c.: Well, I suppose that d.c. didn’t read, see, or hear anything that upset him today, because he hasn’t come to my cell in The Kennel. I’d be surprised if he heard anything at all, actually. Dude needs a hearing aid!
Anyway, since I’m stuck in The Kennel because I was framed by my youngest (and cutest) queen kitten, Jodi, I’ll just continue reading d.c. scot’s autobiographical manuscript about training for and competing in an Ironman distance triathlon. My BFHF (best human friend for life) juxtaposes this brutal training and competition to events in his day-to-day life. I’m on chapter twenty-two. You can read along if you wish.
CHAPTER 22: RACE DAY
2015: Run course, mile 21:
Okay, I feel better now. Whether this is just a “runner’s high” or I’m catching my second wind is irrelevant. All I want to do now is finish these last… five miles? My brain’s as tired as my legs! I can always do simple math in my head quickly. That’s what I enjoy the most about these race days: setting a goal and challenging myself to beat that goal after I have figured out my splits. That makes race days more enjoyable…
***
Race day for most triathletes, me included, usually starts between four and five in the morning; or about half an hour before I get up as a rule. This allows time for the triathlete to eat and digest breakfast, as well as check over his/her gear before heading to the race site. Most race directors prefer that you check in at least an hour before the first wave goes off.
Over the past three years, I’ve developed a phobia of forgetting something really important on the way to a race, including, of all things, my bike! I often feel like Steve Martin's character in the movie The Jerk as I head out the door on race day morning, jokingly saying, "This is all I need in this life," with both arms overloaded with my gear. Usually, a quick glance to the back of my truck or a frantic rummage through my backpack will produce the item I fear I've forgotten. This is usually my knee brace.
This year, it finally happened—not once, but twice. Aside from forgetting my goggles and my USAT card on the trip to Florida, I also forgot my timing chip for the next race that I attempted. Without that chip, my times wouldn’t be recorded, and the race wouldn’t be counted in the final standings. Fortunately, this particular race was only five miles from my house, and Nicole and I had started a few minutes early. Nicole graciously volunteered to go back to the house and retrieve the chip, which saved my day. She made it back 15 minutes before the gun sounded for the first wave, which included my age group.
I knew something was amiss when the race day jitters didn't start until a rummage through my backpack didn't produce the timing chip. After that, the jitters began, and in brutal force.
Although we made it to the race site in plenty of time, I was still setting up in the transition area five minutes before it closed for this purpose. Something, however, was working in my favor on this particular race day. Nicole found the chip easily, and although the swim took about two minutes longer than I had hoped, I had a strong bike leg, even though my chain came off as I turned into the dismounting area. The bike course was about 1-1/2 miles shorter than it was supposed to be, according to my computer and everyone else's I questioned. That left me within striking distance of my goal as I started on the run course in just under an hour. That was just where my calculations from the night before had put me. All I had to do now was run three sub-eight-minute miles.
The first mile did take me over eight minutes to run, because I walked the first 50 to 60 feet, drinking water and clearing my sinuses. The second mile was one of my better ones, leaving me with six and a half minutes to run one mile and hit my goal. I have run exactly one six-and-a-half-minute mile since I was 14 years old, and that with the aid of a 25-mile-per-hour tailwind. I remembered something from the previous year's race, though. The last two-mile markers on this particular course seemed to be in the wrong places, making the second mile a little longer, and the third a little shorter. The total distance of the run course, though, I believe, was still three miles long.
Despite feeling an all too familiar twinge in my right hamstring while on the bike leg, my legs seemed to be doing well, and my lungs seemed to be recovering nicely. I decided to try to mimic Scott Tinley and see how many people I could run down from behind (my answer: one). I went about 50 seconds over my goal, which was fine since I’d had a bad swim leg. This was a fast course, though, and I soon learned that the first woman across the finish line had beaten my time by over ten minutes.
I feel that a word of explanation about amateur athletes and triathletes, in particular, is in order here. We all want to believe that we can do something (usually a race) faster, better, or more efficiently than anyone else can. The brutal truth is, however, that most of us (99.9%) don't have the athletic abilities of Michael Jordan, Tiger Woods, or Mark Allen. If we did, we would be racing for money, not just for fun!
We are, by and large, Joe or Jane Smith from down the street. The only difference between someone like me and your average couch potato is dedication. We're the people you see running before and after work. We’re the men and women doing 100-mile bike rides on a Saturday morning when 90% of the rest of the world is still asleep. We’re the guys and gals you see at your local YMCA swimming laps to exhaustion, only to catch our breath and swim another 800 yards.
I've known some men and women who have such tremendous athletic ability that they can practically fall out of bed and run five miles in under one-half hour. The longer courses, however, usually weed out the under-trained from the more dedicated athletes. When I see that one of my “training companions" must pull out of a race because of injury or severe cramps, I think it hurts me almost as much as it hurts them, because I know how hard they have trained for this particular event. The average couch potato... has no idea.