Tuesday, July 24, 2007


So away from the office to go for a swim. Wonderful swim; I am (for me) slicing through the water like a hot knife on watermelon. THEN the tri-dicks arrive. They have four of the five lanes in the pool reserved for training. They number about twenty, about a dozen guys and the rest ladies.

I continue swimming, unconcerned and unaware; certain that my new speedo has gifted me super powers as I splash merrily along. A cluster of the biggest, least-clad male members of the group cluster in front of my lane (the remaining one of five, inhabited by myself and a couple of old Asian guys cheerfully frog-paddling), chatting in a semicircle - given the hand gestures (I hear nothing, being underwater) I assume they're talking about their abs and groins.

Then they hit the lane next to mine and proceed to hammer full-out, arms akimbo, warp speed. Nearly half the total group (I count seven during a breather and yes, they're all guys) take the lane next to mine and proceed to embarrass me with their wake. The remaining members scatter throughout the three lanes NOT next to me.

I'm sorry, did I pose a threat? Was I amusing to the "real swimmers"? Did they have some overwhelming need to put the poser in his place? Um yeah, I get it.

The tri-dicks: stubbled middle aged men with shaved legs who travel in packs and always park their exorbitantly expensive bikes next to the least pretty bike in the space. They wear matching jerseys and preface their conversations with "well, Cal says" and "have you tried" and "I really saw my time go down when I waxed my balls".

These spastic, inbred, bison-haunched leatherback ballcupping mouthbreathing droolers of impact-magazine-suggested-training-technique Coach-Cal-anus-sucking FUCKS make me retch on my cheap Louis Garneau's. Oh wait, no...effort and the determination to bitch slap members of Critical Speed do that.

Well listen up, you high-school football "glory day" jock dinosaurs: I'm walking away from a job you call a career to finish my manuscripts and read poetry. My tall, blonde, younger girlfriend is hot AND smart - and she pays her own rent (and may someday pay mine!). I've not only done Ironman, I quit the upcoming one because of a scheduling conflict. I founded a magazine. I can run your ass into the ground with a stress fracture in my femur, I know that shaving my legs does not make a bicycle go faster (it's all about the decals), I can make people laugh, cry and shout in under a minute, I've been a race announcer, radio personality, television writer, corporate sales manager, publisher, award winning IR project manager, lover, hater, traveler, teacher, learner...and I'm still seven years away from going to work for a living. My next book should be out some time next year.

So the next time you drop six grand on a bicycle and bitch about your boring job that you can't afford to walk away from, remember: some of us have chest hair (and the women in the far lane were swimming faster than any of us).

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