"Pay it forward: When someone does a good deed for you, instead of paying them back, pay it forward by doing a good deed for someone else." - Urban Dictionary
My watch reads 1:26 when the record stops, when my world stops spinning. My pedal stroke slows down to the point of non-movement as I can no longer climb. I step off my bike. It's over. I'm done.
My heart slows down with each breath I take while off the bike. I'm alone in the middle of nowhere, a thousand feet high in the Tahoe mountains. Well, I'm not totally alone. There are the other hundred or so racers in front of and behind me. But at this moment I couldn't feel more alone. Just me, the seemingly endless trail, the fifty-foot tall trees and the cheering (or laughing, I'm not sure) birds. I look down at my bike and see the damage. The flat is worse than I imagined. There's not a puff of air left in my back tire. The tire looks the way I feel: deflated, dejected, embarrassed. What do I do?
Well, you fucking fix the flat, I hear you saying. Yes, in theory that is what a person does. "Problem: Flat tire; Solution: fix the flat." Not that hard, right? But what do you do when you've never fixed a flat in your life? Not once, not never. Not a bike tire, car tire, nothing. What then? And next, what do you when you're in the middle of a triathlon and don't have any equipment to fix said flat? No spare tube, no pump, no tools. Nothing. Zero. You're Grade A Fucked is what you are. Or at least that's what I thought...
The race had been going so well up till this point - until this hour and twenty sixth minute. The swim was freezing, but I felt confident throughout. My face was frozen but I actually achieved what could objectively pass as swimming. I was proud of this considering my first triathlon I frantically flopped like an otter in a pool of watered down ice for the half-mile. This time, the lake was clear - I could actually see the bottom. And I had a ton of space. I wasn't the kid at the bottom of the dog-pile. I could spread out and kick. But most importantly, I could swim next to Tracy, who was jumping into her first triathlon.
I was excited to be able to swim next to her, for both comfort and pacing. She has always kicked my ass in the pool, so I figured if I could ride her wake I'd be in good shape. But, due to either her pride ("I wakeboard in the Lake at this time of the year without a wetsuit!"), naivety ("the Lake can't be that cold at the end of June!") or bad advice from the moron at Sportsbasement Athletics ("I wouldn't wear a wetsuit at Tahoe in the summer"), Tracy decided to forgo renting an Ironman wetsuit. Instead, she relied on a springsuit that she borrowed from her friend. (If a full wetsuit is formal attire, then a springsuit is appropriate dress for Casual Friday - the teeshirt and shorts of wetsuits). We later found out that this springsuit cost Tracy's friend a whopping $10. (By way of comparison, it cost me $25 just to rent a full triathlon wetsuit for one week. And to purchase one of these ironman suits is well above $250).
As we scanned the scene on raceday, it didn't take long for us to realize that Tracy was the only one in a springsuit, everyone else was in a full Ironman suit - minus the batty nut who was practically naked in her regular swim suit. Needless to say, Tracy was nervous and I was worried for her.
The gun fires and we're off. We charge into the Lake with sights set on circling around the six-foot floating orange buoy. It doesn't take me long to realize that Tracy is struggling. When I roll my head to the right to take an in-breath, I notice that Tracy's a little bit behind me. She's moving forward at a decent pace, but her head's above the water. She's making a swim move that resembles the modified "head-above water freestyle/doggie-paddle" that I ungracefully mastered in my first triathlon. She's freezing. I'm cold in a full wetsuit. She's gotta be dying. I hang back with her and check in.
"Are you alright, T?"
"Fine," she quickly responds. She knows that I know that she's an icicle. But I also know that she won't admit that she's not okay until she was at the point of immediate doom - a result of having two older brothers who she always had to keep up with. So I stick around. I slow my stroke and stay with her.
Every couple strokes, I check in. "How you doing, T?" "I'm alright," she says. I know she's in pain, but I just don't know how much. The parade of horribles dances through my icy brain: What if she doesn't make it through the swim? All because of a shitty wetsuit!? What if she has to quit the race? And never wants to do triathlons again? What about hypothermia!? That's a real possibility, isn't it?!
I try calming myself down by taking a few deep breaths as I stay within five feet of T. This helps. On my next stroke, I pull my head up to see where the buoy is. We are within 20 yards of the big orange buoy. I look over and notice that Trace has realized how close we are to the turning point (the buoy). I see what somewhat resembles a smile crack through her frozen face. I know she's going to be fine. She's going to make it. I stop hovering and cut loose. (I'm not exactly sure how she felt about this. But I'm hoping that she will get around to writing about her Tri experience here, from her perspective. Sometime soon. Hopefully).
Despite the freezing water, the morning was beautiful. The sun was shining perfectly bright, not too harsh. It thawed me out as I stood on shore and waited for T to emerge. By the time we ran up the shore, across the street and to the transition station, we had warmed. It kept us just warm enough throughout the ride as the lake-kissed breeze cooled us.
My pace on the bike is a bit faster than T's - I attribute this to my tree trunked legs and the extra comfy backside saddle I carry around. So as we climbed our first hill, as planned, we departed, thinking the next time we would see each other would be the finish line.
My first hour on the bike was nothing short of euphoric. It was the complete opposite of my first tri. Tahoe City had wide-open trails, good steady climbs, significant downhills to fly down and forget all about your last strenuous climb. Most importantly, there were no mudswamps. Just solid, at times rocky trails. It was the most similar to what Trace and I typically train on. I was feeling so good. I was cranking up the hills and burning down them. I was on an unhinged rollercoaster. I was passing people - passing people! Handfuls! I try to think of myself as only competing against myself and not others, but when I started passing people I couldn't deny the extra jolt of fuel and adrenaline this gave me. Denying this feeling would be a denial of human nature. We are made to compete, just as we are made to love.
As I'm beginning to accept this untapped competitiveness, the hills start feeling harder. The trail feels like I'm back in Folsom, rummaging through the mudswamps. Why was that hill so damn hard? Am I in the wrong gear? Nope. Right gear. I keep climbing, unsure of what's happening. I fly down a hill, dodge the rocks and sticks, and begin another climb.
As I climb, I look down at my watch: one hour and twenty six minutes have passed... The tire... Screwed.
I pull my bike off the trail and flip it upside down. Man, why did it have to be the back tire? Why? Not only do I not know how to change a flat, I don't even know how to get my back tire off of my bike. This serves me right. Just the day before, Tracy's dad Dale was baffled when this embarrassing fact surfaced, this fact that I've never changed a tire and don't have the equipment to do so.
"But what happens if you get a flat out there?" Dale asked me. "La la la la la la. I'm not listening!" I thought as I wanted to stick my fingers in my ears. I was like a teenager in the mindset of invincibility - the "it won't happen to me" mindset.
As I'm pulled off to the side of the trail, I hear what sounds like a human-sized hummingbird flying up behind me. I quickly spin around. The guy is a beast. He is ripping up the hill. He looks like a Marvel Comic Superhero with his full-bodied spandex getup, muscles made of twisted steel. As he flies up toward me, I stand in awe, momentarily forgetting about my predicament. He gets closer. He breaks his rhythmic breath and asks, "You alright?" "Yea," I quickly respond, fearing that he just saw me checking out his right calf where his age is written in Sharpie - it said 55, by the way; amazing. He keeps pumping up the hill, keeping an eye on me out of the corner of his eye. He takes a few more deep breaths. He sees the flat. "Have... any... equipment?" he asks, sucking air. Embarrassed, I confess I don't. I look down at my bike and away from him, drooping my chin to my chest in solidifying shame.
The next thing I hear is the squeak of a brake and the unzipping of a zipper. Startled, I look up the trail to my right and see 55 off his bike, digging into a bag that is attached underneath his seat. Then, like a blackjack dealer slinging out his cards to the sure-to-lose gambler, 55 starts flinging all sorts of stuff at me from his bag. Before I can realize what's happening, he says to me:
"Name's Nate Brown. Gonna need that Co2 back. Good luck!" Then he vanishes.
Co2?! Holy shit. Thank you, Nate Brown. But what the hell is all this? Okay, that's a tube. These are two separate 6-inch plastic things that look like deformed and un-fun kid's toys. And this, this is the 4-inch can of Co2. But uh... But uh, what am I... supposed to do with it? Alright, I decide, first things first.
I still haven't gotten my back tire off. I look down at my watch. I'm burning time. It's already been 5-6 minutes. Fuck! More and more people are passing me. I'm reminded that I don't even know how to get my back tire off, let alone how to work any of this shit he's just thrown at me. This feels like one of those dreams where you are being asked to perform surgery on someone without any training - all in your underwear, exposed. I'm clueless and frantic.
Maybe if I move my bike to the other side of the trail that will help, I decide. Maybe there's some more light over there or something? I shuffle across the trail with my upside down bike, looking sad, both the bike and me. I have no idea what I'm doing. I anxiously start hitting the bike in random places. I give it a few kicks. I start unscrewing stuff. I pull on things. I'm like an infant with a block. I feel like a chimp trying to work a computer.
I look down at my watch. It's been 15 minutes! Fuck! All the people I passed are cruising past me, with two pumped up tires in tact. I aimlessly start hitting and pulling things harder and faster. No help. People keep passing and asking if I'm alright. "Ya' alright, man?" they ask. By the tenth inquiry, my cool-under pressure response of, "yes, I'm fine, thanks," quickly unravels into an anxious "yes! fine!" bark.
I'm not sure what it was, it must have been the sound of her soft maternal voice, but I finally crack when I'm asked for the 20th time if I'm alright. I finally make the honest and uncomfortable confession to this woman, telling her that, "No, I am not, in fact, alright. I can't get my tire off. In fact, I don't even know how to. I've never done it before."
The woman says nothing, pulls over, gracefully swings her leg over the side of her bike and sets it down. She comes over to me with a bright smile. She goes straight for the tire. She grabs the tire, starts twiddling the screws and the chain. She mumbles a few things under her breath as a mechanic would at an autobody shop. In a flash, the tire is off.
I'm filled with so many emotions. From excitement and gratefulness, to the feeling of total emasculation. The woman laughs, not at me, but with me, as if she's aware of my shame, and wants to lighten the moment. She hops back on her bike. "Thank you so much!" I shout. "Oh no problem. You'll end up catching me anyway!" she says as she rides off, displaying the number 64 (years old) on her right calf. She was angel.
Now the tire is off the bike. I have so much adrenaline pumping that I practically rip off the tire from my rim and throw the old tube to the side. I'm almost there. I have all the equipment. I can figure this out. Right?
I grab the fresh tube and the small can of Co2. I read the three-step directions on the Co2. Seems easy enough. I align the valve of the tube with the nozzle of the can. But... nothing happens. No air comes roaring out. Nothing. I try every possible thing I can think of to get the can to work. But nothing. No air. I look down at my watch. 18 minutes have passed since 1:26. I'm back to my chimpanzee ways. Hitting, kicking and pulling things. Nothing helps.
I look back down the trail and see a sight of comfort. It's Tracy in her purple Nike tank beaming through the trees, climbing up the hill. I start whistling at her before she can totally see me.
"What?! What are you doing?! Why are you waiting for me?!" When I explain the situation and she sees the bike, she calms down, pulls over and starts trying to help.
She can't figure out the Co2 either. She decides we should hassle someone for a manual pump (for reasons I'll never know, I never would've thought of that). The next ten people that pass don't have a pump. Things start looking bleak. Then, as hope dwindles, we cast one more line for help. The next guy coming up is young, handsome, super fit, and head to toe in top of the line racing gear. He's covered in mud and hauling ass up the hill. With shoulders slouched we ask if he has a pump.
He smiles, "I do!" he says. He pulls over, hops off his bike, unhitches the small pump from his bike and runs over toward us.
"Thank you so much!" we say as we start pumping madly. We look up and he's still standing there. "Look, we don't want to hurt your time. You can finish the race. We'll find you afterwards," we offer. "What's your name?"
"No, no. No problem, no problem. Exact same thing happened to me last year in this race. Got a flat, didn't have the equipment. Someone gave me everything I needed. 35 minutes later I was back on my bike. No problem guys. Pay it forward. Pay it forward. My name's Glen."
Ten minutes later, miraculously, Tracy, Glen and I have resuscitated the bike. I flip the bike over and hop on the saddle. It works! Tracy and I are laughing hysterically as we start peddling. We can't believe it. We're off.
I can't believe I'm going to finish the race.
After that the rest of the race is a blur. There were only a few miles left of the ride. And the run seemed easy, even though it was straight uphill for the most part. I felt so grateful after the tire experience that I couldn't think of the pain of the race. It was like being given another life after being certain I was roadkill.
The next thing I know I'm crossing the finish line. Tracy crosses a few minutes after.
During my first triathlon, I experienced a wave of emotions on the first few miles of the run when I was away from everything and everyone. But this time was totally different. I felt this wave of emotions, not when I was away from people, but with people: during the freezing swim with Tracy; on the trail when three different people decided to forego their self-interest to help a stranger out; when I saw Tracy cross the finish line.
There's no doubt that triathlon's are individual feats and accomplishments. But the photo of that one person crossing the finish line is only a snapshot. It doesn't show the people who make that feat possible in this first place. It crops out the people who helped you with your flat. It cuts out those who get your ass out of the bed every morning and train with you everyday. It doesn't include the person who gave you the courage to do the triathlon in the first place by signing you up for an Xterra as a Christmas gift. It forgets those whose generosity allowed you to purchase the mountain bike in the first place.
There's so much to pay forward. I guess I'll start with helping the guy on my next race who's hitting his bike like a Chimp.
