So, there I was, waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in and sing my traditional triathlon swim song, "Boot to the Head". Two hours, one minute and 49.3 seconds later, me and my butt have crossed the finish line. The end.
Or you can read the more detailed account I typed up below. But...... I wrote it in second person, and, I'm pretty sure my use of such a literary technique will only exasperate your conviction of my weirdness. And if it doesn't, I'm pretty sure the flamingos will. (These last three sentences may not have made any sense.)
First, you get up extra butt crack of dawn early to, sure, pick up your race number, but more importantly, to stand in line for the chance to relieve some liquid pre-race jitters in the Honey Bucket.
Second, you stand waist deep in slightly opaque lake water, crowded on all sides by goggled men and women, ready to dive in.
Third, during your swim you flail energetically (because you're trying desperately to stay in front of the guy in board shorts and that lady who only uses her arms to swim) while singing "Boot to the Head", because you are literally, getting booted in the head.
Fourth, you somehow attach socks and bike shoes to your wet feet and pedal the course, grimacing and muttering "I remember this hill from last year. Yeah. I HATE THIS HILL!!" You do it a lot. Also, this leg doesn't have a cute theme song. Because it's the bike, and it doesn't deserve one.
Fifth, you chuck your bike at the rack, kick it once or twice because your butt is petty like that, then race off to the run course, free! FINALLY FREE!! while the theme song for Rocky plays in your head. Until you realize the repetitiveness is going to drive you insane, so you instead begin greeting each pink flamingo lining the route by name. "Charlie! Looking good! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) Hello there, Edith! (jog a little, hop a little, skip a little, jog) BOB! (stumble a little) Geesh, Bob! Quit hiding behind the trees. This isn't the Halloween Spook Run! And put down those nunchucks, you're a flamingo, now act like one!" (Note: I made up the nunchucks for literary effect. You know, the scary kind, not the weird kind that I'm currently utilizing.)
Sixthly, you sprint across the finish line, get a medal slung around your neck, pick up a banana or two for your under five cheering squad, sit down and happily make plans with your fellow racers to fill your bellies with waffles and eggs while cheering on the other finishers. That is, until you find out that you got beat by the guy with a broken foot. (Seriously.) You'd berate your butt for letting you slack off on your training, buuuuuttttt, you then realize that it wasn't only you who got beaten by the guy with a broken foot, it was everyone. Which means he's probably an alien. So you happily firm up waffle plans, then join the line for the free post-race massage.
Dude... I can not wait to do it all again next year!