The German

TWEET! (My best attempt to phonetically sound out The Wife's high-pitch, shrill whistle).  It is loud. Really loud.  It is fantastic for getting the attention of The Children as well as The Dog.  I have heard it once before during a race where blew up, every time I would start walking.  It is as much annoying as it is motivating in a strange kind of way.  TWEEET, TWEEEET!  There it is again.  Honestly, when it comes out at the end of a race, my thought is a giant middle finger pointing back at it.

"Damn you woman!" I only had about 800 meters left of what was supposed to be the best race of my life before for Kona heat took effect and kicked the ever-living crap out of me.  It is hot in Kona in case you were wondering.  Like sit-in-a-sauna-with-a-towel-over-the-thermometer-wearing-long-underwear-and-a-swim-cap (I hate that guy at Lifetime that puts the towel over the thermometer too BTW) kinda hot.  Sunburned as a redhead without enough SPF 100, my hat was wonky - angled to fend off the scorching sun, shoulders slumped and red as a boiled lobster, hands sticky from sloppy Gu skills, blistered feet scorched by the molten steam rising from the golf course grass, mind grumbling about poor life decisions involving exercise, and probably smelling like stale urine (learned how to pee on the bike), I shuffled toward the finishing chute.

Raised on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii (Waialua High class of 95, damn right!), but a captive of Iowa since college, The Honu 2016 was finally my chance to return home to Da Islands to race.  Ever since starting the triathlon journey, racing back home had always been on my mind.  In 2016 I finally considered myself in good enough shape to take the plunge and race back home.  I pulled the trigger and even convinced a crew of landlocked Midwestern fellow Haoles to come along for the fun.  Trained and emotionally motivated I was absolutely going to crush this race.  Like crush it.  As in a cockroach under Tita's slippah, kind of crush it.  You know, cross the finish line, smack The Wife on the butt, crab a cold brew and walk off into the sunset, crush it.  Well I was the cockroach under The Honu's slippah on this day.

TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!  "Heard you the first two times woman!" Seriously, she had to have been suffering from sun stroke or something if she though I had anything left to give this stupid excuse for a race.  The swim was awesome (in the bay of Hapuna State Park), bike awesomer (up to Hawi and back), but then the dick-face, psychopath, race director dude decided to run us on a golf course that felt more like the inside of a rice cooker.  Hot as Pele's breath, as humid as the inside of a festered blister, stale as spilled beer sitting in a drain, with every bit of energy being absorbed by Menehunes (Hawaii's version of Leprechauns) grabbing your feet, as you navigate the roller coaster up-downs of a golf course, the run was brutal.  The race dudes make a big deal about the "Hell's Kitchen" part of the course where you run down a hot-ass road lined with lave rock, but on this day, it was the best part of the run.  You were off of the f-in grass and there was actually a breeze, oh and the cute Red Bull girls were handing out Red Bull.

We were now past all of that, trudging on home on the nice flat open golf cart path with but a few hundred meters to go.  "Suck it up buttercup, you survived and beat your friends, especially the shit-talking U.K. Dave.  Not such a bad day after all."  I started getting my mind right realizing I hadn't died and was finally at the finish.  "What's your finish line celey  going to be?" Expectations were high for an awesome finisher picture after my finish at The Legend (See picture 3) that made the next year's athlete guide.  "Cartwheel, somersault .... ohhh maybe do The Legend?"  "Yes, yes, The Legend it would be." The Legend was going to be my signature move kinda like Jan Frodeno grabbing the finisher tape and yelling as he wins every damn race he enters. "The Legend will look cool with the floral finishing arch."  "Maybe order that picture, make a poster and hang it above the bed."  Straighten hat - check, zip up singlet - check, make sure run bib is visible - check, looking perty for the finish line photographer dude.

TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!!  ""Seriously, thanks for coming and cheering, love you lots but you haven't ever even attempted this distance, I would like to die now so if you can quit whistling that would be great." TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET!!!!!  BITE ME, BITE ME, BITE ME!!! "Don't think they have had a Dateline episode of a wife that went missing in a tropical paradise that was caused by whistling yet ... hmmm, maybe a justification or temporary insanity defense would work."  "You've never raced this distance, you sat there sipping Mai Tai's all day, now you are presumptuous enough to want me to go faster?!"  "What in the hell is wrong with this woman?! Maybe, she ate Granny's special cookies again?" Orrrrr...... maybe, just maybe, The Wife was trying to tell me something.

Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff, puff; thump, thump, puff, puff.  "What in the hell?!"  SONOFA!  The Wife WAS trying to tell me something.  I look to my right and I'll be damn, the German dude who seesawed with me at aid stations who I thought I had dropped with a mile and a half to go, was back!  Not just back, but fixing to race kind of back.

"Ah, let him go, clear the way for a good picture, do The Legend and go have a beer."  Thump thump, puff puff; thump thump, puff puff.  TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET, TWEEEEEET, TWEEEEEET,TWEEEEET, TWEEEEET!!!!!  Damn it!!!  The Wife would never, ever, ever let me live this down if I just let him go.  Pride coupled with the distinct possibility of being publicly shamed by your significant other for the rest of your life can be a powerful motivator.  Let's be honest, choose not to race ole boy and she will probably put "The Wussy Who Didn't Race" on my gravestone.

"You sir are an athlete, a real athlete, you do NOT get passed in a race with now 200 meters or so to go. Pull up your skirt and race!"  "Sigh ... fine!"  The race was on!  A smile suddenly took over my face.  My knees began picking up and my arms started hammering away, just like those stupid plyometric drills back in college.  Probably looked a little like Ace Ventura, Pet Detective as he raced to the imaginary endzone in his tutu.  "Woohoooo!"  Yup, that just came out of my mouth.  Neck-and-neck; shoulder-to-shoulder; stride for stride.  There was no freaking way this cat was passing me.  From floundering to floating in seconds.  "Don't EVER try to pass me at the finish dude! (Just ask The Cyclone at my first race)."  Little friendly flick of the elbow and peak over to my new sprinting pal.  We were at Bolt speed, no doubt.

We now had everyone at the finishing shoot's undivided attention.  A sprint finish was in progress, you would think a gold medal was on the line, not mere personal pride.  Two middle-aged, spandex clad lunatics reaching for every last bit of energy they had to best the other for nothing more than bragging rights. We were moving.

The cement golf cart path turned to that squishy, spongy grass as we entered the finisher's chute.  Pretty sure I had him at that point when suddenly ...  "where in the F did my legs go?!"  "I can't feel my legs!!!"  I could see they were moving but they became as limp, freshly boiled chow fun noodles.  My body began slowly shrinking, like that trick where you walk behind a wall and slowly lower yourself so it looks like you are going down a flight of stairs.  "Oh no, this can't happen, what in the hell....."  Finishing banner, smiling faces, shocked faces, grass, more grass, sky, finishing arch, sky, grass, dude that was supposed to catch me....  I was tumbling like a drunk sailor who just came ashore.  Silence.  Fuzzy turning to focused.  Slowly as my ass sat steaming on the sweltering, stale, prickly golf course grass, everything came back into focus.

"CHEEEEHOOOO!"  Sometimes you just got to let it out.  Goosebumps and an overwhelming sense of emotion came over me.  Suddenly, all the pain, misery, self-doubt and bad shit from the day faded away into euphoria.  "You alright?"  Volunteers rock and this one was making sure I was still alive and not needing carted off.  "That's relative ain't it?"  He chuckled, helped me to my feet and sent me on through to get that coveted finishers medal, t-shirt and hat.  You can't talk your way into them giving you those, just ask U.K. Dave's Wife, she literally bonked and passed out with about the 70.1 mark and the finisher people wouldn't give her any finishers swag even as she was being hauled away on an ambulance.  I spotted my new sprinting pal, gave him a bro-hug smiled to myself, pretty sure I held him off.

"Did you get him?" "Huh, what, who's that?"  The Wife!  It wasn't "good job, are you alive, are you alright, can I get you anything?"  Nope, the only thing she cared about was whether or not I beat The German.  "Duh!"  Was all I could muster.  It wasn't until later that night that I was able to pull up the final results and see that yes, yes indeed, we held off what will soon be known in infamy as The German.

Top 10 Newbie Lesson's Learned the Hard Way

Being a newbie is tough work. So much is going on that it seems impossible to have every possible angle covered (don't worry you wont cover them all). You've been so focused on nailing the workouts you have on your calendar that some of the small things that can make a big difference slide right by. Well, some make an actual difference while others just keep you from some good old fashion newbie embarrassment. So, here are a few tidbits of wisdom (or words of warning) handed down by a fellah who learned them the hard way. That is right, yours truly has screwed all of these up at least once (a few, twice, because I'm a slow learn).

1. Drawers Under Drawers. No, you don't wear underwear under your bike shorts or tri-shorts (yup, they makes these and they are a solid investment). Companies spend a shmeer of money researching, manufacturing and marketing shorts that are gentle on your private bits. Drawers under drawers creates extra friction, especially when wet on race day. The results are open wounds in areas where open wounds are not an acceptable conversation starter. Don't trust your shorts? see #7 for a little extra protection.
2. Foggy Goggles. Overpriced sprays, spit, blah, blah, blah. None of that crap works. Foggy goggles make the miserable experience of learning to swim laps even more miserable. There is however, a Mediocre Age Grouper guaranteed solution freely stolen from one more experienced and wiser than myself. Johnson & Johnson baby shampoo. That's right. Slather a lil bit of that on the inside of your goggles, rinse it out and you are guaranteed not to fog. You may wish your goggles fogged when you are surrounded by a thousand flailing arms and legs and unknown dangers lurking below, but this one is guaranteed! The key to clear goggles is baby shampoo.
3. Scout. Grab a delicious cup of joe and drive the bike course before the race, Ride the run course (without the cup of joe) if possible. You may not like what you see but it is better to know before you go than to blow up. Each race puts a course map up ahead of time for a reason and it is not because you use it on race day (race courses are well marked and staffed with volunteers, only made a few wrong turns thus far). Scout it out.
4. Artistry. Let the volunteers mark you, they are trained professionals. The line really goes faster than it looks and you don't want to be that newbie fool that puts their race number where their age goes.... Just saying, its embarrassing.
5. Bowels. Don't eat crap before race day. That delicious sounding baked greasy pasta aka EL DIABLO ... leave it alone the night before race day or you will have a sudden uncontrollable urge to poop at the wrong time! Two minutes is a respectable pit-stop time but it screws with your race PR.
6. Feeding Your Face. That honey and water nutrition plan that you read about in the magazine slipped into your race packet, DON'T try it for the first time on race day. It is hell-a-tempting to try a new brilliant idea that is all but guaranteed to help you crush the field but don't, just don't. Try it out training for the next race, nothing new on race day. Nutrition takes as much practice as every other discipline.
7. Lube. Vaseline, Vaseline, Vaseline. You cannot use too much Vaseline. Your nether-regions will thank you. If the thought crosses your mind to invest in this magical product, it is made by Unilever, (UN) on the NYSE.
8. Toe Jams. Don't go sockless for the first time on race day. While the pros and more experienced fools make it look like a great idea, hamburger feet is what results if your tender footsies are not adequately trained to endure this torture. Quick little tip, slathering NewSkin liquid all over your feet helps reduce blisters. That being said, work your way into it.
9. Porta Potty. Hit the porta-potties early and stay ahead of the migration from transition. You don't want to be stuck waiting in line minutes before your wave is set to start. If the expo area is not too far away, those are usually the hidden race day gems. They tend to be empty and cleaner. Not one to toot my own horn but this may be the best advice you ever received.
10. High Fives. High five a kid every chance you get. It's like a secret turbo boost. It makes you smile, relax and realize that triathlon is so much more than your race. Plus, they say smiling lowers your heart rate during exercise. Can't hurt, spread the love.

Bonus Material - Sober. Do NOT start talking about next year's races with other triathletes while intoxicated. You will regret it!

Party on and enjoy your season!

Trilifealte. Trilifeawhat? Tri-Life-Alete!

"Trilifealete" (tri-life-alete) - "An age-group endurance athlete who is equally defined by familial and/or employment responsibilities."

It is 5:00 a.m., your alarm clock is blasting its annoying anthem as you cuss out loud trying to figure out the simple math puzzle you voluntarily asked for in order to turn it off, all so that it would really wake up this morning. The Spouse is snoring, The Kids are snoring (one of them in your bed with his damn toes in your nose all night), The Dog is snoring louder than anyone else in the house. The sun is not yet up. Hell, roosters are not even up yet but you my friend are awake (sort of) because this is the only time you will be able to get your workout in today.

You would love to workout after work when the sun is out and weather is nice, but alas, your after-work schedule includes - 5:30 p.m. baseball game for The Oldest; 6:30 p.m. soccer practice for The Youngest; dinner to cook; yard to mow; dog to walk; a few random work emails to reply to that can't wait until tomorrow; laundry to fold and put away; house to pick up (meh this can probably wait); days happenings to catch up on with The Spouse; Kids to herd into bed; and a 9:30 p.m. bedtime for you unless of course you have a second workout for the day that you have to squeeze in there somewhere.

You do some simple math, trying like hell to figure out a way to push snooze and sneak nine more precious minutes of fake sleep out of your night. Lets see, quick piece of toast and cup of coffee - 10 minutes safe bet; 13 minutes from my door to pool; workout says only 50 minutes which really means an 1:10:00 because it was written for some freak athlete that you are certainly not; 20-30 minutes to shower and get presentable for work; protein shake packed so no need to account for post-workout breakfast; 8:00 a.m. work meeting that you should probably prepare for since you didn't do it yesterday afternoon because you hustled out the door for the group workout instead; you could cut the workout short but that is not even a consideration because you only have 209 days left until your A Race. Conclusion - Damn it! No snooze for you! Go brush your damn teeth because you have stuff to do!

The workout, YOUR workout is not some 45 minute preppy-ass class at an overpriced gym surrounded by yuppies in matching outfits. Nope, its a do-it-by-your-damn-self workout that probably includes staring at a black line at the bottom of a cold pool assisted by more toys than a frustrated housewife; an hour-and-a-half in your basement on your pedal bike that you spent more than you did on your first car; or a lonely hour run with just you and a sidewalk, dodging ice booby traps and grumpy neighborhood dogs. You didn't download this workout for free from the internet either. You pay a coach twice what you pay in gym memberships a month to plan and track your progress and write up this sadistic crap just to make sure you are ready when the gun finally goes off. All of this you KNOW is money well spent.

Once your motor is going, you crank out the workout with images of greatness pulsing through your brain. Your efforts are rewarded with a rush of endorphin's comparable to what a drug addict experiences with each fix. Unlike drugs though, each post-workout high is actually better and more fulfilling than the one before it. This leads you to call what most people call insane, "fun." With images of your next inevitable personal record blurring your vision, you gulp down your organic, GMO free, gluten free, muscle rebuilding, turbo charging meal replacement and away you go on another day in the life of a Trilifealete.

That's right, you read that right, I didn't forget to spell check that - "Trilifealete" (tri-life-alete) - "An age group endurance athlete who is equally defined by familial and/or employment responsibilities." Parent, spouse, athlete - Trilifealete. Son/daughter, sibling, athlete - Trilifealete. Parent, entrepreneur, athlete - Trilifealete. Substitute in whatever describes you, but the term "Trilifealete" truly sums up the life of an age group endurance athlete. You don't get to ensure optimum hours of sleep every day. You don't get to sit around with your legs in some air compression contraption after each workout. Your "recovery" days could probably qualify as an actual workout for some people. You don't care though. You live for this stuff and thrive on the never-ending whirlwind of professional and personal life activity, all while training your body to swim, bike and run in a single day, distances that "ordinary folk" don't even do in a week.

Your passion and your lifestyle allows others to make a living feeding, catering to and capitalizing on your obsession. Equipment, more equipment, coaching, race entries, travel, lodging, specialized travel and lodging, nutrition, the list goes on and on. An entire thriving industry has been built on your efforts. Triathlon Business International estimates that the consumer triathlon market in the United States is a 2.8 BILLION dollar industry. The value of us Trilifealetes is best demonstrated by the recent purchase of World Triathlon Corporation by Dilian Wanda Group for $650 Million. That doesn't happen if you don't exist. They don't make money on professionals. Hell professionals aren't professionals without us. It's the hundreds of thousands of Trilifealetes that spend their hard earned money chasing their next endorphin high that makes this world go round. So, this holiday season while you are Googling the latest and greatest gear to add to your Christmas list, STOP. Stop. Take a moment. Step back, give yourself a pat on the ass and soak in the fact that you are a Trilifealete. You make this world go round. Everyone in it owes you a ginormous "thank you." Without you, they don't exist.

After you take that moment, buy the hell out of that new gear, renew your coaching program, get your Trilifealete spouse that new VO2 analysis, sign up for your next big race. Let's be honest, they are necessities and our sport depends upon us!  When you are done with that, march your ass to the basement, mount your trusty stead and work off that Thanksgiving gravy. Here's to the Trilifealetes!

PS: I'm trademarking the hell out of "Trilifealete" - all rights reserved Mediocre Age Grouper, 11/28/15 :)