This past weekend, while Ty and I were eating Tacomania, shopping, cleaning out the Envoy and pretty much being lazy, our friend Marcus (LJ's husband) was in Panama City, Fla., exercising for 14 hours straight in an Ironman Triathlon. The Ironman consists of a 2.4 mile ocean swim, a 112 mile bike and a marathon (26.2 miles).
To me, this sounds like torture. But then again, my idea of exercise these days is walking for about an hour to justify the glass of red wine I'm going to have when I finish. Marcus and LJ are a different kind of people. The kind of people who enjoy exercise, marathons and triathlons and the challenges they present. I can raise a glass of red wine to that.
So, in honor of Marcus' newly claimed status of Ironman, we went with him last night to get his Ironman tattoo. This is a right of passage for people who complete an Ironman. And in future races, it will say to Marcus' fellow competitors, "Hey, I'm pretty much a badass."
This was also my first time to visit a tattoo parlor. Thankfully, the atmosphere is pretty mild on a Monday night. I was intrigued by the environment. Marcus and Melanie (the tattoo artist) sketched out the design, put a stencil on Marcus' leg and then she started the tattooing. I asked Marcus if he was nervous or if it hurt. His answer was "no" but I figured he would never tell us if it did hurt. After all, he's an Ironman. You can't get an Ironman tattoo and then complain about it hurting.
And then I saw this and decided if I ever got a tattoo, I would want this one. I think this guy is drunk, but of sober mind, I still hypothetically want this tattoo.