I’ve ween wearing this wrist band now since the 30th of April. I’m gonna wear it until it falls of on its own.
They put the band one when you do your packet pickup at WTC races; there are millions of dollars in bikes in the transition area, so they don’t want any non-athletes wandering around. Plus, the wristband identifies you everywhere else that you have to go – and at an Ironman even, there are a lot of places that you have to go.
They put one of these on my last year, when I did the St. George Squealfest, and I got it off of my arm as soon as I could upon leaving town; it left a circle of burned skin on my arm, charred with the shame of my experience. They put one on when I did the Tahoe Smokeout (also known as the IronLung) and I got around to cutting it off fairly quickly, although that was one of the major anticlimaxes of my life.
But this is different; St George this year was a disaster, but it was my disaster. Even though it hurt, and was stupid, I did, indeed, finish it. And I have no desire to cut the band off.
I’ve had the odd notion about keeping this band on until I replace it with one that doesn’t say “70.3”, but I doubt that it could possibly last that long. I won’t even discuss doing one of those things (in my circle, we call it the “Mumble Mumble”, because as soon as you actually say the real worlds, you start thinking about it, and I ain’t thinking about it yet) until I have done a 70.3 right, and that won’t happen until at least August 22nd, at VikingMan in Burley.
Maybe if I could find some way to reinforce this band with some sort of metallic backing, I could get it to last long enough to replace it with the real thing. But, hey, that would just be weird.
So I’ll let it fall away in its own good time.
However, I suspect that when that does happen, it will somehow find its way into one of the drawers in my desk.