Part IV
A nice low gear, spin, spin, spin. Running that extra mile to the transition area effectively eliminated what used to be the first mile of the bike. This year we get only about one half mile of flat road to prepare for the hills. My legs assure me that this is inadequate the moment I point them up the first grade. That familiar burning sensation speaks loud and clear: "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
I begin the climb in a loose group of a half-dozen or so cyclists, certain that I'll soon be blown off the back, I'm feeling so lousy. To my amazement, I crest the first rise ahead of at least half of them. Hmm. Will wonders never cease? Anyway, it makes little difference, because this flat spot is all of about 100 yards long and there's a lot of climbing to do yet. I grind my way up the road above Fort Point, heading for the entrance to the Golden Gate Bridge. Other riders are suffering so much on the hill that they're weaving unpredictably, and I just concentrate on avoiding their meanderings. It isn't particularly steep, it's just sort of a grind. And it comes so early on!
I ride under the tunnel created by the Bridge onramp, and almost without conscious thought I'm scanning the surface of the road ahead. Last year some malevolent creeps bearing a grudge against the race director spread tacks across the course here, and I was one of the lucky recipients of this benificence. I expressly wish to avoid a repeat performance, and am relieved to spy no tacks to threaten my tubes this time. To tell you the truth, though, at this point I'd welcome almost any excuse to stop climbing! I'm really not feeling that good.
Satisfied that the Tack Team had apparently gotten over its fit of pique, I now focus my attention upon getting into a rhythm. All right, so you're hurting, you just don't feel like you can ride well, but breathe, concentrate, spin. Don't stomp on the pedals, keep it moving in circles. There, that's better. Ok, this really isn't that steep, you can drop into the 23, you don't need the 25. There, good. Hang on, you're almost to the top. All right, the 21 for the last hundred yards......now! Click! Click! Click! Relax the legs for a moment, take a deep breath, you're headed down the hill, let yourself recover.
Downhill, uphill, down again, up again. Through the Presidio, Lincoln Park, the golf course, past the Legion of Honor. Geez, it sure is beautiful today! But shoot, I do wish my legs would wake up; they're just not with me.
Around the curves through the residential streets above the Cliff House, then screaming down Geary heading toward that venerable establishment. I remember to look for Skippy and Elaine as I approach the big curve, and holler when I spy them. "Skipppyyy!" I woosh by so fast I cannot hear their replies, but I know they saw me. Rounding the curve my heart nearly leaps out of my mouth--- a car is backing out of a parking space directly in front of the cyclist ahead of me! Yipe! I grab the brakes. We both scrape by safely, but I've lost all that lovely speed, dammit! And look at that moron--- another cyclist chose to avoid the whole mess and keep his speed by cutting across into the oncoming lane while coming around that curve totally blind! Who ever said that triathlon is not an exciting sport?
I tear down the hill headed for the blessed flat of the Great Highway. OK, you may have felt horrible on the hills, but here's where you can make your power play, kiddo. It's time for TriBaby to strut her stuff, let's go!
A nice thought, anyway. Shoot, I'm just so dead! I guess that swim really wiped me. Hmmm. Come on, concentrate, get smooth, spin, drop a gear, don't push so hard. Rip open that Gu, that should help. Ahhh.... OK, drink, drink. All right, now give it a couple of minutes and see if that helps.
18 or 19 mph. Sometimes 20. There's a headwind out here, not surprising, but it's not enough to justify my leaden legs. I pass a couple of riders and am consoled, especially when I cruise by the guy on the shiny red Zipp. Well, maybe everyone else is having a tough time too. Don't sweat it, just do your best.
I roll through the turnaround at Sloat Boulevard to the cheers of the volunteers and answer back with a hearty "Thanks, guys!" All right, the Gu's helping a bit now, and the headwind should be a tailwind; see what you can do with it.
I can do 21, 22, even 23 for a short stretch. OK, that's better. Of course, last year I was managing 25-27 mph on this section. Oh, shut up! Quit thinking about how you did all this last year. That was then, this is now. Just work with what you've got.
Head down, breathing deeply, drinking regularly, I fly by more cyclists. Back toward the Cliff House, back toward that HILL. As I approach the base, I stretch my legs out a bit and start clicking through the gears. OK, you bugger, I'm climbing you. I won't allow you to make me feel like a moldy pot of last week's mashed potatoes; I'm going to conquer you and feel strong while I do it!
Not terribly long, this climb, but not terribly fun. Ouch. In the first painful yards a gal catches me off guard by rolling up alongside and asking, "You're Tricia Richter, aren't you?" "Huh? Well, yeah! Who are you?" "I'm Sue, I'm a friend of Ken Shelton's. I've heard a lot about you." "Oh! Well, I'm very glad to meet you. Don't you just hate this hill??" By this time breathing is a challenge, but Sue has succeeded in distracting me through the steepest part of the curve, for which I am most grateful. We exchange another word or two before I spy my cheering section awaiting me up ahead.
"Go, Tricia! Go, TriBaby!" I grin in spite of the pain, and make a concentrated effort to improve my form. For a moment, anyway. As I approach I call out, "I'm hurting! I don't know what's wrong, but I don't have it today." "You look great!" Skippy reassures me. "You look fantastic!" Elaine agrees. Even if it's not true, it still helps to hear it. "See you guys back at Crissy Field" I bellow as I leave them behind. Boy, talk about a great crew!
I continue my conversation with Sue as we grind up Geary. "So, what do you think of these hills? I recall that Ken was rather impressed by them last year." "Well, I'd say they're pretty impressive," she agrees. "You seem to be handling them all right." "Oh, don't worry," I reply. "You'll be dropping me soon; there's a lot more climbing still to come."
Despite this prediction, I end up dropping Sue not 200 yards later. Hmm, I guess all those rides up King's Mountain Road really paid off! I can't believe it, she looked really fit, and much lighter than Miss Clydesdale here. She should have had no trouble dropping me like a bad habit. Ok, so maybe I'm not *that* lousy a climber. Wow. Another triathletic revelation.
Up, down, up, down. No more flats 'til the end of this ride. Zooming around the turn after the Legion of Honor, I spy a major lump in the pavement a split second too late....wham! At least I *did* spot it and was prepared for it, ouch! I just pray my wheels are still in one piece after that one, yowzah! Thank heaven Shamals are bloody strong.
Twisting, turning through the sinuous downhills, building up as much speed as possible for that final quad-burner back through the Presidio. I hold enough speed to pass two more cyclists as the climb begins, then slow to an inexorable grind as gravity renews its claim upon me. Fortunately, this is one of the prettiest parts of the course, as well as the steepest. Nearing the top, the sweat is streaming down my face, but I'm grateful to be done with....aw, heck, you're kidding?? We do have to go up that little jog to the right? *Groan* I thought we wouldn't have to do that this year, I thought I was done with the climbing! "Just a little bit more, you're almost there!" the volunteer shouts. "You can't fool me, I know this hill, I did this last year, dammit!" I shoot back ruefully. OK, ok, let's get it over with.
Near the top an SF police officer sits astride his SFPD dirt bike. "Hey, wanna trade?" I offer. He simply grins and shakes his head in reply. "I didn't think so," I sigh. A fellow cyclist laughs as he passes. "It's ok, it's all downhill from here," he says. And so it is! ZzzzooooooOOOOOoooooom!
More twisting and turning and making up time, and boy, are we hauling! Whoops, a hairpin, careful! "Thanks for being here!" I call to an officer stationed at the curve. He looks surprised by my greeting but breaks into a smile and waves back to me. "No problem! Good luck!" "Thanks, I'll need it," I call over my shoulder. With that run staring me in the face, I'm not kidding; I will need it.
Back to Crissy Field now, less than a half mile to go! Hold your speed, finish your Cytomax. I begin undoing the velcro on my cleats as I roar into the chute and make the turn back into the transition area. The crowd is great, cheering and shouting, and I'm feeling a bit better now that the bike is done. I roll to my spot, pulling my feet from my shoes. A group of spectators directly opposite sees me and I hear one say, "Look, there's another woman!" "Well, what's left of her, anyway," I call out jocularly as I rack my bike and yank on my running shoes. This gets a round of laughs and a lot of encouragement from my newfound supporters.
As I'm fumbling with my gear I hear the music playing on the sound system. Ah, Primus! I find the song particularly appropriate at the moment, and I sing out loud, "My name is Mud! My name is Mud!" I finish my transition and head out on the run. "Go, Mud!" my new friends holler after me. Yeah, that's me, Mud! And here I go, ready to get dirty on the run at Alcatraz...