"Look Mom, No Thumbs!"

I certainly didn’t go into the 2011 Mooseman International distance triathlon thinking that the demon that would strike me down would be T1.  Make no mistake, I had set unreasonable goals to begin with (I know, it’s easy to say that now).  I was hoping to PR each leg, which would mean a sub 33min swim, a greater than 18.6mph average on the bike, and the run completed in less than 58min.  Let me just say that it takes skill to avoid disappointment.  And I’m really not disappointed in my performance, just in completely overestimating the difficulty of the course (especially the bike). However, I was not at all prepared for setting the world record for the longest T1 in triathlon history (substantial embellishing here). Fortunately, I think it was unavoidable.

Three weeks prior to the race the water temp at Newfound Lake was watched daily on their website.  44 degrees is where those updates started.  I very seriously contemplated withdrawing. After all, I wasn’t looking to becoming the next member of the Newfound Lake Polar Bear Club. My friends had to regularly talk me down off of this cliff. A week later, 53! Then a week before the race a remarkable 72? That couldn’t be right --- a 28 degree increase in less than 3 weeks, during a month of constant rain?  Hell, at that point I had even decided to use my sleeveless wetsuit and go without my neoprene cap.  Thankfully, on check-in day, I had intelligently packed both wetsuits (my full sleeve and sleeveless, as well as my skull cap), because as I drove into Wellington State Park, the sign at the gate said “Water Temp Today: 59”.  It’s official then – this will be the coldest water I will have ever raced in.  Yes, I’ve swam in colder.  54 to be exact.  My very first OWS (open water swim), and the first time I ever swam in a wetsuit, was at the Pumpkinman venue in early May of 2010.  After swimming about 200 yards I began feeling hypothermic. With slurred speech I announced, “Yup, this was a dumb idea.  I’m outta here.”

The chateau that we stayed at for the weekend was dreamy. It was essentially 5 couples and 4 kids the first night, and an additional 3 more people for the second night.  And none of us felt cramped.  Well, except maybe for me.  My wife and I had a “full” bed, which would have been fine, but our 4yo daughter decided she was sleeping nowhere else in this enormous strange house except right between the two of us.  We were all in bed by 9:30.  I had about 18 inches of mattress and the inability to rollover without physically getting out of the bed. 3 hours later I am still in the same exact position and I don’t feel like I’ve gathered any REM sleep yet.  I make the decision to hit the exceptionally large couch (assigned to us) in the TV room right outside our bedroom.  I grab my daughter’s sleeping bag, unzip it to open it up like a full blanket, and instantly crash for 4 continuous hours of sleep. Within 30min after the 4am alarm I have put in my contacts, loaded my bike and transition bag into the car, eaten a cup of cheerios, a banana, and a tablespoon of almond butter, as well as downing a 6oz cup of instant espresso.  “Let the GI distress begin!”  My record for “pre-starting gun” trips to the bathroom or restroom-like facility (ie/ port-o-potty), is nine. Today is four.  A new PR!! WooHoo!!!

The Mooseman venue is very nice, but it is not family friendly.  This is largely based on parking, which got much worse this year. Triathletes are forced to park about a half mile from the transition area.  And this is the “good” parking.  Families are even further out.  And this year was even worse than previous because the owner of an enormous field fairly close to the park decided he wanted to charge “Ironman”, the race sponsor, over $30,000 for use of his property for the weekend.  Ironman declined, and so this year parking was just plain shitty.  I felt horrible for my wife, 7yo son, and 4yo daughter, who were coming to their first race. I don’t think either of them was too thrilled with a one mile hike at 7am.  I wasn’t too excited about mine.

It is pointless to bore you with any details whatsoever regarding the next 90 minutes between the time we arrived at the transition area and the dawning of the full sleeve wetsuit.  My set-up is simple. There is the undeniable OCD component, but with a minimalist approach.

A clear indication of how cold the water would be became evident about half way into the 200yd walk on the beach to the starting area (or what I call the “herding” area).  The wet sand was making the bottoms of my feet numb.
The digital clock shows about 15min until the gun.  I’m in the 3rd wave, at 7:38am.  I plan on getting into the water and staying there until our wave is called to line up and cross the timing mat to activate our ankle bracelets.  There is no easy way in.  I just need to walk.  This is no time for baby steps. I turn towards the water, focusing on the first buoy. Nothing else exists.  Methodically, yet purposefully, in a trance, I march until my chin hits the top of the water’s surface.  With each stride several more inches of my body were introduced to the near paralyzing stream that crept up the inside of my wetsuit.  Without a pause I launched forward like Superman.  Indeed, this water was like Kryptonite. Literally, it takes only a few seconds to begin experiencing the numbness. I can only tolerate my face in the water for 2-3 seconds.  Fortunately, accommodation occurs quite rapidly, but my hands and feet have followed suit and are quite pissed off.  With an easy and efficient stroke I glide out to the first buoy and back.  I end up in about 4 feet of water and begin jogging in place, however, I can’t ward off the lip trembling and swift conversion over to damaging teeth chatter.  Amongst a few nearby chuckling friends there also seems to be a slight sense of concern, “Look, the roosta has got some serious beak chatter going on there.  You okay?”

I reply, “I need to start this fuckin’ race before someone shoves a stick up my ass and sells me to Ben & Jerry.  I’ll even sing the National Anthem (with spectacular tremolo) if it’ll herd us into the water sooner.”  Obviously hypothermia is setting in --- I’m dropping F-bombs and marketing my crappy singing abilities to the public.

Okay.  My turn. After spending 4 minutes on the beach (out of the water), my wave is finally given the “Go!”.  The water is an unbelievably welcome new cocoon.  As has become my strategy, when it is a counter clockwise swim, I choose to be near the front to middle of the pack, but as far left as can be.  I only breathe to the right, so this allows me to get a better sense of where the other athletes are positioned around me.  I know none of them will be on my left so that gives me less to worry about, plus, in a counter-clockwise swim, by hugging the buoys, I’m assured of taking the shortest route to the finish. By being in the middle section, I won’t have to pass too many swimmers in my immediate line.  I figure the “nervous” and probably slower swimmers will choose the back, and they won’t catch me.  The few swimmers in front of me will either be faster and will pull away soon, giving me an “open lane”, or I can overtake them, knowing that there will only be a few of them.  It worked brilliantly before, and did so again today. Not for one moment did I stop my freestyle stroke during the entire 1500 yards.  Four hundred yards into the race I am passing blue-capped swimmer from the wave that started 4 minutes ahead of me.  By the half-way buoy, I begin putting a few of the orange caps (from the first wave) in my rear view as well.  My arms are tiring.  I don’t like swimming in a full sleeve (5mm) wetsuit, but it is a necessity today.  The numbness is no longer appreciable, and I’m able to keep the fatigue under control by focusing on a longer portion of the recovery phase of my stroke.  As I enter the final 200 yards, I begin to kick (something I avoid in non-sprint races to conserve energy and save my legs for the bike and run).  The instant I start kicking a bit, my right calf sends me a message, “Keep it up and I will shut myself down.”  It’s about to cramp.  It’s right on the edge.  It’s so bad and so close that I have to actually avoid pointing my toes at all.  This increases my drag dramatically, but the muscle is leaving me no choice.  As is my practice when approaching the shore, I swim until my fingertips start touching the sand beneath me before I stand.  I have no idea where my feet are.  They are clearly not attached.  I don’t even attempt to run.  The crowd is lining the beach.  This is no place to faceplant. I begin searching for the Velcro neck strap.  I know right where it is.  I can feel it.  I think? Maybe? I can’t grab it.  It’s right there.  I know it didn’t fall off.  Why can’t I grasp it?  By this point I realize I still have my goggles, neoprene cap, and green swim cap on, and my ear plugs are still in.  

While standing near the wetsuit stripper section I am struggling to remove each of these items.  They are waving me over.  I can’t hear what they are saying with my ear plugs still in, but they keep signaling me to come over.  

I yell, “I can’t find the Velcro! I think the zipper is stuck too!”  

Still they wave me over. “It’s okay, we can help.” A woman runs in behind me, rips the Velcro neck strap open, unzips the rear panel, and then directs me to two kids, neither of which appear old enough to drive. In super slow motion I manage to take the upper half of my wetsuit down to my thigh and I plop my butt onto the carpet.  The two volunteers begin their tug-o-war with the leggings.  My left comes off easily (probably thanks to the Pam cooking spray I had applied beforehand), but as I point the toes of my right foot, my calf knots up.  It’s over.  For 20 seconds I’m writhing, trying to stretch.  When it finally lets up I hobble over to a tree where I had placed my transition bag, one bike rack over from where I was set up, and throw my wetsuit into a pile.  The next big task is getting my ear plugs out.  It requires fine dexterity, of which all has vanished into the lake.  I have no pincher grasp. My thumb and fingers simply refuse to come together.  Neither side is working.  Another minute goes by.  I am helpless.  All I can do is just keep trying. I contemplate just leaving them in but wonder if that will screw with my equilibrium on the bike.  So, I keep trying.  Over and over again, repetitively pinching, until finally they’re out.  I waddle over to my bike.  Everything is arranged for the perfect transition. I glance at my watch.  I was hoping to be on the bike in 31min flat.  I'm at 32:30 as I arrive at the front of my bike.  I wrap my racebelt around my waist.  The latch is just large enough whereby I can easily secure it using my palms. The shoes are next.  This should be easy.  The shoes are new.  This will be their first race. The opening is huge, making it a breeze to slip my foot in.  The Velcro straps are large, and there is only one, versus my previous shoes that each had three.  My feet, as predicted, each slide in with ease.  As I reach down to secure the strap, it slips out of the buckle. Forgetting that I have lost all fine motor control in my fingers, I struggle to rethread it.  On either hand I have lost the ability to touch my thumb to any of my fingers.  I might as well not have thumbs.  I try using two fingers but am met with failure repetitively.  Frustrated, as the clock ticks, I realize that today will not be the day.  I won’t break 2:55:00.  If I spend more than three and a half minutes in transition, I may not even be able to pull off a sub-3hr time.  How many times, and how many ways do I try to thread this fucking strap before I decide to try something else?  I whip my right shoe off and bite the strap.  I feed it through the buckle and pull it through.  Yes, with my teeth.  And yes, on the first frigin try. Unbelievable .  So, now with both shoes on, I place my helmet on. The chin strap is small, and fairly taught.  Easily two full minutes go by.  It’s hopeless. I could be here a while.  I simply can’t grasp it.  I shake out my hands like I’m experiencing carpal tunnel syndrome, or my hands are asleep because I slept on them wrong.  The fact is, they’re not asleep.  They just won’t work.  It’s becoming comical, and not in a good way.  I’m feeling embarrassed actually.  I’m now looking around to see if anyone I know is watching me: my wife (who’s never been to one of my races), my kids, any of my fellow racers from my circle of friends?  Athletes are flying in and out of transition. What am I doing?  Standing still, messing with a damn chin strap.  There are very specific rules you need to follow in triathlon.  To name a few:  No drafting, no littering, all race numbers need to be displayed (on your bike, your helmet, your clothing), and no riding your bike unless the chin strap is secured.  If you don’t, you’re either penalized 2 minutes, or worse yet, DQ’d (disqualified).  

But then, a remarkable show of sportsmanship takes place.  It is a gesture that just so happens to be extremely common in this amazing sport.  The athlete who was assigned the space next to mine, and whom had arrived as I was putting on my helmet, has apparently noted that I haven’t moved in over 2 minutes, nor I have done anything but stand in front of my bike with my hands raised to my chin.  “Are you okay?” he asked in a European accent.

“No.  I can’t feel my hands.  I can’t buckle my chin strap.”
“Here, let me do it for you.”  He reached over, and in an instant it was done.
“I can’t thank you enough.  Let’s race.  I’ll follow you,” trying to show my appreciation.

“No, I’ll follow you,” he insists.  “You obviously swam a hell of a lot faster than me, so you’re probably faster on the bike as well.”

“Alright , brother, but don’t go passing me," I jest.
“I’ll wait til the run,” he counters.

We both get a laugh out of it.  We give each other a fist bump. . . . . I think.  My hands were numb, so I’m not sure.

 

RESULTS: Overall 3:16:13  277th/436, Age Group 40-44 = 54th/65

Swim (1500yds): 30:20 (2:02/100yds), 154th/436 total entrants

T1: 7:30

Bike (27.22 miles): 1:33:56 (17.4mph), 238th/436

T2: 2:05

Run (6.2 miles): 1:02:25 (10:04/mile pace), 335th/436

(recall that I started 8min after the official gun - swim wave #3)

There were no PR's today.  The swim was dreadfully cold.  It was easily the toughest bike ride I had ever been on. And because of the ride, the run was sluggish.  

But despite all that, I raced, I had a blast, and I got to hang out with tremendous friends.  But the most awesome part was falling into the arms of my wife and kids at the finish.