Concourse E

If my suspicions are correct, I just imbibed my final draughts of Guinness for quite some time.  (I labored over that sentence because I didn’t want to have to make ‘Guinness” plural – for what would it be, Guinesses or Guin-eigh?  It surely can’t be Guinness’s because that is just an abomination of correct apostrophe use – thank you Lynne Truss!)

Such consternation is most likely the result of having four beers starting at noon; the consequences of a 7 hour layover.  Ce la vie.  Thankfully there was a fine wine bar in Concourse E that had a reasonable selections of beer on tap, as well as a pair of sweetheart bar tenders to help pass the time.  Mad props to that inherent amiability of Georgia and southern charm.  So what if I keep turning around expecting to see Larry The Cable Guy when a man speaks behind me.

Did I mention that I am in Atlanta?

For that matter, have I mentioned that I’m flying to South Africa?  Johannesburg will be my port of entry to Africa – where I will make my way into Swaziland in an effort to disappear off radar for a while.  (Consequently, who knows when I’ll be able to post a blog again.)?

This race season offered both its share of good and bad.  Most epiphanies are the result of failure and not success, and in that regard this season produced enlightenment.  Not finishing Ironman Kentucky was a difficult pill to swallow. 

I didn’t go down without a fight, at least.  If that’s what you call waking up in the back of an ambulance with an EKG reading that you are having a heart attack.  Going into the race with a hip fracture I knew my run would be limited, so I biked hard.  I mean HARD.  Too hard, obviously.  The day dissolved into discovering myself on the side of the road shivering, unable to sweat, and incoherent.  Wish someone hollered out that the day came with a 105 heat index attacked.  But that’s racing and my naivety.

Did I mention that I have a stress fracture in my hip?

Yes, I really did pound my body into submission this year.  Oh well, nothing time can’t fix.  Let’s hope, anyway.

Hence Swaziland is the perfect opportunity to recuperate; mentally as well as physically.  Twenty five percent of my luggage must be books.  In this part of the year they will be much better use than extra clean clothes.  It’s time to focus on my writing and compiling this year into a comprehensible narrative.

So here I am with the daunting proposition of an 18-hour flight and the even more challenging reality of having to survive the savannahs of southern Africa.  Luckily I fortified myself for both with a bit of Ireland.  (Incidentally, I have it on good authority from an Irishman that they like to drink Budweiser in the land of Leprechauns.  Go figure.)