Weekend Warrior

Our hero slices through the murky water. Right stroke, left stroke, breathe, repeat. Part man, part bass, he quickly catches up to his rival, who coyly claims that she "had held up" to give said hero "a chance" in the race to the other side of the river.

The scene is not a triathlon: it's the Bass River near Steelville, MO. The occasion is Floatus Tripicus: a charming way to enjoy Missouri's idyllic rivers with hundreds of your favorite people. Combine a Mark Twain novel with Mardi Gras, and you get the idea -- a traffic-jam of debauchery on the high seas. There are no beads (strangely), no nudity (sadly), and no litter (incredibly), but one will probably see sights that one never expected to see. For example, a dude standing on a rock face, 40 feet above the water, while an armada of canoes, kayaks, and rafts congregate to see if he will listen to the guys ("jump!") or the ladies ("are you crazy?").

And one's vessel _will_ capsize -- but all is well, since one is often in 2 feet of water (see "are you crazy?" above).

It is a curious venture for someone doing a triathlon the next day, but there are only so many weekends in a summer, n'est-ce-pas?

Hours later, the alarm goes off. It is 5:30 am, and time to roll. Our hero stands up, testing his lithe, sinewy body after a full-day paddling/swimming/boozing adventure. He creakily falls back onto the bed, feeling like he has helped someone move... a piano.

Some 2.5 wretched hours later, he again slices through water: cool, blue, and chlorinated.

And later yet, on the bike, miles from anywhere, he re-examines his training regimen while doing a body inventory. Pain? check. Bruises? check. General muscle failure? check.

Settling into the aero position on Blackbird, he smiles wryly. As summer should be: The days are just packed.