This is not an exposition on life. It's a story about a bike wreck, and about the pain that comes from winning (yes, winning). And maybe perseverance. If somehow it reveals the secret of happiness, all the better. But the thick skin of mud and grease and urushiol really is the centerpiece.
August 8, 2009. Morristown, Tennessee. The alarm is set for 6 a.m., early enough to repack the truck and find the registration table for the XTERRA Panther Creek Triathlon.
Unfortunately, because Allan and I have been sleeping cramped in the bed of my truck on a pallet of four flannel sleeping bags, slow-cooking for the last eight hours in 90+ degree heat while rain seeps in through the screen windows and eventually the tailgate, we are reluctantly awake at 5:51.
The ends of our sleeping bags (and, subsequently, our feet) are damp from the downpour. With just the pale glow of campground lights to guide us, we stumble around, trying to repack our bikes and gear into the truck. The day brightens with each passing minute, as much as a bleary, rain-soaked day can. We find the transition area at the boat dock, and as I try to keep my checkbook dry, the volunteer tells me I will have to pay $15 extra for a T-shirt because I didn't pre-register. Needless to say, I'm not a happy camper.
During a brief hiatus in the rain, we start the 800-meter swim. Whether by talent, luck or some combination of the two, I am one of the first to exit the water and start preparing for the 14.5-mile mountain bike ride. Though the transition is relatively slow -- putting on gloves and a CamelBak takes nearly 60 precious seconds -- I feel good as I mount my trusty Trek 6700 and and turn left onto Deer Run trail.
Within the first 200 yards, I've passed one competitor, a guy who looks to be a little older than me and also a serious cyclist. Racing in the wet is new to me; I normally respect Mother Nature and stay off trails in such conditions because, by nature, I'm an "environmentalist." But I feel good. Confident, like my tires are sticky, like they belong on the rain-slicked roots and limestone.
I'm wrong. I'm too fast--not the usual complaint of a semi-serious competitor. The trail is too eroded; the roots are too diagonal. I'm too cocky. I'm also hurtling over the handlebars, toward a still-unidentified blunt object with which my ribs become forcibly acquainted.
A groan / expletive escapes. The pain in my tailbone and lower back don't register until I pull myself to my knees. The wind is out of my sails, "sails" being a pleasantly nautical-themed substitution for "lungs." I can't move.
He passes me and asks if I'm ok. I don't know yet, and I say so. I can talk; that's a good sign.
Two more guys pass me, also checking on my condition. Yeah, I say.
A girl passes me, with an obligatory "Alright?" All she gets is a grunt.
Back on my bike, my ass isn't sure it wants to continue. There surely are scrapes, but it's not the time to check. I start pedaling slowly, approaching the next turn cautiously. So far, so good, except for the clicking sound from my chain. Soon, my rear derailleur ghost-shifts one gear higher and returns. After about 20 more pedal strokes, it happens again. This is going to be a long day.
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