#i mean he’s a big boo he needs A LOT of sustenance

[dontruinmymorning]

Okoye’s mom LOVES Attuma cause he always comes with his stomach. Her mother loved to cook and loved people who loved to eat even more. Attuma was ALWAYS down to eat (Okoye especially 😏), so when they visited her parents he would THROW DOWN. Her mother was gleeful when she saw him eat seconds and even thirds of her food and even had room for dessert. (W’kabi never ate that much and would often refuse more.)

Attuma always complimented her cooking while eating his fill. Her mother would just softly grab his face or pat his cheek and tell him eat as much as he likes. She would pack him up with mountains of Tupperware full of food and dessert. He had worry that none was left for anybody else and she would shush him and tell him she cooks way too often for that to be a possibility. He gets excited at that and happily takes his leftovers.

Attuma is very protective of his leftovers. If anyone (his cousins) ate his food there was hell to pay. He would never yell at her, but Okoye still left his food alone. She had the luxury of growing up with her mother’s cooking so she let him have it to himself unless he offers. Plus she loves watching how happy he gets when he eats, whether it’s her cooking or her mother’s. She’d often give him a sweet little kiss on the cheek while his mouth is filled to the brim like a chipmunk. ❤️

[shemarmooresfedora]

Rebuilding Family

Summary: Y/N and Spencer were college sweethearts at Cal-Tech but once Spencer got accepted to the FBI Academy, he ended things deciding it was not fair to make Y/N wait for him. When they meet again years later, he discovers something unexpected.

Pairing: Spencer x Fem! Reader

Masterlist

Chapter 10

You were packing up your stuff as students filed out of the lecture hall, it was your last class of the day. As you were walking out towards the parking lot, your phone started to vibrate in your bag. It was the school.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hi Y/N. It’s Mrs. Flynn. I was just calling to let you know that Jo is now waiting inside with me because she was getting cold outside,” she informed you.

“Spencer’s not there?” you questioned, looking at the time displayed on your phone.

Pickup time was fifteen minutes ago.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in ten minutes. Sorry for the inconvenience,” you opened your car door and set your bag down in the passenger seat, turning on the ignition.

“No worries, I have to reorganize the classroom library anyways so I was already planning on staying after.”

Once the call ended, you tried to call Spencer but it went straight to voicemail.

“Hey Spencer, I don’t know if you forgot but it was your day to pick up Jo. I’m getting her now,” you said as you reversed out of your parking spot.

Minutes later, your phone rang again. Expecting Spencer’s contact to show up on screen, your brow furrowed when the name read “JJ” instead.

“Hi JJ?” you said, more of a question than a greeting.

“Y/N, Spencer has been shot. I already told Will to go back to the school to pick up Jo. You should get here if you can. He’s in surgery now but there has been no update since he went in,” JJ explained.

“Oh my god. Okay, I’m turning around now. How did this happen? He didn’t mention he was on a case?” you pulled into a random parking lot to turn around.

“Well technically, we weren’t. We had a lead on a possible local case and we went to interview a potential witness who could give us some more information. We realized too late that he was the unsub. He thought we were on to him and shot Spencer in the leg while trying to escape.”

You had silent tears running down your face.

“I’m five minutes out” is all you could muster and then you hung up the phone.

You ran into the ER doors to find the rest of the team in the waiting room. You were glad you went to Rossi’s dinner party now or else this would have been a much more awkward first meeting.

“Any updates?” you asked frantically.

“No,” Derek sighed, “But no news is good news.”

You took the empty seat in between JJ and Penelope and put your face in your hands, not wanting everyone to see your tears.

-

Two hours of crappy coffee and vending machine snacks as your only source of sustenance later, a doctor emerged from behind the double doors.

She had a completely neutral expression that you couldn’t read but then again you weren’t a profiler.

“Dr. Spencer Reid?” she asked, glancing down at her clipboard.

All of you stood and desperately crowded around her.

“Dr. Reid is in stable condition and awake. The bullet went into his thigh but it wasn’t through and through. He will need to be on crutches for about a week or so but luckily the bullet wound is near the edge of his thigh rather than the middle, meaning recovery time will be shorter,” she explained.

There was a collective sigh of relief along with a few “thank god”s.

“Although he is awake, I don’t think it’s best if you all go in at once since he is very drowsy. He has been asking for a Y/N?” the doctor looked around at you all.

All eyes fell on you. You collected yourself, grabbing your purse and following the doctor down the hall.

“I’ll let you know how he is,” you told everyone before you disappeared past the double doors.

The doctor guided you into a room at the end of the hall. You thanked her quietly and she nodded in acknowledgement, leaving you two alone. Spencer had his eyes closed but his hospital bed was inclined so he was sitting up slightly. You briskly walked over and took the seat right beside him. You took his hand in yours and squeezed it lightly, combing his messy hair out with your fingers.

As you were softly massaging his scalp, you heard a light groan. You retracted your fingers immediately as Spencer began to open his eyes.

Once Spencer took in his surroundings, he quickly sat up completely in bed, letting out a yelp of pain.

“Jo...it was my turn to pick up,” he said frantically.

“Hey, look at me, Spence. It’s okay, she’s at JJ and Will’s. You were shot in the thigh though so you’re not going anywhere. Please lie back down,” you assured him.

He nodded his head, relaxing a bit and looking down at his hands in his lap. He seemed to be processing something in his head.

“You called me ‘Spence’,” he stated.

Shit. That was twice now. It keeps slipping.

“Sorry, I-,” you began to ramble some apology that you didn’t even know where you were going with it. Luckily, he stopped you before you could further embarrass yourself.

“I didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he spoke softly as he looked up at you, tears threatening to fall.

“I was so scared, Y/N,” he sobbed.

You swiftly pulled him into your embrace, tucking his head into your neck as you began to gently stroke his hair again.

“It’s okay, let it out. I can’t imagine what that was like. I’m so sorry you had to go through that but you're safe now, I promise,” you whispered to him.

“I was so afraid I was going to abandon you and Jo again. It hurt worse than the actual bullet,” he muttered into your neck.

You removed your hands from his hair and cupped his cheeks, forcing him to look up at you.

“Spencer Reid, you did not abandon Jo in the first place so there is no ‘again’. Second of all, you would have died a hero saving lives and I would have made sure Jo knew that and she never forgot her Daddy or how much he loved her,” you spoke earnestly, never breaking eye contact.

Spencer’s eyes softened. A second later, his lips were on yours again. This time, however, you didn’t pull away. Life was too short and this was already complicated as is, what’s the harm.

You basked in the familiarity of his lips locking with yours. Once he finally pulled away for air, he rested his forehead against yours.

“Go out with me. A real date. No more college dorm dates with takeout,” he smiled.

“You know you didn’t have to get shot to ask me out, right?” you teased.

“I thought I needed a grand gesture,” he beamed, chucking lightly.

“Yeah, Spence, I’ll go on a date with you.”

His lips found yours once again.

-

“Jo, are you ready?” you called out from the kitchen, packing snacks.

“Mommy, I’m already at the door!” she exclaimed.

Jo was eager to go see her Daddy at the hospital. You would spend the day there until he was discharged and then he would live with you guys for the week. You insisted on being there to take care of him while he was healing. You didn’t want him hobbling around all alone in his apartment.

When you walked out to the front entryway, there was a stack of various toys and books that hadn’t been there when you came down the stairs.

“What is this?” you gestured to the pile, amused.

“Daddy has big boo-boo so he needs stuff to cheer him up,” she stated.

“I don’t think we are going to be able to bring all this. Plus, remember Daddy is coming home with us later today. So here’s what we will do,” you handed Jo her dinosaur backpack, “You pack all the stuff you can fit in this bag that you think Daddy needs right away and the rest of the stuff can wait.”

Jo made quick work of sorting through her massive pile, trying to decide what would make her dad the most happy.

-

“Daddy!” Jo excitedly screamed, running towards the bed.

“Jo!” he returned with the same sentiment.

She was unable to get up on the bed herself so you had to lift her up.

“Remember what I said, careful with Daddy or he won’t get better,” you reminded her.

“You can sit her on my good leg,” Spencer patted his right thigh where you gently set Jo down.

“We brought you loads of stuff, Daddy,” Jo chirped, looking over at you.

You revealed a box of donuts from your bag and the coffee tray you had been holding. You handed him a chocolate frosted donut with sprinkles and Jo a strawberry frosted with sprinkles. The two ‘cheers’ed their donuts before biting into them.

“Jo also brought you some things to cheer you up,” you handed her her backpack.

First, she promptly pulled out a pink Disney princesses band-aid and stuck it on Spencer’s already bandaged thigh.

“You need that so it doesn’t get infected,” she repeated Spencer’s words from when she fell at Rossi’s dinner party.

“Thank you, princess. What would I do without you?” he kissed the top of her head as she rummaged around in her backpack some more.

She set up her five favorite dinosaur toys on his tray table in front of them, glancing up at him for approval.

“Perfect,” he smiled, nodding.

Next, she pulled out a piece of paper that had been colored on.

“Who’s this?” Spencer asked, looking at the three stick figures doodled on the paper.

“That’s you, that’s Mommy, and that’s me,” she pointed to each of the sketches.

“Aw, that one is definitely making the fridge,” you smiled.

Finally, Jo took out her Magic Tree House book that she was currently reading. She needed help with some of the words but either you or Spencer or the both of you would help her read it every night.

“You already finished the last one?” Spencer picked up the new book that was next in the series, examining it and smiling proudly.

“And I didn’t need help with a single word on the last chapter,” Jo beamed.

“You’re so smart,” Spencer kissed her head again, “let’s see how far we can get on this one before we can go home.”

[justjessame]

A Little Ass and A Lotta Sass Chapter 15:  How Can the Mouth on Him, Make the Mouth on Me Not Function?!

It would appear that I was beginning to get accustomed to my new status as ‘Negan Grand Overlord and Master of All He Surveys’ new boo and mother-to-be.  Appearances can sometimes be a wee bit deceiving.  I mean sure, while locked in his arms, thinking all the sweet positive thoughts that go with it, and that mouth, shit that mouth, it seems all well and good.  

 Actually, I have a feeling being locked in Negan’s arms, letting his mouth play ‘what noises can I make Callie make today’, he’d be able to tell me the entire world has burst into flames and we’ll be dead in three minutes and I’d be fine with the news.  Seriously, the mouth on him.        

Eventually though, the real world intrudes.  Sometimes it’s in the form of ‘if we don’t take a break, we’ll suffocate’ and sometimes it’s in the form of a knock on the door signifying food.  Oh, food, sustenance, which a good incubator needs for the tiny squatter inside of her.  

Negan seemed as irritated by the interruption as I was, which I found weird.  He was actually doing all the work, but he seemed to be pissed that his dessert was being interrupted by actual food.  He groaned, removed my shaking bare legs from his shoulders, walked into our bedroom and grabbed a blanket from God knew where, covered me up so my modesty could be maintained, and then stalked to the fucking door like he’d rather kill whomever knocked then realize it was his fucking fault they were there.  

I’ve never seen a door opened so violently before in my life.  And I’ve never been so fucking turned on by a door being opened before in my fucking life.  Dear God, the fucking confidence and power radiating off him, along of course with rage.  Rage was pretty fucking clear from the way he moved.  He took in the tray that whichever poor schlub had the misfortune of turning up with, asking questions about the doctor’s instructions being followed to the letter for whatever the tray held.  

The poor minion nodded, looking like he’d rather sink through the fucking concrete floor than piss Negan off one tiny iota more.  Then, with a wave of his hand, Negan dismissed him and slammed the fucking door behind him, right in poor errand boy’s face.  Damn, I almost pitied him.  Almost, but I’d been on the fucking cusp of another earth-shattering orgasm when he knocked, and honestly I was feeling a big on edge myself.  Literally.  

“You could just sit that fucking tray down and get back over here,” I offered, rolling my eyes when he shot me a look of pure lust, accompanied by a wolfish grin. 

“I could do that,” he nodded, and I almost wept from the absolute certainty that I’d won, but then he followed it with, “or you could get your hot ass up and come to the table and put the fucking nutritious food in your fucking body so you and the baby survive dessert.”  

Ugh.  See, I thought, looking down at my still too flat to make it believable to me stomach, you’re fucking with my sex life you little alien.  Thanks a fucking lot.

We ate, and since I wasn’t about to have a great fucking time chewing through leafy greens and whatever else the good doc and Negan felt that me and junior needed, I asked more questions and Negan filled me in on the day to day at the Sanctuary.  He told me that he’d need to get back to the call of duty the next day, and I looked at him and asked just what the high holy hell I was supposed to do while he went back to ‘work’?

His blank look, as though he hadn’t even considered the idea that I’m seriously not used to sitting on my ass and looking pretty, spoke volumes.  Carl was right.  The wiveys had served a really weird purpose.  A harem that didn’t even have children to keep their asses occupied.  I watched him chew his food, the exact same meal he’d requested for me I noticed, and try to puzzle out my question.

“Callie, princess, you don’t HAVE to do anything.”  Negan’s pride at coming up with that fucking nonsense was nearly cute.  Almost.  “You can just sit and make yourself-”

“Pretty until you get back?”  I snorted, taking a final bite of my own tasteless meal.  “Um, have you met me, Negan?”  I raised my eyebrow, noting his obvious discomfort.  He didn’t, not really.  Every time he’d come to Alexandria I was with Judith, or doing laundry, and once, shocker dishes.  He honestly only linked me to DOING him.  Shit.  

He finished his own ‘salad’ and sat back, considering how little he really knew me.  See, I thought, this is why I’d asked for more time.  To study you.  To make sure that I could live with you.  And I had a nagging suspicion that the parts of me he’d studied weren’t above my neck.  

“I know that you’re not just a pretty fucking face, sweetheart.”  He muttered, rubbing a hand down his face and licking his lips.  I wondered if his fucking salad tasted better than mine because of his pre-meal snack of me?  Shaking off that wandering thought I watched him consider me for a beat.  “It’s just- now that your condition is confirmed-”

I snorted, Jesus, he was making it sound so fucking clinical.  And SO fucking unlike himself that I nearly doubled over.  Plus, it sounded much easier to handle that way.  My ‘condition’, hear that you little interloper, even Daddy can’t handle the truth in heavy doses about you.

He glared at me and I waited.  “Now that we know, Callie, I want to keep you-”

I sighed.  “Safe?  Protected?  Bubble fucking wrapped until they come screaming into this fucking world?”  I shook my head.  “That’s going to make me screaming fucking insane, Negan.”  

We were both leaning back in our chairs now.  Away from one another.  A standoff.  

“First things first, sunshine,” he grinned, “you and me have to pick your guard.”  

Right, fuck, my security.  I wondered if they’d be forced to tie me to the fucking bed if I got too exerted during their watch?  I nodded, willing to concede that I had asked for as much.  “Fine, when do we do that?”

“Tomorrow, before I go back to ‘work’ as you called it.”  He picked up our plates and replaced them on the tray and walked it to the door to sit it outside.  Great, I couldn’t even clean up lunch.  “Then, after that’s out of the way, you can give me a little time to consider what ‘job’ I’m willing to fucking let you do.”  

Let me?  Let me.  Are you fucking kidding me?  Now, normally my mouth would be unloading on him, but Negan never fights fair.  Ever.  Because after he laid out this new dictate on my new life, he picked me up and carried me to the bed, to continue enjoying his interrupted dessert. And this time, he didn’t leave me hanging.  

[rfsak2]

Clues

Clues Summary: Suppose it should’ve been obvious. Jack Lowden/Reader Warnings: None

“Take five… or ten.” Chris called and moved to converse with the director of photography.

Climbing down off the rig, Y/N rubbed at her neck and made for where Jack sat in his set chair.

Looking up from his script, Cillian motioned at her and offered his seat. “You wanna sit here, lovely?”

She shook her head and blushed. “No I’ll just sit with Jack. I have to tell him something anyway…”

Cillian grinned. “Oh well. As you were, I suppose.”

She smiled, scampering away, and Jack chuckled behind his hand. “Ye have something t’tell me, lass?”

She hit his arm. “Well I’ll just go elsewhere, I think. No need to bother with you.”

“Oh no ye don’t! Git back ‘ere.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into his lap.

She managed to look smug, even as she straightened her hair and sat primly in his lap. “I thought so.”

“Och.. ‘ye thought so..’ didye?”

She nodded and dodged his lips. “None of that tomfoolery, sir! We are at work!”

He laughed and pouted. “Tha’s no fair, hennie.”

“That’s life, boo-bear. That’s life.”

“Boo-bear?” Tom smiled. “What’s that about?”

She shrugged. “Just a pet name…”

Mark smiled knowingly at Tom. “Never you mind, leave them be.”

Blushingly, she turned back to Jack. “That was a wee-”

Jack captured her lips in a kiss.

“Jack!”

He grinned and chuckled, when she pushed at his chest.

**

She slipped into the circle of boys with a sly grin.

Jack smiled. “Can we help ye, lovie?”

“I was wondering if I could get one or two of you big strong men to help me carry something?”

Flexing, Jack nodded. “I think tha’ can be arranged, my favorite wee lassie.”

She smiled and grabbed Jack’s hand, turning him toward whatever she needed help with. “Thanks, baby.”

He slung his arm over her shoulder. “O’course. Anythin’ fer ye.”

The boys shook their heads as she slipped her hand in Jack’s back pocket. The blond man turned over his shoulder. “Don’t wait up fer us, lads.”

“Oh, we won’t!”

As a unit, the boys turned towards the crafts tent, intent on sustenance.

Tom looked like he had decided something. “Well, I suppose they’re official now…”

Fionn nodded sagely. “Took them long enough.”

Harry snorted. “How do you figure? I reckon their still playing the game. They may always be playing the game.”

“He went back with her-”

Harry huffed. “And nothing has really changed, has it? They’ve always been cuddly and handsy. Nothing has changed.”

Tom made a face. “Y/N isn’t usually that handsy with anyone.”

Barry nodded. “Yeah but she’s always been that handsy with Jack. Always.” He chuckled. “It’s almost like they’re magnets, the minute they’re anywhere near each other-” he clapped his hands together “-Viola! They’re touching.”

Fionn nodded. “They do touch a lot.”

Tom shrugged. “I think they’re official.”

“With what evidence?”

“I dunno. I think he’s been even more… more with her lately, what with the having her sit in his lap on set and she’s been more openly affectionate… the pet names.” He made a noise in his throat. “I think they’re dating.”

Barry made a so-so motion. “I mean, in support of your argument, mate, there has been significantly less blushing since that night they pulled the runner.”

Tom nodded. “Yes, I agree. I don’t feel like they’re tiptoeing around each other anymore.”

Harry made a face. “That doesn’t mean anything. They’ve just accepted this back and forth as reality is all.”

There was a chorus of dissent as they passed by one of the big storage trailers and suddenly Barry threw his arm out. “Bloody.. Look!”

Jack’s hand was awfully low if they weren’t dating.

Harry gaped as it dipped even lower and he squeezed. Y/N smiled and lifted her hands to guide his face closer to hers.

Tom nodded, apparently the first over the shock. “See! Y/N is a lady. She would never be okay with that behavior if they weren’t official!”

Jack reached even lower and popped her off her feet, smiling against her jaw when she gasped and pressing her up against the trailer.

The boys resumed gaping and Harry stroked his hand along his jaw. “At the very least, they’ve had sex…”

Fionn nodded. “I think they may be dating.”

The boys nodded and when they looked back at the couple, the couple was staring back.

“Hiya, lads…” Jack let Y/N back on her feet.

**

There was a loud bang, like a door being slammed and Y/N sat straight up in bed, clutching the duvet to her chest.

She sucked in a breath and jumped again when the shouting started. She gasped and shook Jack’s shoulder.

“Jack! Jack!” The blond man grumbled and rolled away from her. She chased him across the bed, shoving harder at his shoulder, whispering urgently, “Baby! There’s someone shouting in the hallway!”

Jack rolled on his back and mumbled something very unintelligible and probably pure Scottish. He rubbed a hand over his face and squinted at her. “Wha’ is it, darlin’?”

She set a hand on his chest, shushing him. “Listen.”

The shouting started up again and Jack frowned. “Wha’ the fuck?” He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He listened for a second more and turned back to her, all but grunting, “stay here,” before standing and striding for the door.

“Naked! Jack, you’re naked.”

He looked down, mumbled and grabbed a pair of sweatpants off the floor. Shoving his legs in aggressively, he kept squinting at the door.

The shouting grew fainter and Jack poked his head out of the door. He mumbled something to someone she couldn’t see and she pulled Jack’s shirt off the floor before stepping into a pair of knickers.

She reached the door as Jack pushed it open fully and stepped out into the hallway. Following him out, she pressed herself up against his arm.

He chuckled. “Ye doona listen too well, hennie.” He wiggled his arm out from between them and wrapped it around her waist.

She huffed and settled against his side, hand stretched across his stomach. “You’re not the boss of me.”

He grinned and kissed the top of her head.

“What happened?”

Tom Hardy shrugged and mumbled from a couple doors down.

She jumped, obviously unaware he was there. Blushing, she pressed closer to Jack. “What was that?”

He grinned and cast a look at the couple. “Just a drunk, love.” He chuckled and rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sure young Jack here will protect you adequately. I’m going back to bed.”

Jack blushed and pressed his face in her hair.

She looked around. “Everyone’s up, aren’t they?”

He nodded and she squeaked when Jack gently held her away from him. “Bloody hell, woman! Ye’ve not got any trousers on!”

She shrugged and made to fit herself back up against him. “Your shirt is long enough.”

He huffed and turned her around, pressing her back against his front. “Is it?”

He fiddled with the hem of the shirt and she swatted at his hands.

“Leave it!”

He grunted and wrapped his arms around her, before crab walking her back into her room.

She tried hard to maintain her frown. “Stop manhandling me or I’ll kick you out!”

Jack whined against her throat. “No, love!! Where will I sleep?”

Harry chuckled, arms crossed over his chest from his doorway. “Y’know… your room is right across the hall from hers, mate…”

Jack shrugged, halfway in the room now. “There’s not a beautiful woman in my room, mate.”

Harry laughed. “That’s an impressive hickey you’ve got there, Y/N.”

She frowned. “I told you not to give me any visible hickeys, Jack.”

Jack pulled at the neck of his shirt, checking the column of her throat. “I haven’t, lovie. You haven’t got any hickeys.”

Harry shook his head. “On your thigh.”

The couple both looked down where, almost purple, a hickey stood out sharply against the pale skin of her inner thigh. Jack all but growled. “The bloody shirt is long enough, is it?”

“I guess now we know…”

Embraced Up Next: Gifts

[thejollyrunner]

Ah Mooloolaba – the Loo with a View. What a day we had. A day where my race went down the toilet. A day of lessons. And the lesson I learned was that if anyone tells you “less is more”, don’t believe them.

I did less training (at least in the last 4 weeks of the lead up) to my first more distance (a.k.a Olympic) triathlon. It was NOT the optimal race prep.

2 weeks off training might have been fine. You won’t lose fitness in this period of time, according to sports science. But 4 weeks of enforced* rest? I could feel the lack of fitness whilst I trundled round Mooloolaba last weekend! (*OK. I admit: the initial 2 weeks were self-imposed).

Less is more racing

I got away with it at Raby Bay, in many respects. My run suffered, as my knee had a hissy fit as I got off the bike. But I had a good swim and a good bike leg.

In fact, my swim was sufficiently good that it had pissed off a fellow participant, who I met at the start line in Mooloolaba. She commented that a lady in the wave in front of us looked to be struggling, but I just thought she was doing breaststroke. “Bless,” she said. “Oh, that’ll be me in a few minutes…” I said. “Were you at Raby Bay the other week?” she asked, an accusing tone entering her voice. “Erm, yes,” I said, as noncommittally as yes can be. “I was really dirty with some chick at Raby Bay. She was swimming faster than me and she was doing breaststroke.”

I think she might be the one I had the fight with….

Less is more training

I had attempted to do some training. I did get in the pool and do some water running.

At least, I told myself I was water running. The Grumpster appeared at the edge of the pool on one occasion and remarked “I thought you were supposed to be pool running. That looks more like walking!” So that’s why my heart rate was less elevated than I expected… OOPS.

And I did do most of the things Anna, my physio, told me. I was particularly good at icing and resting my leg. I was very happy to do more relaxing.

And I am more than happy to do more storing of the club trailer outside my house. I have an absurd, but nonetheless, intense dislike of people parking in front of our property. Which they do ALL the bloody time. So, it was a great joy to me to have the trailer marking my territory for a week.

I put the need for space down to being British. You know we need plenty of personal space. According to my mate Kylie, we also only hug dogs and horses.

Whatever, outside my property is my own private reserve. Neighbours, take note!

Less is more travelling

Talking of dogs (maybe not so much horses these days, as our own small horse, aka Gracie-Boo is no longer with us), we did more driving than was absolutely necessary.

Being such a half-ass takes a certain amount of discipline. Or possibly denial.

So, I had spent the entire lead-up to Mooloolaba in denial about race logistics. I blocked out all the chatter about accommodation and where everyone else was staying. I was staying at home. Why was that a problem?

I realised it was a problem when I finally got round to reading the race instructions. Which stated that all bikes must be racked on the Saturday.

So, we had to drive the 100km there with my bike (and the club trailer) and back on the Saturday. Dexter came too.

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And timing was impeccable too. We managed to get to Mooloolaba just as the elite men’s race was about to begin. Maintaining the air of denial, we managed to get the trailer in position by removing the road block and driving across the course. Meh – they were in the water, swimming. It was no big deal…

  We did get a good view as we walked back after racking my bike:

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Less is more in the race pack

Those in the know know that Ironman brand events are not cheap. The entry for Mooloolaba is about 3 times the price of a Gatorade series race. But, the received wisdom is, you get more for your money.

And you do get some snazzy stickers to label your equipment, as well as temporary tattoos to stick on your arm.

My tattoos were so temporary, that half of the them never got as far as my arm. Some remained on the plastic protective coating. Some remained on my thumb.

It takes skills to be this inept!

There was also a pack with a towel in it. I’ve had face clothes that have more substance to them. And apparently, the norm is a visor and a water bottle, too. Neither of these items were included for this race. Which was pretty disappointing seeing as it was the 25th anniversary of the Mooloolaba event!

And you don’t get a finishers medal. OMG. Was I gutted!!!

I was pretty damn sure that Ironman events come with a finishers medal.

So much so, that, having picked up my free oversized face cloth on the Saturday and knowing I wasn’t in good condition for the morrow, the only reason I got out of bed on the Sunday was so I could pick up my bling at the finish line. #truefact

Less is more sleeping in on a Sunday

At least it was a pretty start to the day on Sunday. This is the view looking out over the bay.

The king tide that had been hurling waves onto the normally protected beach the previous day had lost its crown. The water was pretty flat and I wondered if, perhaps, it was a sign my day might be salvaged.

I deposited my belongings by my bike in transition.

And tried not to be intimidated by the throng of other competitors. I had done a thorough recce so I knew how to get to my bike!

And then I went and hung out at the club tent to take my mind off what promised to be an uncomfortable few hours ahead of me.

Less is more racing

I don’t race. I participate. But I was a little anxious about finishing last in my category. (I don’t know if I did – Ironman were kind enough to only tell me my position in mycategory without mentioning how many others there were. Thank you Ironman. You are partially forgiven for your stingy race showboat).

Having discussed the fact that I would be breaststroking with my friend from Raby Bay, I set about swimming when the red hats* hooter went off. I had warmed up (which is code for having my customary pre-race wee in the sea) and was ready to go. The water was beautiful. Fairly warm, but not too much so and pretty flat. Committing to breaststroke meant that I stay relaxed, and whilst I spent the first 1000m bitching to myself about it being a pigging long swim and what was I thinking doing an Olympic distance, I finally found a rhythm and enjoyed the last 500m.

Less is more drowning

Which means the bloke who decided it was imperative that he swam on top of me because my little space in the ocean was the only place he needed to be, must have finished trying to drown me by then. Seriously, the dude was not going to win his wave. He was a long way off the front of his pack. I was not in the middle of a particularly tight huddle. Why do people think they have a right to drown you?

If I want to drown, I will swim freestyle. OK?

I do not need help!

I got out of the water 32 minutes after starting. From comparing notes, I had a very good swim. :D

Less is more speed

I think the bike leg was the bit I was most disappointed about. I’d made so many gains on the bike in the weeks I had trained consistently, that I could feel the progress. At our training camp in Pottesville, I had hung onto the back of riders I have no right to keep up with. At Raby Bay, my average speed was significantly faster than any previous race. The same could not be said for Mooloolaba. The bike course starts with a nasty bee sting of a hill, but then flattens out into around 18km of good quality flat tarmac. Out and back.

Yet my legs just could not make the most of the generous surface.

My friend from Raby Bay, who I clearly left behind in the swim again, came powering past me and I had nothing with which to respond. I pootled along, and my time was respectable. But it wasn’t the ride I wanted to record.

Less is more running

Let’s face it – there was no running. I thought about it. I tried it. But it wasn’t happening. A combination of no training, too much pool walking in place of pool running and the heat! Oh, the heat. Don’t let my earlier pictures fool you. The promised rain never arrived. Instead, the sun poked it’s head out, thought it looked like a great day for a party with South Bank Tri Club and came out to play. It was a scorcher.

And I had nothing.

Nothing whatsoever in the tank to deal with it.

I started out with some 20 steppers, but even that was proving too much. I was very quickly reduced to a walk.

I wasn’t alone. A lot of other participants were run/walking in the conditions.

Not many were just walking. But I was.

The girl who insists on breaststroking, also insisted on walking.

There’s a time and a place for being an individual. I’m just not convinced it’s in the midst of an Olympic distance triathlon…

But it got done.

I did run past the club tent. When you’ve got a bunch of rowdy clubmates roaring you on, it feels obligatory. (I was thankful for the bends in the road, though, which meant I could quickly give up my pretence and get back to a more comfortable pace).

Photo courtesy of the lovely Colette Hanlon

  I did run the 50m or so down to the finish line. I didn’t even want to do that. :/

Especially when I didn’t get presented with my medal!!!

Less is more partying

Thankfully South Bank Tri Club live up to their name of being the fourth leg specialists. And it was such a relief to get back to the small tent village that Robin had organised and to the sustenance that Simone had provided.

An esky full of ice cold beer, cider and soft drinks to start with, then a plunge into the paddling pool alongside team mates who had been finished for ages.

Photo courtesy of Missy Trina

  A sausage and a steak cooked on the barby, and a bit of fun in the sun, kicking back and catching up on everyone’s race stories. It was certainly the highlight of my race.

Later that night, I did notice a bit of suntan poker being played on Facebook. Sarah and Trina were comparing their rather stunning tan lines from their air suits. Well girls, I’ll see your tan lines and raise you chafe. I think that might be one thing I did win on the day!

Less is more athleticism

Whilst writing this, I have just watched Oscar try to leap onto the barbecue. And fail. I realise I may not be the only athletically challenged member of the family…

Assisted leaping… (i.e. lifted)

  And Dexter is featured simply for handsomeness…

So, there you have it: more words, less achievement. But I had a great day regardless.

You definitely have more fun with the South Bank peeps.

*each race category enters the water in a wave, and the wave is denoted by the colour of the swim cap. Mine was red.

Less is more: Mooloolaba Triathlon Race Report - the less you train, the more time you get to spend on course. #Mootri17 Ah Mooloolaba - the Loo with a View. What a day we had. A day where my race went down the toilet.