Foreshadowing

Last March I wrote this post about pre-season anxiety, wondering whether or not my friends' visiting was going to affect my training and racing. It's all in there, premonitions about how if my whole parade of friends came I wouldn't be able to train enough, and forewarning about how I would eventually fall off the wagon and miss some important races. Sorry to give mandatory homework, but this post is not going to make sense unless you read the old post. If you don't have much time, just read the paragraph about my terribly insightful dream. You can find it by just looking for the Mark Allen icon which tells you to "start reading here".

Ok, so did you read it? Are you back? If you didn't read it, then parts of this post are going to make no sense. So did you really read it? Ok, good.

Well anywho the other night I couldn't sleep again and I got to thinking and feeling pretty miserable about all the races that I flaked out on. I was thinking about the nasty club captain that didn't hold up his end of the bargain about keeping me informed about logistical and transportation issues, and then got all mad at me for disappearing from so many races. And then I remembered my dream from last March and how in my dream Mark Allen made me feel just like Jerk Triathlon Guy made me feel, even though (and because) it was all my fault. Both in my dream and in real life I wanted to do the races, but I just couldn't stop getting in my own way and in the end lack of focus made me let down my triathlon team, and Dream Mark Allen.

So then I started thinking about Mark Allen, not the legend, not the guy who ran shoulder-to-shoulder with Dave Scott in 1989 only to outwit him in the last couple of miles; not the giant who won the following 4 championships in Hawaii; not the God who was 13 minutes down on Thomas Helreigel (spelling?) in 1995 and ran him down in the marathon to win his last race ever. I was thinking about the Mark Allen I'd met a couple of times and had "seen around" (e.g. hung back in a corner staring out of the corner of my eye) several times while I was living in Santa Cruz. You see, Mark Allen was a member of the gym I worked at and was a bit of a legend on his own in the Spa Fitness Center world. He was a real athlete, and as far as I know the only professional we had at Spa. Receptionists, instructors and salespeople would whisper about him when he walked through the door. One of the instructors was a member of his Shamanistic spiritual group, so pamphlets about Shamanistic seminars led by Mark Allen were always all over the brake room and on all the bulletin boards. So even though Mark Allen rarely walked through the door (he was usually off either coaching world-class athletes or giving self-help speeches in wigwams), he was always a presence around the place all the same.

At the time I was in my first season of triathlon training for a couple of Olympic distance races and a half ironman. I used to pester the manager (a bona fide ultraendurance athlete and ironman with a masters in Exercise Science) about training tips and questions. One day he said to me, "Why don't you ask Mark Allen for some tips?"
"Who?" I said. "You mean the crazy guy with the peyote and the tee pees?"
And then Bill explained to me WHO Mark Allen WAS. I'd heard of him, but I'm not so good with names, so I'd never put together the "Peyote Guy" together with the guy that all my triathlon books talked about.
"I can't talk to THAT GUY!"
"Aw no, he's really nice, really down to earth. I bet he could give you a few tips," Bill encouraged.

So after that I started to watch Mark Allen to see if he was really an approachable guy like Bill said he was. He was real quiet and kind of kept to himself. He would come in, do a few weights for a little while, not really speak to anyone, and then just leave. The thing is, he never came in alone. He was always with a guy (right), I think his name is Brant, but we'll call him The Voice. Brant was not only Mr. Allen's spiritual guide or Shamanistic partner or whatever, but while Mark is quiet and soft spoken (I think the word here is "zen"), The Voice never shut up and did all the talking for him. The Voice made sure that everyone knew who was gracing them with His presence. "This is Mark Allen! The best triathlete in history! Six time winner of the Ironman world championships in Hawaii!" The Voice announced at least once a day. And the worst part is that The Voice's voice is high-pitched, nasal, really, really loud (maybe you've heard it on interviews?), and I think he does something funny with his Rs. In short, The Voice's voice really sticks to your ears, even after he's done speaking. I decided that there was no way I was going to talk to Mark Allen if I had to talk through The Voice.

And here's where we start to get to the real reason I'm telling this story and how it ties in with my life. I swear, I'm not trying to name-drop, and there is a reason for all this.

One day Mark Allen came in by himself and sat down in one of the chairs next to reception. He was sitting there alone for a couple of minutes and I decided that this was my chance to ask him a couple of questions. But how do you start a conversation with Mark Allen, The Greatest Triathlete In History? Like I always do, I said something completely inappropriate and a little bit insulting (I don't mean to do it, it just happens!). "Hey, you don't get in shape by just sitting there," I said with a big smile on my face, which I hoped would give off that I was kidding. "You have to actually use the equipment."

"I'm waiting for someone," said Mark Allen with a little snicker or a sneer.

"Okay, I was just making sure you weren't being lazy," I said, and wished I could disappear. "But when he gets here, get to work!" Then The Voice came in.
"She called me lazy," Mark Allen told him with a little sly smile in the corner of his mouth.
"Oh yeah?" said The Voice. "Do you know who this man is?!"
"I know exactly who he is, I was trying to be funny," I mumbled, but The Voice continued talking over me.
"This is Mark Allen! The world's greatest triathlete! The fittest man alive!"
"I know," I mumbled, but I don't know if either of them heard me.

"You're an idiot," said my co-worker when they'd both gone to work out.

I was absolutely mortified by the experience. I'd made a complete ass of myself in front of The Greatest Triathlete in History and called him lazy. I tried talking to him one more time to try to prove that I wasn't a complete idiot, but I had no idea what to say and just wound up looking like more of a driveling, well, idiot. You don't ask Mark Allen what his strongest event is. He's Mark Allen, he doesn't have weaknesses. After that, Mark Allen started to haunt my nightmares, telling me I was weak. Whenever I started feeling like my best wasn't good enough, Mark Allen would stop by in my dreams. The fact that I'd made a horse's ass of myself in front of him seemed to justify this feeling. I suck, and Mark Allen knows it. I swore after that day never to talk to a famous person again for as long as I lived.

So when I missed 3 races this season (despite my good intentions) and the guy from my triathlon club started to give me a hard time I started to feel like Mark Allen makes me feel. "What the hell is wrong with you? I thought you wanted this!" the Mark Allen in my head yelled in harmony with the tri club guy. So the other night when I couldn't sleep and I was feeling miserable yet again about my crappy season I remembered the Mark Allen dream again. Then I remembered a conversation that Lorraine and I had when she was here visiting that made me think, "Why am I letting these people make me feel bad?"

You see, Lorraine does ultramarathons, 100 milers, etc. and works at the same gym I used to work at. We were talking one day about Mark Allen and The Voice's presence at the gym and I told her my story. "That guy's a jerk," she said. WHAT?! You do not insult The Great Mark Allen. (There's more name-dropping to be done here, but it does have a point). "I used to train with what's-her-face... Julie... uh... Julie Moss. You know, his ex-wife." Ohmygod! Julie Moss, who crawled across the finish line in 1982 immortalizing Ironman forever, Julie Moss?! I didn't even realize they'd ever been married. "Yeah, she said he was a self-important jerk. Don't worry about it, it is funny that you called Mark Allen lazy." Well I can't insult The Great Mark Allen, but if another triathlon giant like Julie Moss calls him a jerk, maybe he's not perfect after all.

Now it is not my intention to insult Mark Allen, nor defame his character. All ex-wives are bitter towards their ex-husbands, and Lorraine, who's on her third husband, would be sympathetic to that. I'm merely talking about how someone you look up to can really make you feel like shit about yourself if you don't live up. We all want to be Mark Allen sometimes, or at least I do, and when I do something particularly non-Mark Allen-ish I feel pretty bad about it. To have someone come along and say, he's just a guy, he has faults too, and you don't have to like him was like a breath of fresh air. I guess sometimes I just get carried away thinking that famous people are a whole different class of people, a race that's better than I am. If I can't live up, I'm clearly a piece of shit.

So back to me and Lorraine. Lorraine's got this workout partner, Michelle, who's a bit weird. She talks loud, laughs at weird times, and rides a unicycle on mountain bike trails. One day Lorraine and Michelle are doing upper body work and The Voice comes up to Michelle, "Can he work in with you?"

"I've only got one set left," said Michelle. "I'll be done in a minute. It'll be easier than racking and re-racking the weights."

"Do you know who this man is?!" The Voice started in. "He's Mark Allen, the greatest triathlete in history, six-time winner of the Ironman world championships!"

"Oh yeah?" said Michelle. "I'm Santa Cruz County's number one ranked female unicyclist. I'm Michelle, nice to meet you." And she went back to her set.

Like I said, just a guy. He has every right to be proud of his achievements, as Michelle does to be proud of hers, as I do to be proud of mine. So, if Mark Allen doesn't get my sense of humor, if my triathlon club doesn't want to help me out when I ask, I can't control that. Screw 'em.

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.

Team Blogger Victory!

My day started at 2:00, but I would be lying if I said that I even slept that long. As I ate breakfast I printed out both Mapquest directions and the directions from the race page. I walked out of the house as the clock was striking 3:00. First stop: the gas station to fill up and get my Gatorade for later in the day. I pulled up to the gas station and was pleased that I guessed correctly about which side the gas tank was on (remember this was a rental). I opened the driver's side door to find the lever to pop the gas cap thingy and didn't see anything, no matter how close I put my face to the seat and looked (maybe it was really tiny...). So I did what I've learned to do when I'm at my wits' end: ask a boy for help and try not to look feminine while doing it. The townies who work the graveyard shift at the 24 hour Exxon station are not masters of diplomacy, and even as I asked him if he had any idea where the lever might be I realized the answer, there WAS no lever, you just opened it with your hand. But I'd already started talking, so I finished asking my stupid question to the slack-jawed obese attendant anyway. Sure enough, we went outside and he flipped it open with a disinterested flip of the wrist and said, "It's automatic. You going to fill up?" Yeah. "You paying with a card?" Yeah. "You can just pay at the pump." Of course. I'd forgotten that. I haven't pumped gas in 18 months, you forget little things like that.

Getting settled in for the long haul I realized another problem with the car, I could not, for the life of me, find the dome light. Crap! How was I going to read my directions? 93 to 95 to the Mass Pike to 84, I knew that, but then what? I looked at the directions from the race website, "Take the exit for Rte. 10". I looked at the Mapquest directions which had a little symbol that looked like this and next to that it said "Merge onto CT-4 W / FARMINGTON AVE via EXIT 39 toward FARMINGTON", only I didn't read the part after the picture because I'm an idiot and don't read things, nor did I look closely at the little "West" over the 4 and thought it probably said "exit"anyway. Like a real sleuth I looked at none of the clues and deduced that I would be taking exit 4 to rout 10. When I got to Connecticut and the exits started counting down it seemed to make sense that I would take exit 4. Wasn't I going to the western part of Connecticut anyway? So it would make sense that I would cross the whole state before getting off the highway. Yeah, that's it. Only around 5:45 doubt started to creep in and the sun had crept over the horizon and I could see my directions clearly, and I could see that that little word above the 4 did not say "exit" and then I read all the words next to it and I saw "exit 39" and I looked up and saw that I was at exit 23 (a couple of exits past where Angry put me back on the freeway several hours later) and realized that I had gone 16 exits too far, that I had 20 minutes to backtrack, and it was getting dangerously close to 6 o'clock.


Thank god I didn't get any more lost, but I still had some 30 minutes to drive on the back roads to get to the start, and even though I told myself to relax, that there was nothing I could do except keep driving, I knew I was screwed. I convinced myself not to panic, but that didn't stop me from having an anxiety attack which makes me shake, makes my joints ache, makes my mouth dry, and gives me tingles all over my body. I found the start at about 6:45 and yelled at the guy in the orange crossing guard's vest, "I GOT LOST! WHERE CAN I PARK?!" He pointed me down to what I later found out was volunteer parking right next to the beach "There should be spaces down there," he said (Angry and Bob had to park a good mile away at the top of a hill). I threw my front wheel on my bike (forgot to fasten the quick release on the brakes) and sprinted to the transition with precious little time. "Where's regestration?!" I yelled to the first person who I saw.
"Over there," she said pointing about 100 meters away back towards where I'd parked. Shit! (I'm not quite sure that this was under my breath) and I started to turn away. "Why don't you leave your stuff here?" she suggested. Good idea! I racked my bike (on what I would later notice was the relay rack), started to unpack my stuff and realized I had no bibs, caps, or anything. I ditched my stuff as it was and sprinted to registration.
"Hi. Myname'sClaireXxxx. Spelled X-x-xxx. Idon'tknowwhatmynumberis..."
"Okay, did you fill out one of these?"
(Whining, pleading) "What?!" She waved some kind of release slip in my face and I ran over to the other table to fill it out. I don't even think I spelled my name right and definitely didn't date next to my signature. They sent me over to get marked while they looked for my packet and chip. I ripped off my shirt and stood there in my bra and shorts while 2 women wrote all over me.
"How old are you, honey?" one asked.
"24, oh God, PLEASE hurry. I still need to change!"
"Don't worry, honey, I'm sure they'll wait for you." Then I heard the announcer calling everyone to the beach for a pre-race meeting. I grabbed my race packet and dashed into a changing room without closing the door to put on my tri-suit. I shoved my dirty undies in one pocket, threw the suit on with reckless abandon (those things aren't easy to put on under any circumstances due to the built-in bra that has to fit over your hips first) and ran off with my bra in one hand and clothes in the other to set up my transition area. Either I was so anxious or so thirsty that I had cottonmouth so bad that my tongue was sticking to my lips and the back of my teeth as I ran back to transition. I'd left my nalgene bottle in the car. They'd already cleared transition when I got there, but the kind souls guarding it let me in. Bike shoes, sock in each shoe, sunglasses... sunglasses... where are my sunglasses? Screw the sunglasses, helmet on top of shoes, Gatorade open... "Hey, you! Excuse me? Can you give me a hand?" I yelled to the grandfatherly volunteer guarding transition. "Can you please open this?" I asked, handing him my Gatorade bottle. Running shoes, headband, water bottle, CRAP! I forgot my running water bottle! Race belt, oh no, have to put number on race bel... Grandpa was handing my Gatorade bottle to me with a smile. "I think there's a tab inside under the cap," I said, wrestling desperately with my race belt and bib number. "Can you please pull it off?"
"By golly, you're right!" he said, pulling out the plastic tab.
"Thank you so much. I'm sorry, I'm just so late, I don't mean to be bossy, it's just, I'm afraid I'm going to miss the start."
"It's okay, that's what we volunteers are here for!" he said good naturedly, and somewhere an angel got its wings.
"Thank you so much, really!" I yelled, already dashing back towards the beach where they were clearing people out of the water. With my heart going the way it was, I didn't need a warmup.

With all the coffee and water I'd drank on the 3 hour drive over I'd had to pee since the state line and now with everyone clearing out of the water, I had no idea how I was going to relieve myself. Then I heard a voice far above my left ear, "Claire! No Wetsuit Girl?" I looked up and saw a face that was not entirely unfamiliar, but nor would I have recognized it in a crowd. "I'm Craig, the Angry one." Only his name's not Craig.
"Just like how I write in my blog, I'm really that angry," Angry said.
"Just like how I write in my blog, I'm really that dumb," I said and explained how I hadn't gotten lost so much as missed my exit by a long shot. I asked where Bob Almighty was and we had a bit of smalltalk, but it didn't take me long get to the tactless speech that makes my friends cringe. "I have to pee so bad I think I'm going to burst!" I admitted to Angry, a guy that I'd really only met about 2 minutes ago. Angry pointed out where the porta-poddies were. "Actually, my suit's all one piece, I was kinda just thinking of going in the lake..."
"It's all the same to me," said an uncomfortable Angry, to whom it probably WASN'T all the same.
Angry introduced me to Ken, who was volunteering, before they corralled his angry self back into the water. "Where's your wetsuit?" asked Ken.
"I don't own one!" I said, proudly.

The Swim

Waiting for my wave to start I deliberately got int the water WAY to the inside so that I could have some privacy to relieve myself without anyone else having to wade through my considerably-sized warm spot. This put me more on the inside than I usually like (I was the inner-most girl), but I was still having an anxiety attack and was just glad that I was there at the start before the gun.

The start was uneventful. I was so far inside and so far forward that hardly anyone was around me and they all fell quickly back or pulled up right away so I found myself in no-man's-land immediately. I was uncomfortable swimming alone since I had no one to follow and had to sight way more often. Luckily, even though Saint Bob was kind enough to bring an extra wetsuit for me just in case, and even though I arrived too late to take advantage, it didn't matter since Lake Waramaug was comfortably warm and beautifully fresh (as in not salty). I found that I was actually within bounds and not too far to the inside of the buoys after all and everything was going well until we came around the second turn buoy and faced back towards the beach. Do you know that Ani Difranco line, "Virtue is relative at best, there's nothing worse than a sunset when you're driving due west"? It was like that, only it was sunrise and I was facing east. I couldn't see buoys. I couldn't even see girls 25 yards in front of me. I couldn't see ANYTHING when I looked up except the blinding sun in the sky and its blinding reflection in the water. I felt my way along, looking up every once in awhile and hoping to spot some shadow. I managed to find heads some of the time, but I would come up on them fast because they were treading water trying to get their bearings, and then they were behind me and of no use to me. Finally the sun ducked behind some trees and I stood up prematurely to run in thigh-deep water just so I could see where I was going. Coming up off the beach I saw Ken and yelled (loud enough so that others could hear me and therefore know that normally I'm pretty badass, really!), "It was so bright, I couldn't see a damn thing out there!"

Swim time: 15:31, 1:43 per 100m (could've been better, but it could've been worse)
3/7 in age group (43%), 31/110 overall (28%)

T1

Ouch! Those plush astroturf mats could have gone all the way to transition, there are little ROCKS here. OW! I passed the bleached-blond announcer and she yells at me, "You go girl! Top 10 women." Really? I'm pretty sure she lost count.
Helmet, Shit! Should have put it on between when I rented it and right now, this thing is going to choke me. Left sock, left shoe. Right sock, right shoe. That sun was too bright on the swim, I'm going to look for my sunglasses. I wasted a good 2 minutes turning my backpack inside out looking for my sunglasses. Fuck it, I'm out of here!
T1: 3:23... and I would have spent another 5 minutes there if I could have found my sunglasses. Alas, they never turned up.

The Bike

Since I'm here with Angry and Bob who talk Big Man talk about the big ring I wanted to do it in the big ring just like them. Only the big ring screwed up my cadence and I was breathing hard already and who needs that? So I clicked back down one and started picking off anyone within sight (and in the end changing gears didn't turn out to be too big a deal since my bike split was within 57" and 1'36" of Bobby-Boy and Angry respectively). In the whole bike split only one person passed me, and he was a dude, so he doesn't even count.

I was sailing along like nobody's business when suddenly I saw a little hill ahead. It didn't look like much, and I didn't think anything of it until I started climbing and my bike stopped moving. Down through the gears I went until I got to the smallest gear on my small (but not granny) ring, and still I wasn't getting anywhere... and I was feeling way more uncomfortable than I like to be in competition. A recently picked-off guy was breathing like a freight train behind me so I knew I wasn't alone. "Where did THIS come from?!" I said out loud.
"There's a bigger one after this," said the freight train.
"You've got to be kidding me!" I said. "Flat and fast" my ass, Angry!
I hardly pedaled coming over the top trying to get my breath back and just when I was getting my game again I came up on the second hill. It didn't look like much. It looked nice and gradual, but then when I got on it I thought my bike was going to tip over I was going so slow. Down to the granny ring, down to the easiest gear, and still on some of the ridges in the pavement where a bump made it even steeper (if only for a foot) the grade threatened to stop my pedaling altogether. I'd ridden grades like this tons of times before, but I wasn't ready! (said in petulant child's voice). I blame Angry.

Coming down the Monstrous Surprise Hill at a million bajillion miles per hour I heard something fall off my bike and clatter to the ground. Crap! I hope that wasn't something important! I thought, imagining my bike deposit disappearing. Then I looked down... MY GATORADE!!! I'd been so busy breathing that I'd hardly had a chance to drink and I was concerned after my morning cottonmouth. Again, I blame Angry, it's his fault I was on this stupid hill in the first place.

Despite some unfortunate grades, the course really was beautiful. Apart from the hills the road clung close to the lake, which still had wisps of the morning's fog sticking to the surface like little cotton balls. I really wished I had my camera on me, but there were "bitches to stomp" (as Bob says) and I was really a bit chilly to stop now.

Bike time (for 9 mi):30:43, av. speed: 17.6 mph (damn! and I thought I was faster than that!)
Bike stats:2/7 in age group (29%), overall 39/110 (35%)

T2

Change shoes, put on annoying but useful headband, no Gatorade to grab, off I go. Pooh, do I really have to run?
T2: 1:24

The Run

(Teeth clenched) Stupd fkng rnning! Stupid, dn't wnt to do ths... I left the transition and immediately my right pinky metatarsal and my left tibia hurt. Stupd rnning, no good for nythng but gtting injured... 100m up the road I hear feet behind me, "Do you know where we're supposed to go?" I let the girl pass me so I could see where she was pointing: which was UP. StOOpid hlls nvr did nybdy ny good... And the hill didn't relent it just kept going up and up and up. Screw this! I'ont need to be no hero now. And I started walking. You don't have hills in triathlons, at least not like this one. Bob had tried to warn me that the first half of the run was "tough", but I thought, it's only a mile and a half... in a triathlon, how hard can it be? The first 1.7 miles were pretty much solidly uphill, and I was pretty universally unhappy about it. I blame Bob. I ran past a couple of women standing at the side of the road. One of them started clapping and said, "And you're the one who was late. Now look at you!" What? I thought. I knew I looked like crap. I was giving out places like Halloween candy letting women pass me without giving up a fight, but hell, it was better than making the effort it would take to catch them.

I came around the turnaround where Ken was cheering something I don't remember. It was all downhill from here, literally, and it was nice to be running faster than a speeding bullet without any real effort. At this point I'd pushed past the T2 stiffness, warmed up most of the aches and pains, and only my shins were bothering me. Shins are a bad thing to be bothering you when you're running down 400 feet over 1.3 miles. And then I was running past transition and across those inadequately astroturfed pebbles again, "Ouch, ouch ouch, OUCH!" (my foot twisted just so in that way that really hurts).

I crossed the finish line and the crowd roared. I didn't even think I was going to puke this time around!
Run time: 30:05 (I'm actually surprised it wasn't slower for all the walking I did), av. speed: 9:42 min/mile (with how much I hate running I'm thrilled with anything faster than a 10:00 min/mi).
Run stats: 5/7 in age group (71%) ~ OUCH!, overall 85/110 (77%) ~ DOUBLE ouch!

Post Race

Angry found me scavenging around the food tables and we looked at the results. It didn't look like Bob had placed, he was going to be pissed. I counted more than 5 20-24 chicks ahead of me and decided not to look too much closer, it might be depressing. I started to complain about the hills and started to rebuke Angry for getting me into that situation. "Oh, come on! You can handle it. The Claire went over the mountain, right?" It was weird to hear my words being quoted by someone else, and I tried not to give him a sullen dirty look for catching me.

We went to transition and I met Bob. Bob knows EVERYONE, man. I could hardly get a word in edgewise to introduce myself before he was off talking tri-geek-speak with another competitor. I understood all the triathlon talk, but all those funny names of places and races in Connecticut were completely beyond me and I couldn't follow. Angry and I left Bob to his mingling and went back to get some grub.

They started announcing the winners. After the initial REAL male and female winners (*showoffs*) they started with the under 19 boys and girls, then the grown-ups. "And third place of the men 20-24: Angry... Run?Runn...e...r?" Said the blond MC with the ditzy accent.
"What the...? Holy shit!" said Angry, dropping his cookie and going up to accept his prize.
"And in second place, Robity-Bob Almighty!" she announced, and Bob coolly went up to accept his prize, since he, unlike us, never doubted that he kicks ass.
I ran up and tried to take a picture of this moment (Angry in his famous Barloworld hat, Bob in his suave new Timex visor) but my camera was low on batteries and I couldn't replace them in time. New battery in place and ready to snap a photo of the 2 blogger victors I heard, "And for the women 20-24, in third Place, Claire... New Wit Soot Carl?" What the...?! I went up there, and none of the other girls whose names were called appeared. I tried to smile, but since I prefer a good candid shot to a bad posed one, I stopped paying attention to the camera at just the wrong time.

TWO THIRDS and a SECOND! Go team blogger!

Angry Runner: "You aren't as small as I thought you would be." Are you kidding?!
Left to right: Bob Almighty, me, and Angry Runner

Overall results: 1:21:06 (PR, but that hardly counts since the bike was shorter than usual).
4/7 (57%) ~No, I know, run more. I have no idea why I was 4th on the results and they still gave me a prize packet. Probably because the REAL winner already got one. Go Claire with another Booby prize! Well I'm not driving back to Connecticut to give back the water bottle they gave me, so ha! Overall 50/110 (45%)

Then we all drove to Waterbury, CT to have breakfast and rehash our victories. Angry turned out to be an impatient driver (no surprise there), but Bob-O the speed demon is actually a really cautious driver. Who would have seen that one coming?

Over breakfast Robidy-Bob revealed to us his plan to win IM New Zealand on his very first try. Bob was crunching projected race times with an optimism that I only allow myself in my most private moments. I think that Bob is of the McCormack school of talkin' the talk so that later you have no choice but to walk the walk, and that works for him because he's fast consistently places. I've learned the hard way to shut my trap (see last weeks profanity-riddled post for an example), because I've learned that no matter what, there is always a moment in a race where I think, "screw this, this hurts!" and back off and later I have to eat my words. Bob, though, means business, and he is going to will himself to a Hawaii spot, just you wait and see!

Angry had a much more reserved kind of boasting, "I could do better if I trained more." But who has time to train more? I KNOW I'll never run a 3 hour marathon... and certainly never after a 112 mile bike. Leave the hard stuff up to the REAL tri-geek competitors like Bob. Finally meeting Bob and seeing his face, his passion, his love for the sport the thought occurred to me, 'Bobby Boy wants to win an IM tomorrow. I don't care about winning, but I'd love to keep finishing funky stuff like IMs, swimming the English Channel, the Race Across America, Badwater, or a 50 mile pogo stick hop. There'll be time for Kona when I'm 90'. It's okay not to be Bob, it's okay if I'm a triathlete that sometimes does okay and sometimes sucks a big one. It's okay to swim without a wetsuit, bike on a rented bike, and run really slow (or even walk) if that's what I want to do. It's okay to do a swim race today, a bike race tomorrow, and DNF a running race on Thursday as long as I'm having fun. I haven't been having fun lately because I've wanted to WIN when I hadn't been down for the training to win.

... And today was really fun! Robity-Bob had to bring his pit crew (2 sisters) home after breakfast since they were fading from the early wakeup and sprinting after his breakneck pace to cheer him on on the course. Angry and I stopped by a Barnes & Noble for coffee before I took off and chatted some more. Without fawning all over him, let me tell you, ladies, Angry is one hot piece of ass... and even I might have swooned a little bit. We shot the shit awhile talking about anything BUT triathlon and (maybe he'll kill me for telling you this) Angry is actually one of the most easy-going guys I've ever met. He was pretty concerned about how I was going to judge Connecticut (what? like I've never seen a Dunkin Donuts, shopping mall, or awful highway interchange before?) and made a real effort to make sure that I had a good time while I was in the Land of Steady Habits" (really, it's called that, it's in wikipedia!).

Epilogue (optional reading)

Finally I had to bid adieu to Angry and drive the 4 hours back to Boston. I had plenty of time to ponder Angry's paranoia about driving in Connecticut and think about how it couldn't even compare to how perposterous it is to drive in Boston. I hate driving in Boston. Have I ever told you that? I fucking HATE driving in Boston. Normally I like driving, or at least I used to when I drove all the time and never drove through Boston, but if there's one thing that is SURE to make me cry and scream and throw a temper tantrum it's driving in Boston. Yesterday I had to drive through Boston twice. On top of that I drove more today than I have in the past year and a half combined, and then some. And I'm driving this Dodge sedan that drives like a nightmare and it doesn't accelerate but the brakes are too responsive.

Driving home I was so tired I thought that I was going to fall asleep at the wheel and it didn't help that I didn't have my sunglasses and I was squinting into the sun for 4 hours. And there was an accident RIGHT in downtown Hartford and only one lane was open and that took forever to get through. Then there was tons of traffic on the Mass Pike and it was practically stopped for awhile. Then I fucked up and got on 93 SOUTH of Boston instead of getting on NORTH of Boston and had to drive through the central artery which now is a big ugly tunnel since the Big Dig and you can't see where you are and for some reason I find it really hard to stay in my lane in tunnels and I freak out and feel like there's nowhere to escape. (Angry's company is responsible for the Big Dig finally being finished. Sorry Angry, no offense or anything).

So I'd already driven some 8 hours when I called Tessa and she asked me to come to her apartment. Her apartment is on the other side of Boston (in Allston) and the one time I tried to drive there I got on Storrow Drive (which everyone in Boston will agree is a fucking nightmare... who the hell puts exits on the left?!) and found myself on an off ramp before I knew what hit me and then I was in the middle of MIT driving back and forth and I could see that I was driving OVER Storrow Drive, but for the life of me I couldn't figure out how to get back on it. It took me more than an hour to find her and in the end I had to call her from a Hess Station and tell her to come pick my ass up because I was sick of this shit. So tonight I said I didn't want to drive over there. I was scared of Storrow Drive, and I couldn't parallel park and what if my mom needed the car in the morning. But then she made the valid argument that for her it was double the distance to come and pick me up, and really, Tessa's so nice that you can't FORCE her to do anything when you know you're being an ass hole. So I wrote down the directions, studied them, read them several more times, double checked them, memorized what lane to be in at all times, and went out. Coming in to Storrow Drive on the freeway I saw a sign that said "Something Something Something Storrow Drive, Seek Alternate Rout", but I just thought there was a lot of traffic or something and that I would get through eventually. It took me 45 minutes to go 2 fucking exits and everyone was cutting me off which really pissed me off because it took 5 minutes to go a cars-length and they were just sticking their nose in in front of me and I wanted to be an asshole and not let them in, but I had nowhere to GO to block them and they just kept coming from all sides. They were having a free concert on the Esplanade next to the Charles river and they'd had the bright fucking idea of using the right lane of Storrow Drive (ie the through lane) as parking and all these people were coming and going to see some one hit wonder from the 60s who probably now are so old that they crap their pants on stage. And then when I finally DID get to the Copley Square exit, the SECOND FUCKING EXIT, after 45 minutes in this bullshit they had ALL OF STORROW DRIVE blocked off and I HAD to get off and just like the last time I knew where I was, but neither Tessa nor my parents knew how to get me to Tessa's house from there and my dad managed to get me back to Storrow Drive, but it was heading back home and I was crying anyway, and after all that headache and bullshit I just went back home and there I was with my head about to EXPLODE from anger and frustration and sadness and confusion and fatigue and stress (not all from the car, but that didn't help) and the only thing I had to do is bang away on the keyboard and write. Not that writing is not fun, but there are other things I would like to be doing on my last weekend night in the states.

Coming soon...

It is now 2:21 in the morning and I have been up for half an hour. In 39 minutes I will drive down to Connecticut where I will be doing the Nutmeg State Sprint Triathlon with Angry, North America's sexxxiest triathlete, and Bob Almighty, triathlon's biggest smack talker since Chris McCormack. If the earth trembles this morning, that'll be why.

You can expect a race report and pictures, and I can expect my page hits to skyrocket as I reveal the REAL faces of these two young tri studs.

... Stay tuned...

If you're gonna talk the talk...

... you better be able to walk the walk. The results are in from the Witch City Triathlon yesterday, and while I did do well in the swim and the bike, there were not as many people in my age group as I thought. So in case you actually believed me that I'm awesome, you've been Punk'd.

Okay, now that my conscience is cleared and my ego is deflated, I'm going to try to re-create the race report that disappeared last night.

Pre-Race

Salem is about a 45 minute drive away if you don't get lost, but since you have to drive about 15 minutes off the freeway to get to Salem in the first place, and since my sense of direction is so bad I could get lost in a walk-in closet (PLEASE, no comments from the peanut gallery), I wanted to get on the road at 5:15 to leave plenty of time to get to the race on time for the 7:00 start time. This meant a 3:45 wakeup call in order to leave plenty of time for coffee, bagels, and wrestling my rented bike into the back of my mom's Camry. So, like a good little munchkin I tucked myself in at 11:00 to try to get as much sleep as possible. As an insomniac, my body does not react well to bed times. I tried to relax, and forbade myself from thinking about the race or doubting my alarm clock. I tried to go to my happy place. I don't have a happy place. At 12:00 I turned the light on and read a chapter in my book, then snuggled back in. I started to doze off, and thought, I think I'm dreaming. Snap! I was awake. Just relaaaax. What if I never fall asleep? Don't think about it. If I fall asleep right now I'll only get 3 hours' sleep. Relaaaax... At 1:30 I picked up my blanket and pillow and lay down on my floor. I believe your bed can get haunted with insomnia vibes if you lie awake in it too long. I was falling into a light sleep when I heard my brother come home and stomp around the whole house and snapped awake again. I moved back to the bed where I couldn't hear his footsteps reverberating through the floor and tried to do a full body scan, relaxing all my muscles. In the end I think I slept about one hour.

I was pretty nervous about getting lost, but by the time 95 and 128 split off both the car in front of me and behind me had road bikes with aero bars strapped to them and I felt I was in good hands. I followed a Tacoma pickup through all the crazy turns of Rout 114 all the way to the starting line and picked up my registration packet before 6:00. After registering they put more ink on me than a Hell's Angel, marking both arms, both thighs, and the back of my calf with an enormous permanent marker big enough to be seen from space.

I set up my transition area, and then took it apart to go for a short bike ride and to make sure that everything on the bike was in order. I couldn't have been gone for more than 5 minutes, but when I got back some bitch with too many freckles had her bike hanging over my stuff. "That's my stuff," I said, pointing to the setup lacking an owner. She acted all bitchy and complained that there wasn't enough space (like that was my fault), and actually wound up with the best spot at the end of the row anyway. Walking out to check the water temperature I saw a laminated piece of paper tied to a rack with ribbons. It said, "THIS SPOT IS TAKEN, OUT RIDING COURSE". That is such a good idea, only I would write, "This spot is taken, out riding course, have a good race" so bitches like Freckle-Face would really look bad if they took my spot.

I stuck a toe in the water. YIKES! It was frigging cold. I waded in to pee and see if it would be warm enough to warm up in, and decided it wasn't. About 10 feet from the shore in waste-deep water there was a line of blue and white buoys on a rope, the kind that they put on municipal beaches so little kiddies don't go wandering out into deep water. On the rope was all this algae and nasty seaweed. I turned to the couple next to me, "Do you think they're going to take this away for the race? It seems kind of dangerous."
"It doesn't look like it's been moved for a long time," the woman said.
"I don't want to touch it," I said.
"Why? It's just seaweed," the man said, grabbing a slimey handful of it.
"The monster," I said, gravely.
The woman said, "The monster's not here." She pointed to the orange course buoys, "It's out there. It has big teeth."
I love the Boston sense of humor!

Seven o'clock came and went. Everyone was standing around in the sand or knee-deep in the water waiting for something to happen, and nothing did. I was wearing 2 swim caps to keep my head warm and they were really tight and giving me a headache. At a little after 7:15 I heard the tell-tale squeak of a PA system. "Would the driver of a black Lexus, license plate 555-XXX, please move their car. It's parked on the run course." No one moved. "We'll have you towed!" Despite the threatening tone, still no one ran from the beach towards the parking lot. And that was the last that we heard from the MC for several more minutes. Then the microphone squealed again and the MC was speaking now from the other side of the beach, "There seems to be some confusion about the start times," he said (note how the following monologue contains no further reference to or explanation of start times). "I laid out the buoys last night, and, well, you see where those blue and white buoys are?" He pointed to the line of algae-covered safety buoys that were now about 5 feet from the sand and in about 4 inches of water. "The water's going to be down below those buoys in about 15 minutes, so the swim course is going to be a little bit short". Everybody cheered. And as the swim course quickly disappeared before our eyes, the MC put down his microphone for a few more minutes.

Finally he explained the order of the waves and told us that they were going to begin after playing the national anthem. A soulful version of The Star Spangled Banner started drifting sweetly from the race officials' trailer. Nobody stopped their conversations. "Be quiet!" yelled the MC into the mic and people shut up and stared at their feet, there was a dead crab belly up at my feet. I looked around and was amused to see that most people had dropped their hands to their sides or kept their arms crossed over their wastes and that very few people had their hands on their hearts and were staring majestically at the singing trailer. I wondered what this scene would have looked like 6 years ago and thought about how ridiculous such a ritual would be in Barcelona.

The Swim

After having to swim around so many people last time I decided to stand near the front towards the inside this time. I picked out a few girls that looked like they were high school/college swimmers and stood behind them. In the last 2 minutes before our start the first elite man came in to the beach from his not-quite-half-mile swim and everyone started cheering for him. Over the cheers I heard the female MC say, "Wow, the course really MUST be short," as if to debunk our pride and PRs before we even started. Then we were off.

I still had to climb over more girls than I would have wanted to, but by the first turn I had pulled ahead and was stuck choking on the wake of a girl in a wetsuit with lime green trim. She was going slower than me, but I couldn't get around her. Every time I breathed I got a facefull of salt water smack in the mouth. I didn't want to breathe to the other side because I wanted to keep an eye on her, and I choked back a bit of vomit several times before I finally got past her. I noticed that my legs were aching terribly, and after checking in with my kicking I decided that it most be because of the cold. I thought about it and decided that if I had a wet suit I probably wouldn't have decided to use it anyway. I repremanded myself for being so cavalier as to not buy a wetsuit, and I berated my imaginary self who had a wetsuit for being so brash as to not use it. Rounding the second and final turn I caught up with the wave in front of me. I looked up and couldn't see hardly any purple caps. That was weird. Maybe the good swimmers were already out of the water. I was really duking it out with one girl on my right when I looked up and saw a buoy about 10 feet away on the outside (left). CRAP! I thought and swam out towards it, but when I turned I didn't see anyone over near the buoy. Then I looked back and saw the whole line of swimmers making a b-line for the beach all in the same line I'd just been swimming in. Fuck that, I'm not going to lose several places because I'm the only one who didn't cheat, I thought and swam back to the crowd. By this time the other purple cap had pulled too far ahead and I had to let her go. Swim time: 11:21.

T1

The only thing that I remember was that I had a lot of trouble buckling my rented helmit. It turns out that transition times were not factored in separately, so I don't know how long it took, but it felt like I was fiddling with that plastic buckle for an eternity.

The Bike

Last time I went conservatively on the bike and felt like I'd finished with too much to spare, so I decided to shred myself to bits on the bike and just hang on for the run. Also, I'd told New Friend Andy that I usually bike between 20 and 22 mph. I don't know how fast I usually bike in mph, so maybe that was right, but I didn't want to look stupid, so I stomped down on my pedals as hard as I could as fast as I could just in case.

The course was shaped kind of like a lollipop with three loops around the lolli, and out and back along the pop to and from transition. When I got to the loop there were hardly any women and all of them were old, from the wave in front of me, and I was beginning to think something was wrong. The second loop more people started showing up and the elite men lapped me and I felt more like I was in my place. On the third lap the chicks had started to show up.

I did not appreciate the undulating course. In California and Spain the road is either pancake flat, or you're climbing. I'd never been on this "4 feet to 74 feet and back again 100 times before you're done" kind of course. It was hard to stay in the drops because I was shifting constantly. Also, this was the first time I'd ever biked in a place that had frost heaves. Frost heaves are when water gets into tiny cracks in the pavement and makes it swell up like the waves on a small lake on a windy day. The way most towns deal with them is to cover up the bad spots with a 6-foot-square patch of asphalt, until the patches on top of patches get so bumpy themselves that the town finally puts in to repair the road the following summer. Some of the chunks should have put in for re-paving several summers ago. The longest downhill ended in a 90 degree right turn riddled with frost heaves. Each time I came down it I got a little air and my teeth crashed together as I landed, hanging on for dear life.

Coming back into transition I was chasing after a girl in a red shirt. She was in my crosshairs and ready for extermination when ahead of me in the road I saw a giant black SUV with its rearview mirror jutting out less than 2 feet from the curb. There was a race official yelling "You gotta MOVE" (with "you gotta move or I'm going to go apeshit on you and eat your eyes out of your head" intonation) and gesticulating wildly. I had to slow down considerably to get through, and when I passed his passenger side window I yelled, "Dude!" (with "dude, what the fuck?!" intonation). I hope that jerk got what he had coming to him. If there's one thing I hate it's people who stop at lights too far to the right in the lane. I never caught up with Red Shirt, but I out-sprinted an older woman just to make myself feel better. Bike/T1 time: 43:44. I guess maybe I was exaggerating a bit when I told New Friend Andy that I go between 20 and 22 mph, because this only works out to about 18, boo.

T2

The only problem was getting on my obnoxious headband. I think I put it on backwards and all rolled up and must have looked a fright. We'll see when the pictures come out.

The Run

I waddled out of transition on legs that felt like they were made of lead, stiff lead. Coming out of the park on to the street the word SLOW was painted on the road. "You got that right," I thought. Slowly I crawled past a topless older gentleman. "I was with you on the bike, you were flying!"
"Yeah, well I'm not flying now!" I moaned.

Salem is a pretty town and a small town and all the historic buildings, museums, and points of interest (the House of Seven Gables, the Witch House, the cemetery, the wax museum...) are all within about a mile of each other. However, we did not go through that part of Salem. We ran a loop that turned back right before getting to all the cool witch burning stuff and instead took us down Canal Street past a McDonalds, a Roto-Rooter, and the auto mile. I'm pretty sure that the whole thing was up hill. New Friend Andy later told me that he was pretty sure that it was more than 3.1 miles too. My shins really hurt the whole time, even when my legs loosened up a bit. So many girls passed me and I didn't care. I knew I was going to give up a bunch of spots on the run and I didn't give a rat's... My only goal was not to walk. Stupid running, this sucks! "Way to go!" I said to everyone I passed. I hate this, I'm going to run every day so I don't feel like this. "Lookin' good!" No, I'm never going to run again. "You too!" Goddammit, why aren't we turning? We must have gone 3 miles by now, where's the finish line? "Keep going, almost there!" This is never going to end!

We were coming back into the park and I wanted to chase after the girls passing me, but I just couldn't bring myself to suffer any more. I think I crossed the finish line making an ugly and angry face. I'd forgotten to put a cone on my head, but that probably would have been too much anyway. I was woozy for a minute and it took a few moments for me to convince myself I wasn't going to puke. T2/Run time: 32:46, NOT good.

The final stats: Total time - 1:27:52, NOT a PR
Swim: age group 4/16 (top 25%), overall 90/363 (top 25%)
Bike: age group 3/16 (top 19%), overall 135/363 (top 37%)
Run: age group 11/16 (top 69%), overall 234/363 (top 64%) - nothing to be proud of

Total: age group 8/16 (top 50%), overall 164/363 (top 45%)

So in the end I didn't do nearly as well as I thought I did, so I appologize for my arrogance in my last post. Again, if you're going to talk the talk, you better be able to walk the walk. Clearly, I don't qualify.

At least the T-shirt fits

I call myself a triathlete, but a lot of people call themselves triathletes who really shouldn't - like people who did one season of triathlon, and continue with an active lifestyle after that, but don't actually get around to doing another triathlon; and since they aren't really swimmers, and they're not cyclists, and they're not runners, they continue to identify as triathletes. In other words: me, I'm a fraud triathlete. Since October of 2005 I hadn't done a triathlon. Last year I spent all my season preparing for ONE race, and then couldn't go. I got in great shape, but no triathlon. All spring I've had all these races on my schedule, but for whatever reason, no triathlons.

Can I confess something to you? Really, yeah, I could have done other triathlons but I made excuses (that were pretty good ones), most of them financial, some of them logistical. But you want to know the truth? I was scared. Effing terrified, actually, which makes absolutely no sense, because I have tons of open water experience, tons of racing experience in the 3 diciplines, and more than enough endurance to survive a half ironman most of the time. But what I've seen around here in Spain and Europe is that things are really competitive. Either you give it your all, or you stay home. There simply isn't the Soccer Mom/Team In Training contingent that you can always count on to come in behind you (not to smack TIT, they're the greatest, but not just for the cancer thing, also you can count on someone to be elated to come in behind you). And I don't have the balls to come in dead last, at least not if I see it coming. So I procrastinated... until today.

This rediculous 5-race minimum that my club puts on the girls in the club forced me to get off my ass and sign up for something before there weren't 5 races left to do. The event: a sprint right here in Barcelona, only about 3 miles from my house. I'm not in terribly good shape at the moment, and "sprint" is never something I do well. I'm more of the tortise than the hare, "slow and steady", but I can keep that same slow pace forever. So, in light of all the decisions I have to make these days, I decided to just go and have a good time, keep my eyes open, and enjoy. No expectations, just finish and get a feel for the Spanish tri scene.

I got out everything I needed the night before so I wouldn't be late and rode down to the start to be there by 7:00 when the transition area opened. When I got there there were already huge lines to get in to the transition area. "Licensed athletes to the right, unlicensed to the left!" screamed the race official every minute or so to the crowd waiting to get checked in to transition. So I went to the right and waited. This chick from the other line with all these piercings in her face said something to me in Catalan and looked with distaste at my bike, you could tell she was a bitch just by looking at her. It took me a minute to figure out what she was saying (you know, the Catalan thing), "You can't have 'horns' that stick out farther than your brake hoods," she informed me, not so graciously.
"Ok, I'll take them off, don't YOU worry," I said. I'd read this rule on the web site, but I interpreted "horns" to be those vertical things sticking up off of hybrid handlebars (left), and not aerobars. I didn't think this applied to me, my confusion was supported by the fact that this photo (right) was next to the sentence in question, and under a heading if this is your first triathlon.
Then I got to the front where the guy took one look at me, "Girls over there," he snapped, pointing at the other line. Sheez I thought, trying to find a good place to cut in the other line, at least he recognized me as a girl.
When I got to the other official he looked at my aero bars and said, "You can't ride with those."
"Okay, I'll take them off. Can't I just do it in there where I can leave my stuff?"
"No, you have to take them off out here..." And I sighed and reached for my bike tool. "...Somewhere where you're not in the way," he said, violently pushing me away with his tone of voice. So I had to snake through all the people and bikes to find a nonexistant place that wasn't in the way.
Aero bars off and hanging from my elbow (they're the cheap kind that are wrapped in foam rubber and come together at the end in a big loop) I got back in line to wait. When I got up there the chick said, "Ok, number? Name?" (Checking her list). "Helmit? Chip?"
Oh shit! When they gave me my Catalan Triathlon Federation pack I had 2 bibs, 1 bike number, a cap, a membership card, but no chip. "I don't have a chip. I never got a chip," I said.
"Are you licensed? If not, you have to go to those tables over there and get your chip and number."
"Yeah, I'm licensed you just saw me on your list. You saw my number and federation bib. I just never got a chip."
"Well then go over there and find the federation representative." Double fuck.

Trying to get the attention of another official in the crowd was enough of a challenge. "Excuse me, Ex... Ex.., Hello? ExCUSE me? Hi. Who do I talk to from the federation? I'm licensed, but I don't have a chip."
"Do you see that girl? The one over there, sitting, next to the redhead with the glasses." I looked, looked and said I didn't. "Do you understand me?"
"Yes, I understand you, I just don't see her."
Sigh "Come with me." We walked over to the table and she pointed to a woman tucked away behind so many gates and people standing in line with bikes. "That one."

I waited in line awhile, then realized that I could get to the woman by walking around yet another line of temporary gates. After much effort and frustration I managed to get to her.
"Hi. I'm licensed through the federation, but I don't have a chip. I never had one."
"Well what did you do in the other races?"
"It's just... this is the first race I've done this year. I guess I just thought I'd have to get it at the start or something. It wasn't in my pack I got from the federation."
"What's your name? What's your number?" I was on both the list of federated athletes, and the list of participants. "Crap, we're going to have to call Lola." (Gets on walkie talkie) "Somebody get Loli over here, we've got a problem with chips."
Waiting for "Lola" some other dude came up who was on TWO lists, licensed and non-licensed but he had different numbers on the lists, neither of which were in a race pack that existed anywhere in the starting area. When "Lola" turned up he jumped in and went first. She couldn't find a solution to his problem and so sent him somewhere else, then turned to me. I explained my problem again.
"Name? Number?" I was on both lists.
"And you're licensed?"
"Yes."
"Through the Catalan Triathlon Federation?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"YES! You just looked me up on your list. I was there. I'm licensed. I just never had a chip."
"What's your name?"
I told her, again.
"That name doesn't sound familiar."
"I haven't done any races yet this year, but I'm licensed. Look, I have the bib and the bike number, here's my passport, my federation card with my name on it, my registration confirmation slip and everything, I just don't have a chip."
"Are you sure you're licensed in Catalonia? Through what club did you sign up for the license?"
"Club Natacio Catalunya (Catalan Swim Club). Listen, I'm not from here but I live here and I'm licensed here. I just don't have a chip. It wasn't in my pack."
"Name?" she said, rifling through packs identical to mine except for the name and number written on the front in felt-tip marker.
I told her my name yet again.
"Doesn't sound familiar, I don't recognize your name." Was this on some hidden camera show or something?
"Listen, I have everything but the chip. Maybe it's my mistake, I don't know, but I know that I HAVE THAT PACKET and there was NEVER A CHIP INSIDE. Listen, I have another chip, by the same makers and everything, that I bought for the running races I do. I could put that one on, you could write it down and when you have a chip with that serial number in your data you'll know it's me because you'll have it written down and later you can just assign that chip to me."
"No, whatever you do, don't put on that chip because it has nothing to do with us."
"But can't you just change the serial number of my chip in your database?"
"No, we don't have the machine. Whatever you do, don't put on that chip. All I can say is that you can do the race, but you won't have any results. And when you finish, well, just find an official and tell them that you're done so we can have a record of you finishing."
"Are you kidding me? Alright, whatever."
Back to the transition area, and after 45 minutes I got to explain it one more time. "Okay, but you won't have any results," the girl said as she wrote NO CHIP next to my name and let me through.

As you can understand, before even starting I was in a bad mood, and when I found my number on the rack some bitch with an Orbea had taken my transition spot. I crammed all my gear into a space about 20 inches by 8 inches, chucked my backpack under her Orbea and scoped out the transition are looking for one of my gym buddies that was doing the same race. When I didn't find him and the announcer was urging everyone to get to the start I went to look for him down at the beach. I didn't see him there either so I waded into the sea to take a quick pee before the start. Maybe it was beause of the bullshit with the chip, or because I wasn't expecting anything, but I wasn't nervous. For the first time ever I was thinking, 'Nah, I know how to do this, it's just a question of not embarrassing myself. I can swim, I can bike, I can run. I'm only tripping about someone ruining my race... and the people who have already.'

The Swim

The start was late. I stood somewhere near the back in the middle and swung my arms around like I knew what I was doing. The water was 79 degrees, so I was totally comfortable in the WETSUIT ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED atmosphere. Once the gun (or fog horn in this case) went off I wished I'd moved farther up in the pack. I've never been so cramped in a swim start (possibly because I'm used to leaving in a pack of under 50 instead of 400). It wasn't like I got really beat up, but I did have a lot of feet caressing my face and found myself grabbing a stranger's hand trying to pull my arm out of the water a lot. People kept stopping and doing breast stroke at the most unpredictable moments and it seemed like there was a solid wall of bad swimmers in front of me. (Note to self: It is better to be swum over than to be kicked in the face by a crappy swimmer - next time start farther forward in the pack). On the way out around the first jetty there seemed to be a pretty strong current working against me, and at the turn at the first buoy I had to full-on stop for a few seconds to find a place to swim around. After the jetty I found myself surrounded by girls (which really got my competitive spirit going) and was only bothered seriously by some Backstroke Boy who couldn't seem to go in a straight line and I couldn't figure out how to get around.

Other scary swimming things:
The water was a lot darker and murkier in Barcelona than it was in Vilanova and I couldn't see the bottom most of the time, which was okay, since I knew it wasn't that deep. BUT when I came around the jettys (of which there were three) I could see all these mean-looking rocks. These aren't the nice, round, happy-looking rocks of natural coast lines, but mean, pointy-looking things dumped there my men in bulldozers to protect Barcelona's precious imported sand. People are not supposed to swim out here. And I could see lots of ropes going to unseen buoy anchors. Also, I got lots of nasty ocean water in my mouth. Just at one moment when my lips were puckering from the saltiness and I was trying not to think about all the little sea monkies that were in my mouth and what I saw the time that they made us look at a drop of ocean water through a microscope in science lab, a wave got me square in the mouth. I gagged and sputtered and almost puked for a second.

Swim time: 15:40 (750 m), either there was a current, the course was long, I went off course, or I (and others around me slowing me down) swam excedingly shittily, because normally I swim significantly faster than that.

T1

Sprint races are cool cuz you hardly need to take anything along. Right sock, right shoe, shit, my helmit, sunglasses, left sock, left shoe, and off I go. Total time from water to bike mount line (don't know where real transition CHIP boundaries were), 2 minutes exactly.

The Bike

This is my favorite part. The whole time I was sitting there on the beach I was thinking, "I can't wait to get to the bike! That's where I'm comfortable!" However, once on the bike for the first of 3 laps, I was decidedly NOT comfortable. Actually, I was reminded of the reason why I'd quit cross country when I was in high school. It's kind of embarrassing, but I don't care. When I was in high school I felt desperately like I had to go #2 before every meet, but never could (it was just nerves, not a REAL need), so I had to run every race as fast as I could feeling like I was going to crap my pants. It really created bonding among the girls' team because other girls could admit to the same problem, but I couldn't hang and quit after 1 season. Now, on the bike, after the change in muscle groups from zero gravity, upper-body stress, to sitting on my butt, lower-body stress my intestines were distressed. I was so distracted that at the first turn I forgot to concentrate and almost crashed into some cones. I was passed by a few people and I passed a bunch of guys on mountain bikes. I don't know if I lost positions or gained them because it was a 3 lap course and it's so hard to know who's on what lap. What I did notice was that girls who bike in swim suits have really hot asses (cuz you can see all them glutes and hams working), and that guys on mountain bikes can't go in a straight line (maybe because most of them were wearing running shoes and bashing down on their pedals in too high a gear) and they're damn hard to pass when they're swerving. I went an average of 20.3 miles per hour and felt like I could have gone much farther and faster, but I was scared of the run and went conservatively. When I got back to transition I was surprised to see that my bike computer only registered 18.6km (it was supposed to be 20), and even more surprised to see that my watch said that only 55 minutes had passed when I racked my bike - after a fairly long run in my cycling shoes in transition. Total bike time: 37:20.

T2

Rack bike, take off helmit, decide whether to put helmit on bike or throw on the ground, throw helmit on the ground, take off cycling shoes, put on running shoes, tie shoes, put on headband (for horrible in-between-length hair), grab water bottle (which I refuse to be without), grab race belt, go, put on race belt while I go, hear whistle, turn around to official who says "not you", continue. Time across chip strip, 57:30. T2 time, 2:20.
I heard the announcer saying something like, "It really goes to show what talent the licensed athletes have, since the winners only came through T2 at xx:xx time. The athletes of the federation would find that time pathetic..." or something like that. Dick.

The Run

What the hell was I thinking? I HATE running. This hurts. I can't breathe. And then I saw my first km split, somewhere just under 5 min/km. That can't be right, I don't EVER run that fast. The course must be badly marked. Then I saw Lucas, the Argentinian from my gym who makes me feel guilty on a daily basis for slacking off. "LUCAS!" I yelled. "EP!" he yelled back. Fuck! I hate running. This sucks. Don't run so fast, chill out. Kilometer 2: under 10 minutes; either I'm running better than I ever have before, or the course is badly marked. Into the tunaround there's a dip and then a tree and you turn around. I fly way around the outside of the curve, oops. I hate my life. Slow down. This sucks. Never again. Just finish, don't you dare walk. Next turnaround to lap two, wow, people are turning around with me, shit, that's weird, they're not lapping me. Only 2 kilometers to go, but my watch can't be right, it says that only 1:13 has gone by since the start, in other words I'm running faster than I have... ever. Suddenly I'm conscious of all the people along the way who are smoking... QUIT IT! I'M TRYING TO BREATHE! Coming in to the last half of the back half of the second lap, 750m to go, I consciously slow down. I've puked before on things like this, my legs feel stiff and they're moving funny. I hate running. My breathing is wheezy and feels yucky, but I'm still running. Run, run, run, FINISH. I'm perplexed. My watch shows 1:20:28. I would have been happy to run in under 1:30. But even more perplexing is that the clock shows only 45 seconds. Then I get it, the next wave has started, the MALE licensed athletes - the important ones. Final run time: 23:00, a full 1 minute 3 seconds faster than my 5k PR (10 years standing). The course must have been short.

I wandered around looking for Silvia and didn't find her. Not surprising, since we'd had a miscommunication about where and when to show up. I went to where people were supposed to turn in their chips and said, "Hey, I don't have a chip... the woman from the federation said to tell someone when I'd finished, so here's my number, I'm done." She wrote it down in highlighter in the margin of her list, and I wasn't so sure it would ever be read by anyone.

The transition area was closed (since the MALE LICENSED athletes had to be catered to) and I couldn't get to my phone, so I started milling around looking for Lucas. "CLAIRE!" (only it was pronounced more like "CLER!") I heard, and found Lucas standing with another guy who works at the gym who never gave me the time of day.
"HEY! LUCAS! How'd you do?!"
"Great! I finished in 1:01 and change!" I congratulated him, but didn't know quite how excited to be for him since I knew he hoped to finish in 56 minutes. "I won!"
"WHAT?! You won?" This was a serious question since Argentinian accents have always been difficult for me. I never know if I understood correctly.
"Yeah, I was the first of all the non-licenced guys! Everyone!"
"Oh my god! Congratulations!" We gave eachother a kiss on both cheeks. "No, really, that's so awsome! CONGRATULATIONS!!! Give me a hug!" And I gave him a hug and meant it. Shit! First!
"How'd you do?" he asked me.
"1:20:28!" I said.
"That's cool." Boo! He knew I'd be happy to finish in 1:30, but I guess he was euphoric.
"Yeah, it's strange," he said, and I thought by the way he said it he was going to say that he thought I'd be farther back in the pack when I saw him. "But when I came out of the swim I was in sixth and when I was on the bike I thought, where is everybody, but I was in first..."
"Jeez, that's great!" I said, and patted him on the back.
We talked a bit more and I went off to look for Silvia again, sure I wouldn't find her. When I WAS allowed in trasition again I called her and she hadn't even left the house yet. I told her I'd call her if I needed her, don't trip.

Waiting for the transition area to open again I heard the MC talking about some poor schmuck who'd had worse luck than me. "Lluis Velasquez Mas (name invented for dramatic effect) has just taken off for his SECOND 5k. He forgot his bib number in the transition area before leaving for the run, and when he got to the finish line the officials said he would be disqualified if he did not do the run with his number on, so he's off doing it again. That's what sticklers we are for the rules here at Tri-Trials..." I guess my experience could have been worse. I could have been THAT guy.

Having my cake or eating it too OR Mark Allen haunts my nightmares

When I was little I was convinced I could become an olympic figure skater only by dreaming. One day I asked one of my coaches why she didn't go to the olympics. Rather than some remark about, "do you know how f&%$ing HARD that is?!" which is what I would probably tell one of my kids if they asked me a similar question, my coach responded with this: "Because when I got older I had to choose between skating and my friends, and I chose my friends." At the time it was unfathomable, how could someone not be able to have both things at once? You don't spend ALL your time on the ice. Since then I've had to make sacrifices (mostly drinking and partying) for things I wanted more (mostly to feel good about myself) that alienated me a bit from my friends, but I knew they were still down for a coffee if I ever bothered to pick up the phone. So whenever that conversation came back to me (and it did from time to time), and I considered my first introduction to the concept of sacrifice, I still didn't understand how you couldn't have your cake and eat it too. I mean, get a life!

But then the other night I was laying awake (as I do) and the conversation came back to me again, and I GOT it. You see, I'm an alcoholic. Not one of those "have one drink and find me lying in the gutter 3 weeks later in a puddle of my own piss and vomit" alcoholics, but up there with a frat boy. I haven't had a drink since Christmas break, but in 2 weeks Lorraine is coming to visit and I decided that, for old time's sake (and because we would be running and biking so much that there was no way to go TOO overboard), I would put my abstinance on hold. But then James is coming right on her heels, and then my brother after that. Then a week later I have a half ironman in Valencia and the week after that I'm being kidnapped by my family to go to Ireland for a long weekend. With so many things disrupting my control over my surroundings, how am I going to find the time and discipline to train properly leading up to Valencia?

On the same day as the implications of this whole timeline solidified in my head I got a call from Shane. Shane and Kat (a couple) are my 2 best friends in California. We are like the 3 musketeers, and of course there's this screwed-up love triangle that wouldn't interest you. The important thing is that Shane said that they want to come out to visit for 3 whole weeks this summer!!! Only they want to come out the 3 weeks before my A race. With them there, even if I don't drink (which is unlikely), how am I ever going to find the time and control to peak correctly for the biggest race of the season? The idea of sacrificing a whole other season after last year's disaster makes me want to scream. But I can't tell my friends that I don't want to see them. That's not true.

So when I finally fell asleep I had this nightmare. I was doing a big race that I think was supposed to be here in Spain, but it looked a lot like the Big Kahuna. I got out of the swim and felt really tired and just sat down in the transition area to get my strength back. Then I was wandering off with the haunting feeling that I was forgetting something. Then Mark Allen said to me, "You forgot about the bike! You have to do to bike leg!" Mark Allen is in all my triathlon nightmares because I made a total ass of myself in front of him once. Okay, more than once. If enough people ask me about it I'll relive the unpleasant experience again to blog about it for all your benefit. Anyway, so Mark Allen made me get on my bike and I felt like I was made of lead. Everything was heavy and I couldn't seem to get moving. I kept finding myself walking my bike and thinking, "what the hell am I doing?!" and trying to get back on and get moving again. But I never got back to the transition area. I I just kept walking away from my bike for some reason and Mark Allen was asking me, "What the hell are you doing? Don't you want this?" I did! But it was getting harder and harder to stay on my bike. I would be wandering around with this horrible feeling that I'd lost something and remember that I was supposed to be biking and start running around crazily looking for my bike. Only when I found it, it was really, really hard to move at all, like I was in a really high gear going up hill. Eventually when I went back to look for my bike again I couldn't find it. Then Mark Allen drove away to the transition area to help the people who weren't losers and didn't forget how to finish a race.

If my friends come, I can't concentrate on this race. But California is damn far away and it's not cheap to get from there to here. It's not like people can just stop by for a weekend. When I was 9 I asked that skating coach if she ever regretted her decision. Her answer was a whimsical "sometimes". So what should I do? What does my dream tell me I want to do? WWMAD? What would Mark Allen do? Actually, he would probably run off to the desert to not see anyone for 6 weeks, like Jesus...

There's no such thing as "calories that don't count"

I've been meaning to be more prudent about my food choices lately, but I just haven't had the time or the resources. I really miss the states where there's always (relatively) fresh and unprocessed foods available. Here I feel like bocadillos (lunchmeat, or in my case cheese or egg on a baguette) are going to come out my ears, but they're just about the only thing I can find to eat. And given the choice, I really WOULD eat healthy, only there are only so many variations on stir fry and I'm sick of them all. But I've been thinking about how I really need to suck it up and go on a diet. Diets are dangerous for me, so I avoid the word. From here on out we'll say "eat better" and everyone will understand that it's a code word for... *sssssh* diet. So today, fully mindful of my resolution and after a stack up to *here* of french toast for breakfast (that left me feeling woozy an hour later from the sugar crash), and pizza for lunch I went to the supermarket. I got all kinds of healthy things: spinich, high fiber cereal, nuts, legumes, soy yogurt... all the usual things on my list. Only there were these giant chocolate animals sitting around, see? Because it's almost Easter, you know? And they looked so good that I couldn't get chocolate off my mind. I don't even like chocolate. But when I was walking to the checkout line a whole BAG of little chocolate eggs FLEW into my basket. No idea how they got there, nor do I know how they wound up in my mouth before I'd even left the supermarket, but there they were. Then we rented a movie (the last available copy of Pan's Labyrinth, YES!) and I had POPCORN for dinner. Really, in general I do eat healthy, and today was a bad example, but the point is that all this stuff finds its way into my diet way too often. See? You just caught me saying I eat healthy. My problem is that I don't really consider this stuff part of my diet because it just kind of sneaks up on me, and after I've eatten the junk food and destroyed the evidence, I don't let myself think about it again. If I pay too much attention to the food I eat, counting calories, etc. then I get obsessive and it's a bad scene. Once I didn't eat for 2 days and wound up eating a whole box of Frosted Flakes in one sitting. But if I don't pay attention and don't obsess about food I might find myself eatting too big a lunch on Monday, a candy bar on Tuesday, fries on Wednesday, pizza on Thursday, restaurant food on Friday, and whatever I feel like on Saturday. It doesn't count if you weren't planning to eat it beforehand though, right? Well, that's what I always thought, but maybe that's why those six pack abs STILL haven't appeared after all these years...