This post comes with warnings.
First, if you are Lee Anne, you may not read this entry until next week. If you know Lee Anne, you may not discuss it with her until after she reads it. No exceptions. You’re on your honor now.
Next. There will be expletives. Lots of them. I make no apologies, you have been warned.
So, background, before we get into the events, here is what happened. As you probably know, I have been known to run a Triathlon in my time. In fact, I swim about twice a week, to keep in shape, so I’m ready to run one at a moment’s notice. It is with this in mind, that I registered to run the Xterra lite, in Germany, with a friend of mine. According to the race sheet, I’d have a 500 meter swim in 17-20C (62-68F) degree water. A tough 18KM (11ish miles) ride, and a 5K (3.2miles) run… This is what I expected.
John and I, did not get off to a good start. We had planned to leave the night before the race, as it was 3 hours from where we live, and get to our Hotel around 8pm for a leisurely dinner. Instead, we left around 7pm, after a long day of many fiascos, got to the hotel around 11pm. A few beers later, we called it a night. I woke up around 7 am, puttered around, and got myself ready for the race at 1pm. John did the same, and when we met for breakfast around 9:30, we were both happy that it was a late start, since the ungodly morning races we’re accustomed to are a bit of a hard way to start the day.
On the way to the race site, John re-read our sign in sheet, to find that the broken English it had been translated into had been unclear. In fact, our race started at 10:30… It was 10:45. John goes crazy. I keep a handle on things, we get to the registration and decide to register for the full race. 1.5K swim (1 mile) 38K ride (23 miles) and a 10k run (6.4 miles). Okay, we’re in.
Only, we’re not remotely prepared. I had been paring down my swimming to do a fast 500 meters, I was ready to go triple that distance. Rewinding to the prior day, one of my fiascos was the realization that I still had no wet suit. I bought a “shorty” because I already have a full suit (in FL) and 500 meters takes me less than 10 minutes to swim. If the water is cold, I’ll be out lickety split. No problem. Oh, and in a bout of unparalleled masculinity, I bought a woman’s suit, because it was the only one in the shop that fit even close to properly, and f*** it, I’m tough enough to wear women’s clothes.
John and I agree that we’ll just fake the race. The “full” race is just two laps of the “half” race course. We’ll just do one of each. I agree. Only… I swim a lot, I would at least like to do the full swim. I commit myself mentally for that. Two laps in this icy lake.
Half an hour before the race starts. We’re feeling good. We, like many other racers, jump into the lake to prime our suits. Get them wet with cold water, get out, our bodies warm the water, and happy sailing. Holy F***ing F***! How the F***ing cold is this F***ing lake! Swim swim, be calm, it will be okay. We’re about to get out, in time for the pre-race brief.
Instead, they order everyone into the lake. Okay, maybe the suit conditioning is mandatory. Now we’ve got some 200 folks floating in a freezing lake. They whistle and gesture to us ineffectively for about 15 minutes. We all look at one another and shiver. Someone blows a horn and we begin to swim towards the middle. There is no where else to swim. I’ve been in this lake for 30 minutes, in my shorty suit. I am cold.
The course is marked with two orange buoys, about 3 feet in diameter. At 600 or so meters, they are hard to spot. There are many safety kayaks, and a few safety speed boats. The safety motor boat ran over a kayaker just before the horn blew. “If I find out who the f*** is piloting that f***ing boat, I’m going to f***ing punch him in the back of his f***ing neck.” I say to myself when I realize why I can’t find the buoy. The speed boat has parked in front of it. This would be okay if he stayed there the whole time, but he just tools around back and forth, parking in front of the buoy periodically for no apparent reason. F***er.
I finish my first lap, I’m committed. I’m doing two (you must exit and reenter the water at this point). I get back in, and now I’m swimming away for the second time. The crowd has thinned. I am in the back. I am still cold. I take off, feeling great. Then I realize I have a problem. My suit is snug enough that I can’t seem to go through a full stroke. I can’t swim straight. There is no visibility in the lake, and I am just meandering around. I gut it out and keep swimming. On the return lap, I realize I am hypothermic.
I often like to do simple puzzles in my head when I swim. Usually math related, since I am counting anyway. If I can’t solve what I consider to be a “simple” problem, I realize that I’m probably a bit oxygen starved, so I know to slow down. Nothing complicated, mind you. Just trying to figure out when the next prime number will come up when I count laps, or what percentage done I am. I pause to find the exit ramp, and swim towards it. 300 meters or so. I can swim this in my sleep. “How many strokes should that be?” I wonder. Now, I can tell you that I typically swim 25 meters in about 15-17 strokes, so 300 meters should be 12 times that, or about 180-204 strokes. Yesterday, I had forgotten to count past my third stroke, and couldn’t remember what problem I was trying to solve anyway. I swam on. I crawled out of the lake to my bike. I had been in the water almost 90 minutes at that point…
My precious bike. I just bought it, and I haven’t ridden it but once. It is a nice bike, it will save me. I down a power gel and get out of my suit. I’m shivering still. I see some friends, and they caution me. “Take your time on the first climb…” and “When you have to go up the stairs, carry your bike on your back.” “Whatever…” I think to myself. Exhausted, I mount up and start riding.
The first “Hill”, is a 750 meter climb. I dismount, gracelessly, and begin walking my bike. Fatigue hits, and it occurs to me that if I’m going to walk my bike up, I should position myself so that I don’t knock my front teeth out on my handlebars when I pass out. I trod onward and upward. I am in last place. I know this because the gentle “Ende” rider who is there to make sure the last place guy doesn’t die, is riding with me, and we’re conversing in English and German together. I press on. I ride some, and when it gets too much, I walk some. I ride some more, and walk some more. I reach the summit. Downhill, mostly.
I ride on. Up and down, I keep going. Gently uphill I can manage. Harrowing stump and root riddled single track mud trails I navigate downward. I survive, I have poise on my bicycle. “Links!” (Left) I hear someone yell, so they can pass me on an 11 inch wide course on my left. I ride right, hit a stump and go over my handlebars. I’m feeling good, I manage a “rapid dismount”, clear the bars with a split and land on my feet. Dust off my bike and I’m off again. Several more “Links” later, I resign myself to just riding extreme right to accomodate. I’m last and getting lapped. I grow despondent. I hit gulch and try to eat my handlebars through my navel. It hurts. I ride on.
I’m on a fire road now. Alone, riding. Going pretty quick. Things are looking up, I hope that I’m halfway done with the first 18km loop. I will ride it only once, I decide. I pick up speed and enter a clearing.
Why the f*** is there a f***ing ski jump in front of me? Who puts a ski jump in a f***ing bike course? I have to run up five f***ing flights of stairs, carrying a bike? “Carry your bike on your back…” Terry had said. So I do. Running up tiny muddy wooden log trail stairs. At the top, a photographer asks me, in German, if this is my first or second lap. “Das is mein leste lap.” I respond. My last lap, I’m not going to lie at least. I ride on.
Up and up again I go. And now down, blessed down. I hear a rattle in my bike, I wonder what it might be. Steepr down, the rattle grows louder. I apply my brakes, both front and back for control. My rear brakes are making an ungodly noise. Perhaps some debris is lodged within, I wonder. I apply my brakes again… “CRACK!” I lose my rear brakes. My rear end lurches off the ground and I’m now riding a very ungainly unicycle down a mountain bike trail.
I have many useless skills. Unicycling among them. It may have saved my life. I manage to come to rest without dying, and discover that my rear disc brake has been shorn completely off the rim. It is now wedged in the axel. My race is over. I am done.
I am now dragging my bike down the course. I have 5k left to go. “Links” I hear called, and I trudge off to the right. “Danke!” he says. “Kein problem.” (no problem) I reply. I am not thinking “No problem” when I say that though. Instead, my mind is somewhere else, talking to me. It says “Wow, I had no idea there were Stinging Nettles in Europe. How interesting…” I am too tired to curse or even become annoyed. I trudge onward.
A motorcycle stops to help me. Safety crew. They have tools. They take a look at my rear wheel, dislodge the brake, and put it in my back pack for me. “Danke.” I say with a laugh. In German and English we’re talking. They encourage me. “The rest of the race is not very fast. You can do this with front brakes only.” they tell me. “Are you sure that is safe?” I ask. “I don’t want to hurt myself…”
“Oh, yes.” They reply. “On our motorcycle, we have no brakes. You will be fine.” and they ride off.
Somehow, I don’t feel comforted by the advice coming from the safety crew. I mount up and ride on. Without the rear brake stuck, I make decent time. I finish my lap, and enter the transition. I want to go home. I look for John’s bike, and his transition is clear. I cannot quit. I run out for the run loop. A quarter mile into the run, I feel alright. A quarter mile plus two strides into the run, I get the familiar twinge of a charley horse in my right quadriceps. Figuring that I’m needing electrolytes, I eat a power gel. Only I have no water to drink with it, so I am sipping on it, while my charley horse is barely in check. I run on. I calculate my run speed, and guestimate that I’m running about a 12 minute mile. I am probably half done. I run on, the charley horse hits, and I just keep going. It hurts, but I just need to finish. I’m so close.
The charley horse fades. Probably the muscles are now too tired to bother. I know I have about 10-20 minutes of running left, but my nipples have been chaffed by the my jersey, and burn with every stride. I’ve been running, holding my jersey off them, because it is so intensely painful. Then, I hit a personal low. In an effort to stem the pain of my nipple abrasion, I inconspicuously rub power gel on them.
It occurs to me that even if I don’t get caught putting the gel on them, I’m going to be doubly embarassed when, for reasons thus-far unforeseen, the gel burns my abraded nipples, and I’m forced to try and lick it off. At which point I’m certain someone will remember me from the swim and say “Isn’t that the cross dresser from this morning, swimming in a ladies wet suit?” I don’t care. The power gel works, the jersey sticks to the gel, and the friction stops.
I see the finish line. The logical part of me says: “Hey, you swam the full course, it isn’t your fault your bike broke, you couldn’t finish that. You could at least run the next 5K, and have done almost a full race!” and all the muscle fibers in my body unanimously shriek. We will run no farther.
As I cross the finish line, I hear the announcer calling. “Nummer zwei hundred…” (number two hundred) he pauses because my number was partially torn off when I crashed, and further torn in my efforts to spare my nipples… “Nummer zwei hundred, neun and achtzig!” (Number 289). “Don… ” he says in German before correcting to…
“Dan Scheffer!!! From Great Britain!!!”
“Well, everything else today has been a fraud or a fiasco, why the hell should my finish be any different.” I think to myself, and I am done. My race is over. I lived.
John had an epic day. After a cramp in the first part of the swim, he finished the first loop and entered the ride apparently in third place. Riding expertly, he finished in first place, at which point he was caught “cheating”. Single loop for swim, single loop for ride.. He informed the official what happened, and surrendered his timing chip. He commenced his run, and had an amazing 22 minute 5K run. He finished in 2hrs, 7 minutes (to my 4hrs, 14).
The crowd went wild as he crossed the finish line. “In First place, John *****, from USA!!!” Sheer pandemonium, until seconds later, John sees an attendant run to the announcer’s booth. A long spiel in German follows, and the crowd erupts into laughter. What was said, we’ll never actually know, but for a brief instant, John had won the race. The acutal winner finished in around 2hrs, 53 minutes…
For the three hour ride home, every silence was eventually broken by one of us uttering. “That f***ing swim!”
That f***ing swim…
