Hey, where's No Wetsuit Girl?

The clock's run out. My 100th No Wetsuit Girl post will also be my last. But don't cry, don't fret, I'm not going away, I'm only moving!

My new URL is now (drumroll please):

speedyspeedracer.blogspot.com

Perhaps you've seen it hanging out at the bottom of my profile page trying to blend in like a 19-year-old in line outside a bar. Maybe, you've been the 19-year-old and tried to get in, only to be turned away at the door when you show your ID because you weren't on the guest list. Well from now on, the site is public.

So why the change? Well, there are a few reasons:

1. I can't go on living without a wetsuit forever, and it was naive of me to think that people would actually go through the archives to find out what the name meant.
   
2. Not only do I plan on acquiring a new wetsuit this season, I also plan on acquiring a speed suit, thus justifying using the word speed (twice) in connection with moi (the first and last time, I'm sure). So there you go, there's the swim apparel connection. If you want to stretch it you could also get really creative and point out that I don't even own a bikini, only SPEEDos (I look like I'm cross-dressing in a bikini anyway).
3. I have a personal pet peeve against people who use "Girl" at the end of a nick name. It is a misdemeanor to use it after a single word, but to use it after an entire sentence fragment is a felony (as is spelling it "grrrl", by the way). God knows what I was thinking.
4. There was some kind of justification of the wetsuit reference when I was "... Overseas!", however tenuous. But now that I'm back in the states there is absolutely no play on words that I could think of to salvage my creative pride. The whole thing had to go!
   
5. Finally, the title "Training and Blogging in Spain" was originally longer and in an argot that only me, my friend Allie and a few other high school friends share where every list of verbs ends in "... an' Thuggin'". My original title was "Trainin', Bloggin', an' Thuggin' in Spain", then I realized that was stupid but couldn't think of anything better, so I took out the "thuggin'", added a couple of Gs, and voila! The world's stupidest blog title!

Every time I got a new reader I cringed because I knew that if I'd come across the above mentioned sins of cheeziness I wouldn't even read my own blog, no matter how brilliant it was.

To those of you who have a link to my page on your sidebars, I respectfully request that you change it. So, bye bye No Wetsuit Girl, and good riddance.

Extra Credit Reading:

For those of you who are interested in knowing the story behind No Wetsuit Girl, I'll tell it quickly right now:

I first started swimming seriously in January in Santa Cruz with the SC Masters team. Santa Cruz (and that whole part of the coast) have particularly cold water, in part because of an upwelling of water from some of the deepest parts of the ocean in that region. This does not prevent the local Masters team from swimming in the ocean regularly year-round, either around the wharf (roughly 1 mile) or "swimming the buoys" (a string of 4 buoys that works out to be about 1000m round trip) WITHOUT A WETSUIT. Every New Years the SC Masters team puts on a New Years swim around the wharf on January 1st when water temperature is usually in the 40's, and every August they put on a 10k Wharf to Wharf swim when the water is at its warmest (around 60*). As in all SC Masters races, your results are not counted if you wear a wetsuit.

Really, I thought that this was normal. So every week I sucked it up and swam the buoys without a wetsuit. I did intervals submerged in the cold plunge at the gym to get my body used to being in very cold water. I thought that this was the way it worked, I thought everyone was doing this. So imagine my surprise when I showed up at the start to the Big Kahuna (coincidentally, the same year the Iron Kahuna did it for the first time, by the way) and I was the only one on the beach without a wetsuit. This earned me lots of cheers of "GO NO WETSUIT GIRL!!!" and marked the first time in my life that I was proud of the results of going through life with my head up my ass. It was the beginning of an era... and an identity.

What's wrong with this picture?

Hi, I'm back. Shane's gone to Italy for 2 weeks which gives me time to write.

I've finally, officially made the decision to move back home to Boston and become no longer "No Wetsuit Girl... OVERSEAS!", but "No Wetsuit Girl... With Absolutly Nothing to Justify Her Silly Online Alius but Now She's Stuck With the URL So What Can You Do?" (No, really, it makes sense, just read the story!). But then again, you know that.

Today I finally got around to breaking the news to Silvia (my girlfriend), and that was definitely horrible. But then again, you read that post too.

So, understandably I've been hyper sensative in the last month to vibes and signs and feelings and emotions that 3 years of living in California taught me, plus one extra credit year of living with Californians finding themselves abroad. One needs these things to decide whether somewhere is a good space or a bad space, you see. So today I went to my swimming pool space, which is also home to my triathlon club presence.

Now let me take a minute to explain to you why my triathlon club is toxic to my aura. When I joined in January they offered me this sweet deal that they would pay for my triathlon license, give me the club membership for free, and pay the entry fee for all the "Catalan Cup" events if I would only agree to participate in 5 races this season. It was a sweet deal, but that was before my soul got sick (ie my relationship drew me away - begrudgingly - from my dreams of athletic excellence). So now we're 2/3 of the way through the season, I'm leaving in 3 weeks, and I've only done one race in which I lost the chip (or never had one to lose), and pulled out of another cuz I couldn't get to the start on time. We call these omens in California.

So basically, I'm a giant flake. I never flake, but this year I've been like a box of special K. Flakey McFlakerson, that's me.

Last night I couldn't sleep (as usual) and I was trying to find a legit excuse to get out of this week's race in East Bum Fuck because there's no public transport and I don't want to admit I'm poor. I could say that I'm injured, I've been deported, I was in a car accident, or my bike was stolen... I needed a distraction. I got up and signed on to myspace and decided to write to my little student's little boyfriend since I'd heard they'd "split up" and I wanted to make sure he was okay. WELL, let me tell you, if you translate "split up" from Spanish "break up" and "take a break" translate to the same thing. Imagine my surprise when I get an email from Nacho saying,

"Pepe* didn't tell me that we were broken up, only that we were
taking time apart to think. Thank you for saving me the heartache
and thank you for all your support this summer while
he was in Wisconsin!"

Oh shit. OH SHIT! No sleep tonight for Claire, especially since I was going to have to break the news to my own girlfriend that we were "splitting up" the very next day.

*name changed to protect the identity of a minor.

So I woke up tired after a fitful dream about a homocidal kitten (no, I'm serious) and decided to go swimming. Some people can think when they run or bike, I can only think clearly when I'm watching the black line at the bottom of the pool. Maybe it's the zen of the regular breathing, zero gravity, and sound deprivation. My plan: 3 sets of 1000 meters at a pace I could think at, no faster, no slower.

Now usually I'm the fastest one in the pool and the only one over 10 who's not obese, but half way through my second 1000 I noticed that the guy next to me is going faster than me, and so were both the guys in the lane next to mine. Pushing off the wall I saw that they all had the body type of Adonis. "Oh God, don't let it be the triathlon club, don't let it be the triathlon club!" I begged. After another 500 meters I stopped to "rest" and tried to get an idea of who they were. I was having trouble distinguishing a face I knew and starting to get optimistic that maybe it was just a swim team when I saw that one of the Adonises in the next lane was wearing an "IRONCAT" cap. SHIT! It IS the triathlon club! And they were doubled up 5 lanes deep! The pool suddenly became a toxic space.

I immediately understood the sign and got out of the pool and went to the women's dressing room where they wouldn't find me. All showered and dressed I had nothing better to do than to go home and break up with my girlfriend. I signed up for an aquathlon in a couple weeks to try and redeem myself and ran out the door before they could make me feel bad any longer.

Pictures of the soggy homos (no worries, PG rated)

With traditional Spanish punctuality the pictures from last weekend's open water swim weren't sent out for 5 days. But here is a visual recap of my last blog. Stay tuned, there's more news from yours truly at the end...

Loading up the kayaks

I think all the boys adopted that pose to make their muscles look good

I'm doing that thing with my hands because the water's cold, not because I'm drowning or anything.

... you can't say that he doesn't

The resolution on this picture is really crappy, but you can see how I got so sunburnt!

Alberto has really come along this year. Last year he couldn't get across the pool, this weekend I was swimming next to him!

I don't remember his name, so we'll call him Juan. Juan brought up the rear not so much to sweep for drowning swimmers, but because he'd never been in a kayak before and had trouble keeping up.

...

Some of the guys came out with bloody boo-boos, so I'm glad I didn't go in. I didn't want to attract sharks!

(there I go)
This is what George's shawl looked like, but really, you can't see here just how fabulous it was, especially since it made the whole trip in his boyfriend's kayak.

And finally here's a picture of everyone but me. I had swim away because there wasn't ANY way I was going in that cave.

It's late now, so I'm going to save my big news until tomorrow... Sorry to disappoint! It's really not my style.

Nudity is a privelage, not a right!

I don't usually swim on weekends. Weekends are for long efforts and rest. Mondays, Wednesdays and Thursdays at the geriatrics hour is my usual pool time. But today, uncharicteristically, Silvia and I went to the pool.

I wasn't really feeling a tough workout, so I planned to do a workout that my college swim coach taught us, called roulette. If you're in the kind of mood I was in today, it's more like Russian roulette. Here's how it goes, first you write the numbers 0-9 on a piece of paper, then you put a different set next to each number like this:
0. 300 25fast/25easy/50f/50e/75f/75e
1. 3x200 descending
2. 6x25 sprint
3. 3x100 IM
4. 300 catch-up
5. 100 kick
6. 400 pull
7. 300 25 right arm/25 left arm/50 swim
8. 1000 straight
9. 200 IM with fins (dolphin kick on breast)
Then you take your handy-dandy stopwatch and start then stop it. The number that's in the 100ths of a second spot (the one that there's no way that you can rig it) is the set that you do above. For example, if you stop after 2.48 seconds, you do #8, 1000 straight. It's a fun way to mix up a bunch of different kinds of workouts. Anyway, my workout is beside the point...

On a sunny Sunday afternoon in late June I was expecting to see a different crowd than the granny soup that I usually swim around in. We tried to go around lunch time to avoid the families with CHILDREN so I could at least pretend that the pool wasn't filled with pee. No such luck though. There were kids everywhere, doing belly flops off the blocks, whacking eachother with noodles, and hanging off lane lines. "Pedro!" a little girl kept yelling as she hucked a kickboard at her brother's head.

The Sunday afternoon crowd had different screwballs than I was used to. One woman in the lane next to me was doing yoga at the bottom of the pool. When she got out a man took her place who was SO hairy I wondered if since bathing caps are mandatory in this pool, it was okay to make him wear a wetsuit.

There were also several women in bikinis that I couldn't tell if they were 4 months pregnant or just too fat to be wearing a bikini. There were several men in speedos with the same problem.

... And of course there were the sun bathers, inanimate people laid out on lounge chairs cooking in the sun like so many rows of kebabs on the grill...

As we were staking out a spot to leave our stuff we had to step over a particularly attractive girl lying face-up wearing nothing but a itty bitty, teeny weeny bikini bottom. She didn't have that bad a rack. "Are you allowed to do that?" I said to Silvia. "I mean, I understand on the beach - sorta - but here?" And then, there, on the other side of the pool, was a veritable panorama of horrible, naked tits! Several of the (possibly?) expectant mothers had their shapeless boobs flouncing to each side, falling where they may as the women did their best impressions of chalk outlines. And then, at the far end of the group, the Queen Beastly Breast of the bunch, a woman in her mid-sixties with enormous tits hanging close to her hip bones, wearing only what looked like a men's speedo bottom, crouching and squtting in the corner with her ass to her audience searching for something in her bag.

What is it about European women? The second they see water and a place to lie down, OFF goes the top. And the older or more overweight they are, the less they can control themselves. Don't get me wrong, I'm a big fan of pride in one's body and all that, but come on!!! There are children about! It's not about shame, it's about modesty. If you've got it, flaunt it. But if you ain't got it, please don't get revenge by flaunting it anyway. Thank you.

I'm an ironman, who the hell are you?

Last night I ditched the soggy homos to go to swim practice with my gym's triathlon team for the first time. I can't usually make it to the practices, but I needed to talk to the team's manager about getting me federated (is that a word in English?), so I skipped my usual Friday night practice with the water fairies to splash around with the triathletes for a while. I'd never seen so many perfect bodies gathered together in one place. They were all lean muscle and definition in their speedos. Any one of them could have been used as an example in a human anatomy class to teach the skeletal muscles. Their muscles were so cut with none of that loose skin look that runners get, not too much of that swimmer's thickness, and no legs being forced apart by overdevelped quad muscles. There's something intimidating when you join a new group and the only thing they talk to you about after asking your name is explaining the workout. And then they put on their caps: nearly all of them from races. When one guy put on his cap with IRONMAN stamped on the side and it slapped into place across his forehead it was like a slap in the face to me. I'm used to not being the fastest one in the group, but at least I'm always the one who spends the most time working out. There's nothing I hate more than feeling weak, or letting people think I'm weak.

I was the slowest one, but I was able to keep up with the workout. I was feeling tired, though. My lungs were sore from sucking too much cold air after taking a wrong turn on the bike this morning and taking the steep way up a hill. I wanted to make it an excuse, but then I realized that these guys probably wouldn't have been impressed with my ride since it's one of the standard routes around here. I wanted to say my arms were tired from braking the whole way down the hill, but I realized that this would probably show that I was weak at descending ("only pussies and novices are weak descenders," the voice in my head said). I wanted to say that my back and shoulders were tired because this was my third day swimming in a row, but that wouldn't have cut the mustard either. Even though I really didn't feel it anymore, I wanted to use my marathon last week as an excuse for my weakness, but I realized that I might not even be the only one who had done that either. I didn't have a single excuse to hide behind, and had to admit the worst: I was weaker than these men. So in my last 400 (that was supposed to be a 500) I began to think, why do I need to make excuses? Because I'm weaker than these guys? No, I have to accept the fact that I'm weaker and train to be up to par. If I don't like being left behind, I have to stop making up reasons for why that is, and just train harder and smarter than everyone else to be able to keep up next time. Especially in endurance sports, the one who wins is the one who trains harder and trains better than anyone else out there. I have no god-given talent, but if I can stop making excuses I'm driven, dammit. So from here on out, I'm going to take responsibility for my weaknesses. No more excuses.

It's kind of liberating, don't you think? If I stop thinking about my weaknesses as unfortunate, unavoidable truths, then I can actually improve them rather than avoiding them like an old injury. Wow, that's a new idea.

God knows how I haven't killed myself yet...

The first time that I did (no, TRIED to do) a full bike ride of the whole 56 miles I did it on an out and back up California Highway 1 towards San Francisco. It was the bike for the Big Kahuna itself. When I arrived at the lighthouse at Pigeon Point I turned around and in the first mile back towards Santa Cruz I hit a crater of a pothole and slashed a 2 inch slit in my tube, which started bleeding green ooze inside my tire. I didn't have a spare tube. I didn't have a cell phone. I only had one dollar in my pocket. I clip-clopped about half a mile to a gas station and begged to use the phone. No one I knew with a big car could come get me. Finally I had to beg Lorraine, who I hardly even knew, to come get me. Only she couldn't come until she finished her shift in 2 hours. I was waiting in that gas station for 3 hours talking to a homeless Hawaiian about land prices in Nevada.

After that Lorraine said she would give me a clinic on how to change a tire. We changed it, and when I was loading my bike on the car rack the stem of the inner tube ripped clear off. "Now you'll get more practice", said Lorraine.

One time I climbed a mountain. Miles and miles, up and up and up. The hill was clearly out of my fitness range and I had to turn around when I got off my bike to catch my breath and couldn't get moving up the hill again. I turned down hill, and started FLYING. I didn't know how to corner, had relatively little experience descending, and my breaks hadn't been replaced since the 1970's (really). Additionally I'd just read somewhere that if you brake too much on a hill your rims can heat up and your inner tube can pop, so I didn't want to break at all. I really thought I was going to die as I flew down the yellow line in the middle of the road. Instinctively I stood up and made myself as big as possible to turn my body into a sail. I never clibed that hill again. Ever.

There was the 23k through the Santa Cruz mountains that I really just wasn't in the mood to push through, so I barrelled down all the hills as fast as gravity would carry me. I can be so cocky sometimes. The result was shin splints that kept me from running nearly the entire summer leading up to the Big Kahuna. Also, when I finished that race and went to bike home my bike had a FLAT tire and I had to walk all the way home, which luckily was only about 3 miles.

When I first got to Barcelona I knew I needed a bike club to get to know the routs around the city. The problem was, I couldn't find one that met on Sundays: my only free morning. I figured that if they were out there, they had to leave from one of the two ends of the city which led to freeways, so one Sunday I woke up at 5:30 so I could be out the door at 6:45. Then, I went to one of the major roads out of the city and just started biking up and down, up and down, looking for other bikers. After half an hour I spotted some and approached them. I asked them where a street was that I knew one of the bike clubs had their "headquarters" on, and they said they didn't know where it was. "Well," I said, "is it okay if I go with you guys then?" They agreed. "So, where are we going?" I asked. It turns out that I'd found the dirtiest old men in ass-tight shorts, but at least I had a bike club and they were delighted to have me because having a chick meant more bonuses for the team.

I lied, I have won one race. I won a bike race, where the winners were the first to the top of the last climb. There were probably about a dozen other women in the whole thing. Everyone stopped half way through to have a free lunch where they gave unlimited wine and whiskey to the cyclists (I abstained) and giant, fatty "butifarra" sausages filled with organ meat (I abstained). I went up that hill trying to keep by myself, but my teammates kept getting in front of me trying to help me draft. They were drunk, as they always are after we stop for a snack in the middle of a ride. They kept cutting me off and I wound up having to brake, accelerate, brake, accelerate. I yelled, "Just let me go at my own rhythm!" They paid me no mind. Finally we got to the top of the hill and I thought they would leave me alone. Since my hair is short, my teammates had to scream to the volunteers, "SHE'S A GIRL!" as I came over the top. Miguel Angel said, "Next time, when you're getting to the top, be sure to stick out your tits". The president of the club also won a trophy for being the oldest person to finish. He said, "My trophy's bigger than yours". I said, "Yeah, but you got yours just for signing up."

Once upon a time I did 5 consecutive hours of spinning for cystic fibrosis. It was indoors and I'm a sweater. The news cameras were there, and the cameraman was next to me the whole time. Of all the moments to be on public access TV, that was not the moment that I wanted them to choose.

There was the Carrer de la Dona (the "Women's Race") which was the day after a joint birthday party of not one, but three of my best friends. Silvia got too drunk to drive me home at midnight, so I kept drinking to stay awake until she sobered up. The next morning I was a few hundred meters from breaking 24 minutes in a 5k for the first time in my life when I started to sprint. Only the arch that I thought was the finish wasn't the finish. So I continued to sprint. 50 meters from the finish line I had to take a detour and spent the next 3 minutes puking my guts out in front of the hundreds of spectators at the finishing chute.

Once Joolie and I decided last minute to run a 10k as bandits. We knew roughly where the start was, but not exactly. We both woke up late. We arrived at the start 8 minutes late and just started running. There's nothing better than the feeling of passing people for a whole, entire race.

One time, running a race that went down the Rambla we cought a couple of whores trying to cross the course to go home after a long night of work. They saw us, smiled and started yelling and clapping. Then they got into the pack and started running with us and making their way to the other side of the street. Then all the runners cheered for the whores!

I make 50-year-olds think they're having a heart attack. Hey, you remember how my heart rate is always really high? Like my max HR is something above 220? So when I wear a heartrate monitor a lot of times I'm training between 175 and 185 bpm. I swear, I have not died once yet. So anyway, I was on the bike trainer this one time somewhere around 180 bpm and the floor monitor comes up to me and he's like, "Are you wearing a heartrate monitor?" Me: "Uh, yeah". Dude: "And about where are you"? I told him, and he gives this "See, I told you so" look to the guy on a recumbant bike behind me. Turns out that the guy had called him over because his bike was picking up my signal and he thought that he was suffering some kind of heart palpatations. Then I got on the treadmill where I got above 190 and the two old people on either side of me started getting worried in kind of the same way and then looking at me funny. So now I'm the girl that makes your treadmill tell you to stop moving NOW, who sweats all over the place, and on rare occasions pukes all over the floor.

First is the worst...

My first triathlon ever was an epic of learning the hard way.

So there was my first race: the San Diego International Triathlon. My first triathlon. I drove the 8 hours from Santa Cruz down to San Diego all by my lonesome. I checked my bike in the day before, got my bib, cap, bike number and goodie bag and went back to the hotel. Then I wandered out through Chula Vista to find something carb-rich for dinner. No more than 2 miles from the hotel, my car felt like it was getting a kick in the ass every few seconds. It was quite clear that the damn thing was breaking down (I would find out later that it was my transmission, and that was a sad story in and of itself). I got back to the hotel room and started calling people to ask for advice, and the arrow buttons on my cell phone stopped working, making all menus, and thus my cell phone, useless. So now, alone and stranded in a Holiday Inn in a strange city I would have to get to the starting line before 6:00 am without a car and without a cell phone. I hardly slept the whole night and my thoughts were anything but positive as I not only stressed about my car and the race, but also whether my evil ex girlfriend (the only person I knew who lived in Chula Vista) would call me back and give me the name of a good mechanic (she never did). When the cab came at 5:00 I'd barely had time to eat a yogurt and buy a McDonalds coffee. I found my bike in the transition area and tried not to make it so obvious that I was copying other people's transition area setups. I didn't have a lot of the stuff that they had, so there were only so many ways that I could set out my sneakers (that could hardly be called "running shoes"), socks, pants, helmit, and bib. There was absolutely no way to hide that my enormous hybrid bike wouldn't fit on the racks and I had to put down, yes, the kick stand. *Shame* Then I put on my rented wetsuit (the first and only I've ever worn: $75 for one day rental), trying to remember which way was right-side-out. And I waited, and waited, and waited, and waited. I didn't warm up in the water because my open water swimming experience was limited to the most terrifying 300m I've ever swum in my life. I am desperately afraid of open water. Finally there was no way to get around getting in the water and bobbing in the start with all the other girls under the age of 25. As a rule, I try to avoid large groups of girls under 25 anyway. I don't know why I bothered to rent the wetsuit because the water in Mission Bay was as warm as the June air. And when it came time to swim, even though I'd put myself in the back and off to one side, there were still people all around me, punching me, slapping me. And they wouldn't go away. And I couldn't get away. I had practiced a little bit of spotting, so I tried to keep real close to the buoys so as not to go off course... so close that suddenly in my field of vision there was a CHAIN, going down into the murky ABYSS!!! I swear, I almost shit my wetsuit. Then, a few meters away I was spotting again, put my face in the water and there was A SEAWEED COLUMN!!!!!! I had a new scariest thing I'd ever seen in my entire life. It was the kind of seaweed column that The Monster lives at the bottom of. I couldn't wait to get out of the water. And when I finally did, the strangest thing happened... I couldn't run. I never would have thought of that. I never had a problem walking after a swim workout, but after 3 steps I was already winded. I waddled into the transition area and found my bike as girls ran around me. But it took what seemed like forever to get the damn wetsuit off. It was like a giant, Claire-shaped suction cup. Finally free, I put on my pants and pinned my number onto my swim suit and patted myself on the back for saving time by not having to change clothes and put on a shirt. I had thought that I was pretty good at biking since I rode up the hill to class every day, but everyone was passing me, and not just passing me, but blowing past me like I wasn't moving at all. I'd thought that all that high tech stuff like automatic pedals, bike jerseys with pockets, carbon frames, bike computers, and aero bars were for suckers and pussies but I saw (and heard) things whizzing past me that I never thought existed: aero bars with the gear shifts on the aero bars themselves, "ksssht, ksssht, ksssht" as disk wheels passed me, aero helmits, and all manor of other gadges and mean-looking gizmos. If I was having fun up until this point, i was not anymore. A fat lady passed me on an uphill and yelled, "you go, girl!", which I could only read to mean: "wow, I didn't know anyone could possibly finish such a thing with such a Fred Flinstone bike!" Finally I came back into the transition area past bored-looking volunteers who'd already seen all the exciting racing go by. I hopped off my bike and pulled off my helmit, thinking that I was better off than all those suckers with the gear who had to change their shoes. Then I started to run. My legs were made of lead. I'd never felt a pain so horrible in my life! What the hell was going on?! Oh yes, that's right, I had never, EVER run off the bike, thinking that doing both in one day was good enough. I ran and I ran and I ran, and I suffered and I suffered and I suffered. I saved tons of time blowing through aid stations thinking that I didn't need their gimmicky "sports drinks" which were just as good as my plain water that I had in my bike water bottle and was carrying in my hand. I was HUNGRY. How come no one was giving me food? And no matter how much I concentrated and pushed, I COULDN'T make myself run. I had no idea that 10k could be so long, but even on fresh legs, running through the rental car lot at the San Diego Airport makes the miles feel longer. I'd never run in my swimsuit before, so it had never occurred to me that the seams weren't made to minimize running friction. Before long I had raw, open wounds nearly a foot long through my armpits with salty ocean water brought back to life by sweat being rubbed into them with every stride. Then, finally, I was running along the Embarcadero and had to run around the tourists who thought it was more important not to give up their spot in line for the sightseeing tour than to get out of my way. At the finish there were people holding their kids, women kissing their husbands, boyfriends hugging their girlfriends and smiles and happiness all around. I was grumpy and just wanted to get to the Clif samples, which were chocolate. I hate chocolate. Then I had to wait in the long, long line for the shuttle back to the transition area. All I thought about in that long line was how much I fucked up. I'd come into this thing arrogant, and my first triathlon had shown me exactly who was boss. But I still had to figure out how to get back to the hotel before I could shut myself in my room and drink by myself until I forgot what it felt like to be a failure. The volunteers guarding the transition areas were Marines, who were very effective in preventing bike thefts, but they didn't know their way around the San Diego area too well. I knew that my hotel was only a few blocks from the water, so if I followed the coast I couldn't be far. This story could have been much more disasterous if a girl named Christine hadn't overheard me asking for directions and offered me a ride home. Normally I'm too proud and stubborn to accept help from anyone, but this trip had been so disasterous that I gave in. When Christine was loading my enormous bike onto her roof rack she grunted and said, "we gotta get you a new bike, girl!" Yeah, I know. I'm pathetic, I'd done everything wrong before I even started to race. But on the way back, as I gave all my excuses for why I'd sucked so much, Christine had such a better perspective on my experience. "Look, you just FINISHED your first triathlon!" she said. "And on that heavy bike, too. I bet you were working harder than anyone else out there." It turns out that she'd done the sprint distance, and couldn't even conceive of herself doing the olympic distance until next season and was impressed by a distance which I had considered pretty pathetic, since there was so much farther you COULD go. I was ashamed to point out my crummy hotel tucked away behind a huge McDonalds with the bulletproof glass in front of the reception desk, but before I got out of the car Christine said, "That's so cool that you came all by yourself to a new city to do your first triathlon! I hope that you have a better experience next time." So really, Christine was my first introduction to what triathlon means to me today: sharing the glory of the culmination of all your training and hard work and sacrifice with those around you who are basking in their own private glory. No one will be as impressed by your accomplishment as those who were there with you when you did it; not those who have done it and know what it's like, and not those who think that they could never do it themselves. So enjoy eachother and enjoy the race, because you did all the work, and this is your moment. No matter what, don't let anything keep you from enjoying it.

When I got home I got a six pack and pulled out my journal and analyzed what I could learn from my experience. That same night, not to be done in by my own stupidity, I commited myself to do the Big Kahuna, a half ironman distance race right in my own back yard. Coincidentally, I made another horrible blunder that trip which resulted in me insulting and losing a friend while drunk. Holding up the two bad experiences next to eachother on the same trip gave me the kick in the pants I needed to quit drinking and smoking cold turkey until I achieved the Big Kahuna goal that I'd set for myself.

I think any newbie to the sport could benefit from a list of what I reflected on after the race:

~Practice swimming in open water. When you do so, practice running out of the water: not just the first few feet, but all the way up the beach to where your stuff is stashed.
~Should you choose to use a wetsuit, practice not only swimming in it, but also getting in and out of it.
~Have the right gear. If you're training for triathlon, you need a tri bike or a road bike. It doesn't need all the bells and whistles, but at least the basic shape and idea behind it. Don't buy a bike thinking that it'll be good for not only training, but commuting. You don't want to be commuting in your race.
~Nutrition and gear aren't for pussies. A lot of it's hype, but nutrition is a must, and clipless pedals help a lot too.
~Practice running off the bike. Often.
~Bodyglide. Swimming makes skin soggy. Sweating makes skin soggy. Soggy skin chafes more easily.
~Practice every aspect of the race you possibly can. Swim in open water, swim in cold water if necessary, practice your nutrition, practice your transitions and practice training in what you plan to be your racing clothes. Believe me, you will thank yourself later.
~If you're travelling to a race, bring everything you can from home because who knows where you're going to find it where you're going. Bring your favorite nutrition products, favorite snacks for pre and post race, spare bike stuff, good luck charms... And most of all, bring a buddy.