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
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