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!
Showing posts with label beginner triathlete. Show all posts
Showing posts with label beginner triathlete. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 12, 2014
Tuesday, March 11, 2014
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!
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!
Monday, February 10, 2014
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?
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?
Friday, January 31, 2014
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
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
Thursday, January 30, 2014
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.
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.
Monday, January 27, 2014
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.
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....
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....
Friday, January 24, 2014
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.
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)