The Carlsbad Triathlon was my first attempt at a Triathlon and I’m glad I chose this particular triathlon for a few reasons. First of all, the swim was much harder than I thought. Although I was probably the last of my cap-color to shore, I pushed myself harder and farther than I would have normally and for that, I am grateful.
To start things off in a challenging way, I unknowingly scheduled this event, the first Triathlon of my athletic career, immediately after shooting a wedding. To learn more about my photography, check out David Petty Photography. To learn about the athletic endeavor of shooting a wedding, stay tuned. Last time I worked the numbers, my average wedding shoot requires 8-12 hours on my feet, burns 750 calories and covers 4 miles. This is not what I had in mind as my triathlon warmup. Not to mention that I would be getting to bed around midnight only to wake up at 5am to make it to the transition area in time to rack my bike and start mentally preparing for the saltwater ahead.
At 7:15, we were encouraged out of the transition area and on to the beach. Like sheep without a shepherd, the group of Triathletes and families made their way across a few hundred yards of sand to eagerly await the starting horn. This year, I decided to compete as a Clydesdale. No, there is not a special division for those of us who run like a slow horse, but instead a special group defined by weight instead of age. My thought was that this was for chubby guys like me and that I would be mid-pack. I was quite wrong. As I sized-up the rest of the orange swim caps (some 55+ and some clydesdales), I realized that none of these guys were out of shape or chubby and most of them were taller than me. To ensure I wouldn’t get beaten up, I made my way toward the back of the pack and prepared to start the swim.
I’d like to pause to comment on my mental status. Bike is racked. Transition set up. Wetsuit on. Everything that I have been preparing for has been set. The past 4 months have led me to this moment. Nothing I can do can prepare me for this moment more than I have already prepared. But am I really fully aware that I am about to start? Where is my family? The massive group of people at the starting line of 5k races is absent. It’s just me and 30 other guys in orange swim caps and we’re about to start swimming.
My brain finally comes to terms with swimming and I hear them call “1 minute to start”.
But back into my brain for a moment. I’m ready to swim, but did I forget about the other two sports? I’m not just going out for a swim. I am starting the Triathlon. Swim, Bike, Run. I need to think about what to do when I’m out of the water and did I leave my shoes by the bike? yes. Ok. I guess I can bike. I wonder if my feet will be sandy. Well, of course they’ll be sandy. I guess there’s nothing I can do but prepare to dive in and keep putting one arm/foot in front of another until the end of this thing.
“Thirty seconds to orange start”
And run. I have to run too. I wonder if the sand will still be in my shoes when I start running. Oh, man, my feet hurt from walking so much at that wedding. I bet I walked 5 miles instead of my normal 4. And then there was that rock I stepped on barefoot in the parking lot as I was changing out of my uncomfortable dress-shoes.
“BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA”
And I skip to the waters edge and submerge myself in the murky salty solution for the next 30 minutes. As I swim, I find myself thinking “As the last group of men, it’s entirely possible that the water is warm here because 400 people have been urinating in their wetsuits in front of me”. This neither helps nor hurts my swim. I am, however grateful for the size buoy chosen for marking the swim course. The sighting buoys are large orange spheres the size of a Volkswagen and the corner buoys look like candy corn the size of a house. As I sight and swim and gulp seawater, I am slowly losing ground to the orange caps in front of me until most of them vanish in the distance. Around 500 meters (halfway), I feel a grabbing at my ankles and I wonder if the last person slower than me has finally caught up. Moments later, the blue-capped fastest female in the first age group passes me and I realize I have been caught by the next wave. As I turn the final corner, a large swell comes in, causing lifeguards to yell “wave!” every few seconds to make sure swimmers are aware of the impending energy lurking behind them.
I’m not afraid of waves. I have been surfing my whole life and body-surfing is easy. Or so I thought. With my tired arms and very tired hear, I sprinted to catch the first wave. Nothing. I tried to catch my breath to get the next wave, but I was spent. Could I touch the bottom yet? No. I tried to catch two more waves without success before I finally caught some white-wash in to shore. Unfortunately, at 33 minutes in, I exited the water more exhausted than I expected, 31st of 36 Clydesdales. And I still had to go put shoes on an bike and run.
As one of the last of the men out of the water, I arrived to a quiet transition area. My bike was one of two left on the rack and I knew I’d have ground to make up. I hopped on the bike and gave it my best shot. I kept up with the women, but my legs didn’t have the juice to go faster than average and I knew I would need them on the run. My bike time was 19th fastest of the 36 clydesdales, but with the lost time from the swim, I had only moved up to 29th of 36.
Starting the run, I remembered my heart rate monitor and could finally get some metrics on how my ticker was doing. starting off to a slow trot, I quickly saw my Garmin 920xt screaming “165BPM”. I knew I couldn’t keep that up for 3 miles. I’d blow up in a mile at that rate. For the next 2.5 miles, I tried everything to keep moving forward while slowing my heart rate down until eventually I brought it back between 148 and 155. With the last 200 yards to the finish, a guy next to me said “lets finish strong and sprint it out”. Sprint? YOU’RE ON.
I have played baseball my whole life. I was never an endurance anything. In High School, I was 6’1, 220lbs and I could run a 100-yard dash in 12 seconds. I have sprinted 90-foot baselines since I was 4.
At the thought of a sprint, I turned on the turbo and I was gone. The crowd cheered like I had never heard before and although I was one of the slowest and last guys across the finish line, I felt like I had just won Olympic gold.
…until I crossed the finish line with a heart rate of 190 and almost fainted.
At least I gave it a good Tri.
