The race I picked for my entry into adult athletics was an off-road sprint distance triathlon to be held near Hood River, Oregon in the Cascades. It was a shorter race which fit my fitness level and I thought I had the equipment I needed for the race. Clearly, the sum total of what I knew about picking a race back then could have fit in a thimble while leaving ample room for a thumb.
Candice and I drove up to Hood River to the race site and that's when I began to think that I may have erred in my decision making process. I was expecting a robust crew of race volunteers and staff, food sponsors and possibly a medical crew, What I found was a broken down camper with a single folding table out front for registration, a couple of disorganized volunteers and the medical services was a large box full of non-aspirin pain reliever.
On the up side however, I saw at least one person that was larger than me. I'm not sure why, but I drew some comfort from the fact that I wasn't the fattest guy there. As you have probably figured out, this was the race director.
I got my bike and gear into the transition area, registered and went down to the lake to warm up. This is the point where I started to think things were going wrong. When I got to the water, I noticed that I was the only person without a wetsuit. I felt that it was highly unlikely that given my limited experience that I was the only one who made to correct choice as to whether or not to wear neoprene. When I actually got into the water, it was clear that I was the one who erred.
It was cold, very, very cold. It was so cold that my chest tightened to the point where I couldn't get a full lungful of air when I would turn my head to breath. Apparently, our ancestors felt rather strongly about getting into cold water for a swim that they encoded into our DNA a biological reaction that would encourage their dimwitted descents to leave the water as quickly as possible. It seems they had little faith in the judgement of their grandchildren.
I finished my "warm up" of about 200 meters and gathered with the other 25 or so competitors at the water's edge for our pre-race briefing. The irrational comfort I felt from seeing somebody larger than me on the race site evaporated when I saw that he was the one who was going to give us our orientation to the race course.
He pointed out the swim course which was a triangle marked by buoys and was reported to be around 750 meters in length, the standard sprint distance swim. I noticed two things that were missing while I was looking at the water. The first was that there were no kayaks or other boats on the course and the second was that the race director never used the word "lifeguard" in the course of his briefing. In fact his advice was that should we get into trouble in the water that we should wave our arms and somebody would come out to get you. This did not inspire confidence.
With full knowledge that we were all taking our lives in our hands, we lined up at the boat ramp and waited for the starting horn. We waded into the water when it went off and started swimming towards the first buoy.
One of the things non-triathletes are often surprised to learn is that the swim is a contact sport. Nobody tries to hit or kick you, generally, but it's not like people go out of their way to avoid you either. My introduction to this concept was a whack upside the head. This took me surprise and I took on some water and started sputtering. I'm not sure what happened here but I was unable to recover fully from the hit and I couldn't put my face in the water anymore. I really couldn't quit at that point because there were no lifeguards and the only way to resign from the race was to drown, which seemed extreme and unnecessary. I wasn't happy about it but I rolled onto my back and continued on doing the backstroke.
Not being able to see, I zigzagged m way to the first buoy and made my turn. Not long after that my hand hit the bottom and I found that I couldn't do a full stroke without encountering rocks, branches or the bottom. This is when it became clear to me that the Fat Race Director had not swum the course. If he had, he would have known that he needed to adjust it so there was enough water to actually swim it. Because I didn't want to injure my hand, I decided to wade a length of the swim that was too shallow to swim. That's right, I had to walk on the swim. I wasn't doing particularly well on the swim but I still wanted to do it.
As I was walking through the swim, I turned my head and saw the people that were to come out and get us if we got into trouble. It was two young women that did not appear to be in lifeguard shape with inflatable camp mattresses. Nice.
I waded past the second buoy and made the turn towards the shore. I finished the swim with a variety of strokes and ran out of the water towards my bike. I wasn't feeling very photogenic as I was only wearing a pair of tri-shorts (a slightly less modest version of bike shorts), which is the the moment the race photographer decided to take my picture. To this day there is a nigh on indecent photo of me floating around the Internet, you can try and find it if you wish but I assure you it won't make for pleasurable viewing.
I got my bike gear on, mounted up and started the bike leg of the race. It began with a steep long decent on a paved road. The downhill was nice at first because it allowed me to recover a bit from the swim, but then it occurred to me that I was going to have to climb at least as much as I dropped in order to get back to the transition area.
I turned off onto what was supposed to be the trail head and almost immediately crashed. My front wheel hit an impassable brush pile that was blocking trail and my bike stopped; I didn't. I landed on the debris and expanded the vocabulary of any nearby woodland creatures.
I wasn't really happy with the first few miles of the bike course being on a paved rode but that the trail was blocked by fallen trees was little much to take. Did the Fat Race Director come barrelling down the hill, make a sharp turn without bleeding off his speed and careen into a tank trap? Somehow I doubt it.
I picked myself up, retrieved my bike got back on the trail, such as it was. The bike course was marked with ticker tape but the tape bits were few and far between. On more than one occasion I found myself at a fork in the trail unsure which way to go. I've spent some time in the woods and know that when the trail right in front of you is unclear you should look further ahead to see if you can find any sign. Fortunately, I was able to make the right calls and mostly stayed on the course but I lost a lot of time sorting out where I was supposed to go, but I found out later that not all the racers were as fortunate as me. Again, I don't think the Fat Race Director checked this out on his bike.
After navigating the path as best I could I got the part of the course I was dreading -- The climb. This I will guarantee you the Fat Race Director did not attempt. The trail was steep and probably not bikeable just because of the grade but the soil was so loose that that bike tires wouldn't purchase in it. I wasn't exactly rocking the bike but I still wanted to bike it.
I pushed, pulled, dragged and huffed my bike up the hill and finally made it to the aid station. I filled my water bottle and was headed towards which snaked around a forest service gate. A volunteer told me to be careful while I was maneuvering because another rider had clothes-lined himself on a cable stay that was supporting part of the gate. I looked up and saw what looked like a one inch steel cable just above my head. Had I been out of the saddle or taller I'm pretty sure that I'd have been knocked off my bike too. I found out later that the poor bastard who went down was hurt rather badly.
Some times on a race people find a burst of energy because they want to win or because they're working towards a personal record or have some demon they need to beat. I found my burst of energy when I realized that my physical safety relied on me getting my ass off the bike course as soon as possible. This was the second course hazard that hadn't been marked and this time somebody got hurt. Bad Fat Race Director, very vey bad.
I kept going and even passed another racer on my way back to the bike finish. When I got there my wife was understandably worried that I had taken so long on the course. She was not as worried as another racer's wife when I told her that I hadn't passed her husband who had come out of the water ahead of me. Two other riders that I hadn't seen on the course had also not made in back to the transition area. I wasn't sure if I was going to do the run and decided to wait a bit to see if we were going to have to go back out on the course to find the missing racers.
They all made it back in good shape although they were all pretty angry about the course markings and having had my challenges I couldn't blame them. I was mad, exhausted and disappointed and decided not to do the run. One person was injured and people had gotten lost. I saw no reason to subject myself to any more risk.
I told the volunteer at the finish line that I was done so she'd know she didn't have a racer still on the course. She informed me that she was keeping a list of race numbers, at which point I asked her how she'd know if everybody got back and she looked at me blankly.
We left the race with me in a funk and headed into Hood River for a milkshake. I wasn't looking for an easy experience and I knew there was some risks but I wanted something that was doable and responsibly designed. I'm glad I had another event scheduled in the following month otherwise I would probably would have stopped working out and gone back to a diet of ribs and gravy fries. But I didn't and I have more strories and observations to tell.
Next time, "My First Hood-to-Coast" or alternatively titled "Oh God the Pain"
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