Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

A Melancholy Zebra determined to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.


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An Error of Magnitude

I operate on the principle of “More”: Faster. Stronger. Smarter. Better. Just….more. Always more. Take more classes. Work more jobs. Volunteer more time. It’s like someone hooked Dory on speed and told her to just keep swimming. GANGWAYYYYYY!! I don’t know where I’m going but by god I am going to gogogogo!

I think the truth is that I’m afraid of what will happen if I stop.

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Exercise Isn’t a Cure-All… also The Queen Joan Ferguson

I’ve talked a few times about how exercise saves my pants. (Actually, no. I’m sure my pants are not pleased with the constant sweat saturation and then soap-bath. They probably would rather simply be pants.)

Yet, every single session isn’t an auto-mood boost, alas. For the first time since January, I quit a training session early, intentionally, and not from Bad Pain. I just couldn’t stop panicking and crying. I’ve had moments in training before, and I’m sure I’ll have more in the future. But I will say that the universe has a twisted sense of humor about these situations.

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The Top Six. Thanks, BPD…

I’ve had this blog for a little under two years, and I’m going to brush off my own shoulderpad and take a look and what has been racking up the hits.

Honestly, I could use a boost: I thought of at least four face-raging topics before deciding that I didn’t need to go off on certain behaviors of my esteemed colleagues in this endeavor (i.e. Life) or, even better, go off on myself. Unless someone wants me to go batsh*t keyboard-smash on some universal atrocity– just say the word! (Hint: the word is “Go.”)

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Dastardly Shin Splint Raining On My Parade

This post has sat on my desktop for days; I think I was waiting until today’s appointment when, once again, I would hear a doctor tell me not to run.

And once again, I would ignore him.

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The Zone is a Lie; My Brain on Running

I’m not one of those blissed-out runners who flies over the pavement like someone spiked their nutrition gel with particularly excellent ecstasy.

Nor shall I ever be.

Fear keeps my feet turning over for miles down the road. I’m completely terrified. (And lo! Another indication that I am not entirely normal. Go figure.)

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Tri-ing to Survive (A Focal Shift)

So, I’m outing myself.

Rather, I’m shifting the lens of the blog a little. As I transitioned out of a stagnant and wistful time of my life and I rejoined the human race again, the inspiration for blog posts here waned. I’m pleased to be back on track, but I’m not pleased that I’ve let this blog wither, and the Muse does not descend just because I want her to, the wretched bitch.

After a time of careful deliberation, I’ve decided to “change lenses” (as they might say in an obsessively methodical English class) while maintaining essentially the same topic: how the hell to survive when things are going Just Great. 

I’m stalling…

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