So that’s the course.
Now, last year was a fiasco, embarrassing even for a
wannabe. My classification was “Master
Clydesdale.” That sounded really
cool. But my time wasn’t so hot. I finished the race with the second slowest time
of the entire field. The race has a
timed start, meaning that there is no mass of humanity splashing and churning
at the start, fighting for breath and life.
No, this kinder, gentler start has two athletes diving in every 15
seconds. The staggered start means that
the first one across the finish line is not necessarily the winner. Similarly, the last one across the line may
not be the real loser. Well, in 2011,
they were closing down the course while I was still “running.” I provided a sense of relief to the staff, as
I crossed the finish line, and I enjoyed a significant sense of
accomplishment. There were a few of
runners behind me, so I had hopes that my race time might place me in respectable
position.
Mercifully, I did not know how poorly I compared until I saw
the results later, on line. I quickly
remembered that I had an excuse—my bicycle.
This mountain bike was never intended to speed along lovely rural
roads. It was made for jumping roots and
puddles. The racing bike I had borrowed
developed a flat tire about 12 hours before the race; so I was stuck with my
fat-tired, 20 pound two-wheeler.
And there was another issue—I had not trained well enough. I discovered this problem while panting for
breath, barely 3 minutes into the event, staying afloat with the elementary
backstroke. The spotters in kayaks leaned
over, ready to save me from drowning, asking me if I were OK. I survived all 750 meters with no help, but I
was a whipped pup with 17.7 miles to go.
On the next leg people passed me like a kid on a trike. One woman expressed sympathy for me and my
equipment. When it was time to run, I
ended up walking a whole lot. But I did
cross the finish line, hearing my name and age announced to the few remaining spectators. Time: 2:16:46.
So, the stage was set for my heroic attempt this year. I have been doing more training, especially
cardio workouts, more strength training, and more serious swimming. I also bought a refurbished road bike, just
for the occasion.
I signed up as a novice (no more Master Clydesdale), so my
start time was near the end. That way I
could do most of the passing for a change, a clever tactic recommended by my
runner friend Ed. I aired up my tires to
110 pounds of pressure. I got all my
gear ready for my transitions.
 |
| Finishing the swim uphill, past the algae. Photo by Sarah Bailey |
At the bike racks next to me was another 50-year-old doing
his first triathlon. I gave him a few
pointers, as if I were a seasoned pro.
He appreciated it so much that he beat me in the race—but only by a
couple of minutes. I smoked him in the
swim, and then he passed me at mile 1 of the 5k. That’s when I slowed down to a walk for a few
hundred yards. I never did catch up with
him.
As I gave up hope of passing him, I remembered that I really
wanted to finish under two hours. I
imagined the devastation of missing that goal by a minute or two. With no watch to guide me, I decided to push
as hard as I could, running downhill for that last half mile.
The announcer called out my name, age and hometown as I ran
across the finish line. The event clock
there told me that I had come in well below two hours. I felt good, in a sweaty, worn out way. My wife and daughter greeted me and brought
me some water. I found my new triathlon
friend and congratulated him in an accusing sort of way.
I finished at 1:53:49.
Yes!
I’m not real sure why I ran this race. But I do know that some children around the
world will benefit. I got a few sponsors
to donate to World Vision, to help with education, to buy chickens, and to
support orphans.
Yep. It was worth it.
