Wow oh wow. So we’re doing it. The triathlon that is. Ehem.
I can’t believe it. I’m scared, excited, pumped, skeptical and motivated – both to get into shape and reach for the nearest tub of Haagen Daas – all at the same time. July 4 is the big day baby. Not only is that my delightful and beloved cuzzy wuzzy Alice’s birthday, but it’s also a certain nation’s anniversary of independence or something. I’m sure there’s some kinda poetry in that, namely because I’m finding I have this bizarre inclination to scrawl in nikko pen on that date on our calendar, something like “CLAIM IT, BABY!”
Yes, I’m losing it.
So I’ve ordered books from the library on training for your first triathlon, I’ve researched preliminary ideas for training plans and even written a weekly diary out for both Tim and I, including the logistical nightmare of each being able to train six days a week while not getting arrested by Child Protective Services. I’ve created a virtual image of my current body and then my ideal body just to motivate me (or allow me to indulge my fantasty of being cast in the 3D Beowulf.) Tomorrow I’m going to buy a pool pass, stock up on healthy snacks and start getting friendly with my crock-pot. Cos I figure I’m going to need all the time management help I can find.
I’ve even gotten Little Miss Boob on the job, who was so enthused at the idea (and the prospect of her own little self competing in the kids’ race which follows the main event on aforementioned fateful day) that she’s appointed herself our official coach extraordinaire, pledging to run with us, make sure we stay on track with our training and nutritional commitments, while forcing us to refer to her from hereon in as “Oh Captain, my Captain.”
She came with me this avo on my very first run, trotting alongside me, pointing out landmarks to aim for before our next walking break and you know? She wasn’t half bad. Until around twelve minutes into it, when she declared her ankle was sore and “how can you expect me to train you when I have a twisted ankle?”
Hmmm…I asked coach if we should just walk.
“Yes,” she replied. “That would be okay.”
So we walked the remaining thirteen minutes of our designated training time.
Now on the record, I’m not saying she’s my kinda coach, but off the record?
She’s my kinda coach.