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?
Monday, February 10, 2014
Wednesday, February 5, 2014
First Race - Hell Froze Over With Me in the Middle - Part I
The bus rolled up to the swim start to drop us all off. There was no way back but to swim across the lake unless of course you wanted to take a massive hike of shame. Not me, not I, no way was that going to happen. I was not about to take that loss and the wife would never, ever, ever, let me live that down. I had trained my tail off and it was my time to shine.
Cold, wet, grass greeted our bare feet as we exited the bus. "I hope the water isn't this cold." It was the kind of cold that makes your feet tingle with every step. "Ah the water has to be warmer, the grass just got extra cold overnight with the rain" I told myself. The race director announced that the water was a balmy 56 degrees. Because of that, the Olympic distance swim would be the same as the Sprint "to ensure the safety of the athletes."
I talked myself into being cool with the shortened swim. It was my first go at this and a shorter swim certainly couldn't hurt. As I walked down the hill leading to the beach, a bunch of people were already in the water getting their warm up on. There were even a couple of guys standing around in nothing but their Speedo's and no wetsuit to speak of. "Nucking futs" I thought. Then again one of the guys was wearing an Army t-shirt. "They probably do crazy stuff like this for basic training or survival school" I thought. "That dude is a bad man and I am apparently a sissified tweedy bird." "But a warm tweedy bird in this wetsuit."
The lyrics of the last song on my pre-race playlist mocked me as I got ready to wade into the lake. "Toes in the water ass in the sand, not a worry in the world a cold ... FREAKING FROZEN LAKE, HOLY CRAP! Did we somehow move to Alaska? Where are the penguins and Eskimos? To say the water was cold would be an understatement. There had to have been a layer of ice over the top. How it wasn't frozen solid I have no idea. The buoys appeared to move further and further away from shore with each step I took into the water. My toes were numb in a matter of seconds. "Got to do this; its a shorter swim; got to do this." "Those are people out there not penguins and they are still alive and moving. Got to do this!" I gingerly forced myself further into the water for a "warm up" swim. Is this a 400 or a 4000 meter swim?! What is going on here?! Is that England on the other side? Are we swimming the freaking English Channel? My mind had become a hot mess of self-doubt, personal resentment, and false bravado. I think I even figured out a way to somehow blame the wife even though this race was my idea.
"OK, screw it just dive right in and get it over with. Everyone else is out there clearly not dead." Needles, thousands of needles pierced my face. Any part of my body not covered by the wetsuit went numb. A strange invisible monster stuck its arm straight down my throat, mercilessly tearing out my lungs. A water leprechaun began filling my wetsuit with ice cubes while Chucky continued stabbing my face, feet and hands. Purple and gasping I stood right up, dazed, confused, and pretty sure I hell had frozen over with me standing smack dab in the middle of it. "Oh we're looking out for the athletes, alright" I mocked. That was all they said all morning talking about shortening the swim. "What's the point of swimming 400 meters as opposed to a mile if you are a popsicle by the first buoy?" "If they were looking out for the athletes, they wouldn't be making us swim where the Titanic sank."
Sulking and questing my sanity for even embarking on this voyage, I took a couple of big breaths and looked around at the rest of my fellow fools. Everybody else was still alive and swimming their warm ups like it was summertime at Waimea Bay. "What the hell?" "Am I racing a bunch of polar bears?" OK, if they could do it, so could I. "How are we going to do this?" I thought, probably out loud. "How am I going to survive?" Light bulb! Back home nothing cut through the chill on a cold night-dive (free diving/"snorkeling" in the ocean at night with a waterproof flashlight, waking fish up with a spear through their head) better than a quick pee. Maybe that's the key. Warm pee in wetsuit = warm body. Certainly worth a try.
Not going to lie, the pee trick helped ... a little. That was until I put my face back into the freezing water. It literally took your breath away. You want to know what it was like? Go outside, scoop up a cooler full of snow, let it melt, and right after the last speck melts, go bobbing for apples. OK, "relax and blow bubbles." "That worked, now stroke, breath, stroke, breath. You got this." My self-talk was at an all-time high. Breathing every three strokes like I practiced in the pool was not going to work. It was pure survival mode. I tried to convince myself, "it is all but impossible to drown wearing a wetsuit." "Not if you die from hypothermia first." Damn self-talk! My race strategy was now modified. Survive the swim; rock the bike; rock the run; probably don't have to worry about accepting any awards.
Everyone got out of the water to thaw out as the race director barked out the last minute instructions. Something about if you need to, don't hesitate to grab hold of a kayak or canoe or buoy and you wont be penalized so long as you don't use it to advance yourself. "Screw that! I'm not about to wuss out and take a half time on the swim." To me that would be like walking during a road race, it's an automatic loss. You can't count say you "ran" that race if you walked any part of it. In fact, don't even pick up your finishers medal at the end. Go strait to the car, get in and drive your shameful buttocks home. If I was going to do this, I'm doing it right!
After the last minute directions, the race director started singing the National Anthem. It was pretty terrible sounding through the megaphone. Terrible, but goosebumps crept in none-the-less and a sudden rush of emotion smacked me as many of the participants started chiming in and singing along. This is real. All these people regardless of their age, experience, "athletic" ability, or background, had all committed to this endeavor and they weren't allowing themselves to be contained by what other people might think about them. It was like it was one giant shameless family, possibly united by the fact that they all knew we were about to die from hypothermia. "Huh, wonder if we'll get a fly over?"
30 SECONDS! My day dreaming was cut short as the race director started the countdown for first swim wave. It was the Men's Sprint wave. There was no time trial start like I saw at Hy-Vee, we weren't going in age groups, it was a mass start based on which race you were doing. "Good thing I did the open water swim clinic last week" I thought. "It's going to suck but I can survive." The first horn sounded and bodies started hitting the water. The crazy serious dudes were diving right in, taking off like seals being chased by killer wales. Others took their time entering, wading in before taking the plunge. Even more waited for the entire wave to be on their way before even walking down to the water. "Your losing time fellahs!" The water was a gigantic washing machine of flailing arms, legs, and bright colored swim caps. Ha! One guy didn't get but 50 yards out before he turned a direct course for a kayak. I mocked him in my head. "Chump, you should know ahead of time that you can't make the swim, save yourself the embarrassment and sleep in."
It was but maybe three minutes before the next horn sounded. Women's Sprint .... Off they went. "Crap that means we are next." My heart was beating out of my wetsuit, my breathing became shallow, and I all but wanted to pee myself again as we inched closer to the waters edge. People were jostling for position and to get the best line to the first buoy. "Be safe, have fun" everyone was telling each other. "Be safe?" I thought. "Do people ACTUALLY die in these things?" (The answer is "yes" by the way. See http://www.endurancecorner.com/Larry_Creswell/triathlon_death)
"It's a sanctioned event, it has to be safe right? Why are they telling each other to be safe?" "Do I really want to do this?"
Cold, wet, grass greeted our bare feet as we exited the bus. "I hope the water isn't this cold." It was the kind of cold that makes your feet tingle with every step. "Ah the water has to be warmer, the grass just got extra cold overnight with the rain" I told myself. The race director announced that the water was a balmy 56 degrees. Because of that, the Olympic distance swim would be the same as the Sprint "to ensure the safety of the athletes."
I talked myself into being cool with the shortened swim. It was my first go at this and a shorter swim certainly couldn't hurt. As I walked down the hill leading to the beach, a bunch of people were already in the water getting their warm up on. There were even a couple of guys standing around in nothing but their Speedo's and no wetsuit to speak of. "Nucking futs" I thought. Then again one of the guys was wearing an Army t-shirt. "They probably do crazy stuff like this for basic training or survival school" I thought. "That dude is a bad man and I am apparently a sissified tweedy bird." "But a warm tweedy bird in this wetsuit."
The lyrics of the last song on my pre-race playlist mocked me as I got ready to wade into the lake. "Toes in the water ass in the sand, not a worry in the world a cold ... FREAKING FROZEN LAKE, HOLY CRAP! Did we somehow move to Alaska? Where are the penguins and Eskimos? To say the water was cold would be an understatement. There had to have been a layer of ice over the top. How it wasn't frozen solid I have no idea. The buoys appeared to move further and further away from shore with each step I took into the water. My toes were numb in a matter of seconds. "Got to do this; its a shorter swim; got to do this." "Those are people out there not penguins and they are still alive and moving. Got to do this!" I gingerly forced myself further into the water for a "warm up" swim. Is this a 400 or a 4000 meter swim?! What is going on here?! Is that England on the other side? Are we swimming the freaking English Channel? My mind had become a hot mess of self-doubt, personal resentment, and false bravado. I think I even figured out a way to somehow blame the wife even though this race was my idea.
"OK, screw it just dive right in and get it over with. Everyone else is out there clearly not dead." Needles, thousands of needles pierced my face. Any part of my body not covered by the wetsuit went numb. A strange invisible monster stuck its arm straight down my throat, mercilessly tearing out my lungs. A water leprechaun began filling my wetsuit with ice cubes while Chucky continued stabbing my face, feet and hands. Purple and gasping I stood right up, dazed, confused, and pretty sure I hell had frozen over with me standing smack dab in the middle of it. "Oh we're looking out for the athletes, alright" I mocked. That was all they said all morning talking about shortening the swim. "What's the point of swimming 400 meters as opposed to a mile if you are a popsicle by the first buoy?" "If they were looking out for the athletes, they wouldn't be making us swim where the Titanic sank."
Sulking and questing my sanity for even embarking on this voyage, I took a couple of big breaths and looked around at the rest of my fellow fools. Everybody else was still alive and swimming their warm ups like it was summertime at Waimea Bay. "What the hell?" "Am I racing a bunch of polar bears?" OK, if they could do it, so could I. "How are we going to do this?" I thought, probably out loud. "How am I going to survive?" Light bulb! Back home nothing cut through the chill on a cold night-dive (free diving/"snorkeling" in the ocean at night with a waterproof flashlight, waking fish up with a spear through their head) better than a quick pee. Maybe that's the key. Warm pee in wetsuit = warm body. Certainly worth a try.
Not going to lie, the pee trick helped ... a little. That was until I put my face back into the freezing water. It literally took your breath away. You want to know what it was like? Go outside, scoop up a cooler full of snow, let it melt, and right after the last speck melts, go bobbing for apples. OK, "relax and blow bubbles." "That worked, now stroke, breath, stroke, breath. You got this." My self-talk was at an all-time high. Breathing every three strokes like I practiced in the pool was not going to work. It was pure survival mode. I tried to convince myself, "it is all but impossible to drown wearing a wetsuit." "Not if you die from hypothermia first." Damn self-talk! My race strategy was now modified. Survive the swim; rock the bike; rock the run; probably don't have to worry about accepting any awards.
Everyone got out of the water to thaw out as the race director barked out the last minute instructions. Something about if you need to, don't hesitate to grab hold of a kayak or canoe or buoy and you wont be penalized so long as you don't use it to advance yourself. "Screw that! I'm not about to wuss out and take a half time on the swim." To me that would be like walking during a road race, it's an automatic loss. You can't count say you "ran" that race if you walked any part of it. In fact, don't even pick up your finishers medal at the end. Go strait to the car, get in and drive your shameful buttocks home. If I was going to do this, I'm doing it right!
After the last minute directions, the race director started singing the National Anthem. It was pretty terrible sounding through the megaphone. Terrible, but goosebumps crept in none-the-less and a sudden rush of emotion smacked me as many of the participants started chiming in and singing along. This is real. All these people regardless of their age, experience, "athletic" ability, or background, had all committed to this endeavor and they weren't allowing themselves to be contained by what other people might think about them. It was like it was one giant shameless family, possibly united by the fact that they all knew we were about to die from hypothermia. "Huh, wonder if we'll get a fly over?"
30 SECONDS! My day dreaming was cut short as the race director started the countdown for first swim wave. It was the Men's Sprint wave. There was no time trial start like I saw at Hy-Vee, we weren't going in age groups, it was a mass start based on which race you were doing. "Good thing I did the open water swim clinic last week" I thought. "It's going to suck but I can survive." The first horn sounded and bodies started hitting the water. The crazy serious dudes were diving right in, taking off like seals being chased by killer wales. Others took their time entering, wading in before taking the plunge. Even more waited for the entire wave to be on their way before even walking down to the water. "Your losing time fellahs!" The water was a gigantic washing machine of flailing arms, legs, and bright colored swim caps. Ha! One guy didn't get but 50 yards out before he turned a direct course for a kayak. I mocked him in my head. "Chump, you should know ahead of time that you can't make the swim, save yourself the embarrassment and sleep in."
It was but maybe three minutes before the next horn sounded. Women's Sprint .... Off they went. "Crap that means we are next." My heart was beating out of my wetsuit, my breathing became shallow, and I all but wanted to pee myself again as we inched closer to the waters edge. People were jostling for position and to get the best line to the first buoy. "Be safe, have fun" everyone was telling each other. "Be safe?" I thought. "Do people ACTUALLY die in these things?" (The answer is "yes" by the way. See http://www.endurancecorner.com/Larry_Creswell/triathlon_death)
"It's a sanctioned event, it has to be safe right? Why are they telling each other to be safe?" "Do I really want to do this?"
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
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