On My First Tri - Part I

*Originally written on 4.03.2011


Merry Christmas!

I rip open the bag, remove the packaging, and dig my hand deep into the gift bag.  Clutching the material, it feels like clothing.  But it feels different; somewhat meshy.  What could it be?  Gym shorts?  No.  That would be odd.  That would be an odd Christmas gift from my brother, with him knowing that I don't spend any time in the gym lifting weights anymore and all.  Is he trying to tell me something?  Do I need to be back in the gym, hitting the weights?  No.  He knows that for the past four months I've been working out harder than I ever have.  He knows I discovered swimming and have been hitting the pool twice a week.  He knows that I've been doing some sort of physical activity pretty much everyday of the week - running, mountain biking, road biking, yoga, even pilates.  So why the hell would John give me a pair of gym shorts?  

Okay. I've ruled out the gym shorts.  Well, what the hell is in this bag?  With the family watching, I pull out the piece of clothing.  

"This serves me right," I tell John, laughing.  "This is what I deserve for all the shit I gave you." 

I used to give my brother so much grief for his cycling outfits.  The skintight jerseys, the spandex, the spandex with suspenders ("the overall spandex"), the shaved legs, everything.  They provided me, a 215-pound ex-football player at the time, with endless ammunition.  

John and I were both living at home at the time.  He had discovered triathlons and was training incredibly hard.  I had discovered trail running.  I did some mountain biking a few times a week, but that was the extent of it.  I found great peace and joy in running and riding the trails by our house.  But there was no way you were getting me in anything skintight.  No spandex, no jerseys.  (If that were a bumper sticker, I would have had a few of them slapped on my car.)  I wanted nothing to do with it.  In fact, I was an active advocate for all things loose-fitting: sweatpants, sweatshirts, jumbo-tees.  I dressed for comfort, in sport and in life.  And loose-fitting clothes were comfortable.  Spandex and jerseys were not.   Due to the build that I developed through football - weighing 230 lbs as a senior on the football team - I felt and looked like a over-stuffed sack of potatoes whenever I wore anything remotely tight.  My shoulders were too wide and my legs were too big.  But now, I'm sitting there on Christmas morning some years later, a trim 190-pounder with football far in the rearview mirror, holding up my very own cycling jersey.  

Now, this might sound like it was some sort of cruel brotherly payback or gag gift.  But it wasn't.  This was a long time coming - about four months coming. 

I secretly longed for something like this to wear on my mountain bike rides.  But I didn't have the courage to buy the thing myself.  I knew, in the back of my mind, that John would have ruined me.  It was like a voice in the back of my head each time I made a step down this path.  When I made the switch, a few months back, from swimming in board-shorts, to swimming in speedos, I thought I had traded identities with someone from one of my nightmares.  There is no way I could tell John.  

Then I became paranoid.  When I'd change into the speedos and hit the pool, I had an ever-present, though hugely unfounded fear, that John might be there.  John might be there lurking on the opposite side of the pool, disapprovingly and self-satisfyingly shaking his head, telling himself in a snicker, "wow, what a loser."

"There's no way that could happen, dude," I would tell myself.  "John lives in DC, you live in San Francisco.  Just swim."  I would then feel confident enough to enter the pool area, dive in, and start swimming - with an occasional peak to see if John might be in the lane next to me.  But he wasn't.     

I kept swimming.  I kept running.  I kept mountain biking, doing yoga, doing Pilates.  I cut out the weights, feeling like swimming was a better replacement.  I ran a half marathon in October.  I was feeling good.  My clothes were no longer fitting.  My waist line went from a 36' to a 32'.  All my shirts were feeling baggy.  I was happy.  

But what was I doing this for?  Why was I working out so much?  I always felt pretty content with my body image.  I always worked out hard, but it was usually weight-room focused.  This always kept me looking somewhat inflated, like I just came off the line of scrimmage.  I was always pretty okay with that.  But why was I now doing all these different cardio workouts everyday?  Sure, the workouts relieved stress, gave me a sense of accomplishment, and made me feel more optimistic.  And sure, my girlfriend Tracy and I have great weekend outings on the mountain bike, which is a joy in itself.  But this didn't totally encapsulate why I was suddenly doing all this. 

I think it hit me during a swim.  

"I want to do a triathlon," I mumbled to myself, head still under water, bubbles coming up to the surface.  "Yepp. I want to push my body to its limits.  I'm only 24 and I'm only getting older.  I want to continue to challenge myself.  I want to complete this ultimate challenge.  I want to be a triathlete."

This idea didn't completely come out of nowhere - and I wasn't just high on chlorine.  After completing my first half marathon in October, I was energized.  I wanted more.  I loved the competition, the community, the accomplishment.  I wanted more.  

At the time, I was supplementing my law school reading with Jon Krakauer's book on Pat Tillman, "Where Men Win Glory."  I found Tillman's story endlessly inspiring.  He was never complacent.  He was always trying new things, always challenging himself in new ways.  Just for one small example, where mostly all NFL players take the off-season to regroup and lift some weights, Tillman ran a full 26.2 mile marathon.  In the following offseason, Tillman completed a full Ironman Triathlon.  Professional athletes just don't do this.  Tillman was unbelievable.  He jumped at every new challenge.  

Both consciously and subconsciously, Krakauer's book rubbed off on me.  But I didn't exactly vocalize my desire to do a triathlon to anyone outside of Tracy.  It was more of a secret goal.  It was more of a year-from-now type goal.  It was probably November of last year when I made this goal.  

So there I am on Christmas morning, sitting on the family couch, holding up this beautiful jersey.  Its mostly dark blue, with red sides, and "Anchor Steam Beer" written across the chest.  I love it.  This is the perfect jersey for me.  I hope it fits.  I put the jersey on my lap and flip it over front-side down, preparing to put it on.  As I do this, I realize that this is the first time I have seen the back.  It has the "Anchor Steam Beer" logo written across the back too and looks much the same as the front.  But there are these little pockets on the back of the jersey, and there is a folded piece of computer paper sticking out of it.  

I look up to John, thinking that this is the receipt of the jersey and I should give it back to him, in order to avoid the awkwardness of knowing how much he paid for it.  But when I look up, I see that everyone in my family is looking at me, kind of clenching their jaws with wry smiles.  My brow becomes furrowed as I look at John.  

"Uh, what is this?" I ask

"Open it up, dude."  John tells me. 

I unfold the computer paper.  I realize that it is some sort of email that John has printed out.  I read on. 

"Congratulations Douglas, you have successfully registered for the Real Xterra Mountain Biking Triathlon in Folsom Lake on March 27, 2011!!"  

My heart starts pounding.  I feel the blood quickly rise from my heart, to my neck, and straight to my face.  My hands become numb.  I look up and see my family.  Everyone's laughing, yelling.  They were all in on it.  They look like they are either preparing for the hugest mistake/disaster three months in advance, or are witnessing quite possibly the coolest thing ever.  As I sit there, looking at them, and back at the paper, looking at them, and back at the paper, I'm not sure which perception is more accurate.

"Holy shit, John," is all I can say feeling completely out of breath, excited, and most of all, terrified.

"Merry Christmas!"

The Epic Journey - Prague 2010

*Originally written on 6.28.2010

I’m usually not one for transcribing every minute detail of my day or few days.  I usually find that when I’m on the receiving end of those sort of letters I’m bored to tears and can’t help but wonder why this person would not just resort to a diary.  I am, however, making an exception in this case. 

Now, I don’t plan on detailing everything.  Because, again, I know this would bore me and I don’t want to bore you.  But the first few days/events of my trip were not typical days.   The sequence of events that follows will hopefully make you laugh and keep you entertained.   I realize it is quite long, but my hope is that you will it worth the read. 

Los Angeles Airport – 6:30 am. 

I arrive at the airport without a problem.  Everything’s going smoothly.  There was no traffic on the way over, I had my coffee, had a small bite to eat and experienced a pleasant bowel movement in the refreshingly clean airport bathroom.  So far, so good. 

I check in, check my bags, and move on to the security line.  This is where things begin to change.  The security line is absolutely out of control.  The line zigzags in and out, right and left, and extends about 30 yards outside.  Mind you, this is at 7:00 am on a Wednesday morning.  My flight is at 8:55 – plenty of time.  But still, I’m not totally happy about this situation.  My unhappiness stems from, obviously, the length of time I will have to wait in the queue and my eagerness to head to inch toward Prague.  But it also stems from the 60-plus year-old, Karl Rove look-alike, standing directly behind me.  This man is bitching like a child who needs a change of diaper.  Accordingly, I strap into my iPod, load up a playlist of MMJ, Wilco and Ryan Adams—“we’ll make it through this,” I convince myself.   

I continue to inch forward in the line.  Each step is a mini-victory against the evil forces of Karl Rove and his look-alikes.  As I continue to convince myself of this, basking in each glorious victory march, I am finally inside with four zigzags left until victory is wholly mine!

Reaching the inside is like a whole new world.  The line outside was your standard single-file.  But this, this is a whole new beast—four or five zigzags lines, with each row facing each other.   Now I finally get the opportunity to size up my opponents.  Who are these foes?  And why are they trying to interfere with my trip?  Okay, deep breathe.  I realize that treating the people in this line as adversaries is the wrong approach.  They are just like me.  Just trying to reach their destination peacefully and without haste.  New approach: we’re all in this together. 

With this new mind-set, I am immediately rewarded.  The line somehow seems to gain speed, which serves the purpose of getting me toPrague sooner as well as provides ample people-watching opportunities.  This new speed opens the door to a whole new set of people I had yet to use as fuel to keep me entertained.  As I scan the scene, its mainly families going on vacation.  It’s filled with incredible diversity—of age, race, status—which, I think, is the beauty of LA.  But as my end of the line meets the other end of the line, there’s one man who stands out amidst the diversity.  I can’t put my finger on it at first, but there’s something strangely familiar about his gait.  Do I know this man?  He’s an average sized African-American wearing big, purple-lensed sunglasses, a purple shirt and dark jeans.  What is it about this guy that’s seems so familiar?  I inch forward in my line.  He inches forward in his.  I will figure this out when we our lines converge. 

I knew it!  It’s Bub’s.  It’s Bubbles from The Wire.  My favorite character!  I knew I recognized that gait.  All my favorite scenes of his flashed in front of me.  He’s right there; literally right next to me.  What do I say?  Do I say anything?  No, I shouldn’t.  That would be embarrassing for both of us.  It would be embarrassing for everyone around us.  I’ll act like its normal, like I see actors all the time.  I am from LA right?  For the moment I decide I won’t say anything. 

Our lines continue to swivel.  Minutes later I realize that, if I want to say something, I have one last chance before he goes through ahead of me and is forever gone.  I feel like I need to say something intelligent, interesting, and hopefully funny.  If anything it must be something that is ‘above’ what a normal celebrity-stunned person would say.  Act normal, ya know?  My window of opportunity is closing.  This is it.  He’s to my immediate right, two feet away.  Before I can even plan what to say, out it comes. 

“Buuubbbbsssss..” 

Buubbsss? What the fuck?  That’s your intelligent, smart, witty comment?  This is bad.  Real bad.  I wait.  I look over.  He looks back. Through his purple-lensed shades I see his eyes.  We make brief eye contact.  He says nothing.  Then nods in acknowledgment and moves on through security.  He vanishes. 

By the time this all settles in my mind, I am through security and safely boarding my plane.   We’re about to take off.  This is going to be an interesting trip. 

LAX—8:55 am. 

We’re about to take off.  We’re on the runway and everything seems to be in order.  All we need to do is gain some speed and we’ll be off.  There should be no problem making my connecting flight in Atlanta.  After all, it’s just a five-hour flight and my flight to Prague doesn’t leave Atlanta until 5:45 pm.  I have should have about two hours between the time that I land in Atlanta and the time my flight takes off.  Kevan Warren will be on this flight from Atlanta to Prague too.  He has the entire itinerary; including where we are supposed to go after we land in Prague.  This adds to my desire of making this flight.  No problem.

There was a problem.  Just before take-off, the plane turns around.  It seems to be heading toward the gate.  Why?  The captain gets on the PA, in the typical calm and measured monotone voice of pilots, and informs us of a medical emergency onboard.   Once we’re back at the gate, the LA Fire Department surrounds the plane and jumps on board.  They head to the back of the plane.  I see them wheel a tattooed guy out of the plane, who seems to be about in his twenties.  There was a buzz on the plane speculating that he had a seizure.  I’m pretty sure they were right, judging by his catatonic position he struck as they wheeled him out.  I felt terrible for this man. 

The fire department was incredibly efficient in carrying this man off the flight.  I thought how lucky we were to have this happen to the man before take-off as opposed to being in the air.  I didn’t even begin to question the length of this delay.  That is until the pilot got on the PA again to inform us, in an unusually exasperating voice, of a mechanical malfunction of the plane that they hadn’t noticed earlier. Okay.  Scary.  This ends up tacking on an extra hour to the already forty-five minute delay.   I’m starting to crunch the minutes.  Panic is setting in. 

We finally take off at 10:45 am.  Leaving at this time essentially puts me in limbo—I’m not sure whether I am going to make my connecting flight or not.  The pilot, back to his normal calm, casual monotone voice, doesn’t seem to think any of us will miss our flight.  I feel encouraged. 

We land in Atlanta at 5:25 pm.  I want to jump out of my skin!  I’m about 25 rows back and want to use every person’s head as a lily-pad and leap from one head to another, beating everyone out of the plane.   Unfortunately, I don’t have such agility or grace.  I forced to resign and wait.  I’m freaking out.  It’s me against the world again. 

I finally make it out of the plane.  It’s 5:35.  It’s a mad scramble.  Apparently, half of my flight is late for connecting flights as well.  I don’t care.  I’m at terminal A.  I learn from a glance at the jumbo screen that I need to go to gate E, which is at the complete opposite side of the airport.  I start sprinting in all directions.  Where is gate E?  How do I get there? 

A tram appears out of nowhere.  I climb aboard.  It’s heading to E.  Yes.  I’ve got this!  I’m counting down the minutes.  At this point it’s 5:42.  I get off the tram at gate E.  I learn that I still have about 500 yards to get to gate A 01.  I’m in a dead sprint.  Up an escalator, past three Starbucks’, absolutely booking it.  I can feel the 94-degree heat of Atlanta seeping through the airport windows.  I’m wearing a grey shirt, jeans and sandals.   I feel the sweat building.  The clock is ticking.  I feel a strange sense of euphoria.  This is going to be epic.  I am going to make this.

I arrive at the gate at 5:46.  My euphoria devolves into instant depression.  My plane, along with Kevan Warren, is slowly leaving the gate.   I can’t believe it.  Why couldn’t they hold up for five minutes?  It was the same airline.  I want to punch my calm, reassuring pilot in the nose.  Why did he lead me on?  I will never fly Delta again. 

Atlanta—Wednesday, 6:45 pm.

“This is the last place on earth I want to be.”  I come to this conclusion while I’m waiting for my shuttle from the Atlanta airport to my Days Inn Hotel, as sweat finds it way to new places and comes from places I didn’t know I could sweat from.  No matter how much shade I am under, I am a relentless fountain.  This is hell.  Yepp, no need to philosophize any further: the Atlanta airport is the 9^th circle of hell. 

I am waiting for this shuttle because I had no other option.  There was no other flight to Prague that day.  I had to stay one full night in Atlanta until noon the following day.  From there I would fly from Atlanta at 12:20 into NY-JFK; then from NY to Prague.  My luggage would stay with Delta and I would be stuck in my same outfit for the next 48 hours.  Oh well.  At least I got business class from NY to Prague, not to mention three meal vouchers for exclusive dining of fine Atlanta airport cuisine (KFC, Panda Express, and McDonalds).

I decide I will head to the hotel and get a good night’s sleep.  I figured I’d watch some baseball, have a drink, head to bed then be back at the airport by 10:30 am.  I figured there couldn’t possibly be any other interruptions to this simple plan. 

I get to the hotel and it is hideous.  It’s a two-story shack that is a clearly a motel, not a hotel.  I proceed to check in.  I’m on the second floor in room 229.  I begrudgingly trot up the stairs and I’m at my room.  Exhausted, I slide the plastic credit card key into the door.  The door opens.  “Yes,” the room is a nice size with two beds, a TV and air conditioning.  Perfect. 

But before I can take my second step into the room, I am startled by movement on my left.  Everything is blurry for a few seconds. Then when my eyes settle, I realize that there is a half-naked Indian man in my bathroom.  From what I can make out, he is wearing a black dress shirt and some sort of top hat.  But what is more significant is what he is not wearing: pants.  Startled, he pulls up his pants, looks to me, and before I can say anything, he asks, “are we sharing?”  Stumbling backwards, I quickly back out of the room, head down the stairs and run to the front desk.  I’m pissed. 

“You’re telling me I have to share a room?!”

“What do you mean?  No, of course not.  What do you mean ‘share a room’?”

“There’s a half-naked Indian man in my bathroom!”

“Holy shit.”

At this moment I completely lose it.  I realize that a) I don’t have to share a room and b) this is one of the funniest things I’ve ever experienced.  This situation continues to get funnier because the man at the front desk is trying to maintain professionalism by not laughing, but cannot contain himself.  It’s like when you’re in church or class and someone farts or does something hilarious—the fact that you can’t laugh makes it that much funnier.  Hilarity ensues: the man has no idea how the Indian guy got into the room.

I don’t stay to enquire further, I just want my room and bed; and preferably not with another man.  I get a new room.  After searching the room and bathroom, and finding it empty, I find the bed and remote.  Goodnight Atlanta. 

Atlanta—10:35 am, Thursday; Days Inn (M)otel

“Uh, Hello?”

“Good morning, I am calling to inform you that check out time is 11:00 am.”

“... Huh?”

…

I hang up.  SHIT!  How did I sleep so long?  Where was my wake-up call?   I was supposed to get a wake-up call at 8:30!  Oh no.  Oh no.  I’m going to be stuck in Atlanta forever.  How did this happen?  Oh no.  It was because of the Indian man!  The guy at the front never switched the wake-up call from my original room to the new room! 

I storm downstairs.  I bark at the person at the front desk and they quickly get me a shuttle.  I hop on the shuttle and can’t believe the adrenaline that I already have after having been awake for only 5 minutes.  I’m terrified that I’m not going to make my flight.  A few minutes into the shuttle ride I realize that there is a couple sitting behind me.  This couple, as well as the driver, is African-American. They are all pretty ghetto.  I was so focused on my own situation that I didn’t realize that the guy behind me was in the middle of relaying a story to the driver.  I start listening.  This man is clearly upset.  I start putting together the pieces of his story.  Apparently, he had an altercation with the Indian woman who worked at the front desk.  This altercation stemmed from something that this man had done to their motel bathroom toilet.  I guess what this man did to the toilet caused some serious flooding; there was an argument; she called the police; and he was now kicked out of the hotel.  The best part of the story was this bit that he relayed:

“Man, she told me that she’s been in the hotel business for 20 years and hadn’t seen anything like this.  And I was like, man, well I been in da business of shitting my whole life!  It ain’t me lady, it’s your shitty plumbing!”

We all laughed.  I then told them my story of the half-naked Indian man.  We all laughed hysterically.  I think I cheered them up.

But I can only imagine what was in that toilet. 

Atlanta Airport—Thursday, 12:20 pm

I flew through security and found my gate.  Luckily, I had no bags to check.  Unluckily, I was wearing the same clothes and had not showered.  I wanted to apologize to every person I walked or sat by.  I boarded the plane and we were off. 

One of the most interesting things about being on a flight out of Atlanta to NY is scoping out the reading material of the passengers. As I looked around, it seemed that seventy-five percent of my fellow passengers were reading the Bible.  My first thought was, would they be reading this if they were flying into a different state?  Is this a Southerners way of saying, ‘I apologize, Lord, for stepping foot into such a godless place as liberal New York’?  I don’t know.  Probably not.  But the thought occurred to me again when I overheard the flight attendant saying to her co-worker that Obama was “a communist, Muslim, who was probably praying to Allah in the White House right now!”

Everything from here on out went seamlessly.  No delays, no problems.  I was finally on my way to Prague after an eventful 48 hours. 

Prague—Friday, 8:45 am and on.

The great thing about Prague is that it seems to me that everyone speaks English.  Having not even the slightest clue of how to say something as basic as ‘hello’ in Czech, this is huge.  In fact, I’m pretty embarrassed that I have been making zero effort to even say something in Czech to start a conversation.  Instead, I shamelessly waive the white flag of surrender, smile and start speaking English.  Maybe my attitude toward this will change, but probably not. 

Things have worked out great since I landed here.  I was able to meet up with Kevan with incredible ease.  We’ve been walking around the city non-stop, stopping to grab a beer and watch a World Cup game when there’s an opportunity.  The city is stunning.  All of the buildings are ancient with people flooding every street.  It’s all a bit overwhelming at this point.

We are currently staying at a local Czech law student’s apartment until the dorms open up on Monday.  I’m looking forward to getting settled and starting the mediation class. My frame of reference for time is still all screwed up because of the time difference and jet lag.  I think that getting in a routine will help. 

So far the weather has been perfect.  It’s been sunny, warm, humid but not too hot b/c of a consistent breeze.   The days are loongg. The sun rises around five and doesn’t get dark until 10 pm.  The food is not much to write home about.  Kevan is a big fan of it though, the goulash in particular.  He ate it for both of his meals yesterday.