Triathlon season is upon us, and unfortunately, I may have already made a big mistake when it comes to defending my title here at Chez Wilson. In a moment of weakness and perhaps over-confidence, I purchased my husband Doo an honest-to-god tri bike for Christmas from a random Craigslist dude outside of Bloomington (no worries, friends, I had my 6-foot-3 son pick it up. Safety first!). So, instead of riding an inexpensive, relatively heavy, quite ordinary road bike, he’ll be racing on a carbon fiber, aero-barred Mac Daddy, specifically designed for this event. Realistically, I probably bought him two to three minutes, which is all he needs to catch me. Ugh.
I mean, what if I lose? I told Doo several years ago that he will never beat me because, unlike him, I am willing to die to win. I’m not kidding. I call it “athletic brinkmanship,” and I am deeply committed to its tactics. Blister? Ignore it. Dehydrated? Keep going. Signs of heat stroke? Suck. It. Up. This strategy has served me well in past races, but will it be enough this time?
A better question is, if Doo and his dumb new bike do win, can I rise above my arrogance and smack talk and truly be happy for him? Can I be a gracious loser and celebrate his success? I like to think I can, but I’m not entirely positive (which is why I am also considering various sabotage options. I’m drawn to the simplicity of an ex-lax dosing – classic –but haven’t ruled out a good old-fashioned tire slashing).
I do know that next year I’m buying Doo a chocolate fountain.
Peace out.
