Known for things like the relentless pursuit of excellence, go-getter attitudes, and bizarrely positive personality traits that enable them to enjoy extreme fatigue, triathletes rarely seem sad. Alas, the struggles that accompany the daily training-grind are very real. This is the Diary of a Sad Triathlete:
Dear Diary,
Loud, chatty, happy, morning-people continue to plague me in my current condition: fatigue-induced sound sensitivity. It may be a glorious day to be alive, but unreasonably chipper voices are like parasites tunneling into my brain, sapping what little reserves of energy I have left. I will continue to plead with the authorities to institute a no-talking policy before 8 am.
Dear Diary,
I was enjoying my ride, marveling at how high my watts were for my effort level, and mentally composing an e-mail to report my excellent fitness to the authorities. As the group pulled away I realized that, as if by some evil magic, my bike computer was picking up a different power meter. My enthusiasm and sense of accomplishment rode off into the distance.
photo credit: 11/52 “fold” via photopin (license)
Dear Diary,
I was nearing the end of a hard 5 hr ride when, seemingly out of sheer spite, a commuter with paniers, wearing reflective ankle straps, decided that this would be a good time to jump on my wheel. These people are mad-men, devoid of reason. I had to resist the urge to slam on my brakes, and ride hard to pull away – as per protocol.
Dear Diary,
After a career best performance, the authorities’ only e-mail response was simply “please update your RPE sheet”. My spirit is breaking.
photo credit: 68/365: Bad Mommy Morning via photopin (license
Dear Diary,
It has come to my attention that not everyone runs 10 times in 7 days but due to the sadistic policy of the authorities I have come to think this is normal. That is just low, and dangerously, that’s how my blood sugar is at the moment.
sad teen by the pool
Dear diary,
The anti-circle swimmer who takes more than half the lane continues to vex me. Despite suggesting that he swims further over, but he continues to taunt me with his total lack of spatial awareness. A sad anniversary: the 937 time my hand has been unintentionally smashed into the lane rope.
Dear Diary,
My husband shares funny anecdotes from the mens’ change room that make me appreciate being female, but I am now plagued by horrible visions. For example: the mushroom cap in dense moss that needs to be air dried while standing naked on the public bench, or the infamous leg up, towel see-saw beneath the wall drier. Despite my attempts to rid my mind of these images, all of my efforts have been for naught. There is simply no return to my glorious days of innocence.
Dear Diary,
Despite saying “runner on your left”, loudly, several times, the individuals walking four abreast failed to adjust their position on the trail. Either they are deaf or just plain cruel. I worry that I may no longer be able to suppress my desire to body-check all trail users who lack common courtesy. For now I will continue to howl the song of my people in the hope that I can run a steady pace for over 500m at a time.
photo credit: i’m not okay. via photopin (license)
Dear Diary,
Despite there being an entire row of empty treadmills, Mr. heavy-stomping, loud-breather had to pick the machine right next to mine on the day I forgot to bring my headphones: This lead to the illusion that, despite my best efforts I could not run away from him. My sweat puddles, usually a sufficient proximity barrier, did not allow me to simply move machines to release my mind from this anguish.
photo credit: 1 via photopin (license)
Dear Diary,
I made a smoothie for after my workout, but returned home to find the glass empty. I tried to draw attention to my predicament, and gain some caloric recompense, but was met with zero sympathy. It is clear that I will soon starve to death. This may be my last entry.
