Ayron Mann rolls out of bed at six in the morning on Monday. Rolling is about all he could do lately, what with the way training had conspired to turn his limbs into jelly. Unlike the other athletes at his school, there were no meetings to be had, no tape to watch. He knew his times as well as he knew his own (clearly made-up) name.

It's actually Governor Ayron Mann. (Source)

He quickly gulps down some cereal: bran doused in almond milk. Mmmm. If he doesn't take the edge off the night's hunger, he'll be regretting it the moment he hits the water. The triathlon has turned his body into a furnace, frantically burning calories in an attempt not to collapse. It's his best skill.

The triathlon is a race built in specific portions, and Mann used that to reflect his training. He is the only person at his school doing this, and thus the only one driving himself. He knows he can stop whenever he wants, and the days he's tempted are the hardest ones of all.

Lucky for him, that's not today.

Today, he's swimming, and he likes swimming. It's his favorite part of the race—the only one where the rough road isn't pounding him back. He jogs across the quad, his breath coming out in great, freezing gusts. There was no real need to run, as most everyone was still asleep at that hour, but it was like the sign posted by the locker room door: "Train hard, race easy." It was for the track team, but Mann likes to think it means him, too.

He quickly changes in the nearly-empty locker room, getting out of his comfy and warm winter clothes and donning a bathing suit. Goggles and a cap complete the ensemble. He could be self-conscious, but he's far too busy freezing. The indoor pool is allegedly heated, but as it turns out, heat is largely relative. He feels like a Thanksgiving turkey fresh out of the freezer, goosebumps and all.

The shock of hitting the water drives the breath from his lungs in fat bubbles. He surfaces, sucking in air, and hits the first lap. He's training for an Olympic distance triathlon, which means he needs to swim for almost an entire mile. He counts the laps in his head, timing the numbers with his gasped breath over the surface of the water. He tries not to think that tomorrow and the next two days, he would be biking and the two days after that, running—each for a longer distance.

He pulls himself out of the pool when his mile's up and heads back in the locker room to shower and change. He jogs across the quad, his hair still wet, knowing that ice crystals are already forming on his head.

He ducks into the dining hall as the school is beginning to rouse itself. Those few fools with early classes—or at least the ones who didn't party too hard the previous night—are bleary-eyed and staggering toward class or food. Mann is bright-eyed, having been up for hours already. He's also half-frozen and smelling of chlorine, but he likes to focus on the positive.

Breakfast is a mountain of food as always, but he can't eat just anything. As much as the donuts are chock-full of delicious carbs, he has to stay away. They call to him, "Eat us! You know you want to! You deserve us!"

Nope. Not today. Today, it's yogurt and granola, gobs of lean protein in the form of egg white omelets, and a whole lot of nothing else.

Back at the beginning of the semester, he scheduled all of his classes in two blocks, the first after breakfast, the second after lunch. It meant he had to forget about some of the classes he really wanted to take—there was no time for training otherwise. He leaves for his classes with only a small twinge of regret. Calculus just isn't as much fun as History of Ideas.

He stays awake through his classes, thanks to a combination of willpower and hunger pangs. By the time he's done with his back-to-backs, his stomach feels like it's started to devour its own lining. The trail mix he habitually carries is already a crunchy memory.

It doesn't matter how much he wants those fresh burgers in the dining hall; he has to keep up his diet regardless of the temptation. There's nothing wrong with the beef…it's just the empty calories in the grease. He needs every last bite full of good energy to burn.

With a sad sigh, he loads up his plate with a pair of skinless grilled chicken breasts, some steamed veggies, and a heap of brown rice. "I see you got your sadness meal," his friend Nick says. Mann shoots him a gesture that shouldn't be named or described.

After that, he's back in class for another long lecture. He blinks back sleep, trying to stay as focused as he can. He's been up for hours more than everyone else, and his body is trying to shut down all non-essential systems so it can recover. He wants to bounce around the room to wake up, but he has no choice in the matter. He fights sleep until his professor dismisses them, which feels like a week later.

His friends head back to their rooms to do homework so they can goof off in the evenings. Mann isn't so lucky. It's back to the gym for a solid workout. He warms up on the stationary bike, and then lifts weights for the rest of his time.

He's finished at the gym by 7:30, and feels like he's done with the day. Unfortunately, now he has to spend his time getting caught up on schoolwork. While his friends leave for parties, Mann tries to cherish peace and quiet. As usual, he wakes up in the middle of the night and realizes he's fallen asleep on his books again. He shuts them and gets up, his muscles groaning in protest. He limps to his bed to let sleep finally take him, knowing tomorrow will be just as hard.