One Fast Fogey

  DUATHLONS FOR DUMMIES:  PART DEUX. (You should probably be reading part one right now.) For those of you with short attention spans or cannabis-addled memories, we last left our story just as race officials canceled the swim portion of the triathlon because people were getting a little skittish about swimming during a Level Five thunderstorm. Athletes today. Absolutely no sense of adventure. It may seem like a small thing to non-multisport people, but when the words “THE SWIM IS CANCELED” are blared across the transition area, it’s akin to canceling your birthday, shaving off all your hair, and shipping you to Vietnam. Everyone instantly becomes a duathlete, whether they like it or not. Triathletes generally dislike the running portion of the race. I know there are a million triathletes—or at least the one or two who read this—gathering pitchforks and torches because they LOVE to run. To them I say: Write your own blog. The aquabike people absolutely hate running because the...

Duathlon for Dummies Today I got to participate in my very favorite sport of all time: the duathlon—or, as I like to call it, mostly because I have some twisted objection to calling things by their actual names, the “Duey.” Take note that I haven’t said I’m good at it—or that I have the slightest idea what I’m doing. All I know is that it feels good, and I do it whenever I can. Huh. That sounds like something else I partake in, but I can’t think of what it is right now. Hang on a second. I have to go shave my palms. There. That’s better. Anyhow… I started competing in multisport events six years ago after I had a heart attack. It was my way of giving fate the finger. “Tried to kill me, huh? Well, watch this.” One thing I did not add to my repertoire was swimming. As a friend once said, “Most people that think they know how to swim really only know how to keep from drowning.” She’s right. When I swim, it looks like two crack-addled dolphins having sex near the surface. There’s splashing...

Hundey’s (Century Rides) It doesn’t matter what I do; I always have to turn it into some type of maniacal, high-octane nuthouse that would make great material for one of those Hey, watch these clowns abuse themselves for absolutely no reason reality shows that seem to be so popular right now. Never been on a horse in my life? Buy a horse at age fifty-five, ride it around my farm for a few weeks, take a few scenic drives to the local emergency room, and just like that, I’m competing in a CMSA mounted-shooting group. Not really a runner? Start running at age sixty-five and dive straight into half and full marathons. Casual bike rider? Also at age sixty-five, start competing in duathlons and distance riding. Apparently, I’m incapable of discovering a hobby without immediately asking, How can I make this expensive, painful, and medically questionable? Consequently, it will come as no surprise to anyone still breathing that when I decided to start riding hundred-mile bike rides, I approac...

  Energy      I have taken it upon myself, at the spry age of seventy-one, to add another event to my repertoire of things I enjoy embarrassing myself with in public.      I flail through 5Ks, 10Ks, half marathons, full marathons, fondos, and duathlons like an infant monkey on crack trying to learn how to walk a tightrope. Now I’ve decided to add swimming to the list so I can compete in my first triathlon.      Why did I decide this was an epic plan in my current advanced state of cardiac issues and arthritis?      Hell, I have no idea.      But if I search way, way back into the darkest, slime-coated cesspool of my memory—also known as being honest —I believe it might, possibly, have something to do with location and fashion.      Location, in the sense that I moved away from the ass-freezing cold element known as Chattanooga, Tennessee, and back to the I had no idea I could lose this much wa...

     First of the First: I moved from St. Petersburg, Florida, to Chattanooga, Tennessee, and then back to Kissimmee, Florida. It wasn’t because I was one step ahead of the law, or even one step ahead of myself. Although, if I were one step ahead of the law, this probably wouldn’t be the place where I’d confess it. The factors behind the moves were legion. The forethought was not. The one thing I used to justify each move was what the biking and running scene would be like once I got there. Apparently, this is how mature adults make major life decisions. Some people consider property taxes, healthcare, employment, and proximity to family. I ask, “But where am I going to ride my bicycle?” After I’d made the decision to leave St. Pete, I was sitting under a palm tree eating an oatmeal-raisin cookie the size of a Buick hubcap that I’d just bought at the farmers market. I watched sailboats drift in and out of the harbor, airplanes come and go from Albert Whitted Airport, and ...