Hmmm.
We're back from the beach. Back to reality. Back to caring about crap like bills and leaking faucets. In my mind I'm still in Mexico. Dreaming of renting a little shack on the beach, buying my tortillas from lady on the corner, going to the fish market for fresh jumbo shrimp. I could live like that forever. Mexico is a place for no memories. No worries. Just afternoon naps and warm tortillas. I could sell jewelry on the beach to tourists. Or be the mango on a stick lady. Whatever to make ends meet and forget all the cares of a modern, hectic, burdened life.
But the tri! OMG. So much fun. The tri world is much like any other cult. There are the elites and then the rest of us. But people come for fun and really get into it. In the morning, before the start, I walked around the transition area, sucking up all the energy, the vibe. People watching at its best. I'm always interested when I see people who one would never suspect to do a tri. They are out of shape, or older, or handicaped. Go fat chick, go old man. Go. These are the inspirations. Not the elites. They train day and night, they do Ironmans and marathons and eat healthly 365 days a year. But the regular people, those are my people. Those of us who each chocolate cupcakes for breakfast or spend too much time watching tv. My people get up the courage to drive down to Mexico and compete in a triathlon when they really could be sitting on a beach.
We swam in the ocean but it was extremely low tide so I could see little fishies squirming around as I hurried through the 400m. I finished before I knew it and had to walk through rocks and sand and seashells to get to the transistion area. Somewhere along the line I cut my foot, which I never knew until I sat by the pool around 11:30 drinking a Corona. A guy or gal ahead of me cut his/her foot something terrible. There were bloody footprints trailing up to the transition area. The evidence reminded me of a pirate with one foot and peg leg as every other step was washed in blood.
They said my 400m was 14 mins, but I know it was less as I finished before some of the men who started before me. We had a 300m to run between the beach and the transition area, which counted as part of the swim. Until you cross the sensor, it doesn't matter how much time you spent in the water.
My transition to bike was faster this time. I had everything ready, shoes untied, socks laid out, helmet ready to snap on. I sucked down a goo and took a giant swig of Propel. Not enough, I would learn later. The bike was mostly easy, a 10 mile "T" loop around the new resort road. There was one killer hill where several of us got off and walked. I didn't want to but my legs were committing mutany at the time so I pushed up the hill. The next day, we drove up the hill and I realized that I had made the right choice. I would have lost too much energy and time trying to bike it. Total time on the bike: 47 mins. In my mind I did really well, but I know that to improve my time I need to get a road bike. No question. I think it will help me on the run, too. I waste a lot of energy pushing the hybrid.
I tried to drink Propel and suck down another goo for the run. As I exited transition, there were no volunteers holding precious Gatorade or water in tiny cups. No cheering crowds handing me hydration and moral support. I ran about 300-400m without stopping, thinking I would see the aide station soon. My disappointment matched my stride as I slowed down into a walk. Then I remembered, the only aide station was at the 1.5 mile mark. Perky volunteers stood in a too-small pop up tent to hand out water. It was the only thing that kept me going. Dreaming of Gatorade, I rotated between walk, run, wog, walk. The salt water from the swim and dry desert sucked the moisture out of me like a worm on the sidewalk. I passed two guys with Nacho Libre wrestling masks, a gaggle of women in Viking helmets, a hottt guy wearing a large, bright blue foam cowboy hat, and a Mexican wearing running shoes, a too-small Speedo and a racing jersey and nothing else. I laughed dispite the energy it required. Finally, the aide station appeared. I took a Gatorade and chugged it, shot-style. Then water, then more Gatorade. The best tasting Gatorade in the world. Someone handed me another goo. I put it in my pocket, they dry your mouth out.
On the way back, better runners than I passed me. Two women were running behind me, they kept chasing me, keeping me going. We remarked on the scenery of shirt-less elite male athletes passing us by. At least there was something good to look at. About 500m before the end, there was another aide station. I grabbed a water and dumped it over me, drank another and kept wogging. I knew the last part was the worse but I couldn't wait to get done.
We had to run on the beach, on the sand, for the last 300m. I did my best for my Baywatch moment, but I was so out of gas. There were people lined up on the beach, cheering us on. They told me I was almost done. I almost didn't believe them had the big red FINISH balloon not been up ahead. It called to me. My savior. The end. I pulled up enough energy to run towards the finish line. Exausted. Done. I crossed the sensor and felt the jolt of adreneline that I needed. It coursed through me and made me want to do it all over again.
Finished! Tired. Gimme cerveza.
We spent the next few days squatting on the beach, or in the pool, or at the bar. We spent a lot of time doing nothing. Our only worry was what time did the lazy river open. When our time was up, we got back in the car and drove to Tucson. We spent a night with the parents, got two very exited beagles and drove back to Denver. My foot got infected during the 15 hours in the car. Some nice ladies at the Conoco in Raton, NM gave me first aide supplies.
I've spent the past few weeks working on stuff, getting caught up. Had a birthday in there, too. But that's another post. I've got a GMAT to study for and less than two weeks to go.
