After training all winter and spring, we think we might be ready. Okay, Tab thinks we might be ready. I think I want to throw up every time someone mentions it. However, race weekend finally arrives and we barricade ourselves in local hotel. It might take a SWAT team to get me out. The weekend-long festival includes a sprint race on Saturday and the quarter and half-irons on Sunday. How can they possibly call that a festival? My intent was to watch Saturday’s race to see how it went, but we end up tag-teaming the kids. I stay with the youngest grandchild while Tab goes to mark bodies for the sprint race. When her mom comes, I exchange the toddler for the more self-sufficient adolescent boy, and we go out to enjoy the sights.
On what turned out to be a perfect day, we checked out some of Moody Gardens
Somehow we time dinner just right and hit the best Italian restaurant on the island just before the rush. Pleasantly stuffed with pasta and strawberry shortcake, we waddle back to our hotel to organize all of our gear and prepare our race food before falling into bed. When the alarm goes off at we are wide awake. I feel sick. I know it’s just pre-race jitters. Unfortunately I have several hours to wait. I work at eating a bagel but my mouth isn’t in the chewing mood. I swallow some terrible hotel coffee to help it along.
Tab’s group ("wave" in triathlon lingo) is scheduled to start thirty minutes earlier than mine. He tries to be encouraging as he heads off to the pier. I try not to throw up. I see all the light blue caps hit the water and know that he is in it for better or worse. I still have a while. My grandson waits with me for a time, but then goes to meet his race time companion (and my best friend) Linda Sue, whom he will hang out with during the race.
Now it’s my turn to go jump in the lake. Bayou actually. The water is cold but not as cold as the practice lake we’ve been swimming in. The deep water entry unsettles some, but, having a scuba background prepares me. I press my goggles to my face and jump. Almost immediately, I come across someone who is a little unnerved. She hasn’t trained in cold water, never worn her wetsuit before, and wasn’t expecting a jump. I spend a few minutes talking to her and then realize that they’ve already blown the starting whistle and I’m not even at the line yet! Once started, I’m much more comfortable, the nerves have gone away and I just swim and look and look and swim. There are plenty of lifeguards keeping up with us. The wetsuit is still a little extra work than swimming, but it compensates by adding buoyancy. At the last turn, I’m a little sad that it can’t be more swim and less of everything else. While I’m not fast at any of it, the swim is my favorite part.
As I get near the end, my hands scrape on the outdoor carpet they have staked to the bottom to protect against oyster shells. I stand up and immediately get a cramp in my calf that knocks me back down. I grab the rails and pull myself up and head for the wetsuit wranglers. These ladies are wonderful! Wetsuit in hand I head for the transition area, I’m way at the far end, and most of the bikes are already gone, but I’m not worried. I sit down, grab my shoes and socks, wrestle with my shirt, fasten my helmet on and load up my food supplies. If any real athletes are looking, I'm sure they're horrified. I stuff sandwiches in my back pockets, cheese and crackers in my little bike box, and drinks in my bottle holders. All I need is a blanket and a bottle of wine. What i need is a picnic basket mounted on my bike. I noticed earlier that some had already loaded their drinks. I guessed they were planning on not being gone that long. I wanted mine to still be cold so I’d left them in the cooler. I figured a few extra seconds weren’t going to put me out of the race. Maybe if I was competing for first place I’d have thought twice about that strategy.
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