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.