Do or Do Not, There is No Tri

It appears that the fitness binge I have been on has dramatically altered the content of this blog. For those of you who read regularly, expecting to be regaled with tales of drunken debauchery, I must disappoint you for another month. After all, this month I have to detail my first foray into the world of competitive triathlons. This past weekend, 2/3rds of Team BBK took a trip down to Champaign to race in Tri-the-Illini, U of I's annual sprint triathlon. Competing against hundreds of college kids who were not yet alive when Nintendo released Track and Field and the accompanying power pad, we had to swim 300 meters, bike 14.5 miles, and run a 5K.

While I had been training for this ever since I returned from my bike trip across Iowa in July, my first triathlon experience was almost derailed before it even started. Champaign is roughly 150 miles from Chicago, just long enough to be considered a road trip. As such, everyone knows that you're letting the terrorists win if you don't indulge in America's finest fast food establishments while on a road trip. There was just something about the rhythm of the asphalt under the car and the countless rows of corn whipping past my window that made me crave both Steak and Shake and Chik-Fil-A. I was halfway through my chicken nuggets when I snapped from my fast food induced reverie just long enough to realize that my dining choices might not bode well for my performance the following morning. I immediately had a vision of myself tethered to a toilet in a gym locker room, just close enough to hear the starter's pistol signifying the beginning of the race.

Fortunately my dining options did not come back to haunt me. I was well rested and in good shape gastrointestinally when we got to the campus the next morning. Upon our arrival, I realized that we would not just be competing against a slew of college kids. There were various age groups present, including a pair of 79 year old's, that could potentially embarrass me throughout the race. However, as the race got under way, it became evident that my apprehension was unwarranted to a certain degree. During the biking portion of the race, my strongest leg of the three, I was able to overtake the septuagenarians as well as various baby-boomers. I knew the age of each person I passed because the race officials kindly wrote our ages on our calves with a thick sharpie. I'm not sure if this was done to embarrass people as they got passed by older racers, but it got me to thinking about how I could potentially bring home some hardware during my next triathlon. Upon signing in, I noticed that no one took the time to verify my age. What's to stop me from fudging my age on my registration? That way I could compete against the 40-somethings for an age group victory rather than go up against young bucks in the 25-29 range. I don't think I'll have any trouble passing as a 40-something, and any guilt I might feel would certainly be diminished by the fact that my alcohol and drug abuse over the past 10-15 years has taken decades off my life, leaving me with a body that is actually more reminiscent of a 50 year old's than a 29 year old's.

While I've enjoyed the adrenaline rush that comes along with competitive racing, I'm afraid that this new sport is robbing me of a bit of my street cred. Prior to the bike trip across Iowa and the triathlon, the whitest thing I ever did was stay at a quaint B&B while taking a winery tour through the Finger Lakes region (attending a phish show was a close second but even there you could expect the random Rastafarian to add to the diversity). However, these races are about as white as it gets. The only people of any color at these events are the obese racers who have turned firetruck red as they strain to climb the steepest hills on their bikes.

Most of you might be thinking that I didn't have much street cred to begin with, but at least when I was playing basketball I learned which moisturizers are the best to use when I was all ashy and I knew how to properly mix Hennessy and Alize to make a perfect Thug Passion. And when I was playing baseball I knew how to say ""I've seen better moves at an 8th grade dance" in Spanish when the opposing pitcher would attempt his pick-off move with a runner on first. Losing what little street cred I had is particularly disturbing to me because I witnessed first-hand what it means to be a Midwestern Caucasian during these races. When we were in Iowa, we were surprised by the locals complete inability to pick up on any sense of sarcasm, irony, or the dryness of our wit. For example, one morning Neil asked a high school girl serving biscuits and gravy, "How much would it cost to have my water bottle filled with gravy?" The girl could not wrap her head around this simple attempt at humor and nervously stammered, "uh..uh..uh...I don't know...I'll have to go ask the manager." Due to encounters like this, I started to become fearful that if I continued to participate in these ultra white sporting events, I could become as bland and vanilla as that simple Iowa farm girl standing behind the delicious vat of gravy.

However, this fear quickly dissipated when I remembered that there is one non-white characteristic that I will never lose: the ability to own a room with my dance moves. My moves are so transcendent that the Retar's decided that they needed to share them with the world. Check me out in the video below, (the dance solo at the end has caused a firestorm on youtube as Retar fans across the world have demanded that I be featured in more videos) and be sure to check out their new album that was just recently released. As always, it's free to download at http://www.theretarcrew.com/