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 :)

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.

Why I'm Never Doing an Ironman

"So when you YOU gonna do an Ironman?"  "You should totally do a full with us next year."  "So you signed up for next years group race right?"  Apparently, once you get involved with the punishment-drunk community that is triathlon, these questions don't cease until you finally cave.  I however, am stronger than the average fool and shall not cave.


I have about a hundred of reasons (some may call them excuses) as to why I will not partake in such foolery, some of which are legit and others are simply excuses.  Some of my favorites are: Cuz I don't want to; My wife won't let me; I'm too lazy; It's not healthy to put your body through that; and I'm not keen on peeing on myself for an entire day.  The most legitimate excuse however, is simply "it's a long ass day, and I don't want to do it."

To prove my point, I decided to log everything I did in a day/night, as the rest of the Friends partook in their group foolery; Ironman Cozumel.  Here is how it went.

• 6:40 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for for pro field as I am sure the age groupers are finishing up their final colon-cleansing of the morning.  I remain fast asleep dreaming of apple pie and left-over turkey.
• 7:00 a.m. ish - Gun starts going off for various waves of age groupers.  I roll over and shush my alarm clock instead of dragging myself out of bed to get my run out of the way.  Roll back over and enjoy the comfort of my warm awesome bed even though the fat dog is snoring in my ear.  Sleep is grand.
• 7:30 ish to 8:20ish - Most of the crew exits the water from the swim.  I hear the water is super perty over there.  I however, am still enjoying a wonderful siesta as I listen to the wind howl outside.  It is a good thing I slept in instead of getting my run on.  It is cold out there.
• 8:30 a.m. -  Wake up have a delicious breakfast of eggs and granola and fix a cup of coffee.  Yup, the wind is howling, it is cold, boogers froze as I let the dog out. 
• 8:45 a.m. - Log on and check where everyone is at.  Everyone is safely on the bike.  Watch a wonderful episode of Jake and the Neverland Pirates in the background as The Wife and Oldest heads out the door for hockey practice.
• 9:30 a.m.ish - Friends are still pedaling.  Change a poopy diaper.  Research races for next year inspired by my Ironman dominating friends. (NO it will not involve a full - gonna do a few Half's though).  Come up with unrealistic goal to put on the Bicycle Betterment Bunker wall for the winter.
• 11:00 a.m. ish -  Friends are finishing their first loop on the bike (only 2 more to go) while Sunday NFL Countdown explains the finer aspects of the Lambeau Leap.  
• 11:15 a.m. - Friends still pedaling and probably peeing on themselves by now.  Finish catching fat dog that thought he should run off into the frozen tundra after going potty and resume game of rescuing airplanes from the knee hockey net with The Youngest.
• NOON - The Wife and Oldest are back from hockey practice.  Gather everyone up to head out to watch the new Penguins movie with The In-laws. Pro pal has finished her second lap and most of the Friends are fixing to finish their second laps here any time now.
• 12:45 p.m. - Dropped $70ish at the damn movie theater. WTH!?? maybe I should do an Ironman. Breaking the rules and still following the Friends during the movie.  The fellahs in the group have finished their second lap.
• 2:45 p.m. - Movie done, "medium" coke and kettle corn polished off. The stronger bikers out of the Friends are now starting the marathon.  Seriously, a marathon after doing all of that.
• 3:15 p.m. - Friends finishing up bike or on the marathon already.  Check fantasy football scores after early games (not looking good) get ready to run in the damn cold.
• 4:30 p.m. - Finish run in 15 degree weather with windchill of friggin arctic!  Sucked icicles!  Almost became envious of those doing a marathon in Cozumel until I realized they were going 3 times as far as I was AFTER swimming 2.4 miles and riding 112.  I'll take pneumonia instead. Quick gear review - Under Armour's new Coldgear Infrared Engaged gloves are insufficient for midwest winter running - hands froze.  Everyone is chugging along on the marathon.
• 4:40 p.m. - Hands finally thawed out enough to type ... half the Friends have passed the 21K marathon time check mark.  Is that halfway or what is that anyway?  Can't convert K's to miles.  Yet another excuse not to do one of these things.
• 5:00 p.m. - Core body temp finally returning to normal, smashing a huge plate of turkey and sweet potato sinfulness while watching the end of the Packers vs. Patriots game.  Friends still chugging along.
• 5:40 p.m. ish - Pro pal finishes 13th in the women's pro field.  Solid day, think I will have a piece of pie to celebrate.
• 6:20 p.m. - Sore gut from eating too much turkey after running.  How in the heck do they eat and run a marathon.  Nope, couldn't do it.  Trying frantically to find the finish line cam cuz a couple of buddies are crushing their PR's and are about to finish.
• 6:38 p.m. - Rolling out my sore legs from my measly hour, sub-zero run as the first Friend finished with a huge PR.  Don't think there was a finish cam and if there was I didn't find it.  Pretty damn inspiring though, must admit.
• 6:50 p.m. - Watched a back-to-reality, put-life-into-perspective, 60 Minutes segment on the Syrian war and the refugees it is affecting - Second Friend finished at the end of that segment. Solid day for him.
• 7:10 p.m. ish - got comfy watching TV lounging in my recliner, got up and checked Friends' progress, realized that The Brit finished.  Crushed his PR.
• 7:35 p.m. ish - Fourth Friend finishes as I'm watching the night game - Chiefs v. Broncos. Just 2 more to go on the course.
• 9:00 p.m. ish - Fifth friend finished somewhere in between here and last post.  Tough day for him but most admirable honestly.  Sucked it up, pushed through and finished like a boss!  Maybe I should go for another run.  Nope, its cold outside, but I'll have some ice cream.
• 9:50 p.m. - It's past my bedtime and the last Friend is still on the course. She will finish no doubt, but I have to go to bed if I'm going to get up and get my workout done in the morning.
• 6:30 a.m. Next Day - Slept in, failed to get up for workout.  Fail!  Checked social media to see pictures and posts of Friends that rocked it.  Everyone pushed through and finished and had awesome stuff to brag about.  Super inspired and happy for them.  Still not doing it.

So to sum it up.  All the Friends can keep up their awesome work.  I'll sit back and feed off their inspiring performances but don't plan to donate to the inspiration pool anytime soon.  Great group of bad mamajammahs, but I'll go ahead and answer the questions ahead of time.  "No I'm NOT doing an Ironman!" ... This year.

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!

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 

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.

"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....

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.

Apparently, the sanctioning bodies for triathlons don't approve of participants paddling surfboards or using swim fins for the swim portion of the event.  I was too cheap and proud to pay for lessons or join a triathlon nerd club as suggested, so I set out to teach myself how to swim laps.  Where does one turn to learn something new in the 21st century? That's right, the internet!  Article after article, blog after blog, video after video.  I read and watched them all.  To this day, I'll never forget reading an article that said something to the effect of "if you didn't grow up a competitive swimmer, you can never become a good swimmer."  "Bullshit" I thought (and still think to this day, although I may ultimately prove that statement true, but only time will tell), I'm an athlete, how hard can it be?

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.

The Hook

"They are tubulars but I can give you a deal … they are super fast" said the bike sales dude.  He went on to explain how tubular race wheels really shouldn’t be as intimidating as people make them out to be, blah, blah, blah….  Really, he didn’t have to sell me at all; he had me at, “you’ll be faster.”  "Ring um up bicycle boy!"

I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself at my own hypocrisy as I handed Bicycle Boy my credit card.  "Really Bobby, you are going to spend a mortgage payment on a pair of freaking wheels that you will use maybe 5ish times in a given year?  My god man, you are officially the biggest hypocrite of all time."  I thought back to the days of gleefully mocking the spandex wearing dorks prancing around on snow covered roads the middle of winter, riding their overpriced rocketship bikes through town with those alien looking helmets talking about saddle sores, heart rates zones and nutrition all while sporting shaved legs?  You swore you would never become “That Guy.”  How in the hell did this happen?

September, 2010, 3:30 a.m., alarm clock screaming in my ear as I wake up cursing myself for agreeing to do the unthinkable.  We had to board a bus from the mall and get shipped down to Raccoon River Park because there was not enough parking for participants to park near transition.  It was the Hy-Vee Triathlon and I agreed to do the run leg for a relay team.  Although I had to admit the tri-tats looked cool, the more I thought about it this was a foolish idea.  Thunderstorms lit up the horizon as we boarded the bus and began rolling away from the mall.  I sat there quietly trying to catch a quick nap as the triathlon nerds around me were jabbering about things like cadence, run splits, transition times, sighting and buoy gropings.  Seriously, who wants to jump into a dirty ass lake with hundreds of other people at one time swimming all over you and swim a mile.  Fun?  I think not; more foolishness than anything.

Luckily, the race was shortened due to the brewing thunderstorm that was quickly approaching.  I only had to run a 5K, piece of cake.  This joyous news blared over the loudspeakers as we strolled into the transition area.  While absolutely a foolhardy endeavor, I couldn't help but be struck by the scene spread out in front of me.  A finish line stadium complete with flags and inflatable advertising banners blowing in the breeze, blue carpet covering in and out routes, the “serious” folk rolling in with their goofy helmets and gazillion dollar rocket ship bikes, and what the hell is that smell??? Oh there are a hundred port-a-potty's in a row up-wind ... brilliant.  While the "serious" folks were certainly high up on the nerd rating and the smell of thousands of pre-race visits to the outhouses left something to be desired, that finish line stadium was pretty dang sweet. "Alright, this might not be so bad after all" I thought to myself.    

It wasn't long before wave after wave of triathlon nerds lined up at the waters edge waiting to pummel each other at the sound of the starter's air horn.  "Unbelievable" I thought to myself - "these people are flat out crazy."  It wasn't long before the first few elite age groupers began exiting the water.  There was no blocked off relay coral and some fool was standing out in the middle of the transition isle with his back to traffic, chomping on a banana, chatting with his friend.  It didn't take long before the banana chomping oblivious fool became a speed bump for an age-group elite hell-bent on being one of the first out on the bike.  “HA! Dumb-ass, good for him” I thought.  "They've only been blaring over the loud speakers to stay out of the main isles every minute for the last hour."  I hadn't quite finished gloating at the banana chomping speed bump when out of the corner of my eye I saw another elite age grouper dancing like he had ants in his pants.  HA!  He couldn't get his wetsuit zipper down.  It wasn't long before some helpful fellow gave him a hand: "Oooh – that’s a penalty” someone muttered.  Seriously!?  The man couldn’t get his zipper down, I mean come on, it is after all, down the middle of his back! "This is some intense stuff here" I thought.

Fast forward for what seemed like 2 hours (but was only really around 50 minutes), I finally see our bike leg come blasting into transition, “Ooh it’s my time to shine baby, give me that chip!”  "Why are you breathing so hard and shaking" I thought as my biker fumbled with the timing chip, "after all the only thing you had to do was ride a bicycle, its not like you had to run or something."  Sprinting out of transition I realized, “the blue carpet makes me way faster” as I hit my stride rocking my boardshorts and sleeveless t-shirt.  It didn’t take long to “settle into my pace” and I was on my way to a whole new experience, passing people left and right.   

My self-talk during that 5K was nothing short of pure comedy.  "See yah granny" as I passed a sixty-something year old.  I didn't have to gloat on that accomplishment for long because the chubby dude was next, followed by the gal who certainly shouldn't be wearing spandex.  Passing people left and right, "I am awesome," "what a bunch of chumps" I thought to myself.  But hey, one thing was consistent with each of them, none of them had "R's" on their calves; they were doing the entire thing, I was only running a 5K.  "Who's the chump now poser boy?!"  

As I internally debated the legitimacy of my self-imposed images of awesomeness, the unmistakable sound of heavy breathing and pounding feat on the pavement told me I was about to be passed.  I was hauling, so clearly this was a pro or something.  "Good work man good work!"  Not a few seconds later … "What the hell? It's no pro; it's not even a guy; a 54 year old lady just crop dusted me as she left me in the dust gasping for air!" "Where is the “R” on her calf?!"  Any self-proclaimed titles of grandeur evaporated into the rain soaked summer air as my lungs battled for whatever oxygen I could provide them.  "You mean to tell me she just swam, biked, and is now whooping my butt on the run?"  Is it time to turn around yet, this really is egregious!  

Twenty-fiveish minutes after I entered the competition by way of the speedy blue carpet, snot flowed freely from my nose, my legs screamed obscenities at me and my lungs simply refused to function to a point where I was praying for one of the lightning bolts in the distance to end this torturous experiment once and for all.  But what's that? I see inflatables waving in the wind through my exercise induced delirium.  I can hear the announcer's garbled voice belting out people’s names as they cross the finish line; and oh yes, there is the speed-inducing blue carpet.  "What is this? Am I really seeing what I think I see?  You mean to tell me that the stadium isn’t just for the pros, we get to finish there too?" "Hot damn" I thought as I picked my pace up to an all out sprint for the last fifty yards or so. "Might as well pass one or two more people huh?"

It was a curious feeling, as if I was floating, as I ran while trying not to vomit on myself.  "Robert Rehkemper, Urbandale, Iowa" the announcer blared out.  "Rock star baby!”  "Thank God that's over!"  What is this? A medal with a chocolate milk, Gatorade, cookie, and a banana!   All I did was run a 5K, the other thousand plus people did the entire thing!  This is pretty damn awesome.  Fat, skinny, old, young, rookies, seasoned vets.  If they could do it so could I.

The hook was set, time to dust off the old steel mountain bike!