Why I'm Never Doing an Ironman

"So when you YOU gonna do an Ironman?"  "You should totally do a full with us next year."  "So you signed up for next years group race right?"  Apparently, once you get involved with the punishment-drunk community that is triathlon, these questions don't cease until you finally cave.  I however, am stronger than the average fool and shall not cave.


I have about a hundred of reasons (some may call them excuses) as to why I will not partake in such foolery, some of which are legit and others are simply excuses.  Some of my favorites are: Cuz I don't want to; My wife won't let me; I'm too lazy; It's not healthy to put your body through that; and I'm not keen on peeing on myself for an entire day.  The most legitimate excuse however, is simply "it's a long ass day, and I don't want to do it."

To prove my point, I decided to log everything I did in a day/night, as the rest of the Friends partook in their group foolery; Ironman Cozumel.  Here is how it went.

• 6:40 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for for pro field as I am sure the age groupers are finishing up their final colon-cleansing of the morning.  I remain fast asleep dreaming of apple pie and left-over turkey.
• 7:00 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for various waves of age groupers.  I roll over and shush my alarm clock instead of dragging myself out of bed to get my run out of the way.  Roll back over and enjoy the comfort of my warm awesome bed even though the fat dog is snoring in my ear.  Sleep is grand.
• 7:30 ish to 8:20ish - Most of the crew exits the water from the swim.  I hear the water is super perty over there.  I however, am still enjoying a wonderful siesta as I listen to the wind howl outside.  It is a good thing I slept in instead of getting my run on.  It is cold out there.
• 8:30 a.m. -  Wake up have a delicious breakfast of eggs and granola and fix a cup of coffee.  Yup, the wind is howling, it is cold, boogers froze as I let the dog out. 
• 8:45 a.m. - Log on and check where everyone is at.  Everyone is safely on the bike.  Watch a wonderful episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates in the background as The Wife and Oldest heads out the door for hockey practice.
• 9:30 a.m.ish - Friends are still pedaling.  Change a poopy diaper.  Research races for next year inspired by my Ironman dominating friends. (NO it will not involve a full - gonna do a few Half's though).  Come up with unrealistic goal to put on the Bicycle Betterment Bunker wall for the winter.
• 11:00 a.m. ish -  Friends are finishing their first loop on the bike (only 2 more to go) while Sunday NFL Countdown explains the finer aspects of the Lambeau Leap.  
• 11:15 a.m. - Friends still pedaling and probably peeing on themselves by now.  Finish catching fat dog that thought he should run off into the frozen tundra after going potty and resume game of rescuing airplanes from the knee hockey net with The Youngest.
• NOON - The Wife and Oldest are back from hockey practice.  Gather everyone up to head out to watch the new Penguins movie with The In-laws. Pro pal has finished her second lap and most of the Friends are fixing to finish their second laps here any time now.
• 12:45 p.m. - Dropped $70ish at the damn movie theater. WTH!?? maybe I should do an Ironman. Breaking the rules and still following the Friends during the movie.  The fellahs in the group have finished their second lap.
• 2:45 p.m. - Movie done, "medium" coke and kettle corn polished off. The stronger bikers out of the Friends are now starting the marathon.  Seriously, a marathon after doing all of that.
• 3:15 p.m. - Friends finishing up bike or on the marathon already.  Check fantasy football scores after early games (not looking good) get ready to run in the damn cold.
• 4:30 p.m. - Finish run in 15 degree weather with windchill of friggin arctic!  Sucked icicles!  Almost became envious of those doing a marathon in Cozumel until I realized they were going 3 times as far as I was AFTER swimming 2.4 miles and riding 112.  I'll take pneumonia instead. Quick gear review - Under Armour's new Coldgear Infrared Engaged gloves are insufficient for midwest winter running - hands froze.  Everyone is chugging along on the marathon.
• 4:40 p.m. - Hands finally thawed out enough to type ... half the Friends have passed the 21K marathon time check mark.  Is that halfway or what is that anyway?  Can't convert K's to miles.  Yet another excuse not to do one of these things.
• 5:00 p.m. - Core body temp finally returning to normal, smashing a huge plate of turkey and sweet potato sinfulness while watching the end of the Packers vs. Patriots game.  Friends still chugging along.
• 5:40 p.m. ish - Pro pal finishes 13th in the women's pro field.  Solid day, think I will have a piece of pie to celebrate.
• 6:20 p.m. - Sore gut from eating too much turkey after running.  How in the heck do they eat and run a marathon.  Nope, couldn't do it.  Trying frantically to find the finish line cam cuz a couple of buddies are crushing their PR's and are about to finish.
• 6:38 p.m. - Rolling out my sore legs from my measly hour, sub-zero run as the first Friend finished with a huge PR.  Don't think there was a finish cam and if there was I didn't find it.  Pretty damn inspiring though, must admit.
• 6:50 p.m. - Watched a back-to-reality, put-life-into-perspective, 60 Minutes segment on the Syrian war and the refugees it is affecting - Second Friend finished at the end of that segment. Solid day for him.
• 7:10 p.m. ish - got comfy watching TV lounging in my recliner, got up and checked Friends' progress, realized that The Brit finished.  Crushed his PR.
• 7:35 p.m. ish - Fourth Friend finishes as I'm watching the night game - Chiefs v. Broncos. Just 2 more to go on the course.
• 9:00 p.m. ish - Fifth friend finished somewhere in between here and last post.  Tough day for him but most admirable honestly.  Sucked it up, pushed through and finished like a boss!  Maybe I should go for another run.  Nope, its cold outside, but I'll have some ice cream.
• 9:50 p.m. - It's past my bedtime and the last Friend is still on the course. She will finish no doubt, but I have to go to bed if I'm going to get up and get my workout done in the morning.
• 6:30 a.m. Next Day - Slept in, failed to get up for workout.  Fail!  Checked social media to see pictures and posts of Friends that rocked it.  Everyone pushed through and finished and had awesome stuff to brag about.  Super inspired and happy for them.  Still not doing it.

So to sum it up.  All the Friends can keep up their awesome work.  I'll sit back and feed off their inspiring performances but don't plan to donate to the inspiration pool anytime soon.  Great group of bad mamajammahs, but I'll go ahead and answer the questions ahead of time.  "No I'm NOT doing an Ironman!" ... This year.

Attack of the Port-a-Potty

Port-a-potty, Kaibo, Johnny-on-the-Spot, Porta-loo, Outhouse - all are nicknames for those wonderful portable bowl movement receptacles we all have come to appreciate before every race.  Well, I have a new name for one in particular - Ambushing Assassin From Hell.  That's right, not many people have the unfortunate distinction of being jumped by a port-a-potty - I however, am one such sap.  As if getting worked over by a outhouse is not funny enough, it is the surrounding circumstances and self-talk that preceded said whooping, that really make this story worth writing.  They say in cycling "its not if you wreck, its when you wreck."  I now know this to be true but my first "when you wreck" could not have been more spectacular and entertaining.

Saturday, April 6, 2013, its the morning of the annual Final Four Party that we were hosting for the first time.   Got to get the workout in before an afternoon full of BBQ and beer.  It was an overcast morning, temperature in the mid-to-upper 50's, with consistent 16 mph winds out of the southwest.  There was an occasional gust of up to 34 miles per hour.  (They keep records of this stuff.)  Not a fabulous morning, but for spring time in Iowa, it was just nice enough to lure a fellow out for his first long weekend outdoor ride of the year.  The long winter mornings of sweating it out in the stinky hot garage rides or in the basement bicycling betterment bunker, had created a double-action, turbo-charged, bicycle propelling rocket legs and this engine could no longer be contained by four walls.  It needed the open road!

It was chilly, especially with the wind, but tough guys do what tough guys do, and I was one such tough guy determined to ride outside.  I was sure that everyone else was wither still snuggled up nicely in their bed or were pedaling comfortably on their trainer at one of the last garage rides of the season.  Wusses!  Decked out in tights, gloves, stocking cap under the helmet and a jacket, (tough but still have some remaining tropical blood in my veins from growing up in Hawaii) I headed out east and then north with the wind at my back.  I was freaking flying.  My turbo-charged pedal bike propulsion jets were stronger than ever.  The entire triathlon world better prepare to be left in my dust.  The first half of the ride was ego-inducing confirmation of my off-season forged, new-found awesomerness. (Sure its not technically a word but as you can tell it means a higher level of awesomeness than that which was previously attained).

When one pedals out to the north, one must eventually turn around and pedal back to the south in order to make a complete loop and arrive back at camp awesomeness.  I did that and was instantly reminded that riding outside meant riding INTO the wind as well.  The wind was so strong I couldn't hear myself think as it whistled through my helmet.  I couldn't even hear cars approaching me from behind.  "That's cool, that's alright, it's like running on a treadmill with 11 percent grade or something.  It's what tough guys do."  Tough, painful, but virtually certain to add that much more to my repertoire awesomeness.  During the winter I even read an article about riding in the wind and now I was able to practice my newly found expertise.  "Drop a couple of gears, keep the cadence up, head down and just brew ahead."  Brew I did ... to the tune of 6 mph!  "Whatchu looking at buddy, driving your mamsy-pamsy car up this here road?"  "That's right I'm tough, I'm out here pedaling my face off into the wind cuz I am one bad-ass triathlon rocking son-of-a-gun!"

The ride back home took twice as long as the ride out, but it didn't bother me.  In fact, it added that much more fuel to my unjustified, overconfident self-image of uber-atheletic awesomeness.  Toes were number, fingers barely moved, and snot dripped down my nose as my quads burned and screamed out in speed-building agony.  It didn't matter.  Everyone else was riding inside, munching on snacks, watching a movie, while rocking out to their favorite play list.  I, on the other hand was riding right into the eye of a freaking hurricane!  "Who's going to crack an hour on his olympic distance bike leg?!"  That's right I could do that right now if I wanted. (still to this day haven't come close).  As I cruised back into our subdivision, my head was so big, there was no helmet out there that could contain it

Once in the subdivision, the wind subsided thanks to the shelter of the surrounding houses.  Images of triathlon greatness danced through my head.  Shoot the lazy neighbors were probably just now stirring from their slumber.  Truly, I was in a class all by myself.  Gliding up to the stop sign a block from my house, I niftily unclipped and slowed from warp-speed to yield to an approaching SUV.  Up the road sat a lot under construction with a gray port-a-potty sitting immediately next to the south curb, door facing me.  A car was parked on the north shoulder of the street so the SUV would need to come out into my lane to get around the car.  The SUV driver and I made eye-contact and he waived me through.  Surely he recognized my pedaling prowess and yielded to my superiority.  "Yes, yes, I am awesome" I thought as I clipped back in and started to dance on the pedals on my merry way.

I hadn't sooner clipped back in and made my first, buttery-smooth pedal turn, when a surgically aimed wind gust burst forth from the south.  As if being directed by God Almighty to bring me crashing back down to earth, the gust grabbed the Crapper door, flinging it open directly into my path.  Like an alligator lunging out of the murky water to grab an unsuspecting wildebeest, the port-a-potty executed the perfect ambush.  I didn't even have time to emit the schoolgirl scream that spawned in my throat.  Brakes locked - two startled faces, SUV bumper, asphalt, sky, feet still in pedals, asphalt again - all flashed before my eyes for what little fleeting moment they were open. "It's not if you crash, it's when you crash" they say huh.  Well this one's a doozie!

The SUV driver and his wife's face is still firmly burned into my mind.  Eyes the size of Texas flapjacks, mouths agape, frozen in utter shock and surprise.  I'm not sure what part of my body hit the pavement first but I know for a fact I did at least a half somersault still clipped in.  It had to have been an epic scene.  Where's the camera!  That's Pulitzer Price winning shit right there!  A few awkward moments passed as I did an internal once-over making sure no bones were sticking out.  Toes - check; fingers - check; arms - check; knees - check; hips - check; pride - GONE!  My attention immediately turned to my precious bike.  "Please, tell me its not broken, please tell me it's not broken." Tires - good; gears - good; handlebars - little off centered.  Nothing major, all-in-all, she's good!

"You alright?" The SUV driver asked, still in shock. "Mumble, mumble, mumble." "Yeah, yeah I'm fine, thanks."  I muttered.  Wish I would have had something cool to say or jumped up and yelled "TADAAAAA" or done something awesome, but I had freaking nothing.  Image of awesomeness was in a gazillion pieces.  "Should have pedaled in the basement."  The couple had to have had an aneurism from laughing as they drove on down the street.  Physically fine, but ego and perception of awesomeness now on life support, I plopped back onto the seat and rolled slowly back to the house.

The Oldest greeted me with: "Your pants are ripped, what happened?  You crash?"  "Mhmmm, that's why we wear our helmets, now go pick up dog poop!"  Trying to sneak into the house unnoticed, I got a "How was the ride?" from The Wife.  "Funny you should ask ... Bet you can't do a somersault on a tri-bike!"

Moral of the story - when you are having a good ride, watch out for flying crappers and make sure to make your first crash is one to talk about!

Why We Ride On Roads

 HOOOOOOONNNNNNKKKKKK, VAROOOM ...  "Get of the road asshole!"  The stench of cigarette smoke and diesel exhaust filled my nostrils as the customary spring greeting was followed by the ever-familiar death stare and a middle finger disappearing into a cloud of diesel truck exhaust.  "Screw you lazy ass redneck d-bag, sorry you are in a rush to get to Walmart to use your cigarette carton coupon that expires tonight" I thought to myself, while not having the courage to flip him off back.  After all he was in a 2 1/2 ton truck and I was on a featherlight pedal bike.  Alas, it must be spring and I must be pedaling my bicycle on a road again.

Everyone seems to have an opinion about pedal biker's riding on the roads.  Many feel that pedal bikers should limit their pedaling to sidewalks and bike paths.  In fact, if we took a poll, chances are the majority of motorists who are not pedal bikers themselves, would probably agree with the aforementioned red Chevy diesel truck with license plate #____ driving jackhole that welcomed me back to riding outside this spring.

I can see where they come from, I guess.  But maybe, just maybe, it is due in part to not quite understanding the pedal biking community and the reasons why we do ride on roads.  Let's forget for a minute that pedal bikers have just as much legal right as vehicles to pedal their faces off on regular roads (see this blog written by a brilliant lawyer a few years ago); lets forget for a minute that it is actually illegal for pedal bikers to ride their bikes on sidewalks; and lets set out the top 10 reasons why pedal bikers ride on the road instead of trails.  

10.       Gnats.  These micro-nuisances splatter your face as they congregate in groups of a gazillion back on the bike trails, sheltered from the wind.  They will cover your body and enter every orifice of your face as you fly through them.  They really don’t have a taste but they certainly splatter across your sunglasses quite efficiently.

9.         Walnuts.  Walnuts litter many of the bike trails – hitting these solid turd-sized land mines at 20 miles an hour with 23 millimeter wide tires does not make for a good combination.

8.         Recreational Pedal Bikers.  Some shall call them “recreational pedal bikers,” have either had too much to drink at the Cumming Tap and are attempting to navigate their way home, or simply have the attention span of the aforementioned gnat and can’t seem to stay on their side of the trail.  This creates the peril of the not-as-unusual-as-you-might-think head-on trail collision.

 

7.         Runners, Joggers & Walkers.  Bike trails are not just for bikes.  Runners, joggers and walkers also use them.  Sometimes running, jogging or walking three wide, they don’t always comprehend the term “bike trail” means bikes are likely to go zooming by them.  The obligatory “on your left” will inevitably lead to a startled “oh my gosh” and a tinkle in the drawers of the elderly walking population.  I for one don’t want to be responsible for the pedal bike induced cardiac arrest.  

6.         Dogs.  Some find bike trails a great place to walk their dogs.  They are indeed a fabulous place to walk a k-9 companion.  Don’t get me wrong, dogs are awesome, but owner on one side of the trail with dog on the other and leash in between creates a convenient clothes-line effect for those traveling on a pedal bike down the middle of said trail.

5.         Squirrels.  These little schizophrenic bastards dart on and off of the bike trail unable to decide which side will offer them protection from the fast approaching unidentified pedaled object.  While in a car, you can simply cruise on by and over them if they fail to make up their mind fast enough, a pedal bike is a different story.  You will inevitabley slam on your breaks, swerve your ass off or otherwise engage in an ungraceful maneuver that nearly costs you your life in an attempt to avoid hitting them.  On the road, they are either already squished or safely in a tree, well out of harms way.

4.         Intersection Crossings.  Trails have intersection crossings about every mile or so.  Cars turn right on red even when the pedestrian light is green without looking for pedal bikers.  Almost on a yearly basis, this results in a pedal bike squishing.  More car v. pedal bike accidents happen at trail crossings than on the open road. Don't believe me?  This dude sets out a pretty good argument that you are actually safer pedaling on a road than on a bike trail. http://csua.berkeley.edu/~piaw/accident.txt

3.         Hills.  You can't train for a triathlon or pedal bike race without training on hills; you can't find real hills on a bike path that is laid out over an old rail road track.  To get hills a pedal biker must ride on the road.  It is that simple.

2.        Open Road.  Ever go for a run only to stop every block and wait for the light to turn green? Would you get on a treadmill if it stopped every 5 minutes and you had to restart your run? Would you lift weights if in the middle of the set you had to rack them and wait 30 seconds before restarting?  Would you do a "body-pump" or P90X if the instructor froze for 30 seconds randomly through your workout?  Probably not because that would certainly not be a good workout.  That’s what riding on most bike trails is like.  Hence, the open road is the only way to go.

1.         Because My Friend Saw This Along the Bike Trail Once.  I for one would rather get cussed at by a pissed off red-neck then get eaten by a Bobcat.  Judge me if you want...

                                                     (Picture courtesy of Mike Reagan)

If you are a pedal bike road rider hater and have read this, at least now you know why we do it.  You are certainly free to express yourself and your disdain for those of us out there just trying to get a good work out in.  Feel free to cuss, swear, flip us off, moon us and otherwise express yourself in a peaceful manner, but if you could at least avoid honking and buzzing us with your over-compensating noisy-ass exhaust trucks, causing us to almost wreck, that would be much appreciated.

PS:  The pictures used in this blog (with the exception of the Bobcat taken by my friend Mike Reagan) were freely borrowed from the internet and are the property of whoever took them and posted them out there for our amusement.

First Race - Just a Little More Cowbell!

Dangalangalanga - the cowbells were ringing along the shoot that lead from the water to transition.  "What is this a Barnstormer game?" I wondered.  With each step further away from what I thought for sure was going to be my watery grave, my overconfidence and false sense of bravado started creeping back in.  My staggering, short choppy steps soon turned to a long, strong, buttery smooth strides (at least in my head), which quickened as I headed into the transition area.  Beep, beep, the timer chimed with my swim split as I crossed the timing mat.  You could have used a sun dial to time my swim but that was a thing of the past now.  My wetsuit was already down around my waste like a seasoned pro.  I had survived the swim, now it was time to dominate the bike and run.  My game plan was back in full effect.

T1 (transition #1) was a breeze if I did say so myself, other than the fact that my hip flexor attempted to turn into a giant knott stomping out of my wetsuit.  Apparently when your legs are burned out from treading water and you suddenly pull up against resistance, you muscles don't like that much.  Shaking that off, helmet and sunglasses were on, bike shoes were a piece of cake and before you could say "lickety split" I was hauling ass out of transition on my way to show the world how a real athlete rode a bike.

"Get out of the way chumps!"  People were actually stopping immediately outside of transition to get on their bikes and they were slower than the big bear getting on his tricycle at the circus.  "Seriously haven't you all ever ridden a bike before?"  Keep the momentum going; push - roll; step on pedal; throw the other leg over; click, click - away you go!  Nailed it!  I was off like Lance Armstrong with his fresh batch of super blood!  Wind whistling through my helmet, a little bit of sun peaking out from behind the trees, it was glorious.  I flew out of the park and headed north onto the highway passing people left and left (you can't pass on the right - that's a penalty). 

I was eating up the spandex clad field.  Old, young, fat, skinny, I was passing them all.  Mountain bikes, road bikes, fancy shmancy tri bike - it didn't matter I was passing them all.  " "Huh, there's really not even any wind and I'm doing 20 mph" I congratulated myself.  "Ha, ha, you spent all that money on a fancy bike and  you're getting passed by a newbie on a road bike and board shorts ... BURN!"  This was where I made up the time; this is where I made my mark on the triathlon world forever.  I was floating; I was flying; I was rocking the bike; I was only a mile in.  "Click, clack, whirrrrrrrrrrrrr, vooosh."  A freaking alien space ship passed me.  "Have at it shooter you bought speed - I'm natural pal.  Plus, if you passed me on the bike that means I beat you out of the water and you REALLY suck" I could justify anything.

The Deputies blocking traffic at the intersection watched in absolute awe as I cruised by, taking the corner like a Tour pro.  "Have another Krispy Kreme fellahs" I though as I danced on the pedals accelerating on down the road.  "Steep grade ahead" the sign said.  "Huh, the race website said this is considered a USAT "flat" course but I guess I did hear the race director say something about a "Twister Hill" and 11% grade, whatever that means. 

"HOLY CRAP!  Are we descending the Grand Canyon?"  It was steep on the way down that was for sure and it wasn't a short little roller to get back up either.  "Ahhhyyyeeeeeeeeee!"  My cheeks clenched together tighter than Vander Plaats walking into The Blazing Saddle (my Iowa people will get this one).  It was steep, the kind of steep that makes your scrotum tickle your nose hairs.  I had to build speed to get up the other side but my damn sense of self-preservation kept holding me back. "Build speed, build speed to get up the other side."  "What are you doing, don't break, don't break, screw it tap the breaks, it's not worth dying for."  I was scared to sneak a peak down at my speedometer but if anyone asks I'm claiming at least 40 mph (that's completely false it was more like 30 but whatever).

Downhill survived, it was time to put on display my true athletic power for hill climbing.  Some people were walking their bikes, others were up an out of their saddle going at a snails pace. Me, I was smashing the hill, for a hot second that was before my quads started to scream, my lungs jumped out of my throat and smacked me across the face, and my pedals were somehow welded to the bike frame.  "Downshift man"  Click, clack ... "crap my gears aren't moving."  "What the hell?!"  My gears were jacked and I couldn't shift, apparently shifting when the pressure on your pedals is a bazilion pounds and your cadence is at a 15 - it won't shift!"  I got wobbly, I couldn't clip out and walk though, that would be worse than grabbing a buoy on the swim.  Slowly and painfully, I worked my way up the other side at a slugs pace (yes slugs are slower than snails).  "H-O-L-Y C-R-A-P! That sucked!"  "Flat my ass, if this is flat I don't want to see hilly."

Hill crested, it only took about 10 minutes for the burn to subside to a tingle in my legs and lungs, thank God Almighty that the rest of the course was flat-ish.  You know how I said there was no wind heading North - I lied about that too.  There was a wind; a strong wind; a suck-ass terrible energy sapping wind coming directly out of the South!  Newbie lesson # whatever I was at by then; When you don't hear the wind whistling in your helmet, it's probably at your back and your return trip is going to suck.  Race strategy audible #2 - Survived the swim; SURVIVE the bike; live to see the run.

The return trip sucked for sure. It was an out and back course so I had the joy of hitting my friend Twister Hill again.  That You Tube clip I posted doesn't do it justice either.  It feel like there should be some drunken, underwear clad Europeans running along side you with capes and flags, screaming whatever they scream on the Tour, as you grind up the damn thing.  In any event, I survived - barely and finally took the turn toward home.  Man those Krispy Kreme's sure looked good as I passed the Deputies.  This time their "awe" was turned to amusement and possible disgust if they had to put their donuts down to assist this retarded wannabe triathlete who looked like he was about to keel over.

There's that damn Southerly wind again.  Head down, small gears activated, muttering about how terrible of an idea this was, I trudged on.  "Oh look, some guy is stopped in the middle of the road - sweet I can pass him - oh and he's wearing an Iowa State Triathlon club uniform - even better."  "Later Sucklone."  "Hey man, you see a bike computer anywhere around on the road back here?"  "Huh?"  I wasn't even really sure what he meant by "bike computer."  Was it a laptop you mounted to your handlebars or what?  "Nope huh uh, haven't seen anything" I muttered happy to actually be passing someone again.  Not two seconds later with two or three powerful pedal pulls, he was zooming back in front of me heading into transition.  "Damn it!"

Dangalangalangalang - the sweet sound of those cowbells caught my ear - transition was just up the road.  It was like the cowbells held some sort of magic.  Color started to return to my face; a new-found energy took over driving the burn from my legs; the 100 mph head wind magically ceased for a split second; and angels came down from the sky and were singing Limp Bizkit "Rollin" - Ok that was actually the transition speakers but anyway.  The spectators lined the entrance to the park to greet their friends and loved ones as they returned from their two-wheeled voyage from hell.  A strange sense of emotion hit me as I realized all I had to do was survive running 6.2 miles and I would complete my first triathlon. Dangalangalangalang - this was going to happen.  All I needed was a little more cowbell!

First Race - Hell Froze Over With Me in the Middle - Part II

BWAAAAAAAAH!

The air horn sounded sending my heart out of my nose and making my pooper pucker like someone put Icy Hot in my drawers.  My heat was underway.  I'm not sure how many people were actually in my wave but it felt like I was one out of a thousand lemmings running in slow motion to our inglorious doom.  "Crap, crap, crap, craaaaaaaaap."  There was no backing out now even if my life depended on it.  I was in the middle of the pack being pushed toward the frigid water by a bunch of foolhardy triathlon nerds who were chomping at the bit to get their race on.  I was like that sorry Roman soldier with his fellow soldier's spear in his back as they charged forward into battle.  It was either go forward and fight to live or die turning around to flee.

Not only would I have been trampled had I turned around to back out, but the wife's heat was right behind us.  It would be better to drown in the frigid duck-water lake than to endure the life-long shaming that would have taken place had I backed out. (Little did I know the same thing was going through the wife's head as she watched us plunge into the frosty fluid).  "Here goes nothing."  Summing up my last bit of false bravado, I gave myself a mental kick in the ass as I let myself fall face first into the water.  SONOFA!!! (Insert string of profanities).  Razors sliced my face and anywhere else not covered by my wetsuit.  "Turtle syndrome" was taken to an entirely new level.  Oxygen evaporated from my lungs as they were instead filled with wet cement.  My frigid watery death was all but a mere formality now.  Crap, I didn't even have my will done!

"Hold on, you can't drown in a wetsuit, you can't drown in a wetsuit" I assured myself.  "Just stroke and breath, stroke and breath."  "You're as buoyant as a beer can floating down a river."  "Wait, even they eventually sink...."  Smack, choke, gasp, flail, snot bubbles, panic.  Hand on my leg, heel to my forehead, goggles cockeyed on my face (At least I put my swim cap over the straps like a seasoned pro so I didn't lose them - This was one thing I read online that was right!)   Lake water filled my eyes and mouth, somehow at the same time.  This was the single worst idea of my life.  I was going to die like Leonardo DiCaprio's character in the Titanic. I could hear that terrible soundtrack whining in my head as I slipped to my watery grave.  Ole Jack made drowning in freezing water look so peaceful but I felt like a one-winged penguin being chased by a great white shark.  "This is not peaceful, this sucks!"

"Okay, okay, okay, tread water and gather yourself man!"  "Hey, a kayak is right there, go ahead and grab it ... stop it, don't be that guy, don't eat the apple!"  "Shore is pretty much just as far away now as the next buoy, keep swimming."  "It's too cold, you can't breath, this is just stupid, it can't be good for you, go ahead and just call it a day.  Don't leave your son fatherless." "Can't quit, what does that teach the son?  Plus, the wife will never let you live it down, you're better off drowning."  "Ah look, there's a bunch of people hanging onto the buoy like seals on the one iceberg that is still afloat in the middle of the Arctic Ocean."  "Haha, you guys are cheating, I'm still swimming.  I am awesomer than all ya'll!" My self-talk was like an inebriated lunatic that didn't take his medication.

"Relax, breast stroke, breath; breast stroke, breath; stroke a breast, breath." Hehe I said "stroke a breast."  Apparently I was going delirious.  BWAAAAAAAAHHHHHH.  The women's Olympic distance heat was being sent off behind us.  "Get moving fool before you get passed by a bunch of chicks."  "Regular stroke, breath; regular stroke, breath."  "Don't mind that hand on your ass and foot about to kick you in the face."  "Follow the bubbles, bump, roll, relax, breath."  I was finding a rythm.  "We got this."  "Relax, pull, breath, sight; relax, pull, breath, sight.  I was moving right along now.  Ironman Kona here I come!  Relax pull, breath, sight; relax, pull ... THUNK! What the hell?!  The top of my melon ran smack into something.  Choking on dirty ice water I popped straight up to see what had fallen out of the sky to smack me in the head.  A damn kayak!  "Did I go that far off course?"  There was no way, the one thing I was doing right was sighting and following the buoys.  Nope, didn't go off course.  A bright-eyed, bright-shirt sporting, smiling volunteer was sitting in her kayak smack dab in the middle of the swim course watching us all go on our merry way.  "You alright?" She asked.  "No, can't you see I'm trying to drown myself here and you aren't making things any easier" I replied in my head.  "Ugh" was all I could really muster to groan in response.

"Fruitin, fartin, fricken, frackin, biscuit baking, banana boater!"  As if the swim wasn't hard enough already they had to throw obstacles in the middle of it.   "Did I look that bad that someone paddled over to get me?" I wondered.  "Oh well."  "Lord I got to keep on moooooveeeeen..."  Now Bob Marley popped into my head as I blissfully imagined pulling the bright-eyed, bright-shirt sporting, smiling, apparently warm kayaking volunteer out of her kayak and paddling myself to safety.  Undeterred, I struggled to find my "rhythm" again.  "There it is, here we go, but what's that?"  The water behind me started churning.  It's weird how you can hear and feel something approaching you from behind even in murky water.  I was like a lure about to be devoured by a famished fish.

A few seconds went by and something was grabbing my feet, another thing pushed my head down, a dark object went darting by me, bubbles everywhere.  What the ...?  Is that a freaking porpoise (no porpoises don't hang out in Iowa lakes)? Is that a swim cap?  Is that an arm?  It's a stinking person.  Damn it! The girls were passing me now.  They had to be ex-Olympian swimmers right?  One by one, they glided right by me, each one taking my masculinity down another notch.  First man-nerds now women!  As if about drowning wasn't bad enough.  Their wake went straight into my gaping mouth as I attempted to breath.  Hack, spit, choke, panic, another round of breast stroke.  "I guess I should be swimming my swim workouts with the breast stroke" I thought.  "You can't come out of this looking good so just survive man, just survive.  Kona will have to wait."

What felt like an eternity went by as I scratched and clawed my way through the Arctic water, slowly working my way to the safety of the blow-up arch and boat ramp marking the end to this torturous task.  My lungs were on fire, which was weird with as much water as I swallowed, and my arms felt like they were going to fall off.  I couldn't feel my face, feet or fingers.  Numb, humbled but happy to be alive, my hand felt the scratch of the boat ramp concrete ridges.  Twelve and a half minutes had felt like hours but now it was all but a distant nightmare

A relief unlike I had ever felt before swept over me as my feet came up under me and I grasped that glorious volunteer's hand to help me out of the water.  "LAND FREAKING HO!"  I wanted to bear hug the volunteer and bend down and kiss the earth that had saved me from my watery grave but alas, aint nobody got time for that, I was racing ... again.  I didn't care about the needles penetrating my feet with every step, I had survived.  I even snuck a peak back and saw to my surprise that there were still people in the water.  I wasn't last!

A little light-headed, I staggered up the ramp to the cheers of the wonderful people that had come to see the triathlon phenomenon that was me.  It sounded like I had just scored the winning touchdown at the Super Bowl, in my head anyway.  "Short, choppy steps" I coached myself.  "Get your heart rate down, breath man, breath."  I had survived!  I had made it through the part that terrified me the most.  A feeling of glorious accomplishment swept over me as I shuffled up the 15% grade hill to transition (it wasn't that steep, just taking some artistic liberties here).  I didn't care, I survived.  My false bravado and overconfidence began creeping back in with every step away from the water.  I was a lock to finish my first triathlon ... Or was I?

First Race - Hell Froze Over With Me in the Middle - Part I

The bus rolled up to the swim start to drop us all off.  There was no way back but to swim across the lake unless of course you wanted to take a massive hike of shame.  Not me, not I, no way was that going to happen.  I was not about to take that loss and the wife would never, ever, ever, let me live that down.  I had trained my tail off and it was my time to shine.

Cold, wet, grass greeted our bare feet as we exited the bus.  "I hope the water isn't this cold."  It was the kind of cold that makes your feet tingle with every step.  "Ah the water has to be warmer, the grass just got extra cold overnight with the rain" I told myself.  The race director announced that the water was a balmy 56 degrees.  Because of that, the Olympic distance swim would be the same as the Sprint "to ensure the safety of the athletes."

I talked myself into being cool with the shortened swim.  It was my first go at this and a shorter swim certainly couldn't hurt.  As I walked down the hill leading to the beach, a bunch of people were already in the water getting their warm up on.  There were even a couple of guys standing around in nothing but their Speedo's and no wetsuit to speak of.  "Nucking futs" I thought.  Then again one of the guys was wearing an Army t-shirt.  "They probably do crazy stuff like this for basic training or survival school" I thought.  "That dude is a bad man and I am apparently a sissified tweedy bird."  "But a warm tweedy bird in this wetsuit."

The lyrics of the last song on my pre-race playlist mocked me as I got ready to wade into the lake.  "Toes in the water ass in the sand, not a worry in the world a cold ... FREAKING FROZEN LAKE, HOLY CRAP!  Did we somehow move to Alaska?  Where are the penguins and Eskimos?  To say the water was cold would be an understatement.  There had to have been a layer of ice over the top.  How it wasn't frozen solid I have no idea.  The buoys appeared to move further and further away from shore with each step I took into the water.   My toes were numb in a matter of seconds.  "Got to do this; its a shorter swim; got to do this."  "Those are people out there not penguins and they are still alive and moving.  Got to do this!"  I gingerly forced myself further into the water for a "warm up" swim.  Is this a 400 or a 4000 meter swim?!  What is going on here?!  Is that England on the other side?  Are we swimming the freaking English Channel?  My mind  had become a hot mess of self-doubt, personal resentment, and false bravado.  I think I even figured out a way to somehow blame the wife even though this race was my idea.

"OK, screw it just dive right in and get it over with.  Everyone else is out there clearly not dead."  Needles, thousands of needles pierced my face.  Any part of my body not covered by the wetsuit went numb.  A strange invisible monster stuck its arm straight down my throat, mercilessly tearing out my lungs.  A water leprechaun began filling my wetsuit with ice cubes while Chucky continued stabbing my face, feet and hands.  Purple and gasping I stood right up, dazed, confused, and pretty sure I hell had frozen over with me standing smack dab in the middle of it.  "Oh we're looking out for the athletes, alright" I mocked.  That was all they said all morning talking about shortening the swim.  "What's the point of swimming 400 meters as opposed to a mile if you are a popsicle by the first buoy?"  "If they were looking out for the athletes, they wouldn't be making us swim where the Titanic sank."

Sulking and questing my sanity for even embarking on this voyage, I took a couple of big breaths and looked around at the rest of my fellow fools.  Everybody else was still alive and swimming their warm ups like it was summertime at Waimea Bay.  "What the hell?"  "Am I racing a bunch of polar bears?"  OK, if they could do it, so could I.  "How are we going to do this?" I thought, probably out loud.  "How am I going to survive?"  Light bulb!  Back home nothing cut through the chill on a cold night-dive (free diving/"snorkeling" in the ocean at night with a waterproof flashlight, waking fish up with a spear through their head) better than a quick pee.  Maybe that's the key.  Warm pee in wetsuit = warm body.  Certainly worth a try.

Not going to lie, the pee trick helped ... a little.  That was until I put my face back into the freezing water.  It literally took your breath away.   You want to know what it was like?  Go outside, scoop up a cooler full of snow, let it melt, and right after the last speck melts, go bobbing for apples.  OK, "relax and blow bubbles."  "That worked, now stroke, breath, stroke, breath. You got this."  My self-talk was at an all-time high.  Breathing every three strokes like I practiced in the pool was not going to work.  It was pure survival mode.  I tried to convince myself, "it is all but impossible to drown wearing a wetsuit."  "Not if you die from hypothermia first."  Damn self-talk!  My race strategy was now modified.  Survive the swim; rock the bike; rock the run; probably don't have to worry about accepting any awards.

Everyone got out of the water to thaw out as the race director barked out the last minute instructions.  Something about if you need to, don't hesitate to grab hold of a kayak or canoe or buoy and you wont be penalized so long as you don't use it to advance yourself.  "Screw that! I'm not about to wuss out and take a half time on the swim."  To me that would be like walking during a road race, it's an automatic loss.  You can't count say you "ran" that race if you walked any part of it.  In fact, don't even pick up your finishers medal at the end.  Go strait to the car, get in and drive your shameful buttocks home.  If I was going to do this, I'm doing it right!

After the last minute directions, the race director started singing the National Anthem.  It was pretty terrible sounding through the megaphone.  Terrible, but goosebumps crept in none-the-less and a sudden rush of emotion smacked me as many of the participants started chiming in and singing along.  This is real.  All these people regardless of their age, experience, "athletic" ability, or background, had all committed to this endeavor and they weren't allowing themselves to be contained by what other people might think about them.  It was like it was one giant shameless family, possibly united by the fact that they all knew we were about to die from hypothermia.  "Huh, wonder if we'll get a fly over?"

30 SECONDS!  My day dreaming was cut short as the race director started the countdown for first swim wave.  It was the Men's Sprint wave.  There was no time trial start like I saw at Hy-Vee, we weren't going in age groups, it was a mass start based on which race you were doing.  "Good thing I did the open water swim clinic last week" I thought.  "It's going to suck but I can survive."  The first horn sounded and bodies started hitting the water.  The crazy serious dudes were diving right in, taking off like seals being chased by killer wales.  Others took their time entering, wading in before taking the plunge.  Even more waited for the entire wave to be on their way before even walking down to the water.  "Your losing time fellahs!"  The water was a gigantic washing machine of flailing arms, legs, and bright colored swim caps.  Ha!  One guy didn't get but 50 yards out before he turned a direct course for a kayak.  I mocked him in my head.  "Chump, you should know ahead of time that you can't make the swim, save yourself the embarrassment and sleep in." 

It was but maybe three minutes before the next horn sounded.  Women's Sprint ....  Off they went.  "Crap that means we are next."  My heart was beating out of my wetsuit, my breathing became shallow, and I all but wanted to pee myself again as we inched closer to the waters edge.  People were jostling for position and to get the best line to the first buoy.  "Be safe, have fun" everyone was telling each other.  "Be safe?" I thought.  "Do people ACTUALLY die in these things?"  (The answer is "yes" by the way.  See http://www.endurancecorner.com/Larry_Creswell/triathlon_death)
"It's a sanctioned event, it has to be safe right? Why are they telling each other to be safe?"  "Do I really want to do this?"

First Race - Nobody Will Know

BEEP*BEEP*BEEP*BEEP.  The alarm was blaring but I was already up and at em whipping up a fine serving of my pre-race oatmeal and brewing up a fresh pot of coffee.  This was going to be a glorious day!  "Rise and shine it's ass kicking time" I hollered at the wife who was off to a much slower start than I. Apparently she didn't comprehend and appreciate the necessity of waking up four hours before the race was set to start.  Got to get the blood flowing - it was the secret to dominating a race according to one online article I read.

Double-triple checked my transition bag, twice-overed the bike again, I was ready to roll.  Crap!  Will my board shorts fit under my wetsuit?!  Details, details, details.  I didn't try that yet and I'll be damned if I'm going to be caught wearing spandex in public!  I whipped out the wetsuit and giggled gleefully as it slipped silkily over my board shorts.  Of course it would work, after all it was my idea. "Hey will you write my race numbers on me?"  The wife had finally gotten her butt in gear.  "You sure it goes there, she asked?"  "YES! Why do you always question me?"  I retorted.  "Okaaaaay, if you say so" she conceded.  We looked bad ass!  Locked and loaded and all marked up for triathlon domination. Yup it was going to be my day!

Confidently striding down the path from the cabin to transition rehearsing my race plan.  "Rock the swim, rock the bike, rock the run ... accept all congratulations and adulation on your breakout performance with humility."  It was going to be #99's day!  The path was a little muddy from the rain the night before, but not too bad, and the morning air was cool and crisp as the sun slowing began to creep up over the horizon.  You you could already see the cars pulling into the parking area and transition starting to come alive.  The the click clacks and whirs of rocket ship bike gears, the distinctive "PSHHT" sound of the last tire pressure checks being made made, and a little bit of breeze rustling through the various tents that had been erected around transition.  It was time to find our transition places.

People were standing in line waiting to get marked before they entered transition.  "Newbies" I thought.  We had already marked ourselves up with the trusty Sharpie (I read an article somewhere that said that was the way to go) so we didn't have to wait in line.  Skipping the line of what were obviously amateurs, we breezed right through and into transition.  "Beep, Beep," went the transition mat as we walked over it with our timing chips already attached.  Sprint transition was here.  Lets see, yup the real studs doing the Olympic distance transition area is right over there.  "Bunch of wussy's doing the sprint" I thought.  "If you are going to do a triathlon, why do a baby one when the real one is taking place at the same time, unless of course you were seriously lacking in the awesomeness department."

Unlike Hy-Vee, the transition spots were not predetermined so picking the optimal spot was going to be key for my record breaking performance.  On the end closest to the "bike out" was what I picked.  The less I had to run with my bike the speedier my transition would most certainly be.  "Let's get this bad daddy set up!"  Bike racked in the correct direction, check.  Well wait, crap, it goes the other way.  Ok, bike really racked in the correct direction (handlebars facing side you plan to transition on) now, check! Helmet resting on aero bars, bottom up with sunglasses sitting in helmet, check.  Transition towel laid out nicely in my own space, check.  Bike shoes on the towel and closest to the isle since I was using them first, check. (As awesome as I was, I was not ready for the shoes already in the pedals flying mount).  Run shoes with speed laces set back from bike shoes with a GU and my race belt with number resting over the top, check.  Wetsuit out and ready to go with goggles and swim cap, check.  Dude, I was ready to rock this bad boy.

As I put everything together and and began packing my transition bag up to put off to the side, more and more participants were filing in.  Same people from packet pickup.  Tri-nerd posers in their fancy race gear with their compression socks and every possible gadget under the sun; young kids whose parents were cool enough to help tote all their crap into transition; old people with their old person bikes with a look of determination like if they didn't do this their kids were going to put them in a nursing home; legitimate triathletes you could tell flat kicked ass simply by looking at them (I of course fit into this category); some heavier set folks who were probably doing their first triathlon but they were going to do it if it killed them; college kids still a little hung over from the night before; and quite a few middle aged dudes who clearly were in the midst of a midlife crisis attempting to prove to themselves that they weren't that old.  It was an eclectic group of people but everyone of them was smiling, encouraging each other, clearly enjoying the process, chatting it up as they went.  I on the other hand, did my best to keep to myself, after all I was a real athlete about to take the triathlon world by storm (Truth be told, reality was sinking in and I was scared shitless wondering what in the hell I had gotten myself into, but I was not about to let anyone know that!)

Ignoring my efforts to keep my awesomeness to myself, a friendly fraternizing fellow asked: "Hey man, you racing in those (referring to my board shorts)?"  "Yup, sure am."  He stayed at it: "Aren't you going to get chafed?"  "Nope, I have tri-shorts on underneath" I said shortly.  This bastard was persistent: "Are they even going to fit under your wetsuit?"  "Yup already tried it out."  "Butthead" I thought, turning to walk away in a not so polite manner.  "Uh."  "WHAT NOW" I thought but thankfully didn't say out loud.  I turned around as the guy leaned in.  "Dude, I'm pretty sure you aren't 99 years old" he said.  "Huh? Obviously not."  "Your age goes on your calf, not your race number man."  "SONOFA ... Damn it! (insert mental profanity laced tirade) "Whelp cats out of the bag, so this is my first and possibly only triathlon."

I didn't even get to keep the pain to myself.  I had marked the wife's calf for her.  Continuing the mental tirade of profanities, I sheepishly strolled over to the wife's transition area which was most certainly not as strategically selected as mine.  "Do you have the Sharpie" I asked?  "Huh, why?"  "Well, see, apparently ... your age goes on your calf not your race number" I whispered.  Cue the coldest, most "I hate you dumb ass" stare of all time.  "What you listened to me, you could have always made your own decision on what to put on your calf!"  As it turns out, this would become a common theme in our triathlon journey; me pretending to know what I was talking about and her actually listening.

Related posts:
First Race - Prologue