. . . Fuck the peeps. Here's to us!
This is a slightly Meggan-ized take on the old drinking toast "here's to the boys/girls we love..."
As I lay typing earlier today, my sherpa was driving us to St. Petersburg for St. Anthony's. Which is also fitting, because I feel like I'm going to need a bunch of saints to feel like a real triathlete tomorrow.
Everyone's taller than me. Fitter than me. Skinnier than me. They're probably even better-trained. And I look so un-athletic that people think wiry little Sherpa, with his virtually fat-free, cut-up arms and chest, is the triathlete - not me - despite his hippie attitude and perpetual cigarette. Just the other night, Sherpa had to defend me to his (seriously obese) co-worker, who told him, "I don't mean any disrespect, but your girl sure doesn't look like she... uh ... has the build of someone who does them triathlon-things." No shock there - remember, a doctor in the ER told me just a month ago that I "wasn't the build of a typical marathoner." (In Sherpa's colleague's defense, he's constantly talking about how HE couldn't do half the shit I do. Which he couldn't. So HA.)
But, while I'm used to this treatment by now, it doesn't upset or anger me any less. So as I prepared myself mentally for the race this week, I kept searching for little good luck omens, signs that my embarrassingly superstitious ass wouldn't be completely handed to me come race day, proof that there really was NO VACANCY for anyone to rent negative space in my head.
They didn't come.
My race number is 4183, which has no significance and is high as hell. I had a conversation about this with the Tribrit today. I love low race numbers with significance and double digits. (Speaking of peeps we love, look for a few of my much faster tri-heroes Tribrit, Dawn Decaminada, Amy Edmonds and Brian Nesmuth in the final rankings. Go go go guys!!!!). The last time I went Olympic, I was better-trained and Dawn raced, too - I won my age group. I'm also at St. Anthony's, as I mentioned, with Anthony. And just last week, I got a fortune that read 'hope is a person's only true treasure'. My lucky numbers included the date of the race. And Tribrit noted that, if you add all my numbers together to get the lowest single digit, you end up with the ultimate lucky number - 7. Sherpa reminded me that his birthday is on one of the luckiest of dates, the 27th, which is the date I'm racing.
Still not feelin' the luck.
So, as I started my usual evening pre-race prep, I began thinking about the people who have all loved and supported me throughout the past few seasons of hairy drama, wild depressions, difficult race finishes and crazy medical records. And that's when that little toast popped into my head. I usually dedicate my races (and even my training) to those who have supported me, guided and coached me.
Oddly enough, it wasn't thinking about the peeps I love that got me really focused on tomorrow, though - it was thinking about the peeps that don't love us (or me, in this case.). So, I decided, just this once, that my running of the 25th Annual St. Anthony's Triathlon will be dedicated to the people who don't believe in me. Yes - this one's for the haters.
For the people who assume that I'm not athletic because they think I'm fat? This is for you.
For the people who accuse me of using my medical conditions as a crutch, or who make uneducated speculations about how I can race when I have such a hard time just getting by? This is for you.
For the people who don't believe I've put in the time racing and training to be here? This is for you.
And another old drinking toast started to make me giggle. It goes, "Here's to you and me, in hopes we never disagree. But if we do? Fuck you! Here's to ME!
Maybe I will finish dead last tomorrow. Maybe I will PR. Maybe I will DNF. But, regardless of what happens, I'm going to use that pissed-off energy to shove a big 'fuck-you' in the faces of anyone who's doubted me.
Here's to me and me, in hopes we never disagree ...
Here's to the peeps we love. Here's to the peeps that love us. If the peeps we love don't love us . . . .
Labels: st. anthony's