On My First Tri - Part III

*Originally written on 4.15.2011


The Swim

I'm not sure if it's the sound or the cold that hits first.  No, it's the sound.  It's definitely the sound.  The sound of one-hundred people sprinting into an open body of water is unlike anything I've ever heard.  It almost sounds like the roar of a crowd of thousands, but it's so uniform and haunting. 

Five seconds ago the lake looked so peaceful and still.  Now, as the hundred of us are charging through it's shore and into it's body, it sounds - and feels - so violent.  I can't hear the person next to me.  I can't hear my own thoughts.  I can't see the blue of the water, only the white-water that we've all created.  Soon, as we continue to drive forward, I can't see the people in front of me.  One by one, they start diving in head-first like penguins.  The water is getting close to my waist.  I follow suit, dive head-first, and flail my arms forward and kick madly.  

The next nine minutes that follow are both the longest and shortest nine minutes of my life.  In these nine minutes, I range from thoughts of excitement and bliss, to thoughts of terror and possible failure; from thoughts of ecstasy, to thoughts of death (my own).

When I finally dive in, I realize, for one, that I can't see.  I can't see anything.  Where is the blue line at the bottom that I use as a guide in the pool?  This feels like running into oncoming traffic with a bucket covering your head.  It's totally scary.  When my head is submerged in the lake water, I'm completely blind.  I hear people flopping all around me.  I feel people crawling on my legs.  I think I just kicked someone.  Yea, I definitely kicked someone.  I can only see when I roll my head to the right to suck in some air above water.  Now seeing, I can't believe how cramped it is.  My heart is pumping so fast I can feel it in my throat.  I'm so out of rhythm.  I'm completely out of breath.  The water is absolutely freezing.  The wake that these hundred people are making feels like paddling out into an oncoming set of waves that come at all angles.  It is relentless.  And I'm only a minute in.  

Panic sets in.  For a moment, I'm convinced that this is how it ends.  Not just the triathlon, but possibly me.  One minute into the triathlon and I'm done.  I'm positive that I'm going to wake up in one of these red emergency kayaks back on shore, with Tracy and her parents hovering above me, looking down at me scared, sad and sorry for me.  I'll have to make up an excuse for what happened, for why I failed so miserably.  Hypothermia?  That might work. 

My voice of reason and strength kicks in, telling me to relax, that all is fine.  It tells me that I've swam a mile and half without stopping; that this is nothing.  I back it up a bit and regain composure.  But this doesn't mean I can stop - I'll sink or get run over.  I switch from freestyle to breaststroke, hoping to catch my breath and gain some rhythm.  Breaststroke allows me to keep my head above water for a little while longer and take deeper breaths with longer glides/floats.  Bringing my head above water, I realize how unbelievably freezing the water is.  It's like submerging my head into a cooler full of ice each time I dunk my head in for the stroke.  I feel pathetic doing the breaststroke, but then I look over to my right and see a guy floating along on his back, his arms flopping up and down in the air and into the water.  Oh my God, that guy is doing the backstroke.  At first, I muster up a small laugh to myself.  There's something about the backstroke that seems so lazy, or Homer Simpson-like.  But then I realize that I want to punch this guy in the face.  Is he showing me up?  I can't let this guy get ahead of me.  Not with the backstroke.  I switch back to freestyle.  

I still can't really catch my breath, and it doesn't even feel like I'm swimming fast.  The problem is, I can't hear myself when I pop my head to the right, just above water to inhale.  I can usually hear myself sucking in air when I'm in the pool.  Am I even breathing now? Having my own lane in an olympic sized pool did not prepare me for this.  I'm regretting never having done an open water swim before this race.  John, why didn't you warn me of this?  I'm hating you right now.  

I keep swinging my arms and kicking like mad.   I get to the buoy and circle around it.  We are heading back to shore.  I'm halfway there.  I make the turn around the buoy and my goggles fog up completely.  Now I can't see when my head is above water too.  I pull up the goggles with my right hand and put them I'm on my forehead.  I keep swimming freestyle.  I figure I couldn't see anything with the goggles on anyway.  I finally start to get into a rhythm when I look forward to see people are starting to emerge from the water on their feet.  The land can't come soon enough.  

I stop my freestyle to step down to touch the land.  I've never felt so happy to be on land.  I see people running out of the water and up the shore.  When the water is at my ankles, I start running up the shore, toward the transition.  I look down at my watch and it reads, "10:09."  I have to look at it twice to make sure that isn't an error.  It always takes me 18 minutes to swim a half-mile in the pool.  I never go faster or slower.  It's always 18 minutes.  I just swam that in 9 minutes?  Holy shit.  No wonder I couldn't catch my breath.  

I can't feel my hands or feet, but I keep running.  I see Tracy and her parents.  Trace shouts, "Start stripping!"  I was confused for a second - I mean, her parents are right there.  But then I look around and it dawns me - the people running next to me are unzipping their wetsuits as we run toward the transition station.  I keep running and start unzipping.  

The Bike

I get out of wetsuit and change into my cycling gear.  I hop on my bike and head for the trail.  My head is still in a fog from the freezing water.  I still can't feel my feet or hands.  But all in all, I'm happy to be on land and on my bike.  I'll warm up in a few miles.  Mountain biking and running are my comfort zone, I've been doing them for years.  Tracy and I have been riding trails with 2-hour climbs.  I'm feeling good. Here we go.  

The trail seems nice, but it's thin and tight.  It's a single track, which means single-file riding, no side by side, which might make for some interesting passes.  I cleanly swerve around the first muddy-puddle, trying to stay clean and regain warmth.  

A few minutes in, I realize the idea of dancing around the muddy puddles is hopeless.  The mud is everywhere.  Today might be free of rain, but the previous two weeks saw non-stop downpour. Every corner I turn, every hill I climb, every hill I descend from, there is a massive swamp waiting to greet me, each one different from the other.  One has a few boulders hidden from plain sight, waiting to derail your front tire (or your girlfriend's) and send you over the handle bars; the other has mud that is mixed with sand creating quicksand that can plunge your tires two-to-three feet under ground.  

I've never dealt with anything quite like this.  So, at first, I approach these swamps with timidity. I figure if I go slowly enough through them, I'll make it to the other side.  I test this theory.  I approach a new swamp, tap the brakes and slowly enter.  My bike comes to a dead stop.  I quickly unclip my right foot from the pedal and step to the right before tipping over.  My whole right leg is swallowed by the mud, up to my kneecap.  I quickly struggle to pull my leg out before causing a pile up of bikes.  The guy behind me just swerves around me to the left.  He manages to yell out as he rides by, "Wooo!  Happened to me a mile ago!  Whole leg swamped!  Right on!"  Then he's gone.  These people are crazy.  But I'm beginning to love them.

I developed a new game plan.  I have to set my bike into a high gear when approaching the swamps and drive my legs as hard and as fast as I can.  It worked.  

Every mile there were about seven to ten of these swamps.  And making it through each one was harder than climbing any steep hill that can be thrown at you.  But my game plan worked.  I would psyche myself up each time I came up to one of these monsters.  I pumped my legs like I was driving a sled at football practice.  I was like a running back driving through the middle, getting hit from both sides.  I had to stay low.  I had to focus on my breath.  I had to be aware of my core, of my balance.  But most importantly, I had to keep pumping my legs.  I did not anticipate this.  I didn't feel prepared for this particular situation.  But football had actually prepared me perfectly for this.  I survived.  I made it through the ride - even without brakes.  And with a few good stories. 

A lot of people's brakes wore out.  Mine wore out half way through the ride.  The water, mud, grass, rocks, and sand had all taken its toll on our bikes.  I guess this sort of thing is just expected.  I thought it had something to do with my lack-luster care of my bike throughout the years.  But I didn't realize that I wasn't alone until I pulled off to finally take a pull of gatorade after a steep climb.  Pulling off, I hear a guy climbing up the hill.  He is huffing and puffing.  He gets to the top and stops for a second next to me.  

"I'm fucking cramping up, man" he says, sucking wind.  "This mud is ridiculous, man! And, my damn brakes are completely shot!  Oh well, almost there.  See ya man.  Looking great."  He heads off down the hill while I look on without being able to say much.  I put the gatorade back in the holder and hop back on the bike.  I'm behind my new friend as we charge down the hill.  He's a good space ahead of me.  I'm starting to wonder if I heard him wrong, because he doesn't look like someone who doesn't have brakes.  He's flying down this hill and looks in control.  But then again, we haven't had to make a turn yet, it's all been straight away.  But, oh, there's a sharp right turn ahead.  This will be intere...

Before I can finish the thought, my new friend is ejected from his seat like a missile.  He is five feet in the air, flying off the cliff and into the bushes, while his bike makes the right hand turn without him.  He looks like a frightened squirrel making his first leap from one tree branch to another, his arms and legs completely sprawled out.  I probably wouldn't have laughed if it weren't for him screaming "ooooooooohhhhh  shhhhheeeeiitttt!!!" as he flew off the grid.  

Not being able to stop myself, I yelled out my own vocal life-vest, asking if he was alright.  He said he was.  I kept on down the hill making the right hand turn, dodging his bike.  

The Run

My legs are complete jelly by the time I get off my bike and change.  My hamstrings and quads feel like a wrench is clenched around them, tightening at each movement. The bike ride alone took about two hours, and now I have four miles of trail running left.  I know I can do four miles, but after that ride I'm beginning to worry about cramping and injury.  My legs have never experienced this.  I hope the hills aren't too bad.

I hit the trail and actually feel okay.  I feel strong, but it's probably because it's flat right now.  I pass a few handful of people.  I pass a guy who is completely cramped up, holding his hamstring.  He keeps me aware of the possibility of injury.  I shouldn't push it.  I should stay within myself and remember that my goal is just to finish this thing.

I get about a mile and a half into the run and I'm completely alone.  The trail is beautiful: there are endless trees covering me; there is a stunning view of the lake on my left; there are birds chirping.  The trial has some serious inclines and descents - and still more mud.  I'd always heard of people getting emotional during long endurance events, such as marathons or Ironman.  I'd seen these people on television crying as they came close to the end - as they ran across the finish line, or with five miles left, or whenever.  But I didn't think that would happen to me.   

I didn't think I'd be a few miles away from finishing my first triathlon and have tears coming down my face.  I didn't think the race would take that much out of me to even get me to that place.  But it did.  Or maybe it wasn't what the race did to my body, but something else.  Maybe it was that I could suddenly see clearly.

The race had finally cut through everything and brought everything to light.  It brought me to the point of seeing how much my life has changed in the past five years.  The race allowed me to finally see clearly.  It allowed me to see how one simple purchase of a mountain bike could so drastically alter the course of my life.  

The emotions came rushing.  All of the sudden I could see myself in the bike shop buying the bike with John and my mom in 2006.  I could see how unhappy and confused I was when I moved home and changed colleges.  I could feel the joy of my first ride with John.   I could see my dog Mollie running through the trails with me, as she was who I first discovered trail running with, but who died exactly a year from this day.  I could see all the memories I had on the trails at home; all the self-knowledge I gained there that led me to philosophy, to law, to San Francisco, to Tracy, to swimming, to this moment.  It was a surreal moment.  

After thinking about this for a few weeks now, the best explanation I can come up for what this was like is this: it is probably the closest thing I'll get to what its like when you're life flashes in front of your eyes.  But, luckily in this case, I didn't die right after this moment.  Well, I did still have a few miles left, so you never know.  

After I went through this rush of emotions, I cleaned up my face and kept charging forward.  The trail took us out of the woods and onto a fire-road/public street for a minute.  Tracy's dad Dale pulled up next to me on his bike for a minute, asking if I needed some water.  I did.  And lucky for me, it was after I had pulled myself together, so I didn't have anything that needed explaining, or did I risk losing any manliness points.  

A few miles later, and a few climbs later, I was in the final one-hundred yards of the race.  There was a guy in front of me who had to pull off to the right of the trial.  He looked like he was either getting pumped full of electricity or had the bad luck of having some voodoo spell cast upon him.  His body was in full-on spasms.  He looked like a rubber man trying to run.  He had debilitating cramps. I worried I might suffer from the same fate. 

I charged forward.  I was going to make it.  

I crossed the finish line at my strongest pace yet, with Tracy and her parents there waiting and encouraging.  

I was euphoric. 

Finishing Thoughts

After the race, it all made sense.  I finally understood why people subject themselves to this sort of masochist event and lifestyle.  It's not just about you, or your own personal sense of accomplishment - while that is one super important reason, its not the only one.  

Its the community.  Its about the lifestyle and the camaraderie. 

As we get older, more set it in our ways, and more narrow in the bubble of people we interact with, there is a growing disconnect between yourself and others.  Unless we grew up together, work together, or go to school together, it becomes increasingly difficult to talk about anything other than the weather, sports, or the news.  

With triathlon, there is an immediate connection.  The person swimming next to you, riding next to you, or running next to you, lives a similar lifestyle as you.  Even if that person is a construction worker, while you are a surgeon, you can connect.  When I was climbing up a steep, muddy hill, the guy behind me wasn't hoping I would fail.  He was shouting at me to "keep driving!" and encouraging me when he said I was "almost there!"  He knew that I was suffering just like he was.  He knew that I worked hard every day for a few months to even attempt this.  There is a mutual respect.  When I got passed up on the muddy trail by a guy with a prosthetic leg, I wanted to cry.  I wanted to know his story.  I wanted to hug him.  I wanted him to win.

With triathlon, a conservative police officer and a liberal public defender can talk about riding through the mud with the same level of excitement as they would when they were five-year olds on the playground.  I think that, at its core and at its best, that is what people are striving for when they attend a church regularly, a connection to the others around them.  

I can't know how many triathlons I will be able to complete, but I know I want more.  And not just for the personal accomplishment, but for everything that its brings.  

Thank you, John.