the whinging starts here

Readers will kindly note the use of British slang: whinging.

whinge Verb. To persistently complain, in an irritating manner. {Informal}Noun. To act in the manner of the verb. {Informal}.

The act of whinging would make me a

whinger Noun. A person who complains incessently. See 'whinge'. {Informal}

On Thursday, I did a time trial on the bike, sponsored by the local bike club people. Little did I know that local time trials are about club points and race points and stuff like that -- which explains the high bling factor and very intense manners of all time triallists. I felt like I stuck out like a sore thumb -- no skin suit, no pointy helmet, no blingy bike. On my trusty Schwinn wearing a running top and tri shorts, I felt like I didn't belong, like I may as well have showed up with a mountain bike.

I should re-explain here, that I'm a complete newbie, this is my first year on the bike. I don't know what I'm doing. So. Time trial. I had to confirm what that meant: get on the bike, pedal as fast as you can, slow down at the end, turn around, pedal back. Don't stop. Seems simple enough. 8 miles (4 uphill, 4 downhill).

I'll cut to the chase - I was the slowest woman of the day.

OK, I'm swallowing my pride, I can deal with that...

Saturday, I rode 50 with the Outlaws. I could have ridden with Misty and Myles, but I chose to ride with The Guys because I was supposed to do hills, and well, they were doing hills. Misty's ride was rather good, she talks about it here. But no - the hills were calling.

Riding with The Guys meant just that -- I was the only woman in the group. I should mention that The Guys have quads the size of my chest - but no matter. I'm used to being last in the group where there's a bunch of guys, especially guys who have a lot of miles in their legs. Thousands. Of Miles.

I'll cut to the chase - I was the slowest woman of the day.

OK, I'm swallowing my pride, I can deal with that...

Sunday I did a 7 mile trail run in historic Lamy, NM with the local Masters runners. Masters, as in Old Farts (who've evidently been running their whole lives). Masters, as in Dinosaurs with Running Shoes. OK, some of the "old farts" were chicks I know to be fast and not so much on the old part. I'm OK with this, I know I'm not the fastest runner. I'm used to running middle-pack-ish.

I'll cut to the chase - I was the next slowest woman of the day (there was one woman who came in behind me).

I'M DONE DEALING WITH IT. So I'm whinging here, on blogger.

Actually, throwing more of a tantrum now that you mention it...

I suppose I should just suck it up. After all, there's plenty of fast people to train with, it's a fact of life. There's also plenty of people I can beat simply because they never get off the couch. But seriously - my ego is taking a beating here!

ouch!

or as I say, in my slowpoke voice, "oooooouuuuuuuuuch."

I'm sure I'll get over it...