I (didn't) Shave My Legs For This?

The first race of the season has come and gone, but the results sheet doesn't tell the whole story--not even close.

A sunny Saturday gave way to a soggy Sunday as we were greeted at 7:30 a.m. by rain pelting our hotel room window. We were lucky the race started at 10 Central time, which is at least two more hours of sleep and prep time than we're accustomed to. Continental breakfast and two servings of coffee from an undersized Styrofoam cup later, we drove to the race site.

The emcee, standing under an RV's awning, broke the news: there would be no swim. We weren't surprised, considering the water was 51 degrees and the air temperature was about 45. The event would be a duathlon (its technical term, although swimming specialists call it "the shaft"). 

Wearing just a triathlon suit, arm warmers and rose-lensed glasses, I toed the starting line. The race began uphill for the better part of a mile, followed by a wild dash down the same incline. Every footstrike reverberated through my legs. I was terrified of slipping, but it would have been more dangerous to fight the momentum.

Once on the bike, which was to be 15 miles, I realized I'd forgotten my computer. Aside from not knowing my current speed and distance, though, it was a small loss. I told myself I would just ride as hard as possible while trying not to get passed. And that strategy worked for a while; when six or seven familiar faces crept by, I increased my speed and worked to keep up.

I held on for a long time. A really long time--almost too long. The group ahead of me slowed, and I looked at the Interstate 75 on-ramp with confusion.

"They sent us off course!"

"We're already at 15 miles. What the @#!&?"

It was then that a red hatchback drove up behind us and confirmed that Yes, we had missed a turn, and Yes, we would have to cover the full distance. It was an angry mile or two before we all sped up again, knowing our race was ruined. In T2, after having ridden 23.8 miles, Joe Peeden and I discussed our options: quit, or run?

We ran. Mostly together, mostly with numb feet, through mostly mud puddles and quicksand bogs (OK, not really quicksand--though the mud did eat one of Joe's racing flats). We passed people who thought we were running a second lap, or a cool-down. We still picked off (and maybe pissed off) other runners. We flew down that same hill, though our feet were so numb that we actually ran faster; who cares how much it hurts if you can't feel it? And we crossed the line together, jumping in sarcastic glee as we finished one of the dumbest races ever. Joe and Drew, 38th and 39th out of 46.

Ironically, if you calculate my actual bike speed based on the distance we rode, this might have been my fastest bike race ever at 21.1 mph. It's a shame that our results don't reflect how well we did or could've done. All things equal, we would have gotten 11th and 12th with the correct bike distance; I suspect Joe would have run much faster without nine extra miles on his legs, and I might also have been able to go a little quicker. 

But for all the complaining---no swimming, too cold, too wet, poor course management, blisters, sore legs, ruined shoes, skewed results---we always manage to say, "Remember that race? Yeah, that was a good trip."