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fumbling through

Apparently my definition of a triathlon more closely resembles a comedy show than a serious athletic endeavor.

Case in point: Last Saturday's MTS Sprint.

Let me count the number of comedic elements that comprised this performance:

The ex-boyfriend: After announcing to my friends on the drive down to the race that I really hoped we wouldn't run into my ex at any point during our trip, I proceeded to run into him on the boat dock before the start of the swim. Apparently, his new girlfriend is a triathlete.

The swim: The water was 56 degrees. And when I put my face in, all I could see was brown. All around. Brown. Commence freakout. I backstroked pretty much the entire thing. (Except for maybe the part when I was doggy-paddling or sidestroking.) And I was moving so slowly that I was able to have a full conversation with a guy in a kayak.

Me: This sucks.

Him: Welcome to triathlons.

Me: I swim really well in a pool, I swear. I really don't suck this much.

Him: I believe you. Open water is tough.

Me: You know what else sucks? My ex is here. And he's a good swimmer, so this is really embarrassing. Also, he has a telephoto lens.

Him: Do you want me to slash his tires?

T1: I was so disoriented from the swim that I couldn't walk straight. And then my wetsuit (which, for the record, I really love and was extremely grateful for) got stuck around my ankles. And I almost fell over several times. And then I couldn't figure out where the bike exit was.

The bike: Within about five minutes of riding, I got shit on by a bird. On my bare arm.

(See? Not kidding. I did the bike and the run with bird shit on my arm.)

The bike, continued: What triathlete is talented enough to fall into the bushes at the turnaround while still being clipped in and can't get up? Oh wait -- me!

T2: I couldn't find my transition area. I stood there. And stood there.

Run: By the time I started the run, all of the decent and semi-decent triathletes in the sprint distance had finished the race or were finishing. I saw my friend on the sidelines (yes, like the rest of the world, he had already finished) and said: "Man, do I have stories for you." He then got back into the race and ran the entire run course again to get me through it. (Seriously: Grateful.) When I finished, I wanted to puke.

But hey, I finished.

And then I ate this hamburger.


I could make an analogy here.

Like how a blog is sort of like a relationship, and if you stay away for long periods, it becomes more and more difficult to come back. And each day you think: "Tomorrow, I will make it better." But with each day, you are less and less sure of what to say and then suddenly: Too much silence.


In the past few weeks, I've started several posts. I've tried to write about the rain (which went on for a week straight), ramen adventures (which involved purple noodles made with wine and a much-anticipated meal at Ippudo) and the search for the perfect WSD bike saddle (I'm presently testing the Vesta, which has a cartoon on it and kind of makes me feel like I'm sitting on someone's face).

I've also tried making lists. For example, current obsessions: Shellac manicures in less-than-professional hues (purple glitter, anyone?), Dungeness crab, curation (of clothes, shoes, furniture, books – less is more). Upcoming events: The first tri of the season is Saturday (and it will be my first time ever wearing a wetsuit). What is new: The bruise on my left knee, how my hair is 12 inches shorter, this view.