. There are probably more. This is like a Highlights game for bad swimmers!

Honestly, sometimes I just want to cry into my goggles and give away my spandex and move to the mountains and stop talking to anyone who isn't a cat.

Except that knowing my luck, I’ll find a way to fall and crack my head open but no one will know so then I'll just lie there until I get eaten by my cats because that actually is a thing that happens in real life.

allez allez

Last month I ran my first race in France.

My aunt (who is also my godmother and the visionary individual who introduced me to J.R.R. Tolkien, inspiring my life-long love of Middle-earth and a somewhat unfortunate dwarf rune tramp stamp) and I took advantage of a fare sale and escaped to Paris for a long weekend.

Coincidentally, our weekend away was also the same weekend of the Course de la Saint-Valentin, a 10K organized by the Paris Frontrunners, an LGBT running club. The race is four hilly loops through the Parc des Buttes-Chaumont, which is one of my favorite places in Paris and also happens to be where I rolled my ankle and ended up with a cuboid stress fracture six years ago. I took this as my opportunity for a do-over and signed up immediately.

C'est magnifique!

One thing to know about racing in France: There is a mandatory medical release form for every race. It must be signed by a doctor, and you will get e-mails in French every few days until you upload the completed form. Luckily, I had my annual physical in January, so timing worked out for me to have my doctor complete it. (Also, my aunt – in addition to being a book binding artist, owner of a massive stamp collection, and mother to a crazy cockatiel named Gershwin – is a doctor. So I was doubly covered.)

And then there was the race swag.

Yes, that is a condom. When I showed it to my aunt, her immediate comment was, “So is that French sizing?” (She was also quite thrilled by the sexual health literature that accompanied said condom. Best French vocabulary lesson ever.)

Race day was equally awesome. Many runners were in costume. (My favorite: Gay Ninja turtles, complete with green body paint.) And the active warm-up was a riot – I couldn’t stop laughing! (Picture Mario and Luigi joyfully doing squats.) And crowd support was on point too. (There were drag queen cheerleaders who swatted you on the butt with a leather whip as you ran past.)

Post-race yoga with your favorite Nintendo characters.

 This was a slow race for me (much hillier than I’m used to – finished in 1:00:59), but I had a blast!