I was up before the sun Labor Day morning and running through my triathlon checklist with a headlamp. Once I was convinced that every necessary piece of gear was indeed in the van, I headed out to the Barberitos Sprint Triathlon at Warriors Path State Park, Kingsport, TN.
As my wife and I drove toward the race site, I reflected on my training for this race and how that fit into the puzzle that is a year of endurance sports. I had done more preparation for this race than any other triathlon. I had traveled to Warriors Path three times in the past month. Once to practice the swim and bike course with race director and my swim coach, Janine Pleasant and a few other racers. Then two more times solo so I could practice the swim course multiple times. In all I had swam the course 11 times. Today would make 12.
I had the feeling that I was near a breakthrough on the swim. I could almost see it in the distance like a bridge over a river glimpsed when cresting a hill. As I rounded each curve in my journey I expected to see it looming just ahead. I had been looking for it all year.
We arrived about an hour before the start and I set up my gear in the transition area, an asphalt basketball court. I walked to the swim start to warm up. If you have been reading my posts you know that I do not heart the swim. Just as I stepped toward the water a vulture landed in a nearby tree. I had some very unkind thoughts about that bird. Regardless I walked in slowly and got used to the cold lake water. I did my bobs and swam out about 50 yards and back. Just to be sure I did it all again. Then off the race meeting.
The swim course was marked by five kayaks arranged in a line. Swimmers were to stay on right side of kayaks so we were swimming the course more or less clockwise. The first wave went off and it was time to get in the water. As I stood there wondering if I would panic on this swim like so many others or finally find the confidence needed for open water.
Dive & Drive
The horn sounded and several seconds passed. I noticed a man and what looked to be a 10-year-old boy standing near me. I think “tough kid.” The voice in my head that keeps track of current events informed me that my swim wave was leaving without me. Nothing for it. I dove into the water and started swimming. I expected any second to feel the claustrophobic fear that would force me to pull my head out of the water. I worked on relaxing and concentrated on my technique, reaching, rotating pulling. I repeated my mantra in my head: Swimming is winning. I kept track of the kayaks in my peripheral vision as I breathed and after a dozen strokes sighted.
A minor course correction and I’m passing the third kayak. All indicator lights are green. We are go for swim. I begin to push a little harder, putting more power into my catch. I reach the fifth kayak and notice a man holding on to it catching his breath. I sight again making sure that this is indeed the last kayak, turn and head back toward shore.
On my next breath, I notice some different color swim caps. The lead element of the swim wave behind me is passing. I am briefly crestfallen and then realize that this was predictable and inevitable. I pick up the pace and begin to hum. As I pass each kayak I build speed. Then my hand hits lake bottom. I rise and stumble onto the bank.
I’ve done it: a panic-free open water swim. Then it hits me. I’m not last in my swim wave. Let me put that in perspective for you. I’m Not Last In My Swim Wave! In my first triathlon back in 1995 at White Lake, NC, I’m pretty sure that I was last in the swim wave behind mine. I’ve crossed that bridge.
I hurriedly slide on my shoes and started running the 50-yards or so to transition, surprised at how winded I am from the swim. I switch shoes, don shirt, helmet and sunglasses. Then I’m running the 50 yards or so to the mount line.
Welcome to Hillville
I mount and head across the causeway. As always I’m surprised at how tough the seemingly tame but long hill out of the park is. Then I exited the park and with help from the watchful police officer made the right turn onto Fall Creek Rd. I’ve rode this bike course a number of times. It has a familiar rhythm now for me. Gear down and grind up the hills and stomp the pedals for every iota of speed on the downhills. It’s the big guy on a bicycle plan. I make the most of the first downhill, cross the bridge and started up the first and longest climb of the course. Already there are bikes coming back, and they are flying down the hill.
The long hill finally ends with a brief dip then another short climb. During this sequence of climbs and downhills I encounter Megan, one of the beginners that I met at the pre-race practice session. She passes me on the uphills and I pass her on the downhills. It’s the classic battle of lightness and speed versus mass and power.
I make the turn onto Old Mill. This stretch is relatively flat, and I pedal hard trying to stay ahead of Megan and catch an older man on a touring bike. I hit the turnaround and head back. I make the left back onto Fall Creek easily with the help of another policeman. Once more I’m climbing.
A short dip, a short climb and I finally pass the guy on the touring bike. He seems surprised to see me again. You’ve heard about the bad penny that always turns up. Well I’m the bad nickel. Then I’m headed back down the long hill to the bridge, working my way through the gears and gathering speed. There is a line of cars ahead, and I’m forced to brake on the big hill. Traffic clears and I discover the cars had slowed to get around a kid on a mountain bike. He’s riding in the middle of the lane apparently unaware that he should be riding on the right. I accelerate past him and cross the bridge.
I start downshifting one last steep hill, and with a final assist from the policeman manning the intersection, I’m back in the park. With an impressive display of bike handling, Megan passes me as I negotiate the speed bump and that’s the last I see of her until the awards ceremony. I pedal across the causeway, stop at the Whoa! sign and dismount. Then I’m running the bike back to transition.
I rack the bike, dump my helmet and sunglasses, switch shoes, grab my cap and race belt, and I’m gone. Less than 50 yards into the run and I’ve been passed by four women. I have now officially been chicked on the swim, bike and run. For me this is as routine as the sun rising in the East. I file it under N for no big deal.
Running With Animals
As usual I’m going out at too fast a pace and waiting for my legs to shake off the post-bike waddle. I’m around the Duck Island loop and onto the causeway before I can get my pace, breathing and legs to sync up. I make the left turn toward the boat ramp and soccer field and see Gene running back toward the finish. I met him yesterday at packet pickup. He did his first triathlon last year and was instantly hooked. He’s well on his way to becoming a monster triathlete. I’m glad he’s not in my age group. He gives me a yell and a high five as I run past.
The run is going well. Yes I’m stuck in slow motion, and I’m pretty sure my running gait looks like I’m inventing an imaginative if rhythmless a folk dance. But I’m plowing along and unlike last year there is no hitch in my giddy-up to force any walk breaks.
As I enter the soccer field, I encounter Dustin also on his way back. He greets me and gives me a high five. The big man looks fresh as a daisy. As I make my way across the soccer field I’m passed by three more runners. At the far end, David and a crew are passing out water. He yells that I’m looking strong. Funny how much energy a positive comment can convey. Then it’s back through the soccer field. The run back to the causeway seems way longer than possible. Then I’m on the causeway, and I can see the finish line. I pick up my pace, yell a thank you to the ETSU athletes directing me onto the running path and I’m across the line.
I hear my wife tell the man collecting chips that she’s get mine and bring it to him. I tend to jog and walk a bit post race. She removes the safety pin and grabs the chip. I give her my race belt as well. Then I take off jogging around the Duck Island loop. As I get back around to the swim start one of my friends spots me and looks alarmed. I won’t mention her name. I’m not sure if she would find this story embarrassing. As I get closer she asks me aren’t you going the wrong way? I reply that it’s cool, I’ve already finished. There is a look of relief followed by puzzlement. I get the feeling she wants to ask, then why are you still running? I’m glad she didn’t ask. I wouldn’t have had an answer.
Roadmap to Victory
It has been a long road since that first triathlon back in 1995. 11 triathlons later I’ve finally had a race where I feel like I performed up to my potential. I had a lot help on this journey. The unflinching support of the Al-Team: Barbara and Genny. Encouragement from two triathlon and cycling clubs: Tri-Cities Triathlon Club and Rocky Top Multisport Club, as well as Five Rivers Cycling Club and Greeneville Cycling Club. I benefited from instruction at John Hanna’s triathlon clinics. I’m pretty sure it was the winter of swim lessons with Janine Pleasant that put me over the top. Finally never underestimate the power of a fierce determination to stumble on.
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