Any sane person would have just killed it. Anyone in their right mind would have stabbed it with the scissors when it first arrived. But no, I let it live. Pretending to be lighthearted and fun, it floated up by the ceiling, playing chase with the dogs and kids. Occasionally it faced me smugly, but I looked the other way. After a few days it descended to eye level but I continued to ignore it. Undaunted, it floated and wandered around the house, propelled by air conditioning currents and grandchildren. After two weeks, it meandered benignly into my bedroom then drifted into the bathroom. But beneath that façade of playful innocence, was a carefully plotted ambush in the making. It was an invasion. It maneuvered, waited until I was pinned in, inconveniently indisposed, with no escape route. It breathed, it twitched. Suddenly, it turned and began the assault. “The BIG 50!” it shot, its bright, happy letters exploding on black Mylar. I had no defenses. I was a casualty of the Age War.
I retreated out of the bathroom as quickly as possible, given the circumstances, and began to assess the damage. I had to regroup. I had to plan countermeasures and defenses. I had to strike back! I had to take a nap. No! No nap. I can’t let a wimpy half-inflated, helium balloon push me prematurely into the front porch rocking chair. So I considered the options, mapped out my strategy, planned my first counter-attack. I would do a triathlon! Sigh. Maybe I’d already reached senility.
I brought up the idea with Tab, my husband. He seemed agreeable. There’s a nice sprint length triathlon at Walt Disney World on Mother’s Day weekend, I told him. It’s just for women. We can go, take the grandkids, do a little race, and spend the rest of the weekend playing with Mickey Mouse and Tinkerbell. Now, a sprint distance triathlon is about a 400 yard swim, a twelve-mile bike race, and a 5K (about 3.1 miles) run. I thought if I could train all winter I could make it. Barely.
“Why do a sprint?” Tab asked. “That won’t take any effort at all to train for. Challenge yourself!” This he tells to a woman who can’t run to the mailbox. Okay, maybe the mailbox but not any further. Maybe I should have shot him instead of the balloon. However, he agrees to join me in this insanity if I will step up to a quarter-Ironman distance. That’s more than twice what I had originally planned: just over a half-mile swim, a twenty-eight-mile bike, and a 10K run. I’d be lucky to get out of the car to start, much less finish that race.
However, having retreated from the balloon battle in ignominy, I began to think the quarter distance might be the better overall campaign strategy. I map out a battle plan, laying out attack strategies for running, swimming, biking, and strength training. I determine what intelligence needs to be gathered. I analyze, study, and read up on progression and pitfalls, recording troop movements, trying to anticipate the enemy’s next attack – creaky knees, achy shoulders, flat tires, or chilly lakes.
First, I have to determine the right time and place for my first counter-attack. Surfing the net, I find several possible events. The one that makes the most sense is the Lone Star Triathlon at Moody Gardens Galveston
You would think that when you register for a race they’d use some mechanism for checking your sanity level. When you click the “Register” button, it should ask you “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” But no, there isn’t even an “Are you sure?” message. Of course, if there were, there would probably be considerably fewer racers. So, eighty-five dollars poorer, I am committed to a Quarter Iron distance triathlon. I probably ought to be committed. To an institution. But we’re in (I registered Tab too – heh, heh), so here we go!
Stay tuned for Part 2 - Battle Planning
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