7:00 am - Tyler, Liz and I hike down to the transition area with our bikes. We are 3 bodies in a march of hundreds. Young and old, pros and first-timers, everyone is going through their pre-race rituals. Some are tweaking the bikes, others are rubbing in sunscreen. Some are talking a mile a minute, a few are silent. The sun is just breaking over the hills. I rack my bike and start working through my mental checklist...
9:00 am - An air horn blows and the first wave is splashing into the water like a rush of penquins. These are the elites, the pros. They go first, so rookies like me don't get in their way. Tyler and I are just now getting into our wetsuits; our wave won't launch for another 20 minutes. We are in the Group B section of men ages 24-29. Looking around, I see a lot of really ripped guys and I began to wonder if I should have drank more protein shakes. Those bananas just don't pack the muscle on apparently. And as usual, I am Mr. McShorty in this group of trees...
We are now at the water's edge. Race clock reads 0:18 min. I manage to finally get the wetsuit on, despite a belly swollen from last night's pasta binge. For me, carb-loading is necessary, but it isn't pretty. Our wave gets one minute to splash around in the water and get used to the temperat .... oh holy god in heaven this water is cold. The lake temperature is 65 deg (about 10 deg colder than here in Austin), and it's going to be difficult for me to get into a rhythm. I walk out of the lake and tell myself that I will need to warm up as fast as possible - and not really sure on how I plan on accomplishing this. I adjust my goggles and start backing up to the rear of the pack; no need to get in the way of these guys, I will be one of the slowest. I hear 4....3....2....1.... HOOOOOOOONK. My wave starts marching in-step towards the big red gate. Tyler is on my right. My feet are in the water. Now my legs. I'm wading through waist deep water when the guy in front of me dives in. I take one more step and jump.
I hit the cold water and my body tightens almost instantly. My face goes under and I open my eyes. I'm looking into a giant glass of dark green tea sprinkled with tiny yellow specs of pollen. I see feet flapping in front of me and arms to my left. I turn for my first breath, and all I can manage is a ragged shudder. My lungs have completely tightened on me. Two more strokes and I turn again and repeat my shudder. I've now gone 6 strokes and have yet to really breathe. My chest is starting to burn. I turn again, but this time I come way out of the water and force myself to take in a huge gasp. I repeat this process for the next hundred yards or so. I'm creating huge amounts of drag, but I don't know of any other way to get air. At the 100 meter mark, I flip on my back, and start backstroking to calm down a bit. I haven't even made it to the first turn, and I'm breathing hard already. I look around and notice that there are about 3 or 4 of us that are really struggling. The man a few meters behind me trembles as he mutters, "this is bullsh*&". That is the last time I see him. I move back into my freestyle stroke and again find my face, arms and lungs colder than I'm used to. Freestyle, backstroke, freestyle, backstroke. Eight more brutal, panic-stricken minutes and I work my way past the first turn.
Looking back I can make out the bobbing heads of the men's 30-34 group quickly catching me. I try to move to the outside, but the lead guys are fast. Before I can clear, I am being run over, kicked, and generally knocked around while california's fittest 30 year olds blow by me. I try to swim hard and manuever out of the way, but it's like trying to ride a moped on the interstate. The wave finally passes and now I am swimming with the 30-something stragglers. Now this is a group I like.
After what seems like an eternity, I make it to the halfway mark and check my watch. It reads 36 minutes. I find out later that Tyler is already out of the water. I'm finally warm and breathing well. As tired as I am, I feel much more at ease in the water. I turn for the last 700 meters and just keep swimming. Two or three more groups pass me. I think I am swimming with the late 40s group when I see the exit ramp. I see the crowds... I see the end to alot of uncertainties... I'm at 200 meters... Kick, stroke, breathe... I'm at 100 meters... 50 meters...
My fingertips touch gravel. I gradually stand up and take a deep breath. Slowly, I start walking out of the water, like a dazed castaway who has washed onto shore. It literally takes a couple of seconds to sink in. Meanwhile, the sporty forties are springing to their feet and jogging past me. I don't care. My watch reads 56 minutes. I was in that water a long time...
I get to my bike and say a small prayer of thanks. It went something like: "geez, thanks God, for getting me the hell out of that lake... Amen" I strip off the wetsuit and put the bike helmet and sunglasses on. For those of you who think that the sunglasses are to look cool, try riding hard for two hours without them. Your eyes will be redder than a pair of tomatoes. I know, because, well, I learn things the hard way sometimes. Still dazed from the swim I get through the bike gate, onto the saddle, and start pedaling. My legs are tired, but we haven't hit rubber-knee stage yet.
The first mile of the bike course is a 7% climb. For those of you unfamiliar with grade terms, that means that in the first mile, the cyclist must climb about 400 vertical feet. If you live in Austin, that means that in the distance between 15th street and Cesar Chavez, you will climb a height roughly equal to a 33 story building (think top floor of the Frost Bank Tower). I throw my bike into the lowest gear and start my crawl to the top. I am one link in a mile-long train of cyclists snaking its way to the top of the hill. No one is speeding up this thing; everyone is pushing one slow pedal stroke at a time.
Once to the top, the group begans to spread out. Now moving at a good pace, I reach for the Powerbar taped to one of my water bottles. After a few desparate attempts, I sadly realize that there is no way to unwrap my only source of delicious calories without causing a NASCAR crash around me. Someone, possibly Liz, later asked me why I didn't just stop the bike and un-wrap the bar. I don't really have a good answer for that one... Perhaps I was caught up in the moment and thought such pragmatism would anger the triathlon gods. Delirious and frustrated, I simply bite into the bar, plastic and all, and let my mouth sort out the digestable from the not. It isn't pretty.
The bike course is set in the hills around Lake San Antonio, and I will now freely admit that I hadn't ridden enough steep hills here in Austin to be well prepared. Where the swim had been an incredibly tough challenge psychologically, the bike course is proving to be the most physically demanding of the three events. The 200 ft climbs last 2 to 3 miles and every pedal stroke seems like it has to be the last. My quads are on fire. I just keep putting another foot forward, sometimes moving at a crawl. Meanwhile the downhills fly by so fast that I can't even pedal fast enough to keep up with my wheels.
Random spectators have come to their gates to cheer us on. Occasionally, a support motorcycle comes passing by, but for the most part the road is quiet. I silently pray that I am spared any mechanical issues like a flat tire. After the race, I hear about a guy who broke one of his pedals and did the bike course using only his right leg. Un-freaking-believable.
As I speed up to a jog, I can tell I am hitting a wall. 6.2 miles left, and I have no energy left, nothing in the gas tank. I can still think clearly, but I couldn't sprint to save my life. I probably couldn't even climb a staircase at this point. All I can do is keep flinging my feet out in front of me. I make it to the first aid station and down a PowerGel with the water. Almost immediately I feel better. I want to eat another one, but I remember someone telling me to space them out at least 30 minutes. As I run, I hear the trail crunch underneath my shoes and I feel the sun on my shoulders and my neck. I'm not running fast or hard, just a simple we'll-get-there jog.
With two miles left to go, I start to see the camp sites, the spectators and the race officials. With a mile left to go, I head down Lynch Hill and listen to the annoucer calling out names at the finish line. Making the last turn and I see the lake again, where this whole adventure started, and I begin to relax. People are clapping and cheering; people who don't even know my name are urging me on. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced in sports. We aren't winners or losers, we are Survivors. As I come down the last hundred meters, all I am thinking about is: DON'T PUKE IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE. And, luckily, I don't ;-) The finish gate looms larger and larger. I can't believe I am going to make it. Twenty feet to go, and the announcer calls my name and my city - Austin, Texas. As I pass through the finish gate, I'm immediately given water and a cold,soaked towel. A young college volunteer drapes a medal around my neck. I finally stop moving. I fold my hands behind my head and breathe. I can finally smile. Somehow, I have finished. Somehow, I am a triathlete.
I hit the cold water and my body tightens almost instantly. My face goes under and I open my eyes. I'm looking into a giant glass of dark green tea sprinkled with tiny yellow specs of pollen. I see feet flapping in front of me and arms to my left. I turn for my first breath, and all I can manage is a ragged shudder. My lungs have completely tightened on me. Two more strokes and I turn again and repeat my shudder. I've now gone 6 strokes and have yet to really breathe. My chest is starting to burn. I turn again, but this time I come way out of the water and force myself to take in a huge gasp. I repeat this process for the next hundred yards or so. I'm creating huge amounts of drag, but I don't know of any other way to get air. At the 100 meter mark, I flip on my back, and start backstroking to calm down a bit. I haven't even made it to the first turn, and I'm breathing hard already. I look around and notice that there are about 3 or 4 of us that are really struggling. The man a few meters behind me trembles as he mutters, "this is bullsh*&". That is the last time I see him. I move back into my freestyle stroke and again find my face, arms and lungs colder than I'm used to. Freestyle, backstroke, freestyle, backstroke. Eight more brutal, panic-stricken minutes and I work my way past the first turn.I'm 200 meters into a 1500 meter swim and my heart rate is through the roof. I look around at all the life guards and wonder if I am really ready for this thing. The majority of my age wave is down the course and pulling away. I can barely see the halfway marker in the distance. It just doesn't seem possible.
"Well I'm not drowning just yet," I mutter. I wasn't giving up. Are you kidding me? Certainly not at 200 meters. I've trained too long and too hard to throw in the towel. Sucking in a big gulp of air, I plunge my head under water and start kicking hard. My body planes out and I turn to breathe. Air finally rushes into my mouth and lungs. I stroke again and breathe. Again and breathe. I start moving at a slow, but steady pace. I get tired and flip over and backstroke for a minute, then repeat my drill. My breathing is doing a lot better, but I am still cold. Then I hear the sounds of the next approaching wave.
Looking back I can make out the bobbing heads of the men's 30-34 group quickly catching me. I try to move to the outside, but the lead guys are fast. Before I can clear, I am being run over, kicked, and generally knocked around while california's fittest 30 year olds blow by me. I try to swim hard and manuever out of the way, but it's like trying to ride a moped on the interstate. The wave finally passes and now I am swimming with the 30-something stragglers. Now this is a group I like.
After what seems like an eternity, I make it to the halfway mark and check my watch. It reads 36 minutes. I find out later that Tyler is already out of the water. I'm finally warm and breathing well. As tired as I am, I feel much more at ease in the water. I turn for the last 700 meters and just keep swimming. Two or three more groups pass me. I think I am swimming with the late 40s group when I see the exit ramp. I see the crowds... I see the end to alot of uncertainties... I'm at 200 meters... Kick, stroke, breathe... I'm at 100 meters... 50 meters...
My fingertips touch gravel. I gradually stand up and take a deep breath. Slowly, I start walking out of the water, like a dazed castaway who has washed onto shore. It literally takes a couple of seconds to sink in. Meanwhile, the sporty forties are springing to their feet and jogging past me. I don't care. My watch reads 56 minutes. I was in that water a long time...
I get to my bike and say a small prayer of thanks. It went something like: "geez, thanks God, for getting me the hell out of that lake... Amen" I strip off the wetsuit and put the bike helmet and sunglasses on. For those of you who think that the sunglasses are to look cool, try riding hard for two hours without them. Your eyes will be redder than a pair of tomatoes. I know, because, well, I learn things the hard way sometimes. Still dazed from the swim I get through the bike gate, onto the saddle, and start pedaling. My legs are tired, but we haven't hit rubber-knee stage yet.The first mile of the bike course is a 7% climb. For those of you unfamiliar with grade terms, that means that in the first mile, the cyclist must climb about 400 vertical feet. If you live in Austin, that means that in the distance between 15th street and Cesar Chavez, you will climb a height roughly equal to a 33 story building (think top floor of the Frost Bank Tower). I throw my bike into the lowest gear and start my crawl to the top. I am one link in a mile-long train of cyclists snaking its way to the top of the hill. No one is speeding up this thing; everyone is pushing one slow pedal stroke at a time.
Once to the top, the group begans to spread out. Now moving at a good pace, I reach for the Powerbar taped to one of my water bottles. After a few desparate attempts, I sadly realize that there is no way to unwrap my only source of delicious calories without causing a NASCAR crash around me. Someone, possibly Liz, later asked me why I didn't just stop the bike and un-wrap the bar. I don't really have a good answer for that one... Perhaps I was caught up in the moment and thought such pragmatism would anger the triathlon gods. Delirious and frustrated, I simply bite into the bar, plastic and all, and let my mouth sort out the digestable from the not. It isn't pretty.
The bike course is set in the hills around Lake San Antonio, and I will now freely admit that I hadn't ridden enough steep hills here in Austin to be well prepared. Where the swim had been an incredibly tough challenge psychologically, the bike course is proving to be the most physically demanding of the three events. The 200 ft climbs last 2 to 3 miles and every pedal stroke seems like it has to be the last. My quads are on fire. I just keep putting another foot forward, sometimes moving at a crawl. Meanwhile the downhills fly by so fast that I can't even pedal fast enough to keep up with my wheels.
Random spectators have come to their gates to cheer us on. Occasionally, a support motorcycle comes passing by, but for the most part the road is quiet. I silently pray that I am spared any mechanical issues like a flat tire. After the race, I hear about a guy who broke one of his pedals and did the bike course using only his right leg. Un-freaking-believable. Two hours and 26 miles later, we're coasting down to the transition area again. Feeling great about finishing the first two stages, I hop off the bike and almost collapse. My legs aren't holding me up, but thankfully, I catch myself and use the bike as a crutch to keep myself from falling. It takes a moment for me to regain my balance and start walking. I CAREFULLY walk to my area and rack the bike, ditch the helmet, and grab some PowerGels.
As I speed up to a jog, I can tell I am hitting a wall. 6.2 miles left, and I have no energy left, nothing in the gas tank. I can still think clearly, but I couldn't sprint to save my life. I probably couldn't even climb a staircase at this point. All I can do is keep flinging my feet out in front of me. I make it to the first aid station and down a PowerGel with the water. Almost immediately I feel better. I want to eat another one, but I remember someone telling me to space them out at least 30 minutes. As I run, I hear the trail crunch underneath my shoes and I feel the sun on my shoulders and my neck. I'm not running fast or hard, just a simple we'll-get-there jog. With two miles left to go, I start to see the camp sites, the spectators and the race officials. With a mile left to go, I head down Lynch Hill and listen to the annoucer calling out names at the finish line. Making the last turn and I see the lake again, where this whole adventure started, and I begin to relax. People are clapping and cheering; people who don't even know my name are urging me on. It is unlike anything I have ever experienced in sports. We aren't winners or losers, we are Survivors. As I come down the last hundred meters, all I am thinking about is: DON'T PUKE IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE. And, luckily, I don't ;-) The finish gate looms larger and larger. I can't believe I am going to make it. Twenty feet to go, and the announcer calls my name and my city - Austin, Texas. As I pass through the finish gate, I'm immediately given water and a cold,soaked towel. A young college volunteer drapes a medal around my neck. I finally stop moving. I fold my hands behind my head and breathe. I can finally smile. Somehow, I have finished. Somehow, I am a triathlete. 
2 comments:
This has to be one of the most funniest and inspiring things I have ever read! It makes me not want to do one and to do one all at the same time! WOW! Congratulations Mr. Triathlete!
Brandy
Woohoo! Yes we are...we are triathletes! I'm proud of you (but you already knew that).
Liz
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