Please Excuse My Butt. It's Being Rude. Again.

This summer I have done my best to shield you all from the uncouth mutterings from my butt.  No.... No.... (waves hand vaguely, blushes) Don't thank me.... It was nothing.

No.

Really.

It was practically nothing.

(Those last three sentences were in my serious voice.  In case you missed it.)

See, another triathlon season has come and gone.  And, with a stellar lack of motivation shown by myself once again, I signed up for exactly one.  Wait.  Let me say this differently:

1.

Uno.

I.

Ibotuyi.

(Um, I made that last one up. Because Nickelodeon only lets Dora the Explorer talk to me in two languages.) And, because I only signed up for ibotuyi triathlon, I never got serious about my training. And, consequentially, conversations with Mabel began to go something like this:

Mabel: We should ride bikes tomorrow.

Me: (In my whiny voice.) Is it Friday alllrrrreeeaaaddy???

Mabel: Yep.  What route do you want to do?

Me: (In my serious voice. The one that comes with the scary "Don't touch my coffee" stare.) Same.

Mabel: It's a pretty flat route, you know, maybe we should do one wi-

Me: (In my "Did she seriously just touch my coffee" voice, which is kinda loud, and comes with irrational stomping.) SAME!!!!

Mabel: -hills....

Poor Mabel.  She totally deserves a free coffee, a fancy house on the beach in the Cayman Islands and  a donut for putting up with my whiny butt this summer. Or at least two out of the three.

But, no matter how many times I managed to throw a fit sneakily worm my way out of biking that almost flat 8 mile route with Mabel, last Sunday came anyway and bit me on the...

...(wait for it)...

butt.

(That was totally obvious, wasn't it?)

First, I had to battle my way through a half mile of cold lake water. Which included putting some woman in a head lock.  Accidentally. I think.  This makes complete sense, by the way, if you've ever done a triathlon.

Then, there it was.  Swinging, suspended, ever so slightly in the what the meteorologists were calling a "gentle breeze of early Autumn", from the communal bike rack. By its seat.  Accusingly. It may have even smirked.  Or that was my butt.  It's hard to tell sometimes after attempting all those WWE moves in 33 feet of murky lake water. However, not one to be intimidated by extremely tall doors or accusatory smirking bike seats, I grabbed my helmet, and headed out into that"gentle breeze of early Autumn". Which, by mile 0.3 was more like "stupid dumb cyclone of frr-rrr-rr-reeze my butt off dead of winter".  And I began to mutter about "dumb pseudo-scientists with their stupid spinning Dopplers". Which entertained me for about another 0.3 miles, but then reality set in.  I had fifteen more miles to go. Wait.  Let me say that differently:

15. Miles.

Quince. Milla.

XV. Millia.

Fabuto. Buttsquishes!

And most of it was uphill.  Which meant I spent the next fabuto miles buttsquishes pedaling to this cadence: "Mabel was right. Mabel was right. Why am I so stupid? Mabel was right." Dude, let me tell you, if it wasn't for the quacking I did each time I passed Mallard Road, I think I may have gone insane!

But then, came the run, and, you know, after a quick trip to the porta-potty and a mile of shuffling running, it wasn't so bad. I even managed to finish with a smile on my face!

Which, considering I hadn't even gotten to the free beer and massage yet, means it was pretty darn awesome!

Also? My butt is a total liar.

Except about that whole bike thing.

This Is An Update From My Butt

Last weekend was the Tri Turtle Tri that I was training for this season. And by training I mean, regularly rolling out of bed to dunk myself in a cold and misty lake before the sunrise or to run circles around the track at the local high school, but not bike. NoooOOOooo. I dislike the biking the most, so why would I train for that leg of the race? That would be insane! So, instead I hauled my butt up on that little plastic seat about four times this season for a BRICK (bike ride immediately followed by a run), and then sweated in the danky basement on my bike trainer with the washing machine maaaayyybbbeeee three times. Obviously, good enough.

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.

The End.

Dude... I can not wait to do it all again next year!