For tonight's post I've tapped a guest blogger. Initially I hoped that inviting a guest would mean loads of praise for my superb guidance, sage advice and exemplary status as a role model. Those hopes were sadly crushed, but the entertainment value of this advice from first-timer "B to the Wizzo" is quite high.
In taking on my first triathlon last month - a sprint at Lake Anna in Virginia - there were indeed many lessons I learned the hard way. Certainly you can train, study, solicit the advice of erudite triathlon elders, but until you actually compete in one, it's all just theory, right? Ever the sympathizer, Rocinante Always Wins requisitioned a guest blog entry detailing the harsh realities facing the rookie triathlete (and there are many):
1. At least buy me a drink first
Was it wrong for me to feel strangely violated and used by the curt volunteer in charge of inking my race number onto my arms and legs? Here it is, 7 o'clock in the morning, I've stood in line to strip in front of this woman and all I get is "Number? ... Age group? ... Turn around. ... Done." I think that's how they run triathlons in prison.
2. You know you're a little too serious when...
As I was sitting in my car before the race, rocking out to AC/DC, I watched some dude with OCD take for-ev-er making the tiniest, most inconsequential adjustments to his and his (apparent) girlfriend's bikes. Does it really take 20 minutes to get your race number in ex-act-ly the right spot? Do you really require four water bottles each (measured and filled with an ultra-precise mix of Gatorade and water, probably Perrier) for a sprint? How many times do you need to check the brakes and wheels on your $3,000 tri bikes, seriously?
Watching him throughout this excruciating process, my girlfriend Jessica asked me, "How come you're not doing all that?"
"My bike's going to work the same as it did yesterday," I said, then got an eye roll as I turned up the volume on "Rock and Roll Ain't Noise Pollution".
3. Wetsuits: Friends of the modest
Look, I swam for many years as a youngster, so I am well familiar with the concept and workings of a Speedo. I can appreciate its hydrodynamic fit and, in a triathlon, the advantages wearing one must offer when it comes to making a quick transition to the bike. What I don't need is to find myself at the starting line right behind some "plumber butt". Drawstrings, my wide-bottomed friend, drawstrings!
I also tracked down Jessica so I could tell her to check out the voluptuous "moobs" on a nearby Clydesdale-class competitor. Another eye roll: "Grow up."
4. Full-contact freestyle
I was confident of (or, resigned to) the fact that the swim would be the best leg of my race by far and was even prepared for some gentle nudging and jostling at the start.
Not quite. The first 300 meters was like a nature video on Amazonian piranha. All I could see were whirlpools of churning water between the violent bludgeoning of kicks and elbows. In vain did I search for my plumber-butted guide amidst it all. Worse, I expended so much energy trying to fight through the pack that when I found myself swimming alone at the halfway point, I couldn't really get a strong pace going, and my time was ultimately more than three minutes slower than it was in the pool. So fine, I'll trade a little extra distance for calm water: Next time, I'll be way out there on the right, next to the guys with inflatable water wings."
5. Should have ridden my Big Wheel
It would have been just as fast as my biking performance, and more comfortable. I'd read somewhere that if there was any leg of the race that could withstand some neglect during the training program, it was the bike. Why? Bike training, this article reasoned, requires a disproportionately large commitment in order to realize any significant improvement, and in a sprint tri, you're not going to benefit much from what will ultimately be a negligible time difference.
I don't recall the author of said article, but when I do, that dangerously unqualified dispenser of crappy advice will be on my hit list. My little Trek road bike and its platform pedals certainly wasn't to blame as men - and yes, women - with thighs bigger than my head zoomed past me on their whirring flying-saucer wheels. No, I was feeling the burn and cursing the day I found that stupid article. From now on, Mistress Bicycle shall command equal time.
6. Can I get a crazy straw with that?
Perhaps partly as a result of my negligence vis-a-vis an embarrassing lack of bike preparation, it took me a good half-mile to get a decent pace going on the run, but that wasn't the most disappointing part. I learned it requires an acrobatic feat of dexterity to grab a cup of water and drink it while running. After three failures in three attempts (splashing my face, shirt and an increasingly irritated competitor five feet behind me), I made the executive decision to just carry a sippy cup with me in my next race.
7. The perfect meal
With apologies to everyone across the northern swath of the U.S. who doesn't have the privilege of living within striking distance of a Waffle House, I declare this chain of sublimely greased breakfast food is a post-race destination beyond compare. I even ran into one of my fellow racers there - perhaps in his early 50s - who had a bit of introspective wisdom to impart before turning his attention to a plateful of hash browns.
"How'd you do this morning?" I asked him.
"Well," he said, "I didn't win, and I didn't puke."
The man was a philosopher. I reciprocated by acknowledging that I too had neither won nor puked, and perhaps, in that moment, truly became a triathlete.
Well said, B to the Wizzo, well said.
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