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The Expert Rides Again

The Expert was big into bike riding back in the Day.  “The Day” being about eleven years ago.

Here he was, back in said Day with his sassy bike and super sassy car.  Oh, the Neon.  Another post for another day.

Well, as you know, I am dragging the Expert along in my triathlon dreams.  He kicked and screamed for about three weeks, but hell bent and determined not to “get chicked” and have “his woman” beat him in any athletic endeavor, the Expert is officially tri-ing.

So, on Sunday, I roll in from my brick workout, and it’s the Expert’s turn to hit the bike while I play Mommy Does Day Care. Yes, I understand that it’s technically not daycare or babysitting when the activity consists of watching one’s own offspring.  But still.  This place feels very much like a daycare.

Moving on.

The Expert heads out around 2:45pm.  My ride took me about an hour and forty-five minutes, so I’m expecting him back around 4:15ish.  Now, he’s a bit of a show-off, so I gave him until 4:45 before I started to worry.  Afterall, if I rode 23 miles, the Expert would ensure that he put down 30 miles on the competitive books.

Well, 5:30 rolls around, and I haven’t heard from him.  Then the phone rings.

Expert:     I’m lost.
Me:          Okay.
Expert:     I mean, I was lost.  Now, I know where I am.
Me:          Are you okay? Want me to come get you? How far have you gone?
Expert:     I’m not sure.
Me:          What does your bike say?
Expert:     Oh. (muffled noise).  38 miles.

At this point, I realize that he’s probably starting to crack up.  The hills around these parts are mean, mean, mean, and 38 miles is a tall, tall, tall order for a baby triathlete.  Even a baby triathlete who used to easily manage half-centuries back in the Day.

Me:          Holy cow.  That’s crazy. I’m coming to get you.
Expert:     I’m okay. I’m okay.  I got a Powerade… at a gas station… and I’ve only got about 10 miles left.
Me:          Ten miles?!?!  I’m coming to get you.  Where are you?
Expert:     No, no. I’m okay.  Ten miles is okay.
                  Really, I’m okay.
Me:          You be careful.  Call me if you need me to come get you.
Expert:     Yup.
Me:           Do you hear me?  Call me?

He doesn’t hear me, because he’s already hung up the phone.

At 6:45 (exactly four hours from starting time) the door opens, and I hear a shuffle followed by some sort of “splat” sound, kids screaming, “Daddy!” and a sad, muffled, “Please don’t touch me, guys.  I love you.  But don’t touch Daddy…”

I round the corner, and the Expert is laying at the foot of the stairs in the foyer, looking like Oscar the Grouch does bicycling.  He’s the funniest color I’ve ever seen, and appears to be frozen like an animal carcass.

Poor Expert.  Although I’m really cursing in my head, Dumbass man, always getting lost, why can’t you pay attention, what about your GPS, for the love….  But I love this goofball, so I funnel him Cytomax and tater tots left over from the kids’ dinner. I instruct him to roll on the foam roller and put him to bed at 9:30.

Me:       I am so mad at you.  I can’t believe you got lost.  You had me worried.
Expert:  Careful there, Miss Know it All.  Karma is a bitter pill.

Oooh. Agreed.  I decided not to think bad thoughts about the four hour tour anymore.

Lessons learned (from the Expert):
1)  It’s nice to push the limits and learn new boundaries to cross, but
2)  Let your wife pick you up when you are in cuckoo land.  Riding in that state is just plain dangerous.

The next morning, he sprung out of bed just fine, and completed a six mile run first thing a few minutes ago.  I don’t think my Expert is getting chicked anytime soon.  Although, I swear I’m going to punk him on the swim.  I have a seriously badass wetsuit.

Me      = Wetsuit = 1
Expert = Wetsuit = 0

That means I am WINNING!

Today was a 2000 meter swim for me, followed by a three mile run.  My shoulders were screaming by the time that swim was over.  And my legs were crying after the run.  Coach Monster says that he’s going to keep piling it on… so that race day feels easy.  Oh, man.  We’ll see how “easy” St. Anthony’s is.