Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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Slip-Crack-Pop and T Minus 32 Hours

When I walked into my chiropractor’s office yesterday for a pre-race tune-up (more like an overhaul) and taping, she looked at me for a moment, slumped a little, and said, “You don’t look like yourself. I can tell something is wrong. What’s going on?” She was about to cry. Freaking empaths. Stick two of us in a room…

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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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Queering the What?! Lest We Assume

“You’re ‘queering’ the what?!” = what I imagine the immediate response to the blog title might be.

NB: I am not turning triathletes queer. (Although…*wink*)

Somewhere along the linguistic timeline, “queer” became a verb, not unlike how “adult” became a verb, but in far more scholarly and less whiny manner. Granted, I do not want to adult most of the time, but that neologism has become banal through undergraduate student overuse.

“Queer,” meanwhile, is still a confused term, and it damn well should be. It’s queer, after all. (Bad pun. Revel in it!)

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