I try not to make fun of triathletes. As Andy says, it’s like poking fun at retarded children. Also, I used to be one, and it seems hypocritical to take the mickey out of people for doing exactly what I thought was super-cool back in the day.* But then again, isn’t that what we all did with hypercolour t-shirts? And the Spice Girls?
Lisa’s Mum, however, has no such qualms. On Saturday, she was feeling extremely lively because I swapped her decaf coffee for regular without telling her and she was bouncing off the walls. We were parked at our local cafe and a swarm of walruses had descended, fresh from beach road and swapping stories about how carbon their gear was. They had taken up all the tables around us and were talking loudly and had stacked their filthy bikes against the window in front of us. We marvelled at the size of their saddle bags and wondered what treasures were hidden inside.
The sight prompted Lisa's Mum to tell me the story of Ali Baba and the 40 Triathletes. By the time she had finished my eyes were the size of dinner plates and my flat white had gotten cold (truly the sign of a compelling story). I'll recount the story here soon... stay tuned.
*Actually, I did duathlon, not triathlon, because I swim like a rock and I get no joy from people swimming on top of me in the ocean and kicking me in the face. I looked up to triathletes.