Last summer, one of my best friends John, raced his first
triathlon. He selected his target race
and prepared for it wisely and thoughtfully.
He had a great time, and plans to race more triathlons in the
future. John chose a sprint distance for
his first tri: 700 yard swim, 18 mile bike, 4 mile run. A national caliber swimmer in college, this
would almost be a warm-up swim for John.
The last few years, John has started cycling seriously and has completed
the LiveStrong century ride two years in a row.
At about 6’6” and over 200 pounds, he is a big boy so the run would be
his weakest portion, but he ran admirably and only lost a few places in his age
group.
Some first-timers get kind of panicky in the transitions and
throw their bikes and clothes all over costing themselves time and
penalties. Not John. He practiced and ordered his gear, then
calmly and efficiently changed shoes, etc. like an experienced veteran. I am very happy for John and enjoyed reliving
the triathlon experience vicariously through him.
This got me to thinking about my first triathlon. Ya, not quite such a smooth entry; more of a
hazing.
I do not remember how I selected the Bud Light US Triathlon
Series, San Francisco race in 1983, but it was not a wise choice. Despite the name, the race took place in Livermore taking full advantage of the Central Valley heat. I do remember reading that it would be the
toughest race in the series and relished this acclaim. The previous year, like so many others, I
watched Julie Moss on Wide World of Sports completely break down at the end of
the 1982 Hawaii Ironman, barely able to finally crawl across the finish line and I
said to myself: “That looks like a great time!
I have GOT to do that!”
Back then, triathlons used a mass start: 800 of us hit the
water together. I do remember a lot of
elbows and later noticed a nice swim-goggle imprint on the back of my left
hand. At the first turn buoy of the
2,000-meter swim we were so bunched up that everyone was now vertical in the
water. It was sort of like trying to
tread water in an over-crowded elevator.
After the turn, we strung out in a thin line. About half way through the
swim, I felt nausea coming on. “OK, I’m
in 100 feet of water, a long way from anything to hang on to and about to start
barfing. Better think how to do this,
and fast.” I discovered a heretofore-unknown
ability to barf while my face was in the water and breath in as I turned my
head during the recovery portion of my swim stroke. Breathe, barf, breathe, barf. Note to self: Denny’s steak and egg breakfast
prior to a swim is NOT a good idea.
Coming from the cycling world, the 40-kilometer bike portion
was uneventful, but a little hungry.
Back then, what would become today’s “international
distance” triathlon had a 15-kilometer run.
That’s right: 1.25 mile swim, a 25 mile bike ride and a 9.6 mile hilly
trail run in 90+ degrees and zero humidity.
Yes, a dry heat, kind of like an OVEN.
For a while around the 10K point of the run, I was having one of those
delirium induced internal conversations trying to decide if I was just cramped
up with side stitches or having a heart attack.
It was the former apparently.
While I didn’t lose all control and crawl my way over the
finish line like Julie Moss at the 1982 Ironman, I was almost as
destroyed. And just like John last
summer, I was hooked on this rockin’ good time.
Couldn’t wait to do it again.
