“I refuse to bonk. …and I refuse to let the asshole voice my head tell me that I haven’t put in the hours and earned the right to compete in this race.”
Okay, who the fuck is in my head, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t just say that. My self-talk usually contains copious references to oft-covered parts of the anatomy and the accompanying rude activities. (My belly button sometimes steals sweater fuzzies! What were you imagining?) When I think about an upcoming Ironman triathlon, a large part of me starts shouting that those empty hours in the saddle and on the pavement are going to be wretched and asks how the fuck, kid, are you going to find the mental badassery to keep going?
In all honesty, I remain shocked by that bit of inspirational chatter, my very own St. Crispin’s Day speech. Maybe I’ll grow some shaggy Kenneth Branagh hair and purchase a tunic.