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 

Top 10 Reasons Why Swimming is Like Golf

Stay on plane, maintain good balance and rhythm, neutral head, relax your shoulders, extend the arms, rotate smoothly, power through the hips and finish the stroke.  Am I talking about golf or swimming?

I swear the more you think about it the more they are alike.  Here are the top 10 reasons why swimming is like golf.

1.  They are both all about technique and frustrating as hell to learn. 
2.  You can never perfect either.  There is always something to fix.
3.  The harder you try, the worse you get.
4.  Everyone has advice for you on how to fix or improve your stroke but following your buddies' advice inevitably screws you up even more.
5.  You start focusing on one thing you need to fix and another thing falls apart.
6.  There is always someone with a "hitch" in their stroke that kicks your butt.
7.  A kid can beat you.
8.  An old person can beat you.
9.  You never want to be in the pool or on the course with someone who is actually good.  It crushes your confidence and overall self-worth and makes you want to kick them in the teeth.
10.  As bad as you suck, you keep going back for more!

This list could go on and on.  The more I pondered the similarities, the longer my list got but I figured I'd cap it at 10.  Feel free to add your observations to the list in the comment section.

If only the lifeguards brought you beer in between strokes and you could get away with chucking your kick board across the pool in disgust when you realize how bad you are, getting up at 5 a.m. for your morning swim workout wouldn't be so bad.  Alas, I guess they can't be completely alike.

First Race - The Prologue

Eminem blaring out of the speakers, brand spanking new road bikes strapped to the back of the Jeep and the ever-present overconfidence spewing from my every pore as we rolled into the local bike shop to pick up our race packets.  The wife and I decided if we are going to do this, we are going to do this right.  We bought road bikes, joined the local triathlon club, got a coach and followed through with a consistent training plan.  We were lean, mean triathlon machines!  As we rolled in, I was certain that I was but a day away from making those foolish triathlon nerds my personal stepping stones on my way to endurance sport stardom.

Did you catch it?  That's right, I said "wife and I."  She caught the bug too.  It didn't take long after I started "training," for the wife's intrigue and competitive spirit to catch fire too.  It probably had something to do with my chiseled, sweat soaked, ripped physic I obtained after but a week of training.  (Apparently consistent exercise can turn you into a Greek god in your own head regardless of what the mirror or anybody else might say).  "I guess if your really serious, I'll train with you" she told me.  Granted, she waited a couple of weeks watching me struggle trying to stay afloat and blasting around the gravel roads on my steel tank of a mountain bike just to make sure I was serious, but we were both in this new journey together.  (She claims she was onboard 30 seconds from my initial proclamation but I remember it being at least a couple of weeks.  Since I'm telling the story, it was a couple of weeks and due primarily to her seeing my sheer awesomeness in action.)  On a side note - get your significant other to join the journey with you.  It might be way more expensive having to buy two of everything, but it's a lot harder for her to complain about spending the money on a new "hobby" when you are buying her the exact same thing.

It was an interesting scene rolling into the local bike shop to pick up our race packets.  Those ever present triathlon nerds were there prancing around in their compression socks and matching spandex race kits with rocket ships strapped to the top of their Volvo's; Normal joe's and college kids with their beat up ten-speeds and mountain bikes somehow magically crammed into the rear of their Pontiac Grand Prix's and pick up trucks; Yuppies with their tricked out bikes and luxury SUV's decorated with triathlon stickers and personalized license plates; Legit triathletes with their focused eyes, chiseled facial features and 10 year old race tees; and older folks just there doing what could well be their 100th triathlon.  Fast, slow, old, young, fat, skinny, veterans and newbies; just like at Hy-Vee, apparently anybody could do this.

"Dork, dork, dork ... I'm gonna beat you, gonna beat you, you and you." "Time to show these triathlon nerds how real athletes race" I said under my breath as I breezed through the packet pick up line.  My confident swagger came to an abrupt halt when my eye caught a glimpse of a flip chart on an easel in the corner.  "Water temp: 54 degrees" it said.  "WHAT THE?!"  "Now someone please tell me how the hell this is going to work"  I blurted, apparently out loud.  I had done the open water swim clinic which was cold, but 54 degrees - that is flat out ridiculous even for Iowa in May.  "Oh we are going to be watching it over night, and if it doesn't warm up, we will shorten or cancel the swim if it gets much colder" said the chipper, bright shirt clad, clearly not planning on jumping in that freezing ass water, volunteer.  

While certainly not a fan of freezing water, I was offended for some reason.  I mean seriously.  I signed up for a TRI-athlon not a DU-athlon.  Anything less than the three legs was unacceptable.  I didn't drown myself all winter to not get to show my stuff when it mattered.  I had a wetsuit - I was good to go.  I also signed up to do the Olympic distance not the Sprint, because well, lets face it, I was that awesome.  I knew swimming a 400 or 750 would be a piece of cake so why start with that?  i wanted the challenge.  I wanted the entire thing damn it.  Don't ruin my first of many shining moments here Mother Nature!

Water temperature and race shortening complaints were the topic of conversation as we drove to the cabin we rented at the State Park for the weekend.  The cabin turned out to be the ONLY veteran move we made that weekend.  It was right on the lake where the race was being held and only a 5 minute walk from transition.  This was going to be epic!  "Hey look, you can see the buoys for the swim."  Gulp, frog-in-throat, pooper pucker, little bit of tinkle in the britches, and overwhelming sense of self-doubt.  "That's a long ways!"  "Is that course regulation?"  "You really think that's a mile?"  "Maybe they just throw the buoy's out willy nilly and re-adjust them in the morning."  Maybe this wasn't quite such a brilliant idea after all. "You are awesome, trust your training" I told myself.  "This will be a piece of cake for a stud like you."  The self-talk was already starting.

Water temperature, race shortening and now race strategy dominated the evening's conversation as we packed transition bags, set out the morning's "nutrition" and generally pumped ourselves up for the impending adventure.  Rock the swim, rock the bike, and rock the run was my detailed, well-thought out race plan.  After all, I trained my butt off, this can't be all that difficult.  Race strategy clearly visualized and processed, I proceeded to follow the directions contained in the race bag and affixed my race numbers to my helmet and bike just like I was a seasoned pro.  Unfortunately, this race didn't have the cool tri-tats to put on the night before so I waited until morning to bust out the Sharpie.  Race uniform consisting of my awesome board shorts laid out, bike tires pumped, chain cleaned and greased, GU packets taped to the frame, water bottles securely fastened, and transition bag packed.  Oh yeah, I was ready to take the triathlon world by storm.  

Visions of grandeur danced in my head as I attempted to get a little sleep that night. "Clearly I am destined for triathlon greatness" I thought.  "Certainly, nobody's going to know I'm a newbie."  Ah yes, nobody will know I'm a newbie....

Triathlon - How Hard Could It Be?

I could already run.  Riding a bike is well, just like riding a bike.  All I had to do is learn how to swim.  How hard could it be?  "I’m going to do a full triathlon next year” I told my wife in a quasi-intoxicated condition at the Post Single Leg of a Triathlon Relay Party I threw for myself.  A brief  moment of silence was followed by: "Yah right, good luck with that." Such loving support. 

The former track and cross-country goddess and Iowa High School Track and Field Hall of Famer was prone to underestimate and under-appreciate my complete athletic awesomeness, probably due to my history of inebriated "goal setting" and rampant poo flinging.  She also knew I was nothing more than a “recreational jogger” not to mention the fact that I had never swam laps in a pool before, let alone rode a bike for any distance.  My one attempt at a single leg of RAGBRAI the year before left me unable to walk, cramped, chafed and waddling for at least a week.  But hey, I was a former collegiate athlete, (if you count D-III practice squad), how hard could it be?  

Ah yes, how hard could it be?  How does one learn how to swim laps that has never swam laps since tadpole swim lessons?  I asked everyone I came across, every stinking holiday party or get together, I would seek out those who I knew had done a triathlon in the past.  They had to be sick of me.  "What's the secret?"  "It can't be that hard right?" "Will you teach me to swim?" I would ask.  I would get some friendly suggestions and advice usually followed by:  “Dude, you are from Hawaii, how do you not know how to swim?”  

Oh I could "swim," if what was meant by "swim" was to stay afloat with ones head out of the water, breathing while moving slowing in one direction, body surfing with swim fins, or paddling with a board underneath me, but that whole face in the water, breath out the side of your mouth, try not to swallow 8 gallons of pool water, was a daunting challenge for me.  I grew up in the surf capital of the world, the North Shore of Oahu in Hawaii, and spent a good amount of time body boarding, but I had swim fins and a board under me which happened to be a convenient, buoyant, awesome, life-line that was always a leash-length away.  Oh and in case you are wondering, when you swim in the ocean in waves, the last thing you want to do is put your face in the water, breath out the side of your mouth and not look for the next neck-breaking wave about to crash on your head.  Just saying - totally different things.

Apparently, the sanctioning bodies for triathlons don't approve of participants paddling surfboards or using swim fins for the swim portion of the event.  I was too cheap and proud to pay for lessons or join a triathlon nerd club as suggested, so I set out to teach myself how to swim laps.  Where does one turn to learn something new in the 21st century? That's right, the internet!  Article after article, blog after blog, video after video.  I read and watched them all.  To this day, I'll never forget reading an article that said something to the effect of "if you didn't grow up a competitive swimmer, you can never become a good swimmer."  "Bullshit" I thought (and still think to this day, although I may ultimately prove that statement true, but only time will tell), I'm an athlete, how hard can it be?

My extensive internet research lead to my first triathlon purchase - the book Total Immersion.  After all, it claimed to be "the revolutionary way to swim better, faster and easier."  Obviously it was written just for me.  It had pictures and everything.  This was going to make the swim thing easy.  After all, I was a natural athlete how hard could this swimming stuff be?  Read, digested, highlighted and a few more bonus instructional YouTube videos later and I was hitting the pool ready to show the triathlon nerds how swimming was done.  “Hey how many laps make a mile?” I asked the lifeguard; “66 lengths" he chuckled "and good luck in those shorts.”  What? If you think I'm going to be caught in public wearing Speedo's you are out of your damn mind. Sorry I rock board shorts in the lap pool.

Ok, goggles securely fastened - check; vivid memory of Michael Phelps swimming like a Wahoo (its a super fast swimming fish in case you didn't know) on YouTube - check.  "Lets do this!"  I slipped into the water, pushed off gliding smoothly, silkily and effortlessly in the cool, crisp, highly chlorinated water I was born to rule.  "Piece of cake - prepare to be dominated triathlon nerds" I thought to myself.  First breath - "relax, be one with the agua, arm extended at a slightly downward angle, rotate the hips and shoulders as if there is a rod going down your back, head on a sweet pillow of water, breath out, breath in ---- gasp, cough, gag, hack, spit, choke, eyes watering, flail uncontrollably, panic - grab the side of the pool.  

Total Immersion my ass!  I was totally immersed alright - so immersed I almost drowned.  Ever get water up your nose where it stings so bad it makes you sneeze so hard it hurts even worse and sends snot everywhere?  No?  Just me huh. "Great I am meeting my doom in a watery grave at the Y pool because I'm certain that the 75 pound junior high girl playing on her iPhone won't be able to pull me out of here" I thought.  It would make perfect sense - survive Waimea Bay shore break every weekend in high school but die in a perfectly calm, flat, placid YMCA pool at the age of 30ish.  

Seriously, "this can't be that hard damn it?"  30 minutes of kick-boarding and regression to basic body buoyancy drills including floating on my back and well, that was about all, and the first "swim workout" was over.  It was clearly going to be a longer journey than my unfounded self-confidence lead me to believe but there was no way I was about to let the wife gloat at another failed over-ambitious goal.  Game on!  How hard can it really be?

PS: to avoid acting a fool like me, listen to what others tell you - join your local tri-club and/or take a lesson or two from a patient and understanding coach.  That is what they are there for regardless of your level of experience.  Trust me, it will save you much frustration, heartache and the public embarrassment of sneezing snot bubbles all over your local pool.

The Hook

"They are tubulars but I can give you a deal … they are super fast" said the bike sales dude.  He went on to explain how tubular race wheels really shouldn’t be as intimidating as people make them out to be, blah, blah, blah….  Really, he didn’t have to sell me at all; he had me at, “you’ll be faster.”  "Ring um up bicycle boy!"

I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself at my own hypocrisy as I handed Bicycle Boy my credit card.  "Really Bobby, you are going to spend a mortgage payment on a pair of freaking wheels that you will use maybe 5ish times in a given year?  My god man, you are officially the biggest hypocrite of all time."  I thought back to the days of gleefully mocking the spandex wearing dorks prancing around on snow covered roads the middle of winter, riding their overpriced rocketship bikes through town with those alien looking helmets talking about saddle sores, heart rates zones and nutrition all while sporting shaved legs?  You swore you would never become “That Guy.”  How in the hell did this happen?

September, 2010, 3:30 a.m., alarm clock screaming in my ear as I wake up cursing myself for agreeing to do the unthinkable.  We had to board a bus from the mall and get shipped down to Raccoon River Park because there was not enough parking for participants to park near transition.  It was the Hy-Vee Triathlon and I agreed to do the run leg for a relay team.  Although I had to admit the tri-tats looked cool, the more I thought about it this was a foolish idea.  Thunderstorms lit up the horizon as we boarded the bus and began rolling away from the mall.  I sat there quietly trying to catch a quick nap as the triathlon nerds around me were jabbering about things like cadence, run splits, transition times, sighting and buoy gropings.  Seriously, who wants to jump into a dirty ass lake with hundreds of other people at one time swimming all over you and swim a mile.  Fun?  I think not; more foolishness than anything.

Luckily, the race was shortened due to the brewing thunderstorm that was quickly approaching.  I only had to run a 5K, piece of cake.  This joyous news blared over the loudspeakers as we strolled into the transition area.  While absolutely a foolhardy endeavor, I couldn't help but be struck by the scene spread out in front of me.  A finish line stadium complete with flags and inflatable advertising banners blowing in the breeze, blue carpet covering in and out routes, the “serious” folk rolling in with their goofy helmets and gazillion dollar rocket ship bikes, and what the hell is that smell??? Oh there are a hundred port-a-potty's in a row up-wind ... brilliant.  While the "serious" folks were certainly high up on the nerd rating and the smell of thousands of pre-race visits to the outhouses left something to be desired, that finish line stadium was pretty dang sweet. "Alright, this might not be so bad after all" I thought to myself.    

It wasn't long before wave after wave of triathlon nerds lined up at the waters edge waiting to pummel each other at the sound of the starter's air horn.  "Unbelievable" I thought to myself - "these people are flat out crazy."  It wasn't long before the first few elite age groupers began exiting the water.  There was no blocked off relay coral and some fool was standing out in the middle of the transition isle with his back to traffic, chomping on a banana, chatting with his friend.  It didn't take long before the banana chomping oblivious fool became a speed bump for an age-group elite hell-bent on being one of the first out on the bike.  “HA! Dumb-ass, good for him” I thought.  "They've only been blaring over the loud speakers to stay out of the main isles every minute for the last hour."  I hadn't quite finished gloating at the banana chomping speed bump when out of the corner of my eye I saw another elite age grouper dancing like he had ants in his pants.  HA!  He couldn't get his wetsuit zipper down.  It wasn't long before some helpful fellow gave him a hand: "Oooh – that’s a penalty” someone muttered.  Seriously!?  The man couldn’t get his zipper down, I mean come on, it is after all, down the middle of his back! "This is some intense stuff here" I thought.

Fast forward for what seemed like 2 hours (but was only really around 50 minutes), I finally see our bike leg come blasting into transition, “Ooh it’s my time to shine baby, give me that chip!”  "Why are you breathing so hard and shaking" I thought as my biker fumbled with the timing chip, "after all the only thing you had to do was ride a bicycle, its not like you had to run or something."  Sprinting out of transition I realized, “the blue carpet makes me way faster” as I hit my stride rocking my boardshorts and sleeveless t-shirt.  It didn’t take long to “settle into my pace” and I was on my way to a whole new experience, passing people left and right.   

My self-talk during that 5K was nothing short of pure comedy.  "See yah granny" as I passed a sixty-something year old.  I didn't have to gloat on that accomplishment for long because the chubby dude was next, followed by the gal who certainly shouldn't be wearing spandex.  Passing people left and right, "I am awesome," "what a bunch of chumps" I thought to myself.  But hey, one thing was consistent with each of them, none of them had "R's" on their calves; they were doing the entire thing, I was only running a 5K.  "Who's the chump now poser boy?!"  

As I internally debated the legitimacy of my self-imposed images of awesomeness, the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing and pounding feat on the pavement told me I was about to be passed.  I was hauling, so clearly this was a pro or something.  "Good work man good work!"  Not a few seconds later … "What the hell? It's no pro; it's not even a guy; a 54 year old lady just crop dusted me as she left me in the dust gasping for air!" "Where is the “R” on her calf?!"  Any self-proclaimed titles of grandeur evaporated into the rain soaked summer air as my lungs battled for whatever oxygen I could provide them.  "You mean to tell me she just swam, biked, and is now whooping my butt on the run?"  Is it time to turn around yet, this really is egregious!  

Twenty-fiveish minutes after I entered the competition by way of the speedy blue carpet, snot flowed freely from my nose, my legs screamed obscenities at me and my lungs simply refused to function to a point where I was praying for one of the lightning bolts in the distance to end this torturous experiment once and for all.  But what's that? I see inflatables waving in the wind through my exercise induced delirium.  I can hear the announcer's garbled voice belting out people’s names as they cross the finish line; and oh yes, there is the speed-inducing blue carpet.  "What is this? Am I really seeing what I think I see?  You mean to tell me that the stadium isn’t just for the pros, we get to finish there too?" "Hot damn" I thought as I picked my pace up to an all out sprint for the last fifty yards or so. "Might as well pass one or two more people huh?"

It was a curious feeling, as if I was floating, as I ran while trying not to vomit on myself.  "Robert Rehkemper, Urbandale, Iowa" the announcer blared out.  "Rock star baby!”  "Thank God that's over!"  What is this? A medal with a chocolate milk, Gatorade, cookie, and a banana!   All I did was run a 5K, the other thousand plus people did the entire thing!  This is pretty damn awesome.  Fat, skinny, old, young, rookies, seasoned vets.  If they could do it so could I.

The hook was set, time to dust off the old steel mountain bike!