(Fe) Man

Bryan "Slop" Dawson begins turning the wheels over at a decent clip somewhere near the first mile marker. He's an 11-year veteran-a fixture at the Ironman Triathlon. Satisfied with his speed,

Dawson eases back into the seat and bellows across to Henry Wayne Thompson, the newbie"Follow the draft,"

Dawson yells to Thompson, who nods back perfunctorily. "The draft is key; first thing I learned back in '94. And I didn't have anyone to tell me that back then. You kids got it good."
"Okay," the youngster answers-hesitantly. Conversation doesn't seem necessary to Thompson, he'd rather concentrate on the race than bandy chatter about with Dawson Yet, for the moment, the two appear to be paired.
"The Ironman," Slop pontificates with an almost endless breath, "is about outlasting. No, take that back. It's about efficiency. I mean, don't get me wrong, you need to outlast-but efficiency that's key."
"What about draft?" Thompson barbs-he's no novice at sarcasm-but

Dawson 's too engrossed in thought to notice. "Good point," he congratulates, "draft is key as well. Listen: the first thing you need to know about the Ironman is to chop it up into little bits. I don't mean that figuratively, like chopping your opponents into pieces or something. I mean stages. If you stop to consider the whole thing: the run; the swim; the bike, your mind would reel. You wouldn't even get off the starting line. Somebody would find you a week later in some thought-coma, trying to cope with the impossibility of the task. But, it's not impossible. People do it every year. That's my advice."
"That's very nice, but I don't see how that's relevant," Thompson shouts over the din of the draft.
"What?"
It's no use. Better save the breath for when you need it, Thompson thinks. He's efficient-something old

Dawson, despite all his chatter, has never been. The newbie bobs his head to one side and brings his hand up for a sharp whack. The water tumbles out his ear. His hearing improves immediately.
Dawson,continues: "I'm just saying, chop it up. It makes the chewing a little easier. That's what I've learned. I know it might not be much, but there you have it. One day you'll see what I'm talking about."

Dawson could care less if the newbie-the Ironbabe, as he calls him-listens to the advice. What he does is his business-

Bryan 's just trying to help. Pass on a few valuable tips and lessons learned the hard way. People never appreciate knowledge.

Dawson begins to contemplate the tragedy of it, but quickly turns his mind to more positive matters. He is, by and large, a very positive fellow. Not exactly a go-getter, but a hard-worker. An optimist. A good teammate. This kid-this Ironbabe-knows nothing about teamwork, he decides.
He's right: Thompson doesn't consider himself part of a team. He's got a solitary job to do and he does it. Other people have different jobs. Sure, sometimes jobs intersect; people require services and goods from others, but that doesn't make you part of a team. I mean, by that logic, the whole damn world is part of a team, right? I'm certainly not on this guy

Dawson's team, ruminates Thompson. "Slop," he scoffs. People call him Slop. And he derives a sense of pride from this. An alter ego, even. Slop: the whirlwind dare-devil. I bet he closes his eyes when he shampoos his hair. I know that's a silly thing to get down on someone about, but the point's that he's not wild and crazy; he's some over-the-hill hack who burbles on about absolute bullshit every chance he gets.
"Air in the tires!"

Dawson's pretty excited about something. "Newbies always forget to check the air level in their tires. A real rookie mistake. Also, bring juice. Juice is the absolute best source of nutrition on the road. Speed juice."
See what I mean? Speed juice? If fruit juice was so damn quick-making, how come nothing is slower than a goddam orange tree. I know that's a stupid critique, but this guy bugs the creeps out of me. Newbie? Like he's some ancient expert; some wise old prophet sent down to deliver knowledge to the plebs. The Ten Commandments of Triathlon: Thou shall follow the draft. What an ass. I bet he doesn't even know what sapient means. Watch:"That's very sapient advice, Slop.""What?"
Told you. What a dunce. I mean, I'm not the type of guy who judges people based on their vocabulary, but come on, this guy, this Slop, pretends to be all knowledgeable and he doesn't know the first thing about anything. A retarded bull-shitting old dinosaur.
Dawson thinks: That kid Thompson is a real piece of work. He's always using big, college words to make what he's saying sound important. I'm not fooled. I've been around long enough to know which end is up. The bigger the word, the less it has to say. That's a fact passed down to me by my father. Experience. That's what counts. Theories and impressive sounding words are for the fucking birds. Street smarts. You can't teach that in some ivory classroom.
Just then, a biker speeds past Dawson and Thompson.

Dawson 's demeanor becomes earnest. He points silently. The wheels spin quicker.
"Draft,"

Dawson yells.
"Got it," comes the retort.
The bike portion is the hardest-bar none. Cyclists zig-zagging at 45 miles per hour. Curves. Roads slick from the morning's dew. Concentration is needed.

Dawson knows this better than anybody, he cuts the chatter. There will be plenty of time to kick the peanut around on the run-

Dawson's favorite component. The run means Slop can relax; rest his hands; grab some juice. Gas up the motorbike, head to the finish line and get some Pulitzer photos of the winner-Thompson be damned.
The End