She stood on the VIP dock, a vision in a custom-made, rhinestone-encrusted swimsuit that could only be described as “Spectaculaavi.” The suit was a gradient of electric pink to solar flare yellow, with a thigh-high cut so daring it made the lifeguards blush. A matching visor, glittering like a disco ball, shielded her eyes. She looked less like a triathlon fan and more like the ghost of an ‘80s aerobics champion sent to haunt the lake.
When a man named “Chad” tried to quit at the turnaround buoy, she simply removed her rhinestone visor, held it to her heart, and said into the bullhorn, “Chad. Your mother didn’t raise a quitter. She raised a man who paid nine hundred dollars to be here. Now finish the swim so you can suffer on the bike like everyone else.”
“Alright, team,” Julie Ann announced to the five bewildered volunteers she had commandeered. “The first wave is out. We have exactly fourteen minutes before the age-groupers hit the first buoy. I need the ‘GO JULIE’ sign at twelve o’clock high, and the air horn primed for the crying guy in the neon-green cap. He looked like he needed encouragement.” Julie Ann Gerhard IRONMAN SWIMSUIT SPECTACULAavi
The sisters veered, dodged the kayak, and high-fived each other in the water.
Her husband, Ron, had warned her. “It’s an IRONMAN, Jules, not a halftime show.” But Ron was currently on a lawn chair, eating a turkey sandwich and reading a paperback. Ron didn’t understand that an IRONMAN wasn’t a race. It was a stage. And every stage needed a star. She stood on the VIP dock, a vision
Ron looked up from his sandwich, sighed, and went back to his book. The IRONMAN was over. But Julie Ann Gerhard’s Spectaculaavi had only just begun.
Kevin, startled, inhaled a pint of lake water, coughed, and then, inexplicably, grinned. He flipped onto his back and started a surprisingly smooth backstroke. Julie Ann had that effect on people. When a man named “Chad” tried to quit
The Spectaculaavi swimsuit did its work. It glinted in the morning sun, a beacon of absurd, joyful defiance against the grim, monosyllabic seriousness of endurance sport. The official IRONMAN photographer circled her like a shark. The announcer on the main PA system started calling her “The Lake Clearwater Lady.”
Helen looked up at Julie Ann, shivering. “Was I last?”