The Neoprene Swim Cap and the Sword of Damocles

I write this post as I rapidly approach the CRSP (Critical Range of Spousal Patience). I'm starting to get those looks that say, "You're really pushing it, buddy." After several weekends of missing family time trying to race bicycles against people half my age, I'm in the final stages of preparing to do the Holy Toledo Triathlon in Many, Louisiana this Sunday with my brothers. I don't mean brothers in the sense of other dudes with whom I share "bromance". I mean my full-on brothers, Ben and Andy.

The Holy Toledo is a 1 mile swim, 40 mile (not km) bike, and 10 mile (not km) run over a really, stupidly hard course. I did this race last year. The water was 65 degrees and it was windy enough to have whitecaps on the lake and for bikes staged in the transition area to be blown down on top of carefully placed running shoes and race numbers. The water was so flippin cold I thought about quitting about 100 yards into the swim. The shock to my head and face was so severe that I couldn't get my breathing under control. But I thought, "I didn't drive all this way from Texas and camp out next to drunk bass fishermen and pee in this wetsuit I borrowed from Dan Trott just to give up like a big wiener-dog." Hey, you use what motivational techniques work for you, and I'll use what works for me.

So I actually had a real good swim and finished the race in decent shape, except I was so cold I didn't feel my toes until about halfway into the run. Well, this year I not only have my very own wetsuit to pee in, but I also have this very functional and roguishly handsome neoprene swim cap to keep my head warmer during the swim. What appears to convey immense dorkitude is actually a tremendous weapon of swimming comfort. And I've also recruited two other victims, er, I mean, competitors. I want to point out that my brothers are both younger than I am. There. The excuse is already out there.

This year's race promises to be as windy and cold as always. Maybe with some rain thrown in. The race wizard, Bobo, seems to have this Saruman-like capability to summon crappy weather on race day to accompany the nastiest hills in the Gret Stet of Louisiana. But it's going to be a good time even though the race hangs over my head like the Sword of Damocles. My Dad is bringing over the camper so we can enjoy toasty camping goodness and not sleep on the ground the night before the race.

I'll soon be home for a full weekend, honey. Pretty soon.