Muck’s Mucked up PR

Muck stood in the transition area, shifting uncomfortably in his wetsuit, hugging him in places it had no business hugging. I think my wetsuit shrunk, he chuckled to himself. He looked for someone to share his joke with, but they all seemed too focused. He was no stranger to triathlons, but each race felt like a first date: a bit of excitement, a hint of nausea, and an unsettling urge to rethink life choices. Why do I hate myself? Today would be no different. I paid for this, and now I’m going to pay for this.

He had been slotted into the 7th wave, and as he stood there watching the pros sprint into the water, all Muck could think was, These guys probably don’t have a wetsuit riding up their… A whistle blew, snapping him back to reality. His wave was about to start.

Muck was a planner, and the day before, he’d taken it easy—because nothing says ‘race prep’ like a marathon session of Netflix and consuming enough carbs to feed a small nation. But he’d also worked out a perfect pre-race routine: wake up at 0430, drink enough coffee to fuel a jet engine, eat some eggs, and do a light brick workout. You know, the usual morning before pushing your body to the brink of collapse.

On race morning, Muck was up at 0300, getting that first cup of coffee in while he warmed up on the trainer. This wasn’t the time for any intense effort—more like a slow-motion argument between his legs and brain about why they’d agreed to this madness in the first place. It was time for sheer willpower to overcome any logic and tendency to return to bed. The short ride to the race site was chilly and gave him a preview of the cold swim awaiting him.

But that wasn’t the worst part. The wind had decided to join the party. As Muck checked in his bike at the transition area, he felt the gusts picking up, making his bike look like it might take off before he did. He secured it, nervously imagining a future where he was fishing his most expensive piece of equipment out of the drink.

It was too early for adrenaline, and he was getting hypothermic. He needed a quiet spot out of the wind to center himself, maybe even question some life choices. That’s when he stumbled upon an apartment garage alcove and met Bob and Sally, a retired couple from Laguna Niguel, who weren’t racing but had somehow found themselves here. “Oh, you’re doing that race?” Sally asked, raising an eyebrow. “You know it’s supposed to be windy, right?” Bob added with a grin. Muck smiled nervously but accepted their invitation for a quick rest inside their warm apartment. Muck sat on their plush couch for about thirty minutes, briefly entertaining the idea of faking a sprained ankle and staying there all day.

But no. He was Muck. He’d trained for this. I didn’t eat carbs in vain.

At the swim start, Muck found the water was colder than an ex’s text message. He dove in, teeth chattering, and quickly realized he’d rather be anywhere else. For some reason, swimming in a straight line had always been an issue, and today was no exception. He felt like a drunk dolphin, zigzagging toward the buoys. But at least he wasn’t last out of the water—he’d leave that honor to some poor soul who’d probably forgotten to tie his goggles. After a respectable swim time, Muck staggered out of the water, gasping and realizing he’d swallowed more seawater than was probably healthy.

Transitioning to the bike, Muck executed the kind of graceful maneuver one could expect from a man covered in sand, snot, and regret. He wrestled his wetsuit off while lying on his back, getting it stuck on his heels. After running to his bike, he put on his helmet and hopped on his bike with his shoes already attached to the pedals. Now, this was where the magic happened—or so he hoped.

Muck had planned to keep his bike effort at 250 watts for the first five miles. But after being passed by what felt like an entire peloton of speed demons, his competitive side kicked in. “I got this,” he muttered, bumping up the power to 270, then 280. At this point, his legs started to protest, but pride drowned out their complaints. So much for a race plan.

At mile 40, the wind returned with a vengeance, and Muck could feel his disc wheel vibrating beneath him like it was trying to escape the race altogether. His nutrition plan was simple: Gatorade, maltodextrin, and, of course, the obligatory Cliff bar that had frozen solid from the cold. He gnawed at it like a determined beaver, hoping it would at least give him some energy before it broke his teeth.

Then, the run. Ah yes, the run. Muck’s legs, as usual, felt like someone had replaced them with two very angry slabs of wet concrete. But his pace was surprisingly good. “Not bad,” he thought, as he chugged through the first five miles, which felt almost enjoyable—until the sun decided to come out and melt what was left of his enthusiasm.

By mile 10, Muck was struggling. He’d been pouring water over his head at every aid station, but now it felt like he was running through molasses. And then, an unexpected development. He heard someone behind him getting closer. A blur of a figure—a woman—was gaining on him fast. Was she a pro? She had to be. The amateur female waves started after him, and his ego would not allow him to imagine a woman would have gained so much time on him.

Muck’s competitive spirit flared. He picked up his pace, determined not to get overtaken in the final stretch. But then something strange happened. The sound of her footsteps behind him… stopped.

He turned his head slightly. There was no one there.

Confused, Muck pushed ahead, determined to finish strong. As he neared the final stretch, the cheers from the crowd grew louder. He crossed the finish line, fists in the air, feeling triumphant. When he looked at the clock, he was in disbelief. A new PR!

Muck was getting his picture taken with his finisher’s medal when a race official approached him, a bemused smile on her face. “You know, Muck,” she said, “that was a heck of a finish… but you missed a turn on the course. You cut off about a mile.”

Muck blinked, stunned. A mile?! He checked his watch, and sure enough, he did not run the entire distance. No wonder that woman disappeared—he had, too.

It turns out that Muck had accidentally taken an earlier turn meant for spectators. As the realization sank in, all Muck could do was laugh. He hadn’t beaten the competition—he’d accidentally beaten the course.

“Well,” Muck said, “at least I got my personal best.”

“I’m sure you did,” replied the race official.

With a sheepish grin, Muck realized he had been disqualified. Next year, he thought, next year, I’ll run the entire race.