Part I
You know the expression, "Pride cometh before a fall"? I obviously forgot it on Saturday evening. Driving home from a not-very-carbo intensive dinner at Chevy's, I said casually to Skippy, "Y'know, it's funny; Alcatraz just seems almost insignificant now after having done Wildflower." I'll bet you can see where this is headed, right?
We'd driven up to Crissy Field earlier in the day to drop off all my bike and run gear and to check in at the transition area. I was mildly concerned, but hardly surprised, to find that the transition area was completely exposed to the wind and the elements. No biggie; I just hope my bike doesn't get blown over in all this wind. One fellow setting up nearby was concerned enough to actually drape a towel over his drivetrain in an effort to prevent sand from blowing into it. Five minutes after he left, the towel blew right off his bike. I didn't bother worrying about leaving everything outside overnight, although I did choose to put my shoes, helmet, towel, etc., in a plasticÊbag rather than laying it all out. Might as well try to keep it dry, anyway.
We ran into my pal Hillary at check in, and she cracked us both up with her demonstration of swim and run techniques for conquering the particular challenges of the Alcatraz course. I marvelled to hear Hillary, who always whips my butt in the swim, saying, "That swim is scaring me shitless." "You won't have any problem," I assure her. "It's a blast, you'll love it." All my comforting words fail to persuade her. We left her pumped up and anxiety-ridden, but excited as hell about the next day.
In contrast, I myself was feeling almost blase about the race, as evidenced by my remark to Skippy that evening. After conquering Wildflower, Alcatraz just didn't seem so daunting any more. Heck, the bike is only 1/3 the distance of the Wildflower bike, and the run is only 10 miles, not 13.1. Of course, there is that extra 2-mile run between the swim and the bike---but that's almost all flat. Except for the Mason Street hill. And then, the swim is longer at 1.5 miles, and you have to deal with the cold and the current and the chop. But come on! Wildflower is a far more significant race. Alcatraz is no big deal.
I slept well and peacefully that night, and had little trouble popping up at 4am to get ready. Skip and I left my house by 4:50 and arrived at Aquatic Park right on schedule at 5:30. I gave my name at check-in, and the volunteer's eyes lit up. "Oh, everybody's been looking for you this morning, Trish!" He described a couple of people to me, neither of whom I recognized and neither of whose names he remembered. "Well, I guess we'll just have to hope we find each other. Thanks."
Since we had set up the bike and run transition stuff the day before, all we had to worry about this morning was stuff for the swim-to-first-run transition. This is simple and leisurely. I exchange wise-cracks and jokes with the fellows around me on the stone steps where we're setting up. As a grizzled old Alcatraz veteran, I feel it is my sacred duty to impart words of wisdom and advice to all the nervous newbies around me. "The swim's no problem; just make sure you aim for the Transamerica Pyramid. Don't head straight for Aquatic Park or the current will carry you too far west, " I tell them sagely. I lend my PAM to a curious first-timer and feel downright motherly. Yes, that's me: the all-knowing elder stateswoman of the tri set.
I squeeze into the lower half of my fullsuit and growl good-naturedly at Skippy for capturing this ignominious moment on tape. Hey, it's not dignified for the elder stateswoman of triathlon to be recorded in such an unflattering manner, hrrrumph.
Aquatic Park is buzzing with excitement and nervous energy. The day is breaking now, and promises to be absolutely gorgeous. At last, race director Dave Horning picks up the megaphone and greets all the athletes. He nabs some poor hapless soul from the crowd to lead us all in the national anthem, a time-honored tradition at Envirosports events. The "volunteer" begins bravely, and is joined by a handful of athletes who gamely carry the tune quite well. It's really quite touching, as those of us who simply cannot sing fall respectfully silent, and those who can and do acquit themselves admirably in the still morning air. Someone nearby picks up on the last lyrics and positively shouts, "...and the home of the BRAVE!" Yes, these guys are ready to go!
It's time to start the "parade" of athletes to the pier where we'll board the ferry to the Rock. I have yet to find any RSTers, so I take a chance and holler randomly, "Kurian!" as I step down to the lower level. Lo and behold, a minute later, there he is. "Hey, where did youÊcome from?" I greet my pal joyfully. "I just heard somebody yell, 'Kurian'; was that you?" "Yeah, I had no idea where you were, so I just thought I'd take a chance you'd hear me. I didn't really think it would work, but I'm glad it did."
"This is crazy! You mean nobody gets in the water before boarding the boat? Not me, I gotta get wet." Kurian trots down to the beach and dives in, takes a few strokes, shakes his head, and runs back to Skippy and me. We begin walking eastward among the crowd. "That's cold," Kurian announces definitively. "And I bet it's even colder out *there*." He gestures toward the Rock. "Well, it'll sure be cold for you in a shortjohn. You're nuts!" "Naw, I did Pacific Grove in this, no problem."
We drift along the waterfront, riding the excited buzz of the crowd around us. Kurian is laughing at himself. "I don't know what I think I'm doing! I'm not ready for this, I haven't swum or been on my bike since San Jose last week, and I've run exactly twice. This is crazy." "Don't worry about it, you'll have a blast; it's just such a great event, you'll enjoy it." "Uh oh." Kurian is feeling around in his boat bag, the plastic bag each triathlete carries in which to drop off shoes and clothing worn on the walk to the ferry before boarding. "What's wrong?" "I don't have my goggles with me." "You're kidding." "Wait....nope, they're not here. Oh well, I guess I'm going without." "Oh, geez, what a bummer. Do you remember what you did with them?" "I have no idea. No big deal, I can swim without 'em; it'll just be a little tougher." Ouch! Poor guy.
We reach the pier and bid Skippy adieu. "Good luck, you guys," she calls after us. "I feel like I'm being sent off to the slaughterhouse," someone remarks ruefully. "Or at least to prison," I add. This gets a laugh or two. We shuffle aboard, 500 or so black-clad bundles of energy. One or two hearty souls are just plain bundles of energy. These are the true nuts, but you gotta give 'em credit---they're nuts with guts.
Once on board Kurian and I opt to head topside for the open deck so we can enjoy the views all around on our trip to the island. We've just settled down on one of the benches when someone approaches and asks,Ê"You're Tricia Richter, aren't you?" "Yes, I am. Who are you?" We meet RSTer Randy Bryant, who's come all the way out from Pittsburgh for the race. Randy, Kurian and I hang out and trade war stories as we chug on out to the Rock. I share the advice about the Pyramid, and tell a little bit more about the hills on the bike course.
We're getting closer and closer to the island. Kurian nervously eyes the water around us. "What in the hell do I think I'm doing?" "Hey, no turning back now," I tease gleefully. "Though I guess you could just stay on the boat." Gazing longingly back toward the City, he laughs and blurts out in disbelief, "Wait a minute; this is outta control!" His delivery of this line sends me into convulsions. I guess you had to be there, but it was so damned funny! Randy and I are cracking up.
We chug around the west side of the island, now passing the far side, which is where we docked last year and actually disembarked onto Alcatraz. This time, however, the ferry continues onward. "Wait a minute, this is wussy," I object. "We had to jump in and swim completely around the east side of the island last year! Shoot, this cuts about 2 or 3 hundred yards off the swim; aw, that's weak." Neither Kurian nor Randy feels particularly cheated by this change of venue. Right now, they're debating the relative merits of being among the first or the last to jump from the ferry into the cold, cold waters of the Bay. If you're among the first, you get a chance to swim a little bit and warm up. However, it also means you're in the water waiting for the start longer, and that means more time to suffer the effects of the cold. Since we're among the athletes on the upper deck, however, we don't have much choice in the matter; we end closer to the last group than the first.
Shuffling down the stairs, listening to the hearty whoops and splashes of athletes plunging into the water, Kurian shakes his head one last time and grins in disbelief, "Outta control." I spit in my goggles and rinse them with a little drinking water. Hurry up, get 'em on, you're almost to the door! "Hey, Kurian, get your butt up here; no holding back, come on." Hmmph, tryin' to slip farther back in the line. No way, let's go! Here we are, at the door, two guys are shouting and directing everyone, keeping everyone moving; this must be what it's like to be a paratrooper headed for the door of the plane: No time for second thoughts, can't hold up the line, can't stop, can't hesitate...JUMP!!!