The Age Wars - Part 2

At the end of the last post, I had just signed up for a quarter iron distance triathlon.  Uh oh...

March 30^th is Triathlon Day, when I take this fight to the enemy – 150 days from registration. 

I am woefully unprepared for this war, as I discover.  In order to help me marshal my defenses, I purchase a heart rate monitor.  It’s on clearance because it’s still in an old fashioned cardboard box package instead of the modern blister pack.  I love new toys.   I feel like a Pentagon general in the middle of a defense contractor convention. But, alas, the rest of my arsenal is not so cutting-edge.  My bike is of the mountain/trail riding variety with fat, knobby tires, and my running shoes have seen more work in the garden than on the pavement. 

The enemy fires a few direct hits and affects some successful sabotage with upper respiratory infections, sick kids, aches and pains.  Scheduling is a logistical nightmare. The winter pool hours are limited.   It rains on all the Kid’s Day Out days. Or so it seems.     The winter weather is uncooperative.  In my down time, I do what I’m really good at: reading and planning.  And spending money. 

Slowly but surely my weapons cache builds.  I buy new running shoes and a few light weight tech shirts.  After a few, incredibly slow, long rides with Tab – he on his road bike and me on my knobby mountain bike – he is convinced of my need for a new road bike.  Later, a pair of aero bars find their way under the Christmas Tree.  In March, Tab again contributes to the war effort with the purchase of my new wetsuit.

My biggest vulnerability is my body’s sugar management.  Always difficult, this suddenly becomes a real obstacle.  My body lies to me. “I’m not hungry now,” it protests right before it plants itself face down on the pavement.  “I’m starving,” it says thirty minutes after I eat.  I have to think ahead.  Food will be a significant issue in a four or five hour event.  I try bars and gels, but they are not for me. I will need real food. But cheeseburgers and ice cream won’t work either. I need portable food.  

I mount small skirmishes, first against the two-mile run and the nine-mile bike ride.  Then the three and four mile runs and the fifteen-lap swims.  The battle of the “brick” ensues.  After finishing a 28-mile bike ride, Tab and I attempt to run.  This takes our legs by complete surprise and they are reluctant to abandon their wet noodle  responses.  Tab says I’m trying to kill him.  Eventually we declare it a marginal victory, but we know we’ll fight that battle a few more times. 

In sharp contrast to my pool swims, our first open water swims are next to disastrous.  We go to a nearby fresh water lake, and gamely don our wetsuits.  We ease into the water, shivering.  It’s COLD.  I try to swim but I can’t overcome the gasping reflex to get my face in the water.  The wetsuit adds another dimension of difficulty.  I struggle to swim from one buoy to the next.  After an eternity I finally emerge from the water, filled with lake water and more self-doubt than ever. 

Subsequent swims improve both my ability and confidence.  I learn that I can at least float all the way around the course if I have to.  But the water is still in the mid-sixties and I start studying marine buoy temperatures on a daily basis, muttering “warm up, warm UP.”

In the last few weeks before T-day, my battle-hardened buddy and I review our plans for transitions and equipment.  We each have our lists, our assigned tasks.  I’m in charge of food, packing lists, and accommodations.  Tab drives and handles all post race thinking for the both of us.  We’ve determined that my brain quits functioning on a rational level after any extended workout.  It is preoccupied with thoughts of cheeseburgers and ice cream.  Go figure.