Norwalk Mossman Sprint Triathlon, 7/15/2012

It’s 3AM on a Sunday, and while most of the world is asleep and some haven’t even gotten to bed yet, I’m just waking up.  Today is my 3^rd triathlon of the season.  This one is only a Sprint distance one: ½ mile swim, 13 mile bike ride, 3.1 mile run (and yes, I realized I described it using the word “only”), yet to me it is very significant: this will be my 10^th triathlon I’ve ever done.

I get to the venue in Norwalk, Connecticut just as transition opens at 5AM.  My triathlon partner, Jeff, pulls into the parking area a few minutes after I do, and the first thing he does is admonish me for how far I’ve parked from the transition area, and how do I expect him to get his bike where it needs to be, more than half a mile away?  My reply makes the person standing outside his car within earshot giggle out loud: “Jeff, you’re a f**king triathlete.  Shut up and walk your bike.”

We get to transition and set up our transition areas.  We get body marked and walk around a bit to warm up.  We did this triathlon last year, and we know that it’s huge, with about 700 people competing.  The good thing about big triathlons is that they decrease the odds of my being last, but the bad thing is that the courses can be crowded.  I mention this to Jeff, and he gets me back for the “f**king triathlete” comment by saying, “Yeah, Al, the bike course is crowded, but by the time you finish the swim most of the people are so far ahead of you they won’t be in your way.”  Touché.

We get our swim caps (mine is pink.  The women are usually divided into two groups: old and young.  One gets white, the other gets pink.  If you ever start doing triathlons, you are going to end up owning a s*itload of pink and white swim caps), and are told our waves, and what the organizer tells us stops us dead in our tracks: I’m in the 3^rd wave, Jeff is in the 4^th.  Any triathlete reading this understands my moment of panic, so let me explain to the rest of you: in most triathlons, men go first from young (i.e. athletic) to old, and then the women follow behind (again, young first, old and decrepit (i.e. me) last).  There is a logical reason for this.  These same nice men who open doors for us at Grand Central Terminal and always wait to let us onto the elevators and give us their seats on the bus swim right over us in a triathlon.  It’s not personal or misogynistic; just take a middle aged man and stick him in a sporting event, and he becomes a ruthless barbarian convinced that he’s going to beat the other 699 competitors in this race and will do anything he needs to accomplish that.  Now, since that is only true for one of the 700 competitors, the other guys swimming over everyone else is just rude.

So, for some reason the race organizers decided to put the women in the middle wave, meaning that there would be about  200 guys swimming over me a little later in the morning.  I turn to Jeff and politely ask that he doesn’t hold me under the water for too long when he pushes me down to pass me.

The race time is approaching, so Jeff and I get into our wetsuits and walk to the water.  When it’s time for wave 3 to start, Jeff wishes me luck and promises to be kind when he swims over me.  I look at the other women in my wave, and they all look as petrified as I am.  Good, at least I’m not the only one.

The horn blows for our wave and I dive in.  The next wave is only 3 minutes behind me, and I want to get as far away from the MAMLs (Middle Aged Men in Lycra) as possible.  Usually I take the swim kind of slow and steady.  Not today. I am flying.  I stroke, breathe, go.  There’s a traffic jam at the first turn buoy, so I go wide around and get out of the mess.  I keep going as fast as I can.  I hear the horn to start Jeff’s wave, and am satisfied with how far ahead of them I am.

Of course, my lead wasn’t enough, and soon enough there is a sea of green swim caps mixing with our pink ones as the guys take over.  I curse the race directors and keep going. I hit the last turn buoy and swim as fast as I can.  I’ll rest on the bike if I have to.  I want OUT of this water.

Finally, my hand hits rock and seaweed so I stand up and slog out of the water.  I check my watch and smile: 17 minutes, my fastest half mile swim EVER.  OK, maybe the race directors weren’t so stupid after all.

I get into transition, and the only problem I have is that I am completely out of breath.  I have just never swum that fast. I rip off my wetsuit and then sit down to dry off my feet and get my socks on.  As I do that, I see some folks coming in and out of transition while I’m still sitting there.  Not good.  I take a mouthful of water and spit out all the salt from the Long Island Sound, then take in some Gu and water, get my helmet on and walk my bike out of transition.

When I get on my bike, I look at my watch.  3 minute transition time, way too slow.  That’s OK, I’ll make it up on the bike.  I turn on my bike computer and it looks ready.  I know this bike course; I had done this race last year, and I practiced here just a couple of weeks ago.  It’s not too challenging, I should be able to average 16 miles per hour.  After a few minutes I look down at my bike computer and can’t believe my eyes.  It says I’m going 25 mph on a FLAT!  Wow!  I’m in a crowd of people, but I have to admit that most are passing me.  The bike course is two loops, and I’ll even admit that some folks are actually lapping me.  So how can I be going 25 mph?  “Ali, just take it!”, so I keep going.  On downhills I go 35 and get nervous so I tap the breaks even though it doesn’t feel so fast.  I pass a couple of slow pokes, but by the end of my first lap, the crowd of bikers has thinned out considerably. Hmm.

Just as I start my second lap, I look at the odometer on the computer and it says I’ve completed over 10 miles.  Now, how can that be on a 13 mile course that has two loops to it?  Hmm.

Whatever, I can’t fix the damned computer while riding my bike.  I pass a couple more people, get passed by a ton.  Ugh.  As I’m about 200 yards from the end of the bike ride, it hits me; I look down at my computer again and see that it somehow switched to KILOMETERS instead of miles.  I was going 25 kph, not mph.  That just sucks.

I get to the dismount area, hop off my bike and run it into transition.  The transition area is packed with bikes, as most people are back and off on their run.  I look at my watch and I’m at 1 hour, 10 minutes, about 8 minutes slower than I wanted.  Damn it.  I grab another Gu, drink my water, and take off on the run. 

The run is a different course from last year.  Last year it went around a very flat, pretty marina. This year it goes into a residential area that is equally pretty, but not flat at all. The first half of the run is a small grade hill – that lasts for over a mile.  Every time we take a turn I hope that it will flatten out.  It doesn’t.  Normally I love the run part; it’s my strongest sport, and the one least like to have me succumb to some kind of equipment malfunction.  Let’s face it: the odds of drowning or getting a flat tire on the run portion of triathlon are pretty low.  But, I’m not loving this run so much.  Maybe the bike part threw me off too much, maybe the guys swimming up my ass ruined my momentum.  Whatever it is, it sucks.

The course is an out and back, but all we seem to keep doing is going further and further out.  At one point I see Jeff coming in, and we high 5 as we pass each other.  FINALLY we hit the water station and turn around.  I grab a water and suck it down, run around the cone and head back.  For some reason, the run back seems shorter, probably because it’s mostly downhill.  With about ¾ of a mile left, the wind goes out of my sails again; I see Jeff.  He’s done, packed up, and walking his stuff back to the car. Wow, am I that slow?  It bothers me for a few seconds, but then I decide this is still my 10^th race, and that’s still a big deal.  So, I find some extra steam and pick up my pace a bit.

As I get to the last ¼ mile, I decide to sprint.  I pass about 5 people, one of whom is a woman who has stopped about 30 yards short of the finish line so that she can throw up.  Lovely.  I sprint over the finish line, and stop my watch: 1:41:25.  This was about a minute slower than the same race I did last year.  At first I’m upset.  This was the last chance I had to improve my time in a race that I had done last year.  And I failed.  Again.  But, then I thought about it: 10 triathlons.  I had just completed my 10^th triathlon, and I’m not even done for the season. 

My times this year have gotten slower than last year, but then it dawns on me that at least I have something to compare it to.  I’ve been doing triathlons and running races for 3 years now.  I’m no longer a newbie, I no longer fear that this is just a “health kick” and this phase will die out.  I’m a marathoner, a triathlete.  I finished an almost 2 hour race before most people even wake up.  I can have s*it happen at a race and overcome it because I know what I’m doing.  Cool.