Triathlon is a devilishly seductive sport. It works a subtle, intoxicating magic upon its accolytes, teasing, tempting, enticing them further and further along the path of endurance sport accomplishment. For those caught in its spell, there is never a perfect attainment of a final goal; that goal becomes a constantly moving target, pushed ever further along the endurance sport spectrum by each new achievement. Like a drug addict, the helplessly hooked triathlete finds he needs MORE, LONGER, FASTER, BETTER! in order to achieve the same athletic high.Take myself for example. My tri career began innocently enough with a harmless little sprint tri, the San Jose Danskin, in 1992. By the end of that season I did my first Olympic-distance race, the Santa Cruz Sentinel. My next year in triathlon I did two more sprints and then the Sentinel once again. At that time I couldn't imagine doing anything longer than Olympic-distance. "Never!" I swore to myself. "Why on earth would I want to put myself through anything longer? I simply couldn't do it." But in 1995 I got ambitious. I found myself intrigued by the idea of completing the Escape from Alcatraz triathlon, and with single-minded determination I pursued that goal. Upon crossing the line at Alcatraz, I thought, "That wasn't so bad. I bet I could go longer....."
And so that's how I happened to find myself not yet midway through the bike on the 1996 Wildflower Half Ironman course, already contemplating my next triathletic goal: "I'm gonna sign up for the Vineman 1/2." Of course, the very next moment I mentally kick myself: "You idiot! You aren't even at the halfway point of the bike HERE; what the hell are you doing thinking about Vineman? How do you even know you're gonna survive this one?" That's precisely the kind of trip triathlon plays upon us poor misguided endorphin freaks.
The longest day of my triathlon career to date began the night before in our luxurious accommodations at the Motel 6 in King City. Skippy and I returned from check-in and bike check out at the lake to pack up our gear and prepare for a good night's sleep. It was going to be a big day, with me attempting my first 1/2 Ironman and Skippy going for her first triathlon ever in the Mountain Bike Sprint event. To say that we were both a little nervous would be putting it mildly. And there was just so much to do and so much gear to prepare!
By 9:45 I was finally done: swim bag, bike bag, running bag, race clothes laid out, tires pumped, apres-race stuff ready to go. I'd wanted to hit the hay by 9:30, since we were planning on heading out to the lake at 5am, but I decided to take a few more minutes for a quick shower. Finally, at 10, I was all set to fall into bed. But first I checked my tires one more time.
AAaaaaiiiiiighghghghghckkk!
A slow leak in my rear wheel. Dammit! Changing a tube on a Shamal is hardly a trivial operation, and it *would* have to be the rear wheel. OK, whip it off the frame, muscle that bloody Conti GP off the rim, yank out the tube---yep, a tiny slit near the valve---and finesse a new tube in there. Pump it up partially, check for bulges, no problem; pump it up the rest of the way with that clumsy valve extension gizmo. OK, looks like it's.......Pppffffffffffffssssssssssttttttt... Blown.
DAMN!
Repeat the process all over again, using up my last spare tube. Skippy is incredibly patient as I grow more and more frantic, and my lips recede further and further to become nothing but a narrow line across my face---always a sure sign that I'm either furious or desperate! Finally, by 11:10 the damned thing is fixed and back on my bike. So much for getting a full night's sleep. Oh well, I'm so nervous about the race I probably wouldn't have slept anyway.
When the alarm goes off at 4:30, I've already been up for half an hour, slapping on sunblock and pulling on my race rags. We get the car loaded up and take off a few minutes before 5 for a beautiful moonlit drive out to Lake San Antonio. Washing a bagel down with a bottle of Metabolol Endurance on the way, I spot two shooting stars and tell Skippy, "I hope that's a good omen!"
We arrive at the Lake good and early, all set to have a leisurely pre-race setup. We begin unloading the car, and I grab Skippy's front wheel out of the back seat. Uh-oh..... "Skip...." "What?" I hand her the wheel; she groans. "Don't worry! Don't worry, we have plenty of time, that's why we're here early," I assure her. What is this, are flat tires contagious or something?? Geez!
Getting into the transition area turns out to be a hurry-up-and-wait proposition; for this we got up at 4am! The longer we wait, the more anxious Skippy becomes. She wants to get settled into her transition spot so she can take care of that flat tire; this is not the way you want to begin your first triathlon. I'm not exactly a font of serenity and calm myself. What's the problem here, let us in!
We eventually work our way through the line, get bodymarked, and we're in. All the mountain bike racers are at the very back row of the transition area, at least 100 yards back from the entrance/exit; I'm not much closer to the front myself. However, my transition spot offers one shining advantage: it is directly in line with the entrance to the restrooms!
Ah, transition area setup! A ritual at once nerve-wracking and relaxing. Did I remember everything? Should I put this here, or here? Which way should I rack the bike? OK, I have everything, I'm prepared, I've got the drill down. There's something delectable and particularly significant about the first setup of the season. Has it really been seven months since last I did this? Hard to believe! It all comes so naturally: towel, sunglasses, helmet, socks, cleats; Powerbars across the top tube, Cytomax mixed in the bottles; running shoes, hat, and number belt set for T2.
Once I'm set to go, I head over to Skippy's spot to deal with her tire problem and help her set up her very first transition area. In the face of my pal's first-tri trepidation, my own anxiety lessens as I strive to calm her fears and bolster her confidence. Hey, it's no big deal; just think of it as a longer-than-usual training session with about 500 training partners, Skip!
The neoprene squeeze is one tri ritual of which I have never become fond, but at which I am still fairly adept. With the aid of a generous serving of Pam I pour myself into the old fullsuit. I wish I'd brought my longjohn; the lake is warm this year, and visions of parboiling halfway through the swim torment me. Well, ready or not, here I come!
Skippy and I head down to the launch ramp to merge with the teeming black-clad masses. The butterflies in my stomach begin colliding with one another, and I feel my energy and concentration turning inward, Mark Allen-like. I'm subconsciously rallying the troops, preparing for battle as I seek a quiet place within from which to launch my attack. Wave after wave takes off ahead of us; I'm in something like the 9th wave, and the wait seems interminable.
The cacaphony of the crowd and the race announcer and the gasoline-powered generator running the sound system drives me further within myself. Have I trained enough? Am I ready? For good or bad, I'm about to find out. A final hug from and for Skippy, and we leave each other to our respective fates.