To be a triathlete requires dedication and perseverance and for some reason, ungodly hours (not to mention lycra). With an intense training regime of 4-5 mornings a week the alarm goes off long before the sparrows have even considered squeaking out a fart.
Now, there are two types of people in the alarm world. The first, the group to which I belong, set the alarm for the last possible moment that you need to get up and then, in a just rip that band-aid straight off fashion, the second you hear it – get up. Then there are ‘the others’.
The others believe that 10 minutes more sleep, multiple times, is actually a lovely start to the morning and they wake feeling like they cheated that pesky alarm. Then they’re often woken by a final alarm that sends them into a panic, they race around like headless chickens muttering that they are now running late, and the stinking alarm is somehow at fault.
Wake up! (speaking metaphorically, not literally, although literally waking up is today’s…..never mind)
Does everybody in bed, ie ME, really need to be awake every 10 minutes until you manage to haul it out into the cold, dark morning to throw yourself out into the terrifying world of pre-dawn exercise?
Of course, I understand the dilemma completely……cold, dark morning/ warm, schnuggly bed……cold, drizzly, dark, foreboding, possibly monster infested morning/ warm, schnuggly, sweet, safe bed complete with warm (if pregnant, flatulent wife)………It doesn’t take Einstein, right?
I suppose the one thing I can be grateful for is that he’s not a honking, clanking, bomp-bomping kind of alarm type of man, nor is he a ‘waking up with friends’ radio talk back kind of alarmist. No, I’m woken to the soothing sounds of ducks gently quacking in my ear. For one brief moment, as I’m pulled from dreamy depths, I can almost imagine I’m Huey, Dewy and Lewy’s long lost sister.
Which brings me to the other thing about triathletes – Lycra.
I get cycle shorts, especially for dudes. I imagine they keep the lads nice and safe from chafe (au contraire, dear reader) and that can only be a good thing, but why the skin tight, wacky coloured lycra top? They sure as hell don’t look (nor smell, in my laundry pile) breathable, so why the uniform?
Mister H recently started mentioning a ‘trisuit’. For the uninitiated this is a glorified and modest version of the ‘mankini’. When it actually arrived in the mail I insisted he put it on and show me immediately. This was not because I was interested in seeing how aerodynamic he looked, nor was it because I wanted to share his excitement for his sport. It was because I thought the sight of my man in a unitard would bring me great mirth. Out he strutted in his grey one piece and I was forced to eat my giggle, my smirk was wiped to the other side of my face….he looked kinda hot.
Perhaps I’ve turned into a triathlon wife by osmosis, or maybe my penchant for lycra was hidden all along.
Let’s go with the former.
DISCLAIMER : Mister H only did this once, and once only. By accident, apparently. Sure, babe. Sure.