Remember in elementary school when one kid wouldn’t stop
fooling around, so the teacher punished the whole class? Remember how pissed you’d get at that kid for
ruining your good time? Well, guess
what. Those kids grew up to be adults
who still screw up and have everyone pay for it.
Let me explain. This
morning I competed in the Norwalk Mossman Sprit Triathlon. This was my first
triathlon in 2 years, so it was a pretty big deal for me. It will likely also be my only triathlon this
season, so there was a lot riding on it.
I have competed in this triathlon twice before, and my times were almost
identical at 1:41:01 and 1:41:26. So, my
goals for today were to be satisfied with my performance and beat my old times.
Well, since I’m in such a crappy mood right now, let me
spoil the whole thing for you and say that I accomplished neither. Most of the triathlon was a disaster pretty
much from the get-go. First, I realized
that my swim wave was women aged 20 – 49, which meant that it was going to be
huge. For those that don’t know, huge
swim waves in triathlon are bad. That’s
just a lot of arms, legs and heads to get around and to make sure don’t slam
into your arms, legs or head. Also,
being on the more “mature” end of that 20 – 49 age spectrum, this meant that I’d
be swimming with women 25 years younger than me who were going to blow past me
and take my confidence with them. We
also learned that we were in the second wave of 5, meaning that there were
going to be a whole bunch of people from later waves – and pretty much all men
except for the few women over age 50 who still compete in triathlons – who were
going to swim right over me.
All of these thoughts started my panic before I even hit the
water. And let me tell you, swimming in
open water in your first triathlon in 2 years only increases that panic attack
ten-fold. I was screwed from the start. I couldn’t catch my breath, and every time I
turned my face into the water I felt like I was suffocating. At one point I tried to stop and put my foot
down and take a second to collect myself – and then I remembered that I was in
the friggin’ Long Island Sound and not my nice shallow pool at the gym. The bottom was probably 15 feet below me. The water was choppy, the taste of salt water
was making me nauseous. This wasn’t
good. I looked around for a lifeguard
with a plan of swimming over to them and asking for a “DQ” (disqualification)
that would at least earn me a tow back to shore even if my race was going to
end about 3 minutes after it started.
But the first lifeguard was far enough away that I figured that if I was
going to swim to him, then I might as well just swim the damned course.
Freestyle simply wasn’t working, so I decided to see how
strong my backstroke was. The good news
is that my backstroke is pretty good.
The bad news is that it isn’t straight at all. I was finally moving better, but like a flat
tire that pulls the whole car to one side, I kept veering off to the left. Every few strokes I’d flip over to see where
I was, realize that I was wayyyy off course, yell out a bad word, then flip
back over onto my back and try to redirect myself. Finally I got to the last turn and was
heading inland and suddenly I could breathe again. So, I swam freestyle for probably 5 minutes
of the entire half mile.
I got through transition and have to admit that I have never
been so happy to be on my bicycle. The
course is 2 six and a half mile loops containing one short, evil hill and one
long less evil but still difficult hill.
I got through both on the first loop (though on the short evil hill I
was pretty sure that my bike was just going to stop dead) and was all kinds of
happy until I remembered that I had to do it again. The second loop was better because it was
less crowded since most people had finished, but it was also worse because I
kept stressing that I was dead last. Right near the end I passed two guys which
gave me a cheap thrill that there were at least 2 people in the race behind me.
 |
| Transition area. Note the bright yellow "RUN" sign. |
Any slow triathlete will tell you that the second transition
is harder than the first. You see, transition
areas are really crowded with everyone’s bicycles and other gear. When a slow swimmer comes out of the water and
into transition, their bike is pretty easy to spot since it’s one of the only
ones still there. When a slow biker
rolls into “T2” as it’s called, though, it’s a whole different story. You need to get back to your stuff to rack
your bike and grab your running shoes, but it’s hard to find. Almost all the bikes are back and racked (and
sometimes in your spot, grrr), wetsuits are everywhere, and some people are
done and hanging out with medals around their necks while you still have a 3.1
mile run to do. I had brought a BRIGHT
yellow running jacket that I tied to the end of my rack (and which after the
race several of my rack-mates thanked me for) so that I could find my row. Someone was racked in my spot (grrr), but I
managed to wedge my bike into place. A
guy near me was done and he said to me, “Hey, just so you know; the run course
is only one loop.” I thought this was an
odd thing for him to say. The race
organizer’s website clearly stated that the run was one loop, and the guy with
the megaphone at the beginning of the race who went over the details clearly
stated that it was one loop. I smiled
anyway, said, “thanks for the head’s up!”, ate a couple of Shot Bloks and went
on my way.
Up until now, the race had been pretty hellish. The swim was so bad that I spent my bike ride
considering how the term “duathlete” sounded instead of “triathlete”. The bike
ride was fine, but I was still so shaken by the swim that I know I didn’t do
that great. But then the run began. I started off pretty much by myself, but I
turned the first corner and saw a lot of people. I kept running, trying to shake off the dead
leg feeling I had from the bike, and when I looked forward again I realized
that I was getting closer to those people who had been way ahead. And that’s when the rocket boosters came
out. I don’t know how or why, but
suddenly I was flying. I passed one
person, then another. That lifted my
spirits and I dug a little deeper. Before
I knew it, I was at the turn-around of the ONE loop out and back course (this
will have a point later). Going back I
could see a lot of people still heading out.
Knowing that I wasn’t last, I turned euphoria into energy and passed a
few more people. Finally I could hear
the music and announcer which always signals the end of a race, and sprinted
over the finish line.
I looked down at my watch and saw pretty much what I was
expecting. My time was 1:52:52, a good
11 minutes slower than either of my previous years. The bike course was different this year and
one mile longer, but that only accounted for about 4 of the 11 minutes. Bottom line: I sucked.
But wait, it gets worse.
Later in the day when I was home, showered and had eaten anything in the
kitchen that wasn’t nailed down (best part of burning about 1300 calories in a triathlon;
afterwards you can eat like an elephant.
Hell, you could eat the actual elephant if you felt like it), I checked
my email and had one from the race directors.
I opened it and read my official time: 1:24:58. Now, I know even a genius can make a mistake
in math, but being off by almost a ½ hour didn’t make any sense. Then I read some more: some of the leaders
got confused by the run course and did 2 loops instead of 1. So, they threw out the run times. Though I now understood why the guy next to
me was helping me count up to 1 when he was talking about the run course, I was
pissed. They had the run times posted,
but they weren’t part of our final results. And guess what? My run time was amazing. I ran a 5K in 26:27, my fastest 5K ever. My pace was 8:32, also a personal best. And because some people couldn’t read a
website or listen to an announcer clearly explain the only loop of the run
course, and because they couldn’t seem to follow the quite clear yellow signs with
black writing along the course pointing out which direction to go, and because
they couldn’t follow the 10 or so arrows at every freaking turn of the run, my
personal records don’t officially exist.
 |
| 5K from 2013 that counted |
That said, I know I had a great run. One of my 4 marathons was run in a race that got
canceled and didn’t officially exist, so now I’ll just add a best 5K and pace
per mile to that list of imaginary accomplishments. Hey, I did do them. They’re real to me.
So, what is probably my only triathlon of the season is
over, but I learned a few things:
- Panic does not dissolve in water, and if anything only becomes more powerful.
- Reading is fundamental.
- Before each race, officials should make sure that participants can distinguish the number “1” from the number “2”.
- A crappy race can still produce some of your best work, even if nobody is going to count it.
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