A bridge collapsed yesterday a few miles from our house. It’s surreal, isn’t it? Huge structures aren’t supposed to just come crashing down without warning, killing people and crushing metal.

“This is just a reminder that we could all die at any time,” I told Dan, as we were trying to make sense of the disaster. “There are a million ways we could die every day.”

Neither of us slept very well last night.

At six, I pulled Shef into our bed for maximum dozing. Before he opened his eyes at seven, he said determinedly, “I want to be a big brudder.”

“I know, kiddo,” I said.

And do I ever. Last week, he repeatedly told his whole class he was getting a baby. Congratulations, his teacher finally told me on Friday. I tried to smile as I refuted the news.

“Tell me when the baby is done growing in your tummy,” Shef continued this morning. “Actually, let’s grow two babies. That way we can each hold one.”

And so there have been lots of reminders that we are not, in fact, in very much control at all.

I woke up in a funk today. I logged at least twenty-five deep sighs before ten o’clock.

“Do you want to go to the museum tomorrow?” Sheila IM’ed.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “I’m despondent.”

Finally, I left for the Y to try to swim away the bad attitude.

On the way there, I called Rachel, who tolerated about ten additional audible sighs. I could tell the funk was extra thick because I was speaking longingly to her about going back to school.

After I got to the Y, I stood in the vestibule for a few minutes, sighing and droning on until I decided to just get on with the exercise.

“Call me back later,” Rachel said.

“Sure,” I agreed. “I’ll probably have to call you because I’ll go in and weigh myself and discover that I have yet to lose a single pound this summer despite working out for -- wait for it -- FIVE HOURS EVERY WEEK.”

And then sure enough.

Since college, I’ve gone through phases of getting in and out of shape. The in-shape phases have been motivated by wanting to be less frumpy, wanting to run a fast marathon, wanting to fit into my clothes better, wanting to distract myself while writing my thesis, wanting to lose the fifty-odd pounds I gained in pregnancy, and wanting to feel less stressed.

Last summer, the challenge of training for a totally new sport was a perfect foil to the graduate-school work which was no longer exciting to me – reviewing the literature on digital literacy and learning about my ethical research responsibilities. Brain stuff that wasn’t all that rewarding.

This summer, I returned to triathlon to make myself feel happier after an unexpected disappointment. I came to it to make myself feel good. And so I’m a little easier on myself in training, which is a pleasant surprise. I’ve never been a just-get-out-there exerciser, but I have to say, it’s kind of nice to run slow if I feel tired, and I like to stretch out in the pool if I feel sore.

I recommend it heartily, actually.

Yesterday, I got up at 4:08 am to get ready to drive to Chisago City for my first triathlon of the season – a 400-meter swim, 20-mile bike, and 5k run.

I arrived at the park at 5:30, and after I’d checked in and finished setting up my transition area (tris are a bit more complicated than running races in that you need a bunch of gear quickly accessible between each leg of the effort), I headed down to the beach, wearing spandex from neck-to-knee, to wait for my wave to go off.

I only had a few moments of, “Why the hell did I sign up for this?” – historically my most common pre-race sentiment – before we waded in thigh-deep and heeded the two-step command to start swimming.

The biggest problem of the day was finding my bike rack each time I entered transition. There were 1200 people participating in this event, and that equals a lot of stuff.

Even though I told myself while I was out there that I was just doing this "as a celebration of fitness," we all know I really like to beat people. As I finished in the top third of my age group and the race overall, I'd say that's pretty much okay.

Last summer, a pair of lime-green Crocs sort of changed our lives. He wore them, oh, maybe 280 of the last 365 days.




The greens are now too small, and we're on to yellow. He seems to like the yellow just as much.

First, I fell of my bike again on Sunday. I wasn’t even riding the bike with the fancy pedals. And once again, I was standing at an intersection. Of course, it was supremely embarrassing.

So given this incident, the one described below, and the unfortunate occasion on which I prompted my spinning instructor to repeatedly shriek, “PRESS THE EMERGENCY BRAKE!” it seems the only bikes I’ve fallen off of in my adult life have been stationary.

Second, I have finished the last of the Harry Potter installments, and I am deeply satisfied.

Third, it’s not too late to join the Top Chef challenge. Come on! Guess this week's loser and post the name in comments.

On Monday, Cycling Mentor Jamie gave me a lesson in how to change a flat tire. I also bought a little under-seat bag to carry an extra tube, tire levers, and a CO2 cartridge. It's stuff I should have had all along, frankly.

Today, on my first ride with my new supplies, I flatted 12 miles from home. Thanks to Jamie’s careful instruction, I thought I knew what to do. I calmly dismounted and got to work on changing the tube.

Just as I was finishing, a guy came out of his nearby townhouse to see if I had everything in hand. “You got it?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, re-setting the chain, pride surging through my spandex-clad body. I felt victorious, actually. Like I'd accomplished an important and edifying triathlon rite of passage. I refastened my helmet and smiled at the guy. “I feel victorious,” I told him.

“Um,” he said. “Well. Good then.” He pinched the back tire and helped me spin the pedals to get the gearing worked out. “You should be ready to ride.”

So I did. For 11 more miles.

I didn’t find the second flat to be quite as empowering.

I didn’t have another tube, so I was forced to get off my bike and walk the last mile home across the Franklin Avenue bridge while wearing my form-fitting outfit, including shorts with a huge pad in the ass. My helmet hung from the handlebars, as I pushed my incapacitated cycling machine on the sidewalk while lots and lots of cars whizzed by.

I felt like a total tool, to tell you the truth.