I started and finished the race in a dead sprint. It started that way because of my stupidity. It ended that way because my manliness was called into question. And then, I nearly face-planted.
Pre-Race
It's not that I woke up late. I just didn't take into account how long everything takes between the drive, the bathroom pit-stops, the changing into and out of clothes, the registration, the transition station set up, and the wetsuit. We pulled into Granite Bay State Park in Folsom, Ca at 8:20am. The clouds were parting and the sun was breaking through. The air had a strong chill, but the warmth of the sun had a calming effect on my nerves. The race began at 9:00, but I was in no rush.
I took my time gathering everything from the heap of a laundry bin that had become the back of our car. Bag full of biking gear? Check. Towels? Check. Spandex? Check. Wetsuit? Got it. Everything seems to be in order.
I pull my head out and look to my left to see my cousin Jenny and
Jonathan. We embrace and shoot the breeze for a minute. The first thing Jonathan wants to see are my legs. Earlier in the week I told them they were shaved. But I lied, hoping that, this being his first triathlon and all, he would follow suit. He didn't. (Personally, I think he would have if he didn't have a bad case of poison oak on his left side.) Jenny and Jonathan had been at Granite Bay for at least an hour already. Jonathan had his transition station set up and was looking ready to roll.
I get back to getting everything in order. Then we head over to transition station to set up. Jonathan had carved out a nice spot for me right next to him. Tracy helps me organize while I run over to go check-in. I look down at my watch and see that it's 8:50. I have ten minutes before the race starts. Panic has not set in but is clearly on the horizon. I'm not in my wetsuit yet. I haven't checked in.
I run across the parking lot to the registration booth. I line up (there's no line at this time, obviously) under the "Last Name R-Z" sign. I tell the woman working, let's call her Nancy, in a hurried voice, that I need to register. Nancy gives me an odd look. I take this as her judging me for being here so late. Noted. Then she hands me two forms to fill out. In scrambled thoughts, I do not question this but just try to fill it out as quickly as possible. I figured they were just your standard release of liability forms. It takes me more than a few minutes to fill out, my scribble becoming less and less intelligible as time burns. I look up and see a different woman at the desk. I hand the woman, let's call her Linda, the forms and she looks it over.
"Okay, that will be $110 dollars please," Linda says.
"Oh, no. See, I've already paid. I registered online," I plead.
Linda rips the forms in half and gives me a look like I just called her daughter a fatty. "You needed to
check in, not register. You need to go over there."
I shuffle over and find Nancy. She asks what's wrong. I tell her that I already registered online. Nancy apologizes, realizing the miscommunication. A few seconds later, I hear Linda, who's a few feet away with her back turned to me, telling her co-worker something.
"Apparently, that guy can't read!" says Linda, with the tone of a bitchy eighth-grader. I see Linda's co-worker give her a "he's standing right there" look. Linda turns around and sees me. She starts walking away with an embarrassed look. I wanted to pull her hair and call her mean names. But instead, with Linda still in earshot, I accept Nancy's apology and tell her, "it's not your fault. I can't read."
I'm finally checked-in. I grab get my goodie-bag and race numbers, one for each leg of the event. I sprint over to the transition station where Tracy is helping to organize. It's 8:57.
"Three minutes until race time!" the man on the PA painfully reminds me. I don't say a word to Tracy. I start slathering Body Glide all over my legs, arms, and wrists, so the tight wetsuit can slide on easier and faster. It does.
"One minute till race time!" booms the voice from the PA.
I slide my booties over my feet, grab my head warmer and goggles. I give Tracy a smooch and she wishes me luck. I start sprinting down the hill toward the Lake.
The Swim
Apparently, the guy on the PA was lying. It was more like
two minutes until the race started. When I got down to the lake, amazingly, Jonathan and Jenny were the first two I saw. We snapped a few photos and began dialing in. The look of intensity on Jonathan's face helped me appreciate the moment. I thought to myself that's how I must have looked last year. But then I realized that part of where that look came from was knowing what we both learned a few months ago. A few months ago, the Washington Post published an
article about recent deaths in triathlon. The article detailed a few recent deaths that have taken place during the swim leg of the event and how they have been related to cold water, unclear water, and panic attacks. Not having done another triathlon since reading this article in November, I felt the anxiety sit hard in the pit of my stomach. Knowing that Jonathan had also read this article before having done a triathlon, I could only imagine where his thoughts were. (Especially since the person who had sent us this article was watching us from shore.) At least I knew what to expect. But even then, the swim kept me up at night. We resolved to take a slow start and stay together during the swim.
The whistle blew and everyone took off. As planned, we hung back a bit and treaded slowly into the icy 48-degree water, letting the vets lead the way. The two of us learned quickly, that once your head ducks into that cold of water, all thoughts of plan - or simply having any thoughts at all - go to shit. Within our first few strokes in the icy water, we had already lost track of each other. Between swallowing the choppy water when coming up for breath, the hyperventilation that automatically kicks in, the inevitable fogging of your goggles, the clamoring under, over and between your fellow swimmers, and the fact that every swimmer looks exactly the same, we quickly found it was impossible to swim together.
Once my breathing finally calmed from the initial shock of the cold, I was able to keep my head fully immersed in the water and settle into a normal swim stroke, coming up for air on my right side every other stroke. I attribute much of this quick adaptation to the cold to the ridiculous-looking hoodie head-warmer I purchased a few days before the race. (Imagine a 1920's football player's helmet but instead of leather it is made of mesh insulating material.) The booties on my feet were quite helpful too. In settling into a good pace, I found myself drifting to the right-side of the pack. This gave me some freedom from the group and stiller water to swim through. Before I knew it, I noticed the group moving closer to me. They were funneling closer and closer together into somewhat of a traffic jam. I looked up and realized we were rounding the orange buoy.
After rounding the buoy and feeling the field open up again, it finally hit me: I'm doing a fucking triathlon. Arriving at the race late and literally sprinting to the starting line had provided me with no time to think about the race or its significance. I couldn't get too amped or too nervous. It was like getting the call to pinch hit when the pitcher was already in his wind-up. No real strategy, just reaction.
As I head for the shore, and catch glimpses of the warm sun on each right turn for air, one calm stroke at a time, I appreciate how far I had come from last year.
The Bike
There is no better feeling than feet on sand. Honestly, I think the race could end right after the swim and most of us would be happy and proud. But of course it doesn't. So we enjoy the moment for a minute and then start running and stripping onward to the transition station.
When I got to my bike, noticing that Jonathan's bike was still here, I took my time changing out of my wetsuit and into my biking gear. I wanted to make sure Jonathan had made it out of the lake in one piece before I took off. A few minutes later, as I buckled the strap to my helmet and grabbed my bike off the rack, I saw Jonathan heading toward me in his half-stripped wetsuit. The look on his face conveyed what we were all feeling, like he had just gotten punched in the stomach while experiencing a horrendous brainfreeze. Or in his words, "That was the most horribly cool thing I've ever done in my life!"
I hopped on my bike and headed toward the trail. Within seconds, I was treading through deep puddles of mud surrounded by trees.
Here we go again, I thought.
A repeat of last year. A 16-mile trail ride that in effect equals 22 or 24 miles due to the conditions. The few days leading up to the event had experienced some hard rain, but I convinced myself that in no way could it be like last year, where it rained for two weeks straight leading up to the event.
I took my time with the first few climbs and descents, thinking that I will need every ounce of energy just to get through the ride. Each drop in, or each turn, I mentally anticipated a swamp that I'd need to drive through, making sure I took the right angle into each pit. But each time I anticipated the worst, I got something much better in return. Maybe a quick mud puddle or no puddle at all. Imagine that? On the first 8-mile lap I kept telling myself,
just wait for it. Just wait. There will be a tire-derailing rut packed with mud waiting to grab your tire and pull you to the ground. So don't get cocky. I didn't. But by the time I hit the second lap, I realized that my worries were in vain. It was all fine, nowhere near as bad as last year. Now? Enjoy this shit.
Just as I'm making my second lap and turning up the energy, I hear a voice yell from behind me, "Hey Anchorsteam!" I figured it was a guy who was just really into Anchorsteam. So I gave a nod in acknowledgement. But as the person rode up alongside me, I realized it was Jonathan! I was pumped. I was impressed with how much time he made up on the ride.
The next few minutes we set a great pace together with him leading the way and the guy who he was following throughout the first lap in front of him. The trail narrowed and I followed close behind.
The trail took a sharp right turn into a descent. We leaned into the turn and dropped in, gaining speed for the uphill climb that ensued. The sound of gears changing, pedals squeaking, and accelerated breaths drowned out the songs of the birds in the trees.
When our bikes became more and more vertical as the hill escalated, we each searched to find the right gear. In doing so, I hear Jonathan yell, "Shit!" I redirect my bike to the right of him and he nearly falls off his bike the left. I realize that his chain slipped. "You alright? Need anything?" I ask. "Fine! Go ahead!" Jonathan responds. I keep climbing. Moments later I pass the guy who was ahead of Jonathan. Now having a sense of the terrain on this second 8-mile lap, I take advantage of my newfound confidence and hit each turn harder and each hill faster. On the downhills, I feel like a downhill skier traversing trees and moguls. On the uphills, my pedals fly and my breath pants like I'm climbing Everest. The rest of the ride I spend alone.
This is one of the amazing things about competing in these Xterra events. The amount of time a racer can spend alone during the race is so unique to Xterra. I've never run a full marathon, but any photo I've ever see of a friend or family member running one, there is always a ton of people surrounding the runner, either those participating in the race or those cheering for the runners on the sidelines. Xterra races take place in relative obscurity. There is one or two photographers set up somewhere on the trail and the support staff is pretty much relegated to a half-mile radius around the transition station. I find this to be one of the best and worst things about these races.
This solitude is great because of the opportunity it presents for reflection. You can reflect on all the training that took place in preparation for the race or the things you overcame in order to get to this point. Or you can appreciate the beauty of the ever-changing tree-covered landscape and the sun reflecting off the lake and mountains. But I'm immediately reminded of the downsides of this solitude when I make my final stretch and see Tracy, her parents, and Jenny cheering me through the final stretch and onto the run.
The Run
I planned on running in my Vibrams. But my feet never recovered from the cold swim. When I clipped out of my bike and took off my biking shoes, I still couldn't feel my feet. They never had a chance to recover because every half mile throughout the ride there was a puddle that couldn't be avoided, and, as a result, my feet never dried. As I made the decision at the transition station to go with my running shoes instead, Jonathan was just pulling up on his bike. He saw that I was going with the running shoes. Needless to say, with me being an influence behind him getting Vibrams in the first place, he was disappointed. As was I, but I wasn't willing to risk it. As Jonathan fidgeted with his Vibrams, I took off toward the trail.
A mile later I was all alone and lost in thought. I was in an exhaustion-induced trance-like state, surrounded by trees with the lake to my left. My thighs and groins tightening on each climb and descent. A half-mile later, I had a running partner. Jonathan caught up with me and I couldn't have been happier. We set a good pace for what would turn out to be the rest of the run.
For what seemed like the longest four mile run of our lives, when we had some oxygen to spare, we tried to convey to one another how awesome this was. He thanked me for me inviting him. I thanked him for pushing me during the race and throughout the past four months. We passed a few runners, ran through a few more puddles, and prayed to see the finish line at the next turn. We agreed we would cross the finish line together. But just like our earlier agreement about sticking together during the swim, this plan also blew up.
We were on the final stretch with about a thousand yards to go. We both see the finish line and are keeping in lock-step. With about 150 yards to go, we hear my "buddy" on the PA. I anticipate that he is about to call out our names and numbers as we head in. Instead, we hear, "Hey, this isn't a running club! This is a race!"
Jonathan and I look at each other, and without saying a word, we smile and both take off on a full-on sprint. I hear the noise levels of the crowd increase with cheers and laughter. Fifty yards to go and we're in a deadlock. Jonathan pulls ahead slightly. Then I pull ahead. Then we're dead-even!
With five yards to the finish I lean my body weight forward to slightly edge him out. The cheers and laughter continues, but as I soon discover that I no longer have the leg strength left to stop my momentum, I prepare for a full face-first encounter with the dirt. The crowd's cheers turn to a concerned, "Ooooooohhh!"
Somehow, I manage to grab the shoulder of the volunteer worker who is coming for my number. Amazingly, and regrettably for the audience, I avoid the face-plant and my ego retains its pride.
Post-Race
During my last race,
last year in Tahoe, you'll recall, I was bailed out during the ride after my back tire went flat. I was helped by two guys who suppressed their own self-interest in order to help me get through the race. All that was asked in return was to "pay it forward."
So this race I was on the lookout. I had a spare bag full of equipment so I could help out last year's me. During the ride, anytime I saw someone pulled off to the side, I would ask, "Y'alright? Need some help?" The response was always the same, that they didn't need help. So when I finished the race and I hadn't come to anyone's rescue, I was kind of disappointed.
Then I went over to Jonathan as we packed up after the race. The first words out of his mouth were, "So, when's the next race?" He was buzzing. The look on his face said everything.
"I wanted to feel like an athlete again. I now feel like one again. Thank you."
Last year, my brother John gave me
a gift. Not just the Anchorsteam jersey, or the registration for the Folsom Xterra. He gave me the gift of triathlon, of feeling like an athlete again. This is a gift that Tracy and I have been able to share together. And now, I learned, without realizing it before, that I had passed that gift on.
So who's next?
