Don't fear the noodle

I completed my first short triathlon Saturday morning. I took the wise approach of not training at all for the event. This race, as I suspect is similar to many, consisted of a quarter-mile swim, a twelve and a half mile ride, and a 3.2 mile run. There were about 500 participants.

Okay, I trained a little bit--in a pool. Pools, I discovered quickly, are nothing like lakes. For one thing, the water in a lake tastes like dead fish and dirt. About ten strokes in, I swallowed a huge gulp of lake water, pretty much setting the tone for the rest of my swim leg. Before I and the rest of my wave (the swimmers were segregated by age and gender, entering the water in groups, and wearing color coded swim caps), we got a brief instructional pep talk by a lifeguard. She informed us that other guards were stationed at the ready in kayaks and other devices, prepared to throw any struggling swimmer one of those neon-colored styrofoam noodles that little kids play with in pools. Swimmers requiring an assist with a noodle would not be disqualified, provided that they not advance while noodle-supported. About the only thing I can brag about for my swim was that I never needed a noodle.

The bike portion went pretty well, except that my transition from swimming to biking was embarassingly slow. This was in part because I attempted to vomit aforementioned lakewater before moving on to the ride. There is no way to look cool and do this, by the way. I was most comfortable for the running portion, since I generally do a lot more of this and had only bought the bike three days before the event.

My parents were in town during the big event, and they showed their support by sleeping till 11 o'clock the morning of the race. What can I say? I couldn't have done it without them.

One aspect of the race I particularly liked (beyond all the coffee, bagels, sandwiches, and frozen custard afterward) was that every triathlete had his/her age marked on the back of the calf in big black permanent marker. Under normal circumstances, lots of people get kind of funny about their age, about revealing it. But here we all were, joined in one big race together, years and decades apart, all sharing the same morning and the same intense experience, and each clearly tattooed with our years on earth. There they all were, with me (and, let me face it, mostly passing me): 19, 48, 17, 61, 50, 38, 72, 26. Without getting too metaphorical, it was a great "human family" moment for me.

We ran through a bunch of nice residential neighborhoods, and my personal highlight was one homeowner, casually standing at the end of her driveway sipping coffee, who called "You're crazy!" at me as I passed by.

Marci and babyman stayed home for this one, but they will be at Muddy Buddy in August--I talked my brother-in-law into this one.

Next entry: all 'bout baby...