*Originally written on 4.07.2011
5:00 a.m.
5:00 a.m.
My eyelids fly open. My arm flops uncontrollably toward my beside table, almost crushing the alarm clock. I didn't think I was even asleep, but I guess I was. The alarm's buzzer was more startling than usual. I'm wide awake. My heart feels like it's already been caffeinated - the mental fog seems to have already lifted. But it's only five am, why am I wide awake? Why is my heart pounding like it's had two pots of coffee?
The triathlon. That's what my body is trying to tell me.
"Triathlon. Triathlon! Triathlon!! Hello, you moron! Let's go!" says every part of my body, to my now comprehending mind. "You're lucky we even let you sleep last night!" my body says, continuing it's pestering. "Jesus, man."
I pounce out of bed. No need for the usual snooze button routine. No need for the never justified, but always appealing, "just 10 more minutes" negotiation. My body knows it has to prepare for this thing. There are things it needs and it is making demands:
1. Freshly cut strawberries, two cut-up bananas, yogurt, granola, all to be consumed out of a tupperware container at approximately seven a.m., exactly two hours before race time.
2. It needs sufficient time to make a Starbuck's stop on the way to the race for a huge coffee - also to be consumed at seven a.m.
3. It needs to get to the race with plenty of time to visit his complicated but always reliable friend in times of need, Porto Potty.
My body is putting pressure on my mind to remember everything that I packed the previous night. It needs the wetsuit, the goggles, the towel, the swim cap, the mountain bike, the clip-in shoes for the mountain bike, the jersey, the helmet, the socks, the running shoes, and it especially needs the spandex that are to be the only constant in the race. The spandex are to be worn underneath the wetsuit, during the ride, and during the run. If I don't have the spandex, the transitions would be, well, awkward for everyone.
I made a check-list of everything that was needed and check it compulsively. Tracy helps me. "And you're sure you have the Body Glide?" she asks. "Check," I respond. "The spandex?" she asks. "Check," I respond. "And the directions?" "Yepp." I feel like I'm in a scavenger hunt - a very strange one.
5:30 a.m.
The car is loaded. We are ready to roll. Trace and I both looked over the check-list a dozen times each and felt secure. Trace hops behind the wheel, I crawl into the passenger seat. She takes a big sip of her tea, throws the Escape into reverse, backs out of the garage, and we're off.
The whole city is asleep. Its beautiful. The sun isn't even up yet, and won't be for at least another hour. The only other car on the road is a small mini-coup with a bike strapped to the top. For a moment, I get excited and wonder if they are going to the Xterra too. But as we get closer, I realize that it is a road bike on the top of their car, not a mountain bike. I realize I should probably tone down the solipsism a bit. I think this a natural tendency and a shared feeling, that when you're excited or scared about somewhere you're going or something you're about to do, to think that the person driving next to you, or walking next to you, is doing the same thing as you, going to the same place as you. Because the only thing that matters in the whole world is what you are about to do, the place you are going. And because, well, lets face it, if they aren't going where you are, then chances are they must be pretty lame.
The mini-coup and us are going the same way for a while, but once we hit Highway 80 they are gone and replaced by a small handful of cars - maybe going the same place as us?
6:00 a.m.
We have another hour and a half until we arrive in Folsom. I feel in a state of limbo between my life in San Francisco and the impending triathlon. It's a suspended feeling, but a safe one. It's still dark outside. The initial startle of my alarm clock, of everything I had to do before we left, of everything I have to put my body through in a few hours, it has all dissolved. My body has stopped with it's pestering. At this moment, I feel completely content. I drift off.
6:45 a.m.
I think its the sun that wakes me up. I try to be a better passenger and engage Tracy in conversation. I can see she's getting tired. I'm feeling very grateful for my co-pilot. She has been my partner, my sanity, my everything. We both trained for this race, not just me. We did almost every workout together, side-by-side. She is just as ready for this race as I am. I wish she were joining me.
We're almost there. Making great time.
7:00 a.m.
Starbucks. I never realized how big a venti is. Probably a bad idea.
7:30 a.m.
We arrive.
Wow. The Lake is breathtaking. It's breathtaking for two reasons: one, for its beauty and vastness; two, because I realize this is my opponent. This is what could sink me.
I have to swim across this? Do I have to swim across this whole thing? Is that half a mile? I don't know. Oh man. I've never done an open-water swim. Is that whole lake 36 laps in the pool? No, there's no way. Oh God. No, It can't be. My mind is racing.
I walk across the parking lot, from our car to the registration booth. I'm surprised that their aren't that many cars there. Is this not a big race? Oh, that's great. Less people, more room, a decreased likelihood of getting trampled on during the swim and ride.
But then I found out that we are there very early. The race doesn't start until 10:00, not 9:00. I'm relieved in one sense, but more stressed in another sense. This means more time waiting. Now that I'm here, I don't want to think about all the horrible things that could happen. How many people are actually in this race? How many people are like me, doing this for the first time? I don't want to see all the super-fit and experienced triathletes strutting around confidently, like they know something I don't know. I just want to get in there.
I register, get all the information I need and head back to the car. I don't fully appreciate the extent of my nerves until I start eating my yogurt, fruit and granola breakfast. I know I'm hungry, but my body's fight-or-flight response is kicking in. It doesn't want to digest anything. It has other things to focus on. It wants to make sure there's enough adrenaline pumping to each part of my body. It wants to get rid of anything coming in. If anything, it only wants water.
Luckily, I'm able to get everything down. But it's not long before I have to visit Porto. Thankfully, I'm the first one to meet with Porto, which means he will be in a decent mood - more pleasant, less abrasive.
Porto was in the best mood I've ever encountered. Things are looking on the up and up!
8:00 a.m.
I really have two hours before this starts?
I start getting everything set up. I pull the mountain bike out of the back of the Escape. I grab the handle bars and flip the bike over, upside down. This makes it easier when putting the bike back together again. I grab the detached front wheel that is still in the car. I put the wheel into the frame, it fits perfectly. I tighten up the bolts and give it a pull to make sure its snug. Everything looks good.
Its been two weeks since the tires have been pumped. I grab the pump out of the back of the car and go for the front tire first.
"Wait, what? What is this? I don't have this thing on my.... Tracy, I don't have this cap on the air filter of my tire. Oh my god! Tracy! This is your front tire!"
"Oh no, oh no. How did this... What are we... Is this still going to..."
In these few seconds, I'm convinced that this is it. That this is the end. This is how my first triathlon goes. I train, I show up, get totally ready, and I can't race because of my own stupidity. I won't be able to race because I grabbed Tracy's front tire out of our apartment instead of mine. I'm convinced that it is all over. I'm furious.
Tracy, being blessed with the propensity to laugh at inappropriate times, cannot contain her laughter.
I go from anger, to sadness, to confusion, to laughter. I realize that the bike will still work, as the tire fit in the frame perfectly. We were clearly able to put the tire on just fine. So I flip the bike over and hop on. It works. Thank God it works. The tire is a little smaller than mine, but it works.
Now I gotta get the mountain bike set up at the transition station. I have to get everythingset up at the transition station. I have to have the towel laid out next to the bike. The biking and running shoes need to be on top, with their laces undone, with one sock in each. I need to tie my racing number on the front of the bike. I need to have my helmet on the handle bars of the bike. Need to have my jersey in a place that is easily accessible, with Gu gel packets tucked neatly into the back pocket of my jersey, where the confirmation receipt of this race once hid. Don't want to regret lost time on simple logistics that could have been prevented.
I need to find the women who are asking for our race numbers. I find them and tell them my number, unsure of what will happen next. They tell me to lift up the leg of my sweatpants. Okay. They ask for my age. Okay. The next thing I know, there are two women attacking me sharpies. They have my shirt sleeves lifted, my sweatpants lifted. They are writing all over me. Tracy is busting up.
They are done and moving on the next person before I know what happened. In a bit of tizzy, I look down and realize there is "226" written on my arms and "24" written on my legs. I feel assaulted. But I get over it.
9:00 a.m.
Tracy's parents arrive. This brings levity and a sense of, "oh yea, the world still exists outside this small event."
Still getting everything ready.
Getting into my wetsuit proves more difficult than getting into the wetsuits I surf in. Triathlon wetsuits are a whole different breed. They are impossibly tight. If you don't have any sort of body lubricant, such as Body Glide, it can take up to 10 - 15 minutes just getting in one of these things.
The Body Glides helps tremendously. Man, this thing is tight. But it does unjustly improve the appearance of my physique. I'll take it.
9:45 a.m.
Now I'm really nervous.
One last pee. Hi again, Porto.
9:55 a.m
I'm toe-to-toe with my opponent.
I've run down from the car, across the beach and down to the shore. Now I'm starring across the lake, my frozen toes now touching the lake for the first time.
What a scene. I look around me and finally appreciate the people around me. I finally appreciate how many people are actually doing this - the type of person who is doing this. I'm in the middle of a crowd of one hundred-plus freaks. One-hundred-plus freaks who, for the most part, are all over 30. I'm simultaneously inspired and frightened.
Everyone's yelling and hollering. Everyone's jumping up and down. Everyone is freezing and we haven't even jumped in the water yet. Its not until now when I fully realize how incredible this event is.
This scene reminds me of being in the tunnel before a playoff football game, about to charge the field and tear through the paper-banner. The energy is the same, the nerves are the same. The preparation is the same, the anticipation is the same, the camaraderie feels the same. With our wetsuits and blue swimcaps, we all have our gear on. We are ready to charge. We are ready to win.
9:59 a.m.
"5...4...3...2...1... Go! Go! Go!"
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