IRONMAN 70.3 GEELONG, VIC AUS

‘I think that’s it’ I usher, snapping the last bit off onto the tinny pan lid. Empty, content, on time. Shit is just easier when you’re not late, literally. A rare moment of punctuality in a life mired with tardiness. Stretch, swim warmup; I’m farking killing it. The tackle comfortably finds the right nook in the wetsuit with no further recourse. There will be no battle of the bulge today, yet I don’t hesitate to threaten violence unto my competitors as I get hustled on the start line. We make nice with no eye sockets hewn or cerebral cortexs shaken, & I take my place at the front of the race. I treat with jellyfish the same as the baby corn in my stir fry; with utter contempt & disgust. But I move forward, leading out of the water. ITU man Willian makes swiftly through T1, Appleton now in tow but a dangling McKenna & Noble just behind. We make a dead blow & rip a wound. More blood, the more watts. Let it fester! Appo & I lock on like crazed wolfhounds, a tacit blood oath with the winds of victory in our sails. Yet the fatigue inevitably builds, & I retire from triathlon once again. Nay! Do not be deceived, for I portion thy magical substances into the bloodstream. Sugar. Caffeine. Bliss! We are still in the lead & it’s growing; but so is my tooth, & I would like to win again before the joints are gone. As I dismount & hobble, one bearing witness would essay that this indeed is one broken steed. Appleton has the edge as he’s had for the previous hour, & he parlays with glory until he’s out of sight. The legs gradually turn better under body, but it’s not without loss. For McKenna is light of foot & bold of mind; the lizard is thirsty for a drink today. But I make it onerous, though I am seemingly doomed. Wheezing, sputtering. A familiar battle, war waged from my deep wells with the McKenna machine. But the bodies have been piled, & in the dying meters McKenna flicks the match. Defiled, immolated. Crampy, unresponsive. I turn the final corner; a mournful jog, feigned smile, an empty soul. Nah 3rd is pretty good. I’m just fucked! Gimme that champagne. Nothing sweeter than the sting of cheap champagne in you chafe wounds. Cheerio, Geelong!