Swim, Bike, Bonk by Will McGough

Author:Will McGough
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lyons Press
Published: 2019-08-25T16:00:00+00:00

When I wake up, I am so sore that I can barely stand up out of bed. As I wobble into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I chalk it up to yesterday’s run. I went eleven miles, the farthest I’ve ever run in my life. I guess this is what accomplishment feels like. Sore quads. Sore hamstrings. Sore calves. At least my feet don’t hurt. Apparently, I bought decent enough shoes after all. As I slug around the kitchen putting some butter on a bagel, I notice that my arms are sore, both my biceps and triceps. Come to think of it, my shoulders are also sore. I move them around a little bit. My neck, too. Hmm . . . that’s weird.

I have a funny time of it putting on my socks. Seriously, my whole body is sore! The run would explain my lower half, but why would my arms and shoulders be sore? I literally did nothing with my arms yesterday. The toughest thing I did was lift a beer to my face.

I get my stuff together and prepare to head out the door. It’s 5:00 a.m. It’s still dark when the Uber arrives. It’s a Prius. I open the door and get in the backseat. Sometimes I sit up front with Uber drivers but it’s too early for that. I do circles with my shoulders and lean my head back against the headrest. Then it dawns on me. I might have overdone it with the massager. The scene from last night plays back through my head. The massaging. The intensity with which I used that thing. I really hope my friend doesn’t have one of those cameras.

The driver takes me as close as he can to the starting line. There’s not much traffic. It looks like I’m late in that regard—roads have been blocked off and there are already hundreds of cars parked along the roads and in shopping center lots. I get out and walk the remaining few blocks down toward the waterfront. I can feel the soreness in my calves and legs and the straps of my backpack on my tender shoulders.

I have fifteen minutes to spare until the start. I decide to get a cup of coffee. I see a place called Kona Coffee Café. It’s just a block from the water on Ali‘i Drive, where I want to be. There’s a long line. I wait in it for, I don’t know, five minutes or so. Twice now, a woman—seemingly the head honcho behind the counter—has made a public announcement about tips. She keeps yelling out that her team has been up since 4:00 a.m. to make this coffee thing happen. She says that we are encouraged to show our appreciation. I wait patiently until I am next.

“Yes?” the cashier says.

“Morning,” I say to her. “How are you?”

She stares at me. I tell her I’d like black coffee. She asks me if I want medium or dark roast. I tell her dark. She

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