Current Self: “Hey, kid! You see your teacher sitting over there at his desk?”
Past Self: “Herr Adams? The teacher that just threw a pack of Black Forest Gummy Bears at Scott Buxton for talking too much? The same guy that makes fun of me for being elf Jahre alt?” (For the record, that’s German for eleven years old).
Current Self: “Yeah, him. In about 16 years or so, you’re gonna run a triathlon with him and his daughter, just thought I would give you a heads up. So be respectful of the guy, would ya?”
Past Self: “Really? Isn’t his daughter in like first grade or something?”
Current Self: “That’s beside the point. Also, make sure and keep track of who you’re sending a breakup text message to. That will save you some grief.”
Past Self: “Text message? What’s that?”
For full effect, download “Macarena” by Los Del Rio, and play at maximum volume throughout the duration of this post. My reasoning for that song is that was the number one hit during my 7th grade year as a Roy Junior Razorback. Sad, I know.
Cut back to this morning at 8:57 am with current self standing in what felt like single-digit temperature at the starting gate of the Weber State Turkey Tri. Herr Adams and his daughter Courtney just as bundled up as myself wondering what the curse word possessed us to strap a timer to our ankles and pay $40 for some type of sub-zero competition. Due to the fact that Jack Frost decided to empty his insides all over the Wasatch Front for the past 36 hours, this morning’s affair was actually a duathlon, not a triathlon. They had to scrap the bike portion for fear that clip-in pedals and slick road tires would cause a fiasco of accidents all over Weber State’s campus.
Can I repeat how butt-clenching cold it was out there this morning? Seriously. And all of you wonder why I’ve been calling St. George my home for the past eight and a half years. It’s because I L-word the fact that I can wear basketball shorts outside in January, or November, or August for crying out loud. Also, I L-word the fact that when I go for a run in the winter, it doesn’t feel like someone is pouring liquid nitrogen down my windpipe.
That’s how it felt this morning.
Despite the fact that I couldn’t feel the lower half of my body for a solid half hour, it was still a good experience. And yes, there may have been three dozen or so fellow runners in the pool who forgot that the crawl is a much faster stroke than the doggy paddle, I still had a good time sloshing through the lanes dodging elbows and stinky feet. It’s a good thing the swimming leg was at an indoor pool; if not, the great Richard Briggs might be typing up my obituary instead.
Overall it was a great morning. With the snow floating down, and the overripe bananas being shoveled down after it was all over, I sure did enjoy being a part of the Weber State Triathlon club’s event, despite the fact that I have never had any affiliation with that institution in any form whatsoever in my entire life.
After it was all over, we sat in the bleachers and listened to a giant overstuffed turkey raffle off water bottles and keychains. I did get a sliver sentimental looking to my left and seeing a great teacher from back in the day sitting next to me with his daughter, all of us feeling a sense of accomplishment for being fit enough to complete an event like this. It’s memory-logged blogposts like this that make me realize that my life is truly “das Beste”.
0 comments:
Post a Comment