Don't get the idea that I'll blog only when I race. It's just worked out that way recently, between a work trip and a tiny bit of training despair. Plus, this is the month where I do four races in a span of 21 days, or if you count Bolder Boulder, five races in 35 days. So there will be at least one blog a week between now and then. Bitchin', right?
So yesterday was the first triathlon of the season. I did the Greeley Triathlon in the eponymous town in Colorado in 2003, while my parents were visiting. I don't remember a whole lot of the course other than the swim at Centennial Park's pool. It was short and it hurt like a MF. Since then, the race is under new management and the course is different. It's still short, though, and it effing hurts.
Mind you, my training breaks down like this: I hadn't swum in two weeks for one reason or another; I hadn't biked for a week while I was at Yellowstone for work, though I paroled it from the shop and took it out for some hills Friday, followed by a 2:15 wind-fest on Saturday; and I ran once while at Yellowstone, though I hiked around five miles a day on average. I was racing purely because I signed up. And because I wanted to race, I wanted to get the synapses firing, I wanted to have my body respond to my number being written on me in toxic magic marker, and I wanted to match up with the rest of the world (or northern Colorado, as it were). However, I decided I wouldn't wear a watch, as both my old-school and new-school Timex Ironmans have dead batteries and I haven't bothered to fix them. My heart-rate monitor has a strap that wraps around my chest, and I haven't figured out how tight I can get it to stay on during a swim without suffocating myself. So I would be competing on what Colorado cross country coach Mark Wetmore calls "sensory data," going as fast as you feel comfortable.
The night before the race, I shaved my legs. Those who know me well know I'm militantly anti leg-shaving for guys because I don't think it serves any purpose other than fashion, and I've never been one for aesthetics. If shaving legs stood between me and a spot in Kona, I'd think about it. Might even give up beer and Pepsi before mowing the blond lawn on my legs. But on Saturday I was bored and there was a pool swim, and thanks to my years of high school swimming I know for a fact there's a distinct advantage when gliding through the water with smooth legs. Sunday, I figured I'd need every advantage I could get. Fortified by two bottles of Sunshine Wheat, a little bit of Bailey's on the rocks, and nearly asleep with boredom, I grabbed the Sensor Excel and scraped away. They look pretty good, if I do say so myself.
My sleep ended up being a four-hour nap. I never get much sleep the night before a race because I'm always so excited to line up and go. That's why, the night before the night before, I blow off the alarm and slumber away (learned that in HS track). So after my four-hour nap that passed for sleep, I loaded up the car, secured my newly cleaned and tuned-up ride (thanks, Pedal House in Laramie!) to the roof of my Honda Civic Hybrid, and headed east and south. I caught the backside of a fairly serious thunderstorm with hail, and clutched at the thought of my bike getting pelted with frozen ice balls. Fortunately, no damage was sustained. Whew.
I did a longer warmup than normal, as six years of Ironman training has finally made me realize I need to be sweating with a rapid pulse before a sprint. Half-irons and irons offer a nice, long warmup in the form of a swim. Sunday, a hard 500 meters wasn't going to cut it so I did about 20 minutes between the three disciplines.
With the pool swim comes the most creative solution for getting everyone on the course in good order. Entrants provide a predicted swim time for the 500-meter swim, and the race numbers reflect this. For example, the fastest predicted swim time gets No. 1 and so on. I was No. 48, though I predicted my swim time when I had been in Laramie for two months and was still gasping for every breath of pool air. Nine minutes seemed reasonable at the time. Every 10 seconds a competitor pushed off the wall, though the race director increased the interval when things got bottlenecked. I got to see the first couple of guys leave the pool, and I observed that almost everyone ahead of me did flip turns; I was at last among friends.
So I pushed off and my shorts rolled down my waist. I'll call out the brand name because this was why I stopped swimming in them regularly. Louis Garneau tri-shorts have a looped drawstring that loosens and tightens at will. The problem is you can't knot them because not only does the drawstring congeal like cement in the water, now you have to figure out how to get them on. I knotted them somewhat loosely late last year and did pool work in them, but got tired of them almost falling off with every push-off, so I saved them for races. Well, this was a race, so I wore them. And I ended up having to shuffle off the wall instead of truly pushing to spare the crowd a shot of my white ass, and possibly my fellows.
I passed four people ahead of me in the water, hammered the last lap, hopped out of the pool (Christ in a cartoon, it's cold!) and ran to my bike. I had some trouble with my top but you try putting a dry top on a wet body. Off I went for the 11.8-mile bike ride. I took the bottle cages off my bike for the short race, thinking I'd just hydrate well beforehand and grab drinks in each transition, which worked too well. It was a two-lap course so I spent the first lap just hammering on my big gear and doing recon for the second lap. I caught this guy on a much nicer bike and we went back and forth for a bit before I managed to get into a groove. On the second lap I used my knowledge and picked up the pace, dropping off the big gear for a minor climb and the turn to the transition area.
There weren't very many bikes but I took my time and found my rack easily, as opposed to rushing through it. My feet found the shoes nicely, I grabbed my shades (it was overcast but I was thinking positive), and dashed off. The guy on the sweet bike beat me out of transition by a few seconds so I figured I'd have a pacing point. I stayed with him for a while but fell back because the tiny bit of fluid I drank before the race was sloshing around in my stomach. And I was starting to hurt a bit. Wah. I just kept it steady, took a little water halfway through the run, and picked it up when I made the turn for home.
The results came out about 20 minutes after I finished. Well, a draft of the results. They had me second in my age group, men 35-39 years old, arguably the toughest in the sport at any race. No, I thought, that won't last. There are people still on the course. Another 20 minutes passed and some more results were printed. Still second. I talked to the guy who started right before me in the swim. He was second in his age group, too, after riding a flat tire for five miles of the bike. He said there would have to be some serious cyclists and runners still out there, and to just accept the results and be glad. No, that's not in my nature. Where are the other 35-39 males today, I asked? There was a sprint at the Boulder Reservoir Saturday, so some of them might have done that. And they couldn't re-boot a day later for another sprint. Wussies.
The last finisher crossed and the awards started. Lo and behold, I went up and accepted my prize, a big, red cowbell. Bitchin'. First hardware in a triathlon since 2005, when I was the third Wyoming finisher in the Best in the US race at the Loveland Lake-to-Lake Triathlon. At that time I told people that was all they needed to know about the lack of triathletes in Wyoming. Once again, I fall back on having finished well in a weak field. But as my friend Gail said, all you have to do is beat whoever is there on that day rather than worry about who didn't show. Brilliant.
Done, done, on to the next one...
5 years ago
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