My Supergreat Blog Entry
It's tough to be a guy whose girlfriend can kick your ass on a bike. Not for my girlfriend. For her, it’s great for me to be a guy whose girlfriend can kick your ass on a bike. For her it’s sweet. Not for my son. For him, it’s great for me to be a guy whose girlfriend can kick your ass on a bike. For him, it’s hilarious. But for me? For me, it¹s tough. I’m the one who has to hear, from my 5’2” girlfriend, how “you tried real hard.” I’m the one who has to hear my eight year old boy randomly exclaim, “Tell the story about how Katie beat you in that race again!”
What race? How about the local time trial race? Sure, she started three minutes after me, but it didn’t matter. She was coming. Fast. She was mercilessly chewing up the pavement and I could feel the air compressing between us. Then, at last, I saw the finish. But, looking back, I also saw her gaining on me like death in an old folk’s home. I’m veering all over the road, my legs screaming in pain, and sure, she's already technically beat me, but I won’t get passed, no way. But my stupid legs don't care, they just want to rest. I’m working the bike like a spastic metronome, and panting like I should be hanging around outside a movie theater in a trench-coat, but I held on to “win!” My victory celebration was to ride off alone because I felt like I was going to vomit. Then she started talking about the course in detail, but all I remembered was seeing purple, and I knew piping in with, “What was with all the purple,” was just wrong. And when she leaned over to kiss me, all I could think was, "Don't throw-up on her, it will totally kill the moment." That race? Well, you get an idea of what it's like to be me.
See, my girlfriend is a world class amateur triathlete, and I’m distinctly…not. Our second date was a five hour running and biking “date.” The best part was that the bike legs (yes, that’s “leg’s” plural) had some kind of acceleration section. So she says, innocently, “Now we have to pick it up for the last few miles.” “Sure thing,” I say with the innocent flair of a first time nudist “I’ve been naked before, how hard can it be?” Well, at first, I’m doing great, even holding back a bit, and thinking to myself, “I’m nailing this. I’m wooing her good!” Then she says, “OK, ready?” As I think, “Ready for what?” she takes off like a rocket. Seriously, it was like an asphalt troll grabbed my bike and stopped me cold. She was inhuman, and I was distinctly…not. I did more “whewing” than “wooing” after that.
It’s eight months later, we joined a Powertap class where she can’t pass me and only the tap knows the truth.
