Stunted Conversations with Endurance Sporters (Guest Blog)

Ted E. Tavern is a Bostonian in his mid-20s who recently moved to San Diego. His blogs detail his experiences getting acquainted with the Southern California culture.

I feel you Kenny Powers. Can’t say the same about the people I work with, though. I’m convinced that if one of my endurance-sport-loving colleagues had one day left to live, here’s how they’d want it to play out:

• Wake up at 4:30 AM
• Drive 2 hours to spend the day as a number rather than a person
• Pay $200 to:
• Swim in an uncomfortably tight, rubber wet suit.
• Peel out of the suit and leap onto a bicycle seat the width of a Twinkie.
• Run, poop, and pee to a finish line ribbon that’s been lying on the ground for hours
• Celebrate with a few Michelob Ultras alongside everyone else who smells like s*#! and seaweed

So go my thoughts as I maneuver through co-worker small talk in my never-ending quest to find some normal young professionals around the office. I must admit, though, these worker-outers make for some good stories.

Here are two of my favorite discussions that I’ve had around the endurance-friendly office:

1. We’ll call him Tommy. I shared some idle Monday morning conversation with Tommy a few weeks back. Being that it was the day after the Patriots beat the Ravens for a chance to play in the Superbowl and both Tommy and I are from Boston, I figured we’d chat about the game.

Tommy said, “Oh bro, I went hard this weekend.”

“Oh man I hear you, Tommy. So did I,” I responded.

“Yeah I’m pretty banged up,” said Tommy. “I hiked the second highest mountain in California on Saturday and did a 60-mile bike ride yesterday. I’m hurting.”

My hungover brain came to a screeching halt as I pictured the differences in the torture each of us had put our bodies through over the weekend. “Oh,” I said as my gears turned. “That’s crazy. I think we may be banged up for different reasons.”

Next.

2. We’ll call her Sally. Sally was buzzing around the office kitchen at 8:30am last free-bagel Friday. We exchanged the typical, “What’re you doing this weekend?” After reeling off my top three weekend-prediction clichés, I asked about her plans.

Sally said, “It’s actually my birthday tonight so a bunch of us are going to a brewery after work. It’s about 5 miles away. You should come!”

“Oh happy birthday! That sounds like fun!” I said as I tried to match her perkiness.

She cut me off in the I’m-friendly-not-rude sort of way: “Yeah, we’re doing a hash run! We’re all going to run there, have a few drinks, and run back. You should come!”

“Oh that does sound fun,” I lied (second sesame bagel in hand). “I have a dinner I have to go to, but thanks for the invite.”

Next.

Could I even run 5 miles? Do I have anything in common with these people other than the one Coors Light they’ll drink sandwiched between two 5-mile runs? Am I in my own personal Twilight Zone?

Move on, I tell myself. It’s $2 You-Call-Its at my favorite hot mess of a bar tonight; and when that fake-tanned, tanktop-wearing girl starts talking about rubber wet suits, I’ll know she doesn’t have a triathlon in the morning.