The Triathlon

A bad start. He arrived at the race site, early as usual. The grey sky was shooting tiny spitballs to the ground. “Gonna be a cool one,” he thought. Then he pulled his still damp wetsuit from the filthy car trunk – he forgot to dry it out from last week’s race. As he shook the water from the smelly suit, a dead fish fell to the ground. “He must have made last week’s swim with me.” Another bad omen. Then came the worst. His front wheel had two broken spokes. “Oh man, not my day.”

He could rinse the wetsuit in the lake and he would have to live with the smell. But what about the spokes? No one at the race admitted to having an extra wheel. It might hold up, but maybe not.

He noticed one of the bored wives of a fellow racer sitting and knitting. “Can I buy a pair of knitting needles from you?” She had a spare set and didn’t have to destroy her half finished crimson sweater. She smiled as she handed him the needles – no questions asked.

An elderly, wrinkled groundskeeper wandered by carrying a tool kit. “Any duct tape in there?” the frustrated weekend triathlete asked. Luck was drifting his way, as he thanked the confused old man for the tape.

The knitting needles and the tape on the spokes might do the trick. He held his nose as he snapped the rank wetsuit over his body.

The howl of the horn and splash of anxious racers in the water signaled the start of three hours of hell.

The wetsuit odor didn’t matter; the knitting needles held the spokes together; no mishaps on the run.

The clock read 2:59:45, as he grunted across the finish mat. A new personal record.

(299 words)