Lest you misinterpret the aforementioned Pu Pu platter approach to a movement program I’ve cooked up for myself–a little bit of swimming, a little bit of stationary biking, a little bit of PTing–I feel the need to list the reasons why it is NOT my bid to become a triathlete.
- I deliberately chose the word “movement” instead of “fitness.” I’m not expecting 45 minutes of biking thrice a week and 30 minutes of swimming twice a week to approximate the glorious endurance I had in January.
- There is no way I will ever bike on the city streets or in Central Park. I am not afraid of death, but there’s no reason to stand in front of it and make faces.
- Gear. I hate gear, and I even dislike acquiring non-gear items, a.k.a stuff, property, space-takers and dust-collectors. I do not want to own tri gear. Period.
- Race fees. Ridik!
- Multisport training seems like a logistical nightmare that would cut into time I allot to other things, like making ice cream, drinking wine, sleeping, and drinking wine.
- I still can’t run, eliminating a critical part of the triathlon’s athletic, um, triumvirate.
I haven’t told you about my exciting and romantic bike crash! I will tell you, as it will illuminate Why-I-Won’t-Tri (take that pun or leave it, I don’t really care) Reason #2.
I was riding a borrowed Schwinn 3-speed along the meandering Marvin Braude Bike Trail that runs along the Los Angeles beaches. It was the first hour of my vacation. I was set up in a friend’s beachfront apartment, the sun was shining, it was a Saturday afternoon and the beaches were teeming with happy, relaxed people. I was one of them, grinning from ear to ear as I took it all in, feeling free and easy (#twss). I rode all the way to the Manhattan Beach Pier and was nearly back at my friend’s apartment when I broke entirely too hard. The bike stopped and fell to the right, while I kept going.
I landed hard, and ended up with huge bleeding scrapes on my right palm and inner elbow. My right leg and hip, and the inside of my left knee, were pretty banged up and bleeding, too.
Immediately two guys who were playing soccer came dashing over to help me up and make sure I wasn’t badly hurt. Aw. Once they saw I was well enough to walk myself home they sent me on my way.
The chain had been knocked off the gears, so I wheeled the bike into a bike rental joint that was luckily right nearby. They not only fixed the chain but were so alarmed at my gashes they sent me straight over to the lifeguards to get bandaged.
That’s right: LIFEGUARDS.
Did you know* that in Los Angeles the lifeguards are part of the fire department?
That’s right: FIREMEN.
I would have much preferred to have had a one-on-one encounter with a lifeguard/fireman while wearing heels and a maneater dress rather than showing up with bloody palms and knees, but hey, sometimes we take what we can get. In this case, I was mostly grateful that there was someone to give me basic first aid (if not mouth-to-mouth). Mostly. I would have been 100% grateful if he hadn’t been wearing that windbreaker. Abs are nice, she said.
Anywhoo. More than a week later and the wounds on my hand and arm still haven’t healed enough for me to get back into the pool. The bummers are: 1) I had to miss last night’s swim lesson, 2) my cheap one-month pool pass is now an expensive two-week pool pass, and 3) I showed up for a date that Monday with black and blue legs and bandages on my arm.
So kids, what have we learned here today? 1) Everyone wins when there is neither facial nor cranial damage in a bike crash. 2) I will never bike in the city, or even in the country on a fancy bike that goes fast. 3) Lifeguards are always better without their windbreakers on. 4) TK needs to break her habit of objectifying men.
¡Viva la bicicleta estática!
*And if you knew, why didn’t you tell me this amazing fact?