Part III
My transition spot is several rows up and at the far end of the amphitheatre-style stone steps facing the Bay. I numbly snap the goggles and cap from my head while navigating my way through the chaos of cheering spectators and triathletes in various stages of transition. Wait, can't get through that way; go up a level and cut over...whoops! Get outta this guy's way, he's off on the run.
Galumphing up the steps saps what's left of my energy, and I'm more than happy to sit for the chore of stripping off what I struggled so hard to pull on just two hours before. I'm chagrined to notice how many other transition spots have already been vacated ahead of me. Oh well, too late to worry about it now. Off with the wetsuit, on with the running shoes, slap on some Vaseline and outta here.
My wobbly legs feel like a pair of rusty slinkies; I'm grateful that they actually get me to the bottom of the steps in one piece. My muscles are tired, but at least the time I took in transition has lowered my heart rate. Once I hit the flat pavement and take up my usual trot, I feel pretty good. Trot, trot, trot, heading west out of the Park to the Mason Street Pier, spectators clapping and encouraging along the way. I spy quite a few yellow caps bobbing along in the cove and am somewhat mollified; maybe my swim wasn't all that bad. Almost to the pier entrance and a spectator walking toward me calls out, "Go, Tricia!" Ah ha! There she is!
Upon exiting the water I had heard and spied Skippy hollering and videotaping. I was disappointed to realize there was no one with her, but didn't have time to worry about it too much. Now, however, I am enormously pleased to see my boss, Elaine, raising her camera to snap TriBaby in all her disheveled glory. Elaine had determined that she had to come out to a race at least once to see what all this triathlon insanity was about, and Alcatraz seemed like an excellent opportunity. Running a bit late, she hadn't arrived in time to view my swim finish, but she made the most of catching me on the first run. "Go find Skippy!" I grin as I continue onto the pier. "I'll see you guys somewhere out on the bike course."
Out the pier, trot, trot, trot, feeling considerably better than I did on this run last year; hmm, I wonder why? Fishermen in ones and twos gaze in amusement upon the parade of soaking wet athletes trotting by in swimming suits. Boy, you see everything in this City, don'tcha, Joe?
Near the end of the pier my eyes behold a sorry sight. I thought *I* had it bad in the swim! A pod of unlucky swimmers, at least a dozen, maybe more, are scattered in the water west of the pier. Some are still trying to fight their way back against the current; others, conceding to the brute force of the tide, simply tread water, waiting to be picked up by one of the escort boats or kayaks. A few take a proactive approach and head for the nearest piece of shore, figuring it's quicker than waiting to be picked up and deposited just inside the entrance to the cove in order to finish the swim. Wow, I didn't see anything like that last year; that current must really be murderous today. I guess I shouldn't feel so bad about my swim!
The end of the pier, turn around and head back. There's Hillary! We slap hands in passing. There's a first, I beat Hillary out of the water! Back to the pier entrance and turn right, heading up that nasty Mason Street hill, ouch! Someone runs by and remarks matter-of-factly, "This hill is rude." I manage a laugh and concur. Great spectators sprinkled along the hill clap and cajole us upward. They seem genuinely impressed with our efforts, and you know, I don't blame them--- this is a BIG effort!
Over the hill, down the gentle slope of the backside heading for Marina Boulevard and Fort Mason. Ugh, I'd be all done with the first run by now if they hadn't moved the transition area to Crissy Field. As it is, there's another flat mile to go. OK, at least it's a pretty mile. People pay large sums of money to come to San Francisco just to see all this! Enjoy it.
I roll into the main transition area at Crissy Field just about 22 minutes after leaving Aquatic Park. Yeah, that sounds about right for Twinkletoes here. I have to run nearly all the way to the back row of the transition area to reach my bike. It's a weird feeling to yank off my running shoes and slide into my cleats; I'm used to going the other way around. Despite the fact that I have to pull everything out of my bag, my transition is reasonably smooth. I hottail it out of there in about 2 minutes, clicking in and experiencing the painful sensation of transitioning from running to biking. How on earth do duathletes do it??