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.”
By the time the last swimmer—a tearful, exhausted grandmother named Helen—dragged herself onto the boat ramp, Julie Ann was out of air-horn fuel, her voice was a hoarse whisper, and her rhinestones were starting to come loose, leaving a trail of glitter on the dock like breadcrumbs. Julie Ann Gerhard IRONMAN SWIMSUIT SPECTACULAavi
She would. In the trunk of her car was a sequined tracksuit and a sign that read: “YOU DID IT, YOU ABSOLUTE MANIAC.” The Spectaculaavi swimsuit did its work
“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.” The announcer on the main PA system started