First Race - The Run - A Strange Thing Happened

"Where is he?" "67 seconds."  "Right where I want him."  Some old dude was chatting with his pal on the other side of the fence in transition about the guy he was apparently about to hunt down on the run.  "Oh you go get him toughy" I thought to myself as I attempted to steady by wobbly legs long enough to get my tenny runners on for what I perceived the march of death.  Yet another poor life choice for stoopid me.

Did you know you can't wear headphones during the run on a triathlon???  No seriously, not allowed, can't even try to pull that off.  It is not like every road race out there where they say "no headphones," but everyone but the Kenyans wear them.  In triathlon they actually mean it.  They will pull you off the dang course!  Know that that means?  You have to listen to everything else going on around you the entire time you are running.  Pure torture!

Dongalongalongalonga, random scream, music, loud speaker dude saying something about something; it all kind of blends together for a strange yet mysteriously energizing mash up.  I couldn't feel my legs leaving transition.  I'm pretty sure I floated and sure as shit had no idea how this run was going to go.

Running sockless for the first time ever was surprisingly liberating.  "OK, shooting for 8ish minute miles here, we got this.  Breath and settle."  "Cadence, cadence, cadence, breath, breath breath."  "Ah this aint so bad, might even think about picking up the pace here pretty soon."  Passed a couple of nice people, got passed by a couple of devil worshiping commie terrorists, but hey yo, there's mile marker 1! Mile 1 check point: 7:25 ... WTF?! No stoopid, that is too fast, reign er in." (I know, sad right?) "I CAN'T be going that fast, I feel like a slug and can't even feel my legs."

So it turns out that there is a fascinating phenomenon that occurs after you have rode your legs numb at around 18-20 mph on the ole pedal bike.  When you suddenly stop traveling at that speed and attempt to run, you feel like you are creeping but are going much faster than you anticipate.  Nobody wrote about that in any of the magazine or online articles I studied in my free time!  Now, I could have pulled in the reigns intentionally, which would have been the intelligent thing to do, but then again, this was probably my calling, and I had put the survival mode behind me and it was now time to yet again show the triathlon world what a "real athlete" could do.  I glided on....

"I may just be Prefontaine reincarnated.  I really don't see what the big fuss is all about. I mean after all I am freaking cruising here people, that's right, fasten your seat belts."  ....  "Hmm, its kind of hot." "What is that sharp pain suddenly shooting through my entire lower body?"  "Who freaking shot me with bird shot?!"  The, I totally could have been an Olympian had I started this sport in my prime, I must be Prefontaine reincarnated feeling apparently disappears at oh, we will be generous and say at about mile 2ish.  AYEEEEEEEEE!  My quads and calves suddenly woke up and let me know they are there and that they are not happy with the foolishness I was putting them through. "Holy crap, I have to pee too!"  Do you stop and pee, keep going, what is a fellah supposed to do?

"Try to pee as you run" I thought.  Read that somewhere .... Burning sensation ... Nothing!  It's harder than one would think.  In fact, to this day, impossible for me.  I mean come on, a fellah spends his first 13 years of life (don't judge!) training himself not to pee his bed at night.  The bladder muscles just don't turn around and untrain themselves!  "Ah go ahead and stop by the port-a-potty or even one of these nice camper's spots."  "Feel free to walk."  "Be gone devil self-talk!"  Walking is for ... well you can't walk!  Thump, thump, thump, gasp, wheeze, snort, farmer blow, wheeze.  "Ohhh, hey, what's that?"  A little rubbing in my arch.  Things just went from bad to worser in like a quarter of a mile.  "Ok, how about whoever shot my legs with the birdshot put some buckshot in that same gun and just end this misery for me it right here and now.  This was a turrible idea!"

Heading to the turn-around to start the 2nd and final lap - "Oooh look, the turn round."  I catch a view of The Kid and The In-Laws.  "Huh, they did make it, that's pretty cool!"  High fives for everyone!  At that point a strange thing happened.  The muffled mash up of announcer, music, screaming, and wheezing, suddenly focused into spectators yelling positive words of encouragement to those of us dumb enough to participate in this sadomasochistic ritual that is triathlon.  These people, including my family members, were taking time out of their days to line this damn park road and root on their friends and family members that were stoopid to pay money to participate in this lil event.  It was a sudden but stark and undeniable realization, so much, it hit me with goose bumps and a wave of unexpected emotion.  "Drop the hammer son!"  A sudden burst of energy came out of the now clear blue sky.  It was crazy how I had suffered through well over 2 hours of torture and seeing and hearing people cheering me on and everyone else on the road suddenly transferred into nitrous oxide in my "go tank."

Cadence picked up, a little more pep in my step.  A big fellah was just entering the road ahead of me, on his first lap.  SMACK! Yup, I smacked his ass!  "You got this big fellah!"  No idea what he said back, maybe a "thank you" for the ass grab, cuz I wasn't waiting around.  I was on to the next group. Two older ladies, for sure into their 60's, shuffling side by side having themselves a good conversation and a different version of a Sunday drive.  "Looking good ladies, looking good."  A chuckled "thanks" was their reply, but with each bit of encouragement I gave out, I got a little extra boost of energy.  It was weird, no doubt, but suddenly the death march had turned into something fanfreakingtastic.  "Here we go SUJO!"  The Wife was coming toward me with a look of "I freaking hate you for getting us into this crap" but she was flying.  I'd like to think my holler got her moving a little more.  Oh wait! "Ah crap, don't let her catch you man, you'll never hear the end of it!"

Remember ole Iowa State Tri Club dude that glided away from me in the last couple miles of the bike, after looking for his computer?"  I finally caught up with that bastard on the run, mile 4ish.  "Feeling good, feeling fine" ... ahhhh still have to pee!  That little rubbing, yup that turned into a nice big ole blister, I could feel it growing with every stomp of my feet.  "That's OK, good thing I'm tough." "Don't do anything new on race day."  I swear I read that somewhere ... probably should have listened.  "Good run man" the kid said.  Was I supposed to say something back?  How can he even talk?  I'm about to die of running induced asphyxia (pretty sure that is a real thing).  "Thanks" I gasped.  I tried to pick up the pace just a little bit to go past him but the little bastard stayed with me.  "Come on man!" I thought.  "I have to pee, I have a blister, I just want to finish!"  "You are making me kind of race here."

The Cyclone pulled away from me a bit right around mile 5ish or so.  Right hand turn, entering the dirt path and field before the finish.  I could hear names being called of those that finished.  Arooooo, Aroooo, Barwooooo!  Oh snap, the Father in Law has the Fat Beagle on the home stretch.  Mustering what I thought to be every extra bit of remaining energy I gave them the thumbs up and a smile as I rolled by.  The Kid and Mother in Law were there too.  More high fives.  The Cyclone was in sight.  Satisfied with just knowing I was going to finish, I smiled to myself until .... "You aren't going to let a Cyclone beat you are yah?" I hear a stern male voice ask. Sonofa.... The Father In Law was calling me out!  Oh now it is a pride thing.

We were on a dirt trail now in the trees, finish was in sight.  So was The Cyclone!  He was just right there.  But the pain, holy crap, the pain.  Did you know your lungs can actually catch on fire?  Oh they can, I know this to be a medical fact because mine were a roaring bonfire of flames.  Get out the fire extinguisher cuz the nitrous oxide is about to get lit on fire!  I'm pretty sure I hammered out a 4.8 (I know, I know, there is nothing impressive about that) 40 yard dash to finish that damn race.  Barely able to breath, heart rate of I'm positive 200+, I nicked The Cyclone at the end by probably a Chinaman's ... well it was close, but I got him!

Shaking, gasping, and wanting to die, an overwhelming wave of emotion hit me.  "Holy crap, I did it!"  I finished my first triathlon.  Seriously, it is impossible to describe in words.  Although this conversation gets kind of close to summing it up.  "So how was it?"  Smiling coach asked (It was that evil smile like the athletic trainers had when they were putting you through rehabilitation conditioning).  "That sucked!"  I took a bite of the worlds most delicious doughnut and sip of Coke, took it all in and then, "when is the next one?!"  It is truly a strange draw this triathlon thing.

Attack of the Port-a-Potty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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