So, this is what happens to you when you kick a cranky Greyhound when he's sleeping on the porch because he hasn't been blogging enough. YOU become the subject of the blog post.
I confess, Nytro was right. I have not been updating my blog enough. ("Hello, Mr. Pot, I'm Mrs. Kettle, and you're black.")
But being right does not mean you will avoid a post directed almost entirely at you.
The picture set out above is one taken of me and my little friend Nytro at the SOMA triathlon in Tempe. You will recall that SOMA occurred approximately two weeks after I allegedly ruptured my disc, which coincidentally occurred while my little friend was sprinkling chicken blood over a doll bearing a remarkable resemblance to a short, skinny, balding triathlete while she stabbed said doll with sharp instruments of destruction.
Let me connect some more dots for you. My little friend is running a little race in January. In fact she is running that little race a week after I run a slightly bigger race--if by slightly bigger you mean "twice as freaking long, in fact long enough to have caused Mr. Pheidippedes to expire after announcing the Athenian victory over the Persians at Marathon."
And yet, MY LITTLE FRIEND falters. Even though I am injured and lack race-ready confidence, she has (although you can't tell by looking) shrunk from the challenge to match my sluggish marathon pace in her half-mary. She threatens to pull out the voodoo doll again, only this time it bears a striking resemblance to a pasty-white (and yet strikingly ripped) Canadian Ironman who is also running that little race.
She has her reasons, which she will undoubtedly post, but allow me a serious digression.
I intend to post later in the week about why we can't do this thing alone and the people who have given me a hand up. Nytro and Benny are two that deserve special mention as the keenest type of friends that one can make in any undertaking. They are remarkable people on their own, and their combination is much much greater than the sum of the parts. Nytro cannot fully hide their grace in the rough blog persona. They have a special union that is an example even to their elders, and the excess of their spirit flows out to their friends.
And if it were not for the friends, why do this at all? If I train to my maximum ability and never become injured again until the day I die, I will never stand upon any podium. And I can train for self-improvement and race Father Time all I want, but Father Time remains undefeated to this day. But if I do not train, if I do not compete, if I do not "strive with" my fellows in this odd hobby, I would never meet the likes of Benny and Nytro.
I would be the poorer for it. Merry Christmas, you two.