The New Bri Tri

Last Saturday I did my first triathlon (The New Bri Tri - .5 mile swim, 14 mile bike, 3 mile run).

About three months ago three of my co-workers asked me if I wanted to do a triathlon with them.

The Training

I joined the Y to have access to a pool. On my first swim I could barely do 100 yards, and I could not do it freestyle. I had to breast stroke and backstroke. My first few workouts I did mostly backstroke to get a bit of endurance up. I slowly started working on the freestyle. It took quite a while to get into a groove. It was a balance between going so slow that I wouldn’t sink and going fast enough to not get exhausted.

I bought a center mounted snorkel so I could concentrate specifically on the stroke and not the breathing. It was nice, worked well, and I was able to quit using it within a couple weeks. The only negative with the center mounted stroke is that your throat and mouth get painfully dry.

Eventually I was able to swim a half mile in 20-22 minutes.

My wife has a nice treadmill which I began using regularly. On the first runs I was doing about 10.5 minute miles but about a week ago I was down to around 8.

I wasn’t too worried about the bike, because I do a lot of biking.

I lost 12 pounds during the training. It wasn’t my goal to lose weight, it just happened.

The Swim - .5 miles (19:40)

The water was choppy and 65 degrees F. I was wearing my new DeSoto wetsuit. I did not get cold, but I had some problems. My goggles were leaking and I had to try to readjust them a few times. I was nervous and anxious, and could not get into a groove. I was running into people and being run into. It was havoc and reminded me of the scene in The Titanic, just after it went down.

At about 200 yards I ran into my boss who was treading water and complaining of shortness of breath. He had not trained much and is a few pounds overweight. I had a moral, ethical and possibly career threatening decision to make: leave boss to have heart attack or drown, or continue race.

I raced on and left him to the fates.

Well, he said he was okay, a kayak came over which he grabbed, and he encouraged me to go on.

I had not secured my timer chip tight enough around my ankle and it came loose. I was worried that it would fall off. I tried unsuccessfully to tighten it, and just had to hope it would stay on.

Because my goggles were leaking and because I could not get into a groove I relapsed to various other strokes, i.e. side stroke, back stroke, and breast stroke. I was continually checking to see that I had not lost my timing chip.

T1 (2:57)

I made it out of the water and headed for T1. The night before the race I had listened to David Warden’s tri-talk podcast ‘Lost in Transition’. David said it might be hard to use your fingers after coming out of cold water and recommended, among other things, using quick laces and going sockless. I did have trouble with my fingers. I could not get my cycling gloves on and after several seconds just pitched them on the ground.

I had a moment of confusion when I saw the person next to me putting on running shoes. Why? Was the run next? As he hopped on his bike I saw that he had cages on his pedals.

The Bike – 14 miles (40:29)

The bike course rolled through a beautiful park and part of the surrounding suburb. It was a gorgeous day, and I was passing people by the scads. In fact I passed two of my co-workers who had started in the first wave, five minutes ahead. I played cat and mouse with a couple other cyclists and averaged almost 21 mph. I could hardly believe my odometer, my speed was faster than any of my practice TTs.

T2 (1:52)

No complaints here. T2 went pretty well.

The Run – 3 miles (27:21)

Despite having listened to the advice in ‘Lost in Transition’ I took off on the run with my helmet on. I realized this the moment I passed the chip timer. I took off the helmet, and pitched it to the crowd. A young mother with a stroller caught it.

I paid for my good bike time in the run.

The run skirted a lake and went uphill into the woods. My legs were like lead, and I guessed I would probably do about 10 minute miles. There was a Clydesdale who was bigger than a tree ahead of me who was barely moving. I finally passed him at the top of the hill.

I think my pace picked up about half way through the run. At one point, there is a turn-around. Immediately after the turn-around I saw one of my co-workers who I had passed on the bike. I stepped it up a notch.

As I came toward the finishing gate they announced my name which inspired me to do a 50 yard dash to the finish.

The Finish (1:32:18)

It was a great feeling, just fantastic. I was so pumped and thrilled to feel so alive.

I am 54. In my age group I finished 7/13 in the swim, 6/13 in the bike, 9/13 in the run, and 9/13 overall.

I have no where to go but up. I’m still at the stage where big improvements can be made in time. I was 17 minutes slower than the winner of my age group.

Notes

My boss hung on, survived, and finished the race.

After the race, the kind young mother found me and returned my helmet.

One last mistake. As I was gathering my gear in the transition zone I asked my neighbor what I was supposed to do with the timer chip. He said I should have turned it in at the finish. Apparently I ran right past the chip collectors. I turned it in a bit late.

In the parking lot when it was all over I asked the girl parked next to me how she did. "I think I took first," she said. "In your division?" I asked. "Overall women's," she responded. "I guess you did pretty good then,” I replied.

She was 23, had been a University of Minnesota swimmer. Her swim time for the half mile was 10:35. Of the top ten swimmers, her time was the best, followed by nine men. And indeed, she was the top woman, ahead of even those who were in the 'elite' category. Nice. She was awarded a brand new helmet.

***

My seven year old son also had a big day (end of season soccer awards)




My daughter comforted me afterward.

The Opus Criterium

On the morning of the operation my dad dropped me off at the DaySurgery Center. My wife had to work, and after all how serious could day surgery be? I was told to strip naked and put on a backward facing smock. I wasn't suspicious at the time but I now believe it was a sexual thing. I was also wearing a blue mesh hair net.

I had been diagnosed with degenerative bone disease specific to the joints of the big toes. The surgery entails removing bone spurs, dead cartilage, excess tissue, and drilling small holes to increase blood flow. To improve the mechanics of the joint the toe is broken in half and a thin wedge-shaped slice of bone is removed. The bone is put pack together with a screw and a pin.

I was put on a stainless steel table with wheels. A nurse looked at my arms with confidence. I’m a thin, sinewy guy with light skin and bulging veins something like a deep sea fish, not attractive to anyone but a needle wielding nurse or an EMT. The IV would be an easy job.

The nurse found a vein and inserted the needle. A plastic housing tube on the IV broke. She said that had never happened before. On the second try she got the needle in again but couldn’t get the IV to work. She squeezed the bag and shook the tubing. Something fell on the floor. That had never happened before. She pulled the needle and tried again, this time to the biggest vein she could find. The third IV took. She dabbed my forehead with a damp cloth, strapped an oxygen mask on my face, and injected me with an anti-fainting drug.

The anesthetist came by and introduced himself. Local anesthetics in combination with Diprivan, a powerful relaxant, would be used. The surgeon came by to check my chart. Diprivan trickled into my veins as they wheeled me into the operating room. I was still breathing through the oxygen mask.

The operating room was as you always depict them, just like on TV. A cast of nurses and surgeon's assistants in blue gowns and blue hair nets introduced themselves.

I expected to be conscious throughout. I thought I would be talking to doctors and nurses while being injected, cut open, scraped upon, chipped at, chopped at, sawed apart, screwed back together, and then sewn up. I watched them getting ready. They adjusted the height of the table and moved some big overhead lights around.

I woke up as I was being wheeled to post op. I asked the nurse what was happening. She told me that we were all done. It was 11:30, three hours since my last memory. I missed the whole show. I was in a haze.

The nurse explained that the drugs used in surgery were very strong. Their effects would last some hours. She told me that I could not be considered a responsible person for the next 48 hours. I would continue to be on painkillers. She read a list of post-surgery recovery instructions.

I was in a curtained post-op area waiting for my ride home. The drugs were working perfectly fine. I was in a dreamy world and making some grand plans. I thought about my future. I thought I might finish my master’s degree.

My feet were bundled snuggly in ace bandages. I was fitted for nylon sandals that had thick rubber soles and wide Velcro straps. They were referred to as bunion boots, and handily not specific to left or right foot.

The nurse taught me how to walk during convalescence: on my heels, legs spread out, feet splayed. I was not to walk anywhere except to the bathroom for three days. I was to lay on my back with my feet elevated. My dad arrived to pick me up in his big Buick.

I was given a big bottle of oxycontin. I wouldn’t be needing those. I felt great. I was put in a wheel chair and brought toward the car. I tried to do a wheelie but was restrained by the orderly. I was able to lay in the back seat with my feet elevated. I enjoyed the ride home. I was glad to see my wife, my son and our dog, Toes.

I was in a pretty good mood for some hours. I contemplated many things as the drugs wore off. What really happened when I was in that operating room? What was with the backward facing smock? Of course I’d be walking funny what they did to me.

I also gave thought to my plan to finish my master’s degree and realized, of course, that I don't even have an undergraduate degree. I was a drop out from welding school before I joined the Navy.

I reached for the oxycontins. They were just beyond my grasp. I called for my wife.

When the oxycontins kicked in, the pain and paranoia slipped away. I was happy watching shadows on the walls. I had the headphones on. I cruised the FM dial. All music sounded spectacular and was full of hidden meaning. Barry Manilow was as deep as Pink Floyd and vice versa.

I would walk to the bathroom like a bow-legged Charlie Chaplin with legs spread out using two ski poles. I had special relaxed fit, stretch-waist pants designed to make going to the bathroom easier. To approach the stool I had to lean back on the sink, rock forward, balance, quickly pull the pants down, and then sit. I did the reverse on rising. I was a Cirque du Soleil clown.

My seventy-five year old mother called to offer me the walker she had used after her hip surgery. At a family gathering my dad put a pained look on his face while demonstrating how I walked. He encouraged my brothers and sisters to join him in a duck walk around the house. “Walk this way!” He laughed.

I was on oxycontin for days. I fired up the DVD. I watched the first two seasons of The Sopranos. I watched ten hours of the 2001 Tour d’France that a biking enthusiast had loaned me. That was the Tour d’France famous for the controversial backward glance known as “The Look” that Lance Armstrong cast his arch rival Jan Ullrich.

My doctor told me that it would be a complete year for the bone to heal. Walking would be difficult for weeks but I could ride my bike. The Tour d’France inspired me. When spring rolled around I presented myself with a challenge. I signed up for the Bicycle Racing Academy Spring Clinic and entered my first race.

The Opus Criterium was an early season developmental race. The course was a one mile, one-way circle in an industrial park, ten laps. I arrived early to check out the course.

Racers soon began to arrive. Most of them wore team colors busy with advertisements or shall I say avertissements for such European companies as Rabobank, Mobilvetta, and Sardelli. Jersey colors and designs ranged from aqua-neon with orange polka dots to purple with chartreuse checkers. These cats looked like fishing lures.

I was wearing a plain dirty white t-shirt stained with oil smudges. None of the other bikes were equipped with a triple chain ring, a saddle bag full of supplies, and a tire pump. Only my sunglasses revealed my intent and commitment to the sport of bicycle racing. They were the model Cobra!

I did not recognize anyone. Nobody from the Bicycle Racing Academy Clinic was present. I spied one racer sitting in the back of his van mixing up a blue liquid. He drank some of it and filled his water bottle with the rest. I stuck my head in and asked, “Would you like to buy a Whizzinator?” The Whizzinator is a strap-on prosthetic type device complete with bladder and dry urine powder intended to beat drug tests.

He didn’t bother to look up from my feet. “Where’d you get your shoes?” He inquired. Maybe I should have left the bunion boots at home. I told him they were Euro-slippers, not available in the US of A.

I psyched myself up. I wasn’t there to win a popularity contest. Bicycle racing is a highly competitive world. This was alpha male, big dog stuff.

In this scene of cyclists there were three of us who appeared somewhat less than de rigueur and not fully hip to the scene. There was a guy wearing a fishing hat turned inside out, a pudgy girl with thick, muscular legs, and me.

Every racer except the pudgy girl and I had shaved legs. There is a raging controversy as to why cyclists shave their legs. Some say it is to make abrasions easier to clean up and helps prevent infection. Apparently this is only true in the sport of cycling. Some say it has to do with aerodynamics. I had once read that a pro racer, riding at 22 mph over a distance of 100 miles, could save up to six seconds by having shaved legs. I didn’t have a chart to interpolate what this would mean on a ten mile course but it turned out that the disadvantage of not having shaved legs is worse than that. It really slowed me and the pudgy girl down.

There were several members of Team Flanders in the registration area. Team Flanders gets its name from the most elite bicycle shop in town.

The race began with a mass start. There were 53 entrants. The start was delayed for a few moments when race safety officials instructed the guy with the fishing hat to put on a helmet. Then they came over to strip me of my tire pump and saddle bag. I told them they could have my tire pump but he'd have to pry my colostomy bag out of my ass.

Ah well, no points scored with the race official.

I spotted the guy who had been wearing the fishing hat. He was now wearing something that looked like a World War I doughboy helmet. It had lightning stripes hand painted on the side. I adjusted my Cobras and chuckled.

I asked one of the members of Team Flanders if they got their name from Homer Simpson's religious neighbor. A little wry humor before I kicked their butts. Team Flanders looked at one another and avoided eye contact with me. I wished them well, "Good luck, god boys."

At this point I will note that I am distinctly middle aged and that the average age of the racers was probably 25 tops. I did not see anyone else there on the verge of prostate problems. So what I got life experience. How many times have these young bucks canceled their proctosigmoidoscopy appointments?

I began in the middle of the pack. I was apprehensive but wanted to use that as a strength. Maybe the experienced cyclists would fear me. An unpredictable style and an inability to hold a line or corner properly might be advantages. I did okay for the first few laps but got gapped by the pack.

At the back I found the World War I doughboy and the pudgy girl. We were no longer in the draft of strong riders. The gap was quickly growing larger. The doughboy suggested we sit out a lap then hop back on just to get more experience riding with a pack.

We slowed our pace. I expected the pack to soon pass us, but they didn’t seem to be coming. I decided to increase my pace. I knew I couldn't catch up, but maybe I wouldn't get lapped. I'd give it an effort. I did a breakaway. I turned around and gave the doughboy The Look.

On the second to the last lap, on the hill to the finish I heard someone from behind yell, "On your left!" I veered sharply to the right. Other voices yelled, "Don't move! Don’t move!”

For once I held my line. The pack swarmed passed me on all sides like a stampede. I looked up and saw nothing but the backs of jerseys flashing Flanders, Flanders, Flanders.

The pack crossed the finish line. I did another lap. I rode on alone. I'd have the dignity of completing the race.

Just as I was about to pass the finish line I realized there was someone in my draft. It was the pudgy girl! She stood on her pedals, pounded, sprinted, passed me. Her friends jumped up and cheered.

I pedaled home and shaved my legs.