You may not want to read this at work. Not because it’s R rated, but because, well, you should be working. Ironman obviously loves triathlon. You don’t get that title by sitting around in your barcalounger watching Andy Cohen on Bravo. Though if you did, I’d have quite a few M-dot tattoos. You earn it, one sweat bead at a time. So I’ll bet you’re wondering where the sex and drugs fit in? Well, triathlon IS an addiction, but I’ve been unsuccessful in locating a tri rehab. I don’t think anyone knows quite how to handle a triathlete in withdrawal. Those of you deep in the clutches of triathletism, and even those in committed relationships with a triathloholic, can agree, it wouldn’t be pretty, friends. The sex. Ironman is always on some sort of handheld device. And if he’s not, he is flipping through a magazine. He’s not much a tv watcher. In fact, I’ll have to explain who Andy Cohen is. Occasionally, while engrossed in his medium of choice, he’ll say something under his breath like “Man, that is sexy!”. Now, any other wife might be suspicious. Or jealous. But not me, because my Iroman is committed. To triathlon. And if I took away his bike porn, he might just turn up in one if those tri rehabs. As he surfs or flips, every evening there’s a new carbon bike on his wish list. And if Santa was real, trust me, he’d arrive on a Cervello. The drugs. Now don’t raise your brow, he doesn’t Lance it. But Ironman meticulously prepares for his races. His water bottles are counted and re-counted. His GU packets are lined up like little soldiers awaiting battle, fighting first in the water, then on the bike and finally on foot. His nutrition litters the tabletop like a DEA’s dream bust, the Ziploc packets of white powder stacked neatly in rows.
This is the life of an Ironman. It isn’t glamorous. And it isn’t easy. But someone vowed to love him in sickness and in health. Who knew they could happen at the same time?