C.: Well, dc. Is busy with his class, and I don’t feel like talking to myself today. I’ll just read chapter ten of d.c.
scot’s manuscript for BEYOND THE THIRTEENTH MILE” THE IRON MAN CHRONICLES. It’s called
CHAPTER 10: HAND GRENADES AND HORSESHOES
1440: Bike leg; mile 100:
Even if I don’t finish this race, I’m very close to finishing the bike course. I picked up some speed coming down Sugar Mountain that time. I remember seeing 48 before the computer conked out. I guess that Gatorade shower did it in. Wait, it’s back up now. It will tell me what my maximum speed was if I just push this button. What?! 56?! If I’d wiped out going that fast, I might not have survived, nor would I want to. I might not have survived, either, if I had tried to slow down. It would have been too risky. I just let the brakes go. I was more likely to wipe out riding them than doing that. It would have been bad to wipe out doing either, though. (And I definitely wouldn’t have finished this race, although I’m getting close.) That doesn’t count, however, in this situation.
These races can be frustrating, especially if you come close to finishing but don’t. What’s the old expression about coming close not counting? I don’t want to think that way right now (or on my first attempt at finishing a one-half Ironman distance triathlon); it’s too discouraging. I just want to get to the transition area and rest. Then I’ll decide if I can finish this race. I guess that’s part of the reason why I do this. Taking risks is part of life. These races are just microcosms of real life. The difference is, if you don’t finish what you set out to do in real life, there is no sense of accomplishment…
***
There’s an old expression stating that coming close only counts when you’re tossing hand grenades or horseshoes. I disagree with this statement. I believe that, if you attempt something extremely difficult and come close to succeeding, you at least deserve some credit for trying.
My first one-half Ironman distance triathlon was only my second attempt at an "extreme sport," with the X’Terra being the first. I was not well prepared for what either event entailed…
***
The adventure started with a grueling 12-1/2-hour drive from Brazos to Lubbock, Texas, beginning at the stroke of midnight on Friday. Nicole and I stopped by Luke's house to pick him up after he’d had the sum total of one hour of sleep (which wasn’t an ideal way for him to spend his birthday).
With Luke sound asleep in the back seat, Nicole took the first few hours at the wheel. When Luke felt alert enough, he took over at the wheel. By the time it was my turn at the wheel, we were driving through the steep hills that would serve as a precursor to the bike leg of the racecourse.
We arrived, overtired, only to find that our hotel room wouldn’t be ready for about two hours, at best. Even after eating our pre-race meal and picking up our race packets, we still had a short wait.
I can never relax the night before a race, so Nicole suggested that we all take in a movie. Luke declined, but Nicole and I enjoyed an evening out. The arid climate (the direct opposite of the climate to which we were accustomed, as Greater Houston is infamous for its humidity), combined with the fact that we were all sleeping in strange beds, made us all uncomfortable. This, in turn, made for a fitful night of sleep for each of us.
Buffalo Springs Lake, where the triathlon was held, is a spring-fed lake and, even in late June, the water temperatures stay in the 60s. Since it’s legal to wear a wetsuit when water temperatures are below 78° F. in USAT (United States of America Triathlon) sanctioned events, I had brought my wetsuit along. This also helps to increase buoyancy, and I needed all the help I could get on this swim. (Everyone who has ever swum this course believes that the course is measured long. I share this opinion.) Add to this the fact that my shoulder was still far from being healed despite taking a "trigger point" cortisone injection in it (a term that is quickly becoming an overused one in my vocabulary), and you have a recipe for disaster.
I started two waves (or about ten minutes) behind Luke and didn't see him until about six hours later. I choked at the start of the swim, much like at the first open water wave swim I attempted. As a result, I swam the course very cautiously, finishing at the back of my wave. After being in the water for over an hour, my legs were a little fatigued, which made climbing the first of several hills with a 10-13% grade very difficult. The location of this particular hill (climbing out of the transition area) didn't help much either.
I remembered some of the hills on the bike course from our journey into Lubbock. I was now attempting to climb some of the same hills that Luke's truck had trouble climbing—on a bicycle! I personally believe that the race directors went to a little too much trouble to include these hills in the bike course!
Since it was a dry, arid day, many of the farmers and ranchers decided to make hay on this particular Sunday morning, setting my hay fever into forceful action. I got off my bike with my legs cramping and my nose bleeding, but I still thought I could walk the 13.1-mile run course in the three hours I had left to finish under the time limit.
As I headed out to begin my "run," Luke was finishing his. His wave was staged before mine, but he was still far ahead of me in terms of total time for the race.
The concern I saw in Luke's face as he examined mine did alarm me, but I hadn't come this far to quit. Sunburned, bloody-nosed, and cramping from dehydration, I was still determined to finish the course, which wasn’t the brightest of thoughts at this point. It was not to be. Even breaking out of a walk into a "death trot" caused severe pain in my legs. I was definitely on my last leg, as my pathetic run splits testified. Seeing people fall over into the grass added to the mental strain. When the officials began to tear down the finish line, they sent out volunteers to locate the stragglers. The time limit had expired, and the course was officially closed. I was one of the stragglers trying desperately to beat the time limit.
Many of the volunteers tried to encourage us by telling us that we were close to the finish line. (See author’s note in chapter two.) We weren't, however, tossing either hand grenades or horseshoes. It wouldn't have counted even if we had finished the course.
I wanted to just finish the course very badly, though, and began to believe some of the shortsighted individuals. When a man and a woman in a pickup informed me that Nicole and Luke were looking for me and that they were both concerned, I knew it was over. We all had other responsibilities, and it was time to admit defeat.
"Get in," said the driver, "it's over two miles to the end."
"No," I said, “the volunteers told me it was less than a mile."
"Bull! I've done this course enough to know where I am," said the driver, a man in his 60s. That took the last little bit of hope out of me, and I got in the pickup, still not wanting to admit defeat. It was the first time I had ever quit anything in my life, but I knew it was the only thing I could do at that point.
"You don't look so good," said the driver. Then he thoughtfully added, "Don't let this discourage you from accomplishing your other goals, though. This is a tough course, and the weather conditions were really bad today."
In my mind, I will probably always believe that, frantically looking for the finish line and being severely dehydrated, I took a wrong turn on the run course somewhere and actually did run 13.1 miles (maybe even more). The truth is, though, I didn't finish this course or the next one I tried (due to mechanical difficulties with my bike) which, to date, are still my only two DNFs. And just like after my divorce, the sun still came up the next day, and nothing much changed (except for the bike I was riding—two accidents did the old one in.)
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