Another First

Race debrief. 

I can honestly say that it was a first. After, give or take, sixty years of wearing a watch on my left wrist, the last half of those years with a feature popular among athletes known as a chronometer, I ditched the accessory due to its redundancy with my phone. I really don’t need a backup to tell the time of day. As habitual as it was for the first couple of weeks, feeling naked as I glanced at the location where my watch had once been, I got used to it. There is, however a major difference between an accessory and a utility. That fact became quickly apparent yesterday as I raced the 2019 Chelanman Olympic Triathlon. I capitalize the name of the event not so much to promotes its stature, as I would Ironman, but to illustrate the respect I hold for this wonderful event. 

Yes, I will gladly donate $150 towards the support of youth services in this recreational paradise in North Central Washington (the Bend of the Evergreen State), but almost always it is more because it flat out kicks my butt in a wholesome, engaging and spectacular way. I think that is what I like is so much about it and look forward to participation every July. Yesterday was no different.

Firstly, allow me to editorialize, that I love racing in the heat. The image of heat radiating from tarmac and a quick shot of water in an aid station with still an eternity to go, powers my imagination and stirs a part of me that connects this image to purpose, meaning, courage and challenge. It is  non-lethal hand-to-hand trench warfare - and I like it like a mercenary likes the skirmish. 

Having practiced my incredibly slow crawl stroke in the pool only two times since last years event, I formulated a game plan as I slept comfortably in the back of WF Friday night. Relax, breathe deep, reach, glide and make it as graceful and fluid as possible. Be fishlike. It's only 1,500 meters and 30 minutes tops. You can do anything for 30 minutes Aquaman. Yet as I stood in the patched and outdated wetsuit I hadn’t worn since my first Ironman in 1996, in the clear and warm water of the lake, just minutes before the start, the feeling of excitement, adventure and challenge (in the form of endorphin flow) rushed to the surface bringing back memories of familiar emotions at other events. I will tell you this, there is nothing like being in knee-deep at the starting point of a 140.6 mile Ironman, one minute before the canon sounds its official beginning. Nothing. It was with this psychological backdrop that I nodded my head, now wrapped in bright yellow neoprene with a handwritten 1769 on its right side, with appreciation and respect, smiling with all the humility and gratitude I could invoke. I truly love this opportunity to place myself in the midst of my vision of life fully lived. 

I am dealing with this melodramatic metaphysical euphoria as I hear the race director ask the crowd to chant the count-down. Instinctively I reach to start my race watch and laugh at the spectacle that there is nothing on my wrist but a race band. Right.  In a Yoda-like voice I hear my inner counsel advise, ‘race by feel - enjoy the ride.’ 

We are off. I find a quick groove in open water and settle into the rhythm of the swim. I catch the water, push it back mirroring jet propulsion, glide on my side and breathe full and deep. I am a little surprised at how slippery I feel as the old wetsuit seems to be keeping my posture in the clean and clear water equally as pure. I hit the first buoy and think about other swims in other races, how I tried to gaslight myself into thinking that I was feeling good, strong and capable, all the while knowing that my race never really started until the bike. On the home stretch I am thinking, as I actually pass a few folks, that this might be a great start to a record day. Just that thought alone picks up my pace as I try to sight the final red marking buoy that signifies the last few, glorious meters prior to the solid ground of pay dirt transition. 

I exit and find my bike. I decide to wear my glasses under the giant shades often preferred by light-sensitive senior citizens, and trot Little Miss Mirthy up the grassy hill to the bike start. I stop there and a volunteer asks me if I am OK, ‘yes, I am not going to capture any video unless I turn the camera on,’ I tell her laughing. She laughs too as I thank her and clip in. 

Ah, in my element at last. I spend the first two down hill miles in damage report mode. How much fuel had the swim cost me and at what pace shall I set the automatic speedometer? The report from the skipper is oddly familiar; Dam the torpedoes, full speed ahead. A tutu forza as the Italians say. Remembering that the prior year I struggled with finding the coveted sweet-spot I run the chain up the cog with about the same caution that a gorilla opens a banana. By the time I hit the first technical part of the out and back course, I was breathing hard into efficient and powerful rotations, moving past the better swimmers with frightening regularity. The groove is mine, I am the leader, you may follow or incapable, please get out of the way. I get passed twice by long-course racers, but re-pass and forget them with brutal race objectivity and compassionless ‘nothing personal - just business’ precision. I take a few risks and they all pay off. The song in my head is Heart’s Crazy On You. 

I fly into transition, jog back to my gear, don my race belt and cap and take the first few steps testing for remaining leg starch. Surprisingly I find there to be some and off on the six mile trek we slug. I resist the urge to look at my watch and do the calc of estimate time of arrival at the finish like I have done so many times in the past. This practice while either motivating or devastating is always a reality check of sorts. If motivating you run fast, it devastating you run faster.  Since I was racing by feel that decision would come from my internal clock, and it told me simply to find the song in my heart that would carry me through five miles of heat, fatigue and doubt. Guitar solo. 

I learned a long time ago that if one compromises on the run, losing the internal debate and justifying a walk as necessary to survival, that the race, by its very definition, is over. You have lost the most important element of racing, the requirement to never say die. You have negotiated a deal, plea-bargained, and summarily sentenced to the reality of your limitations. The Pyrrhic victory of ‘the finish’ while admirable, will never yield the larger victories of your dreams. 

To me, this very personal ideal, viewed as a tactic, means, simply: Do not stop. Not in aid stations, not for barking dogs, not for red lights, heat, fatigue, dehydration, cramps, pain and not for atrial fibrillation. To stop is to die. And this is not that day. You must prove this to be so. 

Up the final hill and down to the finish line. The race announcer, busy with announcing other categorical results, missed my finish. Oh well. Naturally as I hit the finish line I reach to stop my watch. A young volunteer puts a medal around my neck as another removes my chip timer. I am done. I have finished. The song is over. 

I move towards the food tent assessing overall damage and feel surprisingly good. This was the first hard workout of the last ten days as I recovered from that nasty virus. I should be happy. I toss back a cup of water and move towards the timing trailer. I feel as if my effort has been worthy. I can honestly report that my intentions, output, focus and grace under fire to be solid, a legitimate response. I am pleased, satisfied and a little surprised that I was able, under the unique circumstances that I brought with me to this race, including that fact that I came to defend three years of age-group championships, to pull it off so convincingly. 

Except for the part about the watch. I sincerely felt like I had run AT LEAST twenty minutes faster than last year. 

When reality of the official timer tells me I was a minute slower. 

I am scratching my head trying to figure what that means. 

Another first.