“HEEEERE COMES JOHNNY YEAAAAAHHHHHHNAGAIN…” Iggy Pop was emanating from the car radio, and I was singing along at the top of my lungs, clearing out all the cool-colored chakras (as a fortune teller instructed me to do to radiate positive energy and vibrations) on a late Friday afternoon, pre-Delta variant scare. I was powering through the most obnoxious part of I-35, balancing a paper bag on my lap that cradled a corn dog and onion rings—served to me by a kid with a saccharine smile named Theo at a Sonic just south of Waco. I decided Lust for Life would be my weekend’s theme song; but just the part when Iggy’s repeating, “I’ve got a lust for life,” because I’m not a maniac or going on a sea cruise. I would carb-load my way through the Dallas-Fort Worth area—where I reluctantly learned how to drive like a cavalier asshole among the Metroplex’s finest—in preparation for my first triathlon. Hanging out with old friends, sans their children, I’d wax nostalgic for the salad days while spending my paltry earnings on pasta and iced coffees, sucking the marrow of this hedonistic weekend. I could feel it.
This was a sprint tri: 200 yards of swimming in a pool, 16 miles of cycling, and 3.2 miles of running. For the record, this was not my idea. This girlfriends-do-fitness event was Christina’s idea back in November when I visited her in Denton, where I spent my college years. She said she and her husband were going to do this and asked if I and our mutual friend Christine wanted to join. I told her I hate swimming, but she assured me that it would be a cinch. “The thing is, the swimming part is not that long!” she said, slowly, as if revealing a juicy piece of gossip. “We’re definitely going to do it in July,” I remember her saying. Soon, we had a text thread about how we were going to train and get in shape. So, I got the sporty onesie that feels like a sausage casing and signed up for one-on-one running and swimming coaching, and I actually went to those classes at 6:00 a.m. Just days leading up to this big day, Christine (not Christina, but you see how confusing this is going to get) asks me why I’m coming up... The triathlon! The thing we said we were going to train for! The thing I was never going to sign up for solo!
These situations get me in a tizzy, but this is the story of my life. I follow through on what I say I’m going to do. I get roped into the stuff everyone gets excited about—the karaoke party my coworkers thought would be a riot, the volunteer day on the farm, the writing club—and show up when others don’t. You’d think I’d know the score. But my friends, who offered to let me stay in their homes while their mothers-in-law tended the kids, are super fun. And I like the makings of a good story.
Guess what number I got when I picked up my packet the next day? 420. I can’t make this stuff up. That’s out of 500. I had entirely underestimated my swimming speed when I registered, but I just rolled with it. This ostensibly goth volunteer was completely thrown, almost embarrassed for me. “Okay, 200 yards is two football fields,” he told me, concerned. “So, you want to be that far back?” I explained to him that I was a slow swimmer. His colleagues stopped what they were doing, amused, and watched as he continued to grill me: “Do you make a lot of stops? Have you swam [sic] recently?”
Without making eye contact in my direction, a guy standing next to me looked at the goth volunteer and said, “Look, she just wants to have fun!” Dang me. Perhaps he unlocked some language the volunteer understood because the goth’s face relaxed as he handed me my packet.
“You are right,” I chirped, “Sir,” nodding my head toward him because this was DFW and the man was clearly over 60. This girl did want to have fun. 420, baybeeee!
Yeah, I partied that Saturday—but in the way immature 30-somethings do by drinking wine and laughing too hard at turn of phrases, like Christina telling us about meema whore, a term she invented that basically describes the ugly side of the ’90s fashion spectrum twenty-somethings are into. All you should know is I stayed hydrated as we crisscrossed around Fort Worth, thrifting and taking photos of The Horny Toad’s ridiculous sign, and met up with friends at Denton’s little music venues. I was cognizant that if I drank too much, I would have a bad time on race day, but I wanted to have my cake and it eat it, too. So, I got myself to bed at around 2:00 a.m., set my alarm for 5:20 a.m., and hoped for the best.
The above text, the third installment of Kickstand, was written in July 2021 and hasn’t seen the light of day until now. Why? This was around the time I left my toxic job and began contracting and job-hunting. That summer I got another job, broke my wrist (rollerskating, not cycling), and made plans to move to El Paso that winter. Call me undisciplined but it was a stressful, busy, uncertain time. It feels like the dust has finally settled a little.
If you’re in suspense about how this story ended, know that I finished the triathlon without stopping. Looking back at my notes, I wrote how Christina– from the sidelines of the transition zone—told me while I was putting on my sneakers, “People finished an hour ago. You’re one of the last people!” She’s hilarious. Flash forward two years, Christina had her second child and I ran my second tri. I’m not too different but a lot has happened since that time.
Readers, Kickstand is now transitioning to Sun City, a breezy, theme-based newsletter chronicling my West Texas adventures, peppered with recommendations, musings, DIY stuff, and more. I’ll be sending this out sporadically, but no more than two times a month. If you’re not into that, simply unsubscribe.
If you want to come along for the ride, let me know what you want to hear about by sending me a quick email to clarisa.lucia@gmail.com with the subject line Desert Decorum. Thanks!