Holy Poseidon, I'm in

So K, decides he's proved himself after a couple of years, and there is no way I'm going the whole distance. He floats the idea of a relay.

Hmm. I can get into that. Of course I get the swim, or maybe the bike. Who am I kidding, the swim, or nothing. they can decide on bike or run, but the swim is mine. I swam competitively for years, I have no worries. I did 7000-12,000 yard practices since I was 12, in all conditions, with pnemonia, sprained ankles, drunk, after all nighters at 5 am when I was younger, the mile or so swim is no problem. We used to do two miles first practice day of the season. Hell, in my prime I did a mile in seventeen minutes and change once. A mile, that's nothing.

I'll jump in my pool a few times every week, the 36 foot pool, and do an hour of laps at a time. I'll be all set. no worries. Water will never kill me.

Yeah, good plan. Take it seriously.

What the hell? August already? Once a week just ain't cutting it.

OK. Timberman is here. We walk down to the beach at 5, and I may be a little keyed up. I puke up the Carnation Instant regurgitaion fuel about halfway down the street, and K is all heart. I think he may still be laughing. The volunteers scrawl my age on my arm, and also a big letter C.

For Clydesdale. Damn, we have a weight class, not an age class.

They walk me down to the water, where we wait for the start. I won't boor you with the details pf pre race, because they would.

Suffice to say Clydesdales go last this year, so I wait for all the 3% body fat insanos to go. Our nice, calm lake is now a maelstrom. Uh oh. Maybe K was right, shoulda done some open water. Or maybe not eaten that side of beef the night before. Or even agreed to this madness. What the hell was I thinking.

So, who cares?

Well, I do.

From that germ of an idea, to Team Angry, in a pretty short time period, I got hooked. Well, not quite short enough.

Triathletes are fascinating. The first year I spent hanging around the festival, talking to strangers, watching K, cheering for everyone, no matter how they were doing. Cheering louder and stronger as the day went on. The worse they looked, the stronger I cheered. Because I knew, in my dark, twisted soul, that these people were doing something I was not prepared to do.

They were putting it on the line for a longer competition I had even considered. Real effort. A lake swim,no big deal to me, water will never kill me. A pretty long bike ride, through some of New Hampshire's hills, further than I like to even drive my car, but still, just a bike ride. I had done a longer bike ride, once, a million years ago. That day is the benchmark of my lightest adult weight. Last time I saw that side of 180. Good riddance too.

And a run. Damn. The run is what gets to me. I won't even run out of a house if it's on fire. No freaking way I'm doing one of these. Twelve miles? Who am I, Forrest Gump?

As if I want bloody nips

The next year comes, and K runs it again. Shaves days off his prior time. And I spend my day with my nose pressed against the candy shop window. OK, I need to be a part of this.

In the beginning....

One day, back in the mists of time, Keith, the one on the left, heard about the new event in Gilford, NH.

The Timberman Triathlon.

Now, everybody had heard of triathlons. We'd seen the Ironman on Wide World of Sports when we were kids. Hell, I swam with twins in college who ran that one back in the early eighties. They were monsters. Identical twins. Competitive as hell about everything. Races. Grades. Girls. Body Fat Index before it was fashionable. They were Triathletes. But, that was half my lifetime ago. Who the hell does triathlons? I might know 10 people who can run the Boston Marathon, but a triathlon? That's crazy talk.

Keith decides he's doing it. For all the right reasons. It will be a challenge, but he can train for it. He's always been somewhat athletic, he played in almost every sport offered at our high school (more on that later, maybe. Go Boxers!) at one point or another, except the gay ones, rugby in college, avid ice fisheman. Still somewhat of a jogger. Yeah, great idea K. This'll help keep you/get you in shape. Lucky for him he is in his own class that transcends age. He is a Clydesdale. Those in the know already know what that means. Those not, well, figure it out.

It is being held exactly 1.1 miles from my parents home. It's a half Ironman, the most common distance. It's the first year they are running it. The swim passes in front of my parents home by 500 yards. The run passes their front porch. Four times.

It was Kismet.

He enrolls. He trains. He asks Me & Todd if we want to join him. He hears a lot of "Fuck that" from us. We would also be Clydesdales, but have not earned the title. So we are just fat. But we are there for him. This, we want to see.

Mid August arrives. The Timberman Festival. Wow. What a day. It was somewhere in the 70s when the swim started, in the 80's during the bike, and even higher during his run. The whole family was there to watch. We jumped in the car and watched him pass on the bike 20 miles down the road, we gathered on the street in front of Mom & Dad's house and cheered him and the other monsters go by all day long. We were there for the final 200 yard finish line chute to see him cross the line. A lot faster than he had anticipated.

It was amazing. It was the coolest thing I ever saw him do, and I was proud, worried, and a little jealous. More than a little.

If you haven't already figured it out, the rest of the family was nibbled. Not bitten. Yet.

The Bro's, after our first team effort

Buddy, Mark the Mick, Todd, and Captain K

Keith storming up the hill

Some guy I don't know, but team Angry Emerita, regardless!