How a smoke — saved my triathlon career.
I’ve got this bitty triathlon tomorrow. So yesterday, late afternoon I took off on my bike.
As I headed out of town, an object in the middle of Dixie Highway caught my eye. It wasn’t a squished Amarillo, Nor a squished snake. Nor the yellow tassel that’s been on the road since graduation last month.
It was a pack of Winstons.
Even at my blistering 12 mph pace, I could see it was perfect. Not opened. Nary a scratch.
IT WAS MINE.
That’s what I thought when I saw it.
Smoking is bad. Smoking is evil. Smoking makes the inside of your lungs look like an ashtray at the Clermont Lounge circa 1975.
But every now and then I like a smoke. Cigars preferably. But a free Winston will do in a pinch.
My mouth salivated like Pavlov’s pup.
So I decided to turn around and get my pack.
As I turned I thought — I can make it without clipping out.
Turn, sharper turn. Oh darn. I should have unclipped.
You see, Dixie is a narrow road and three-quarters through my turn back I realized I was going down.
And down I went.
Luckily, my handlebars weren’t bent. And only my knee was torn up a bit.
My chain was knocked off though.
So as I flipped my bike over to fix the chain, what did appear?
A MIA plug.
Taken this morning as a visual aid.
It’s against all triathlon law — from the Supreme USAT Court to the refs for this bitty sprint I’m doing tomorrow — no plugs, no race.
And of course, when I pulled along side that pristine Wintson package with bloody left knee and grease all over my fingers, it was EMPTY.
But that disappointment was minor compared to the crushing disappointment I would have felt tomorrow morning after driving an hour and a half only to be told I couldn’t race.
Once again in my life, the Lord works through a pack of Wintsons.
So now I’m off in search of a handlebar plug.
What have you got planned for this Saturday?
