I don’t even remember signing up for this. I mean, I do, but I don’t remember why.
Somewhere between “I need a new challenge” and “This will be fun” I lost all sense of reality. Because fun? This is not fun.
This is an unpaid internship for pain.
And now I’m in too deep.
The Swim: Oh Cool, Waterboarding Myself for Sport
They say the swim is the hardest part. I say it’s where your dignity goes to die.
Barceloneta Beach. 6 AM. Me, standing there like an idiot in a wetsuit, staring at the ocean like it personally insulted my mother.
First session:
- Dived in. Immediate regret.
- Swallowed enough saltwater to become the ocean.
- Forgot how to breathe.
- Flopped around like a drowning ferret.
- Spent the rest of the day Googling “can you drown in three feet of water” (the answer is yes, in case you were wondering).
Progress? Sure.
Confidence? Absolutely none.
The Bike: Barcelona’s Roads Are Out to Get Me
Cycling was supposed to be the easy part. Just me, my bike, and some nice scenic rides through Barcelona.
HAHAHAHA.
Reality:
- Cars hate you. Pedestrians hate you. You hate you.
- Montjuïc? Oh, you mean Satan’s Staircase.
- Flat roads? Where?
- Thought I was getting stronger. Turns out the wind was just in my favor that one time.
Oh, and fun fact—you have to run AFTER this. Like, straight off the bike. No break. Just leg goo immediately transitioning into a full-on run.
This was not in the fine print.
The Run: The Part Where I Question My Life Choices
Here’s a fun experiment.
- Squat until your legs shake.
- Now sprint.
- Now imagine doing this for several miles, while dehydrated, exhausted, and aggressively regretting everything.
That’s triathlon running.
Also:
- Why do my legs feel like cement?
- Why do tourists keep walking directly in front of me?
- Who decided Tibidabo needed so many hills?
- Who am I? What year is it?
Would I like to stop? Yes.
Will I? No, because I signed up for this and now my pride is on the line.
The Escape Plan: Masia Life is Calling
Somewhere between my third near-death experience on Montjuïc and realizing I no longer have functioning knees, I started fantasizing about a quiet life in the countryside.
Not just any countryside. Catalonia. You know, big open spaces, fresh air, roads with fewer death traps.
So naturally, I ended up searching masias for sale in Catalonia instead of looking up actual training plans.
Imagine it:
- Long bike rides with no traffic trying to kill me.
- A pool that doesn’t involve dodging jellyfish.
- Maybe even a vineyard? Because at this point, I deserve wine.
Am I saying I need to escape Barcelona? No.
Am I saying I need a training retreat in the middle of nowhere? Maybe.
Final Thoughts (Or, Whatever’s Left of My Brain)
Would I recommend this?
✔️ If you enjoy voluntary suffering.
✔️ If you think running after biking is a fun challenge.
✔️ If you enjoy eating 5,000 calories a day and calling it “fueling.”
Am I thriving? No.
Am I gonna finish this? Hopefully.
Am I gonna reward myself with an irresponsible amount of post-race food? Oh, absolutely.
Barcelona, you’ve made me stronger. You’ve also broken me. We’ll see who wins this round.
Who else is training? Drop me a message. Let’s suffer together.
💪 Denali