The Weekend Wrap.
Saturday, July 21, 2018. Lake Chelan, WA 0400. I wake from a uneasy rest in the back of my rented Kia Soul rental. I thought there would be sufficient room for all my gear and bike. And me. There never is enough room when you are confined to sharing space with your stuff. Never. I did not sleep well, still in heated subliminal debate as to whether or nor I should even show up, let alone race. I decide to take it to the water, go through the body marking ritual, don suite and wade into water. I step in. I dunk head. I spit in goggles. I take a dive, flapping arms like a horrified penguin. Heart OK, no AFib. I wonder what the issue was and plea bargain a deal. Go slow, take it easy, relax and enjoy the day, at the first sign of cardio arrhythmia, you are done, and in a sportsmanlike fashion, end your day with humility and dignity. I sign off. We go, last wave out. The water is 70 degrees and I immediately find a groove, almost giddy in appreciation of the ease of (slow) movement through the clear blue water. We hit the turn and I am feeling like a million diving ducks. Into the sun we go, home stretch. I gulp a mouthful of water at one point and spend several tense moments coughing, spitting and gagging. This does not help my pace but I get through it and eventually I see the sandy bottom of the shallow lake telling me that we are almost home. I hit the beach in 33 minutes, exactly the same time as last year. Another frustrating transition and we are out onto the bike leg, ahhhhhhh. Although I am pushing hard my speed does’t match my perceived effort as much I would expect. I have no climbing legs today, a fact that will hamper my goals for the ride as well as later on the run. But I have an old familiar song in my head and its groove, intensity and tempo is powering my ride. The light comes on and I recognize that the song, now playing in my head as if I were jamming between a nice pair of Beats, is by the band I will be seeing live in concert later that same evening. It is Run Like an Antelope Out of Control, by Phish. How appropriate.
I have a decent, not great, bike and start the run. No music as my back is on fire, borderline spasm. My left hip flexor is already negotiating a settlement and my endurance gear seems to have mysteriously jumped bail. Oh dear. But I make a commitment to flow, however slow, and I try as best I can to find some semblance of running grace. By mile 4 I got it and glancing at my new Wal-Mart chrono, a $7 addition to race week expenditures, I calculate this to be a pace I can sustain and finish under 3 hours. Last years time was 2:48 but unless I find a short cut somewhere, I am going to have to prepare my fragile ego for the inevitable. I will be dethroned as age group champion.
But. Wonders of wonders the guy I used so much reserve power to try to catch, turned to be in another group, a kid of only 63. So I win again. Because I was the only one in my group is relative. I beat the demons in my head, stared the dragon down, showed up, had a plan and did the flipping best I could. I am not sure if that deserves a trophy but I am comfortable with my effort. All that matters.
What made it all worthwhile, magical and amazing was later that evening when Trey hit the opening notes to the song that provided musical accompaniment to my earlier journey, and I considered that high gear.
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