Diary
Heather's Diary of a Sad Triathlete continued.... These are funnier if you've seen a Sad Cat Diary which you can watch here.

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

The fates seem to have decided that while I do an eternity’s worth of 30 second hill repeats, a car is never allowed to drive past while I look awesome hauling ass up the hill, but only while I look like I’m going to have a heart attack, immediately upon recovery, while walking back down.

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

The inability to regulate the temperature of the push-button showers in the Rec Centre continues to vex me. I am often so warm from training that their hotness makes me sweat profusely, negating the entire point of the shower. Like George from Seinfeld I am doomed to emerge from the change room sweaty, muttering that “the shower just didn’t take”.

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

It seems to be the sadistic policy of the coffee making authorities to leave coffee grounds absolutely everywhere due to a medical condition known as ‘man eyes’. If I suggest that these grounds are easily cleaned up, it is suggested that I make the coffee. Alas, if I make the coffee, I am assaulted with the coffee snob inquisition regarding grind fineness, water temperature and steep times to which there is no correct answer. There is no logic in this place.

 

Dear Diary,

 

The authorities have me doing 5 min max effort intervals on the trainer and by the end of each my suffering is such that I cannot help but make loud, obscene-sounding breathing noises. I left the garage door open a crack last time for fresh air and when I went out later the construction guys working next door looked at me funny. I couldn’t help but think of this scene from Forrest Gump. I can now add shame to the physical torment that this session brings.

 

Dear Diary,

 

My husband shares funny anecdotes from the mens’ change room that make me appreciate being female, but I am now plagued by horrible associations (e.x. mushroom cap in dense moss that needs to be air dried while standing naked on the public bench, or the infamous leg up, towel see-saw). Despite my attempts to rid my mind of these images, all of my efforts have been for naught. There is simply no return to my glorious days of innocence.

 

 

 

Dear Diary,

 

After a career best performance, the authorities’ only e-mail response was simply “please update your RPE sheet”. My spirit is breaking.

 

Dear Diary,

 

The authorities to have confirmed that there is no link between the gluten proteins and gastric distress in non celiacs, yet if, with wild abandon, I consume the bread material that I love oh so much, I inevitably lose control of my sphincter on any run over 40 minutes. I will continue to bear the mocking cries of “you total sucker, gluten-free-fad-following dunce” from my peers to avoid shitting my pants.

 



 

Dear Diary,

 

Despite there being an entire row of empty treadmills, Mr. heavy-stomping, loud-breathing guy had to pick the machine right next to mine on the day I forgot to bring my headphones. This lead to the illusion that despite my best efforts I could not run away from him. My stubbornness, and sweatiness, did not allow me to simply move machines to release my mind from this torment. Like Sisyphus I am bound to hell.

 

 

 

 

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