Hello, My Name Is...

We are back in Kona now. It seems so normal here. So everyday. As if the Ironman didn't happen 7 days ago. As if right here, in this spot, a mere one week prior, lives hadn't been changed. If I hold my breathe, and keep quiet, I think I can hear the cheering still linger. But nobody seems to notice. These silly, silly people. Here I am with a new perspective, new motivation, on the road to Ironman, and yet the fatties from Nowhereville, Idaho and all the families straight from the Redneck Riviera are waddling around in their nauseatingly ugly, matching Hawaiian outfits as if nothing has happened. As if they are ignoring the fact that lives have been changed.

Have any of these people heard of triathlon? Have they heard of Ironman?!

And, just as suddenly, I listen to myself and realize what I'm saying. And I'm scared. I'm scared of me. Honestly. I look in the mirror and actually yelp. Not quite a scream. Just a yelp. But a yelp, nonetheless.

I've become a triathlon junkie. I'm addicted. I'm over the edge. I can't stop. I train unceasingly. I always carry a triathlon magazine with me wherever I go. I write for all the major triathlon publications. I take pictures of triathletes and make conversations with random people when I hear they are triathletes. I check out every bike I pass. I assess random joggers based on their form and cadence. I have been known to casually, spontaneously practice my swim stroke while standing in a crowded room. I need help. I desperately need help.

All these fat tourists around me, suddenly they are the normal ones. And I am the freak.

Well that's not good. That's not good at all.

It must be that time. I need a 12 step.

...Hello, my name is J... and I am a triathlete.