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!