Ok, so maybe I am a number. Ironman Wisconsin numbers are up, and I'm number 1257, Greyhound, from Spring, Texas.
But notwithstanding the number, I've spen the last 24 hours wondering whether I'm a hardass or a wuss. I took Carmen to the LBS for Tri Bike Transport, but had trouble getting the pedals to loosen and come off. So, the girl at the bike shop took them off for me.
She had a tatoo, and undoubtedly was a rockin' biker chick, but she was still a girl.
Then, I had to change a flat this morning. (Long story). I couldn't get the lug nuts to loosen, and I wasn't about to rupture myself or shred my back changing a tire about 8 days from Ironman. So I asked for help.
The big beefy building guys also couldn't move the lug nuts with my tire tool. They had to get this huge tool to get them loosened. My tool was inadequate.
I guess size does matter. :(
But after they were loosened, the three enginees stood around and watched me change the tire. Something tells me if I had boobs, hips, and wore a skirt, I would not have been changing my own tire. One guy would have changed the tire while the others stood around oggling.
But apparently my a$$ is hard. Mistress Arlene, massage therapist to the stars, had to make a housecall last night, and she found it necessary to spend a lot . . . I mean A.LOT. of time on two very ripped masses of muscle.
The draping became somewhat of an afterthought. I think Arlene is now almost as familiar with my untanned landscape as Mrs. Greyhound.
Almost. But not quite.
So I've got that going for me, which is good.