As you might have heard, there was a touch of rain in Austin this weekend. Most were dissuaded by the precipitation, including the race director who declared the triathlon was canceled. I decided to teach everyone a lesson, so I gathered my things and setup my transition area. Of course the RD didn't want to let me race and took my wetsuit to keep me from swimming. That didn't slow me down though; I simply dove and wrestled a pair of largemouth bass into submission, strapped them to my feet like skis, and grabbed hold of a passing crocodile. (If you haven't checked, there's actually nothing in triathlon regulations against any of this.) That croc was a mean SOB, but eventually he submitted to my will and started flying across the course. So I was race-legal and making great time!

Find equally-sized bass. I can't tell you how hard it is to balance on a pair of fish that aren't the same size.

Bass are easier to strap on than take off. Am I right, fellas? Fellas? Anyone?

Find bass with velcro straps attached to their backs. Spend less time clubbing the fish once they're off my feet. Also, get Chubbs' hand back from that croc.

As you can imagine, the fact that I was racing against this maelstrom was quite a sight and a large crowd was gathering to marvel at my awesome display of athletic aptitude. Unfortunately my fish clubbing also caught the attention of local PETA members who were out on the trail hugging fire ants, and they called the cops to pick me up. But all the cops were already busy blocking traffic for the bike course, so the only cop who showed up to arrest me was a mounted police. Since I was already 1/3 through the race and wasn't about to give up now, I lured the policeman off his mount by faking a seizure. When he was leaned over checking on me, I kicked him in the holiest of places and stole his horse. (I realize this is a capital offense in Texas, but I trained for FOUR MONTHS DAMNIT.) Now, normally a horse can only go about 15mph for any extended period of time, but you know police love to soup up all their vehicles. Apparently this horse was setup with a turbocharger and nitrous tanks(don't ask where they stored the tanks...or how I activated them) so I started whipping this magnificent beast like he was Michael Moore at an NRA rally. That glorious bastard ran like Michael Moore at an NRA rally. And if you noticed that I used the same analogy twice in a row, that means you're smarter than Michael Moore at an NRA rally. Anyway, that horse was faster than hell and I made record time through the course.

Feed the horse some cocaine. Seriously, I think it was a cyborg. You couldn't kill that thing if you tried(and I did).

Getting back to the transition area actually took awhile. You see when a cyborg horse gets going as fast as he did, he's got to do a couple mile cool-down before he can stop completely. If I had made it that far in the Cyborg Horse Manual PDF by the end of the ride(did I mention he has a web browser implanted on his neck? Cops think of everything) I would have known that. So my T2 time sucked. It happens I guess, but it really killed my time. I'm going to have to practice my cyborg horse transitions more often. Anyhow, my cult following was reaching critical mass at the transition area. Lines of adoring fans were braving the torrential downpour, screaming my name, and throwing their underwear at me. And that was just the guys. As I was fist-deep in the horse replacing the spent nitrous tanks(it was the least I could do), I noticed Desiree Ficker was waving at me trying to get my attention. I took my hand out of the horse's ass and got the crowd of overworked men to crowdsurf Ms. Ficker into the transition area. She told me she was running through the area doing some interval training with her rickshaw - it's the latest craze amongst pro triathletes - and saw what I was trying to accomplish. Apparently my desire to race(and sparkling personality) had impressed her, and she wanted to help out. She offered me a spot in her rickshaw, which I gladly accepted after I hosed my arms down.

Read the manual faster, initiate cyborg horse cool-down prior to the end of the 4th lap.

This was by far the best portion of the race. I got to lay back, eat grapes, and stare at Ms. Ficker's fine form while she hauled ass(hers and mine) across downtown Austin. I don't know what she's putting in her Fruit Loops, but she ran like a woman possessed. The miles were ticking by faster and faster; if I didn't know better I'd say she's part cyborg horse(note to USAT: cyborg horse supplements are legal and safe. Don't ban her just because she wants to win). She knocked down the 10k in 35 minutes flat! I mean, I could have done that too, but it would have been rude to show her up. It would have been nice if she had stopped at the end of the 10k though, I actually had to tuck & roll out the side of the rickshaw to make it to the finish line without her passing it up. I'm telling you, the woman gets in a zone and just *goes*.

Eat more grapes, make Desiree stop at a convenience store for drinks.

After finishing the race I let the throng of adoring men give me a massage, and I mean that in the straightest way possible. OK, there's not actually a straight way to say that. Let's start over.

After finishing the race we grabbed a nearby football and played a game of smear the qu...dammit, one more try.

After finishing the race, the throng of adoring men took me to a local pub and we all shared a drink while watching Spike TV. (There, that's better) I bought the now nad-less cop a couple drinks and handed him a couple ice packs(he'll need them), then gathered my flock back to the ark and headed home.


A badly-organized cyborg horse manual.


Alright, so it was a downpour and I was the only one competing. Is it too much to ask that they have a limo and monogrammed towels at the finish line? Yea, it probably is. But it would have been nice.