Queering the Triathlete (and Other Discomforts)

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


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A Day in the Life

A satirical (or not) description of a typical day.

This isn’t a particularly good or bad day but something I’d expect on an uneventful and average day for my spoonie/zebra/triathlete/*cough* butt.

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Vertebral Subluxation Just for Fun

*adopts Henry Higgins voice* Damn damn damn damn damn damn damn.

Somehow–and lord only knows how exactly–I subluxated a couple of my cervical vertebrae and, in doing so, pinched a nerve. Or possibly two, as both of my arms over the course of an hour went from: “Huh, I think my fingers fell asleep. Lazy fingers” to: “OH MY GOD I can’t move my arms!!” For example, it quite literally took me five minutes to get my key in the door lock because I couldn’t control my arms enough to lift the key and hold it still. Terrifying.

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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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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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