“They have really dry hair from the chlorine, they have poor complexions from all the sun and they have the shadow of my middle finger stretching across their faces. You haven’t heard anything until you’ve heard the sound of a rubber wetsuit squeak over pre-cancerous skin.”

Remember those famous words? They were penned by a young Rob Corddry, fresh out of the gate as a Peabody Award losing columnist for SuicideGirls, describing his experience with a very singular sub-group of humanity called triathletes. Rob, or “I”, as he is called by me, went on to describe life married to one of these freaks; these people for whom biking and running just isn’t enough. His (my) story continues…

The Wildflower Triathlon is called “The Woodstock of Triathlons” by those with a very narrow frame of reference. It’s similar to Woodstock only in that competitors sleep in tents and most of them smell like hippies. In reality, Wildflower is like nothing else I’ve ever seen. Of course, I spent the weekend under a vicodin-blanket and peeking out from behind a flask of Makers Mark. My Monday morning diarrhea was, as you can imagine, exquisite.

Wildflower is a “long course”, that is to say, half-an-Ironman. You swim a mile, bike fifty-six and then trail-run thirteen. There were roughly three thousand entrants, and seven and a half thousand total if you count the Mountain Bike race and the smaller, “Olympic” sized triathlon happening simultaneously. Wildflower is known to be one of the toughest long courses on the circuit. I didn’t race, but I experienced my share of physical exertion. I experienced some minor withdrawal pangs at around 3pm Saturday as I was a long shuttle ride away from my drugs, and it certainly wasn’t easy to walk all the way from my nap-area to the hot dog stand. Not with both middle fingers raised, at least.

I’m not “in” shape. I look fine (with a shirt on) but I am far from being in peak physical condition. I do not like the things you have to do to get in shape which include lifting heavy things, walking faster than you have to and not-eating pork every day. I have little in common with people that seem to enjoy these things, save for my wife. She loves pork too, in all its incarnations (there are so many!). Thusly, when I attend these events I tend to spend a lot of time alone or conspiring to be alone. That’s was why I cringed when some dude said, “Hey Rob!”

It could be one of three things: A friend, a fan, or a fake wave.

I dreaded running into a friend. My plan was to spend the weekend gloriously wandering by myself, admiring the Vicodin-tinged colors. If I ran into a friend I would have to spend the day pretending to enjoy their company. The only welcome acquaintance would be a friend who likes to drink and take drugs before noon. They are few.

I prayed it was a fan. I’d take a picture, apologize for doing anything that wasn’t the Daily Show and move on with a smile. It sort of wasn’t. Sort of.

It definitely wasn’t a fake-waver. These mouth-breathers like to call out my name and then look the other way. I used to be one of these idiots until I graduated from the sixth grade. These guys are pretty easy to spot, as someone who would fake wave does not usually have the cognizant capacity to hide himself well after calling my name. They usually stick out like the driver on the retard-bus.

This dude was a different breed entirely. A “type” I had yet to encounter. He was “one who had read something I'd written and had reason to take offense”. His name is Glen and he enjoys dirt track races, whiskey, Italian greyhounds, karting, entomology, beekeeping, Italian travel, triathlons and is going to Hawaii in October. How do I know this? He is a member of the SuicideGirls Community. He is cucciolo.

Of course, I knew none of this at the time. He came barreling up to me, as triathletes are want to do and, with a big smile, asked, “Do I have the shadow of your middle finger stretching across my face?” Up until that moment I was content believing that no one but Helen Jupiter and the sixteen or so people who regularly comment on my articles had actually read anything I had written (except for Kesselman, that douche is obsessed with me). I was struck dumb. My face flushed. I began to giggle. Pulling my narcotic blanket up over my ears I responded, “Huh? Ooooooooh. Oooo. Wow. Woah. That’s…that’s fucked up.”

Somewhere in there I managed to say, “I wasn’t talking about you.” and I shuffled off.

It’s difficult being taken to task. And though he, honestly, did not fit the type I had been making fun of, it didn’t matter. I routinely spend my wife’s triathlon days symbolically flipping athletes the bird. And not because I think I am better than them, but rather, the opposite. I know I am not. My wife attacks these seemingly impossible tasks with a vigor that inspires more vigor. I embrace my sedentary lifestyle with an enthusiasm that borders on pathological. And my wife is infinitely happier than I am. By leaps and bounds.

Granted, I’m at my best when I’m making fun of complete strangers. Jay-Z might refer to it as both a gift AND a curse. I just wish that taunting imbeciles led to stronger abs and greater physical endurance. Until then…nap time!