When I first heard about the Lake Terramugus Triathlons I called the contact number and asked two questions: Did I need a wet suit? and did it matter what kind of bike I rode? The answers were no and no. They said they encouraged first timers and any old bike would do.
So I show up there yesterday and this is what I see:
Incredibly fit looking people
Space age bikes
Full length wetsuits -- one even embroidered with Ironman Triathlon
Of the 120 or so entrants, I am the only one with a butt seat on my bike and I see only one other thick tire bike. (I have what is called a hybrid). Probably 3/4 of the people wear wet suits. Everyone seems to know each other. They are talking about past races and upcoming ones. I see only one person who looks less fit than me. A woman in her forties, plumpish. I can beat her, I think.
I pay my $15 dollars and get the number 25 markered onto my left bicep and calf and get a Velcro ankle bracelet with a timing chip on it.
I set my bike up in the transition area, take a pee, and then just hang out looking at all the fancy bikes and muscled athletes. Out in the water people are swimming warm up laps. There is a big red buoy out 200 yards. We'll have to swim around it and then head back to shore. I am worried the water will be freezing judging from all the full bodied wet suits.
As race time nears we all gather in the water by the beach. It doesn't feel too cold at all. It dawns on me then that the people are wearing wet suits not because the water is cold, but so they can practice the transition of taking off their wet suits and hoping on their bikes as quickly as they can. This race is just a training race for the real races that come later in the year.
The director explains the course. Swim around the buoys, hit the beach, get your bikes, walk them through the transition area, hop on them, go up the hill, take a right, follow the blue arrows in the road, do two loops, get off your bikes, walk them through the transition area, then follow the orange cones to the run course where you follow the red arrows, blah, blah, blah. It is a little confusing. I figure I will just follow the other runners.
Ready, Set Go!
The water is nice and very clear. I am on the outside. There is no contact with other swimmers. When I look up to take my breaths, I see someone else on the outside and just try to stay in line with him. If I look ahead, I can see someone's feet ahead of me. I just swim like I do in the pool, nice and easy. I don't get anxious and seem to be swimming well. When I look up finally to see how far to the buoy, I see I am almost there. I have to turn some to the left and there is quite a traffic jam turning around the buoy, but I only make marginal contact with other swimmers. I do have to do a little breast stroke, just to find some space, and then it is back to the beach. Really didn't take long at all, but I notice as I come out of the water I am slightly short of breath. I must have been swimming faster than normal.
My time was 7:55. I came out of the water 61st in the middle of the pack. I glance back at the water and see a line of people still swimming.
In the transition area, I drink some gatorade, I towel myself dry, put on my sox and sneakers, I have a hard time getting my helmet strap to buckle, finally get it, grab the bike and start walking to the bike start line. I see lots of people flopping around on their backs trying to get out of their wet suits.
I get on the bike and there is a short initial hill to climb. I turn right and then it starts. I get passed by biker after biker after biker after biker. "On the Left. Coming through. Passing." I am not just getting passed, but they are whipping by. I look down and see I am going 14 mph, which is good, as I need to average 12 just to beat an hour. At least I am ahead of that.
I am riding hard, the adrenalin of the race. I notice I am puffing like when I first started to run. Biker after biker passes me. I think at least I outswam all these studs.
Cars pass me too, but I don't seem to pay any attention to them. I am too focused on the road.
I have not looked at my computer to see how far I have ridden. I figure I'll get there when I get there. There are a lot of climbs on the course and I am little discouraged to see my MPH drop down to five. Then I look up and see the plump lady whiz by me. These riders seem like they are making no effort at all. They all have road bikes with thin tires and clipless pedals. That has to be it -- that and the fact that I am 48, 220 pounds, 6 foot 8 inches of sitting up straight wind resistance and this (these last two months of bike training) is really the first time I have ridden in 40 years. There's some excuses for you.
At least the people going by me don't seem to be on their second loop yet. Never mind that, the three just whizzed by looking like Lance Armstrong and company are clearly on their second lap. Ahead, a crowd is waving and cheering and a race volunteer is waving everyone to turn right down the hill, and I go that way too, but then I realize this is the turn in for the finish, so I have to loop out and swing back up and go right again for another six miles.
There seems to be no one else on the course now and I worry if I am still
on the course. I swear. I may have missed a turn. I look back and see a rider 500 yards back and hope he is in the race. I slow and wait for him. Are you in the race? I ask. He is an old man with a grey beard. Yes, he says and pedals past me. At least I am still on the course. He soon fades away in front of me, and I am alone again, certain I am last.
The Loneliness of the Long Distance Biker.
I am going up on hill in a residential neighborhood. A woman walks her dogs. A man waters his lawn. They stare at me. My speedometer reads 3 MPH. My bike is close to tottering over. With every press of the pedals I curse.
F---! F--- Me! I say under my breath. F---!
I feel like I might vomit. I burp, little pre vomit burps. The daisies ahead are definately in danger.
I resolve to never do this again.
I need water or something to eat, but I know if I reach for my water bottle I will fall off the bike. I have some power gels in my bike shirt, but no way can I master reaching for them, then tearing them open with my teeth. I am just going to have to make do.
When there are downhills I just coast because I am going to fast for the pedals to catch the gears and I am worried for some reason if I try to switch the gear to the highest, it will fall off. I do the whole race in 2nd gear on the big gear and manage to go through 1-8 on the smaller gears.
Now ahead I see the runners on the course and I have to call out "bike on the left" as I, finally, am passing someone. I feel like cracking a joke. I want to say, "Get a bike! Losers!"
Eventually, I am back at the turn in. There is only one man there now. "Where are the crowds?" I ask. "Just me," he says.
As I ride down the hill back to the transitions area, people at the finish line clap. "Hey way to go biker! Way to go Bikerman!" I do appreciate it.
My bike time of 55:53 minutes will indeed prove to be the slowest bike of any participant. All but three racers will have bike times at least ten minutes better than mine.
My transition is quick. It consists of chugging my gatorade, and then strapping on my heart rate monitor, and I am off.
I follow the cones through the woods, but then I loose the trail. I am in a playground area and a mother, with her children, points the way. I go past some tennis courts and then am again at a loss. I look behind me and see another runner. Maybe I am not last. Which way do we go? I ask. Right, I think, he says, and we start off.
I am walk running because I am huffing too much, plus my legs are stiff from the bike. And my ears are clogged like on an airplane. I pull away from the other runner, at least until I lose the trail again. I can't figure out which way to go. I wait for the other guy. We caucus and then decide on a direction. I spot the old guy ahead, but then following the arrows, I go right, and he is still going straight. Later I see him on the other side of the road going past me in the wrong direction. I look behind me and see the other runner still lagging behind me, but as long as I can still see him going may way, I feel allright. I think the old guy is the last one.
My heart rate is 171. I slow to a walk and it stays in the 160s for quite awhile and then when it dips to 158, I start running again. Then I decide to walk 50 paces, run 100.
Ahead I see a car going past with a bicycle on the roof. I am hoping there is still someone at the finish line. The lake is on my right. I try to gauge where we are along it and I see the finish area -- the outdoor lodge -- way off in the distance on the other side of the lake.
I swear again.
I plod on.
Finally ahead, I see a man waving me home -- the same place where I first turned in on the bike and had to circle out.
"I know you're hurting," he says. "Another 300 yards."
"Will I be disqualified if I roll down the hill?" I ask.
"No, rollings allowed."
I finish strongly. People clap as I approach and then hit the timing mat. "Good job," a man says, and then asks for my timing chip, which is strapped to my ankle.
1:41:15
So much for it being a sprint.
112th place.
My 5K time is 35:10. Almoat five minutes and a half minutes slower than my best time. Well, I was lost there for awhile and did have to walk a bit.
I walk over to the now empty transition area, and polish off my gatorade.
I hear applause as another runner crosses the line. I was not last.
I ask a man, dismantling down the bikerack sawhorses if he can take my picture. He obliges.
I slowly walk by bike to my car. Again I hear applause in the distance. And then again. I hope one of them is the old man who was running the other direction.
I tie my bike to the back of the car, and then slowly drive home as darkness sets in, and other cars race past me.
***
Later: Thoughts on my performance and future as a triathlete
