Good, good, good, Vera old girl, you’re doing fine. Right on track. Feeling good. Feeling strong. Feeling fast. Always knew these new runners were the right choice. In dashing white. That cow at the check-out gave me that look. Silly bitch. Parked on her fat arse on her stool behind her silly little till. You show her what you’re made of, Vera old girl. All the way. All the way. Months of training. And dieting. And reading Triathlete Monthly. Heap of shite that magazine. Full of young ones looking like stick insects. You did well in the swimming old girl. In flying form you were. Flying fish form. Vera the exocet. Vera the torpedo. Show that bitch! Shot out of the water like a gleaming orca ready for the kill. Like in that National Geographic documentary, the one where they leap out of the waves and pounce on them fat fuck seals, toasting their distorted bellies on the hot gravel, too close to the water line. Vera the killer whale. Vera the virago. Maybe I shouldn’t have pounced on the hairdryer. Lost 4 minutes there. But an athlete has to look her best for the finish line photo. Very fast Vera. Vera the velociraptor. Click. Clack. Vera photo finish. Zoomy Vera without a hair out of place. Show that cow at her till in Penney’s. Vera the glamourathlete. Not a bead of sweat on her powdered cheeks. Maybe I was just a bit heavy-handed on the hair spray there. Pah, fuck that, have to look right for the finish. Finally the finish. Flat out to the finish for fuck sake. Hair looking good. Good hair day. No need for a helmet. Hair stays in place for the cycling. The cycling. Shit. Fuck. The cycling! Shit shit shit. Treble fuck. The bike. The fucking bike. Shit fuck shit fuck shit! The shaggin fuckin bike.
I LEFT THE KEY FOR THE FUCKING LOCK IN THE SECRET POCKET IN MY SPEEDOS.
And the triathlete is in a (fucking) bad mood.