DNF and DNS: The year that isn't

Maybe next winter I'll jack around, get fat(ter), drink lots, read and write more. Then maybe I'll have the 2014 tri season of my dreams. Because after a winter in which I laid down more meters, minutes and miles than in any previous winter in memory, I can only determine that I angered the cosmos and derailed my 2013 season before it even started.

My cat died in January, the office keeps busting out the financial hatchet, and my two triathlons so far have ended in a Did Not Finish and a Did Not Start. First, the DNF, since that actually happened.

It's not my first DNF. I bailed on the Buffalo Springs Lake Triathlon, a half-Ironman in Lubbock, Texas, in June 2004 because I fucked up my nutrition and didn't get enough salt to process my electrolytes on a 90-plus day. I plodded through a mile of the run (the contents of my stomach sloshing like a half-full gas tank), couldn't come up with a compelling enough reason to continue, walked back to the staging area, dropped off my number and my timing chip, got my stuff from transition, loaded up the car and drove back to Wyoming that day.

In 2010, I bailed on the Rattlesnake Olympic Triathlon because I blew both my tires, got them both changed in good order, then discovered an empty CO2 canister in my saddle bag. With two flat tires, no amount of good will from those around (including an attractive pro woman who offered me a wheel) me could motivate me to continue so I caught a ride back to transition, loaded up the car, drove to my hotel room and engaged in retail therapy the rest of the weekend in Denver (i.e. found the cheap racks at what seemed like every Sports Authority, running store and bike shop in the 303). I drank a fair bit, too.

This time, I pulled the plug on the Revolution 3 Half-Iron Triathlon, in Knoxville, Tenn. Ostensibly, I flew down to Atlanta during the next-to-last snowfall of the season in Cheyenne to see my family and — hey, there's a race in Knoxville the same weekend. "Seeing family" even turned out to be a bust for any number of reasons. Theoretically, then, I could just focus on the race. Right.

Borrowing Di's Hyundai Santa Fe, mom, dad and I set off for Knoxville on a rainy Saturday morning. And we arrived on a rainy Saturday afternoon after six hours of transit (including stops for potty and lunch). I picked up my packet in the ghost town of a race village (you'd stay in, too, if it was mid-50s and rainy all day) and we retreated for the hotel, which turned out to be a half-mile from the start. We had dinner that night at the hotel and I attempted to sleep through my parents' snoring — failing miserably.

I must back up a bit. On Tuesday, when I left Cheyenne for DIA, the weather forecast for race day in Knoxville said 75 and fog, so I packed my race stuff with that in mind. By Thursday, the forecast was mid-50s and rain. True, I could have gone on a shopping spree for a jacket, beanie and shoe covers with money I didn't have, but I try to minimize the financial impact of my racing at all costs. Besides, I've thought for years about the fun of racing in imperfect conditions so I impulse-bought a pair of arm warmers and borrowed a pair of my nephew's gloves. In advance, both were absolutely useless.

On race morning the rain had stopped long enough for me to get in the car and let my parents drive down to the parking garage that served as transition. I wandered around and sat on the stairs by myself, tuning out with Pearl Jam's "Vitalogy." When the time came to walk down to the river for the swim, I pulled on my wetsuit and did so, just as it started to rain again. Mind you, I'd heard nothing about water temperature other than a note in the pre-race packet talking about 66-69 degrees on race day. I was glad to have my full suit and an extra cap, though I doubt either did me much good.

The swim was the highlight of the day, bar none. Even though the water felt a damned sight colder than 66-69, I still powered through and passed a lot of people in the wave ahead of me. I wore the arm warmers underneath the wetsuit so I wouldn't struggle with them in transition — so by the time I started peeling off on the half-mile run from the swim exit back to the G10 parking garage in the shadow of Neyland Stadium, they were already wet. I did the 1.2-mile swim in 30:30 or so. At least that's what my watch said.

During the half-mile run my feet went numb thanks to the combination of craggly asphalt underneath them and the cold water (turned out to be 59 degrees, so I heard after the race). I struggled with the gloves, my shoes and my helmet before heading out into the rain. This was not your gentle, Pacific Northwest-style mist. This was setting up my bike trainer in my tub and turning on the cold water. Add to that the half-inch rivers flowing across the pavement at some points on the course, and I had a fairly shitty day on my hands.

At 5 miles, I thought, "This is not pleasant." At 10 miles, my hands were numb and my shorts and singlet had soaked through. At 15 miles, a guy wearing an all-white kit passed me (ew). At 20 miles the race ceased being fun and I figured I'd finish the ride and decide whether to continue in transition. At 30 miles I knew I couldn't run. Between 20-30, I couldn't come up with one compelling reason to spend another two hours out in the rain. Maybe the run would have warmed me up, but I didn't want to find out. I was fucking cold, I couldn't work the shifters because my hands were numb, my shivering made it hard to control the bike (especially on the numerous screaming, semi-flooded descents), and I had stopped drinking because I knew I wouldn't go on.

I came into transition and stumbled on my numb feet immediately. I racked my bike, looked up at my parents (standing in front of the car, parked in view of my spot in transition, small favors and all), made a throat-slash gesture and turned in my chip. After sitting in the car for 45 minutes with the heat on full-blast, I had regained enough feeling to pick up my crap and head back to the hotel.

I refer again to the winter I had. By race day (May 5) I hadn't competed in anything since a swim meet in late February. I'd never trained harder in all three disciplines through a winter and now it was pretty much wasted. Yeah, I still have some of that fitness now and I could apply it to the rest of the season, but I thought I had a nice peak for that day. And then to have it all go by the wayside for something like weather, something out of my control, conditions I'd hoped and prayed for on some of the brutally hot days I've survived? Stuff-breakingly frustrating.

Fast-forward to this past Sunday. My training since sitting out the week after the race (which I'd planned because I needed a break) has been sporadic but I wasn't concerned thanks to the winter I had. One week off, even at my age, won't cost me a winter's worth of a fitness. I'd even started getting back into the disgusting pool while running and biking on alternate days; I don't log my bike rides to work, which resumed once the snow and ice cleared in mid-May (!!!), but I'm told I should. Whatever.

I woke up to a calm, warm day. The minuscule wind came straight out of the north, rather than the 90 degrees between southwest and northwest. Because of those prevailing winds I always head north, south or west. Sunday, I decided for an eastward out-route because I NEVER get to go that way. Fateful choice, as it turned out.

I went down Campstool Road past the refinery and past Sierra Trading Post. The road takes a hard turn to the right and goes underneath I-80. Just beyond the interchange sits a cattle guard. Nothing I haven't seen before. Except that this one had an 8-10 inch gap between the road and the first metal slat. I figured I could jump that gap like a set of railroad tracks (which I do all the time without penalty) and be OK on the guard itself. Wrong.

I pitched myself forward over my handlebars at 16-17 mph. I hit the ground and gashed up my hands and forearms, as well as the left knee I scarred up 10 years ago in my last wreck (believe me, I know I've lived on borrowed time, going 10 years between serious wrecks). I also bit down hard and took a chunk out of the inside of my upper lip, as well as a tiny shard out of the corner of my remaining front tooth. In the moment I figured I'd done way worse to my front tooth, but I hadn't, thankfully. The bike was OK, other than having blown my rear tire and bent my handlebars 45 degrees toward my front wheel. The bike was unrideable so after gathering myself I started the walk back toward town; 22 minutes into the ride I figure I was about 5 miles in. Gack.

A guy picked me up and got me back to town, but I still had more than three miles to walk. I didn't feel like calling anyone because I never know which of my night-owl friends are awake at that hour on a Sunday. During the long walk home I realized I had bruised something in my chest. And during the walk home I gave myself another minor "injury": blisters on the insides of my heels from walking all that way in cycling shoes.

Today, five days later, I still have that bruised feeling on my left pectoral, right above my heart, I suppose. It doesn't hurt to the touch but it hurt today when I raked yard clippings and it hurts when I simulate a running motion or the trunk rotation of swimming — or breathe moderately deep. The gashes have sealed up nicely and the blisters don't hurt as badly, but that bruise or whatever has me pondering a bailout on the Longmont Sprint Triathlon this Sunday. I've said it before, but I finally (after almost 25 years) realize what a big deal it is just to get to the start line healthy and fired up. It only gets tougher as I get older, I suppose, and I wonder if I can even pull together a season after two massive setbacks. 

And I still have a marathon to go in December.