Monday, November 1
It has been almost a half a month since my last blog. I fell off my blogging horse and I intend to get on again. I was enjoying the pattern. Life got away from me in a flash. But I am back! Sort of….
My fingers are pretty much all that is working properly today since I participated in The Mud Madness Triathlon yesterday, October 31. That my fingers are the only part of me working is a slight exaggeration, since I feel somewhat normal, considering my ordeal yesterday. I will try to be brief.
I did not train.
That should be sufficient for you to fill in the blanks! People train for a marathon. People train for a half marathon. I know people that train for a 3 mile jog! I learned that training for a Triathlon is very advisable if you do not want to experience the worst stretch of time in your life and live to tell the story.
I had intended to train. I am not a total fool, just a fool. I ran a few times. Last month. I swam a few laps. Two months ago. I rode a bike last summer. I think my muscles had forgotten the training they had been subjected to earlier this year. I discovered this soon after I began my short 125 yard swim portion of the race. And make no mistake—it was a race. Maybe not for me, since I was all about pace—a pace slow enough not to push my rotund physique into shock. And although we were placed in age brackets that would make the race more competitive, I soon discovered my “competition” consisted of a guy who looked not a year older than 40, a mustached man in his mid-fifties with a large grizzly physique chiseled like a 30 year-old. He and his 50-something wife were regular participants in triathlons. They all had skin-fitting swimming attire a la Mark Phelps. The forty year-old “imposter” went before me. I sloshed 15 seconds behind him like some hairless brown bear trying to cross a river without touching the bottom. Awkward!
I had not reached the half way mark of the pre-determined distance before the mustached man and his senior Olympian wife crawled over my back to pass me in the water (as if I need the excess weight!). People were cheering me on, or at least I believe people were making loud noises. Perhaps they were screaming for the lifeguard to jump in and save me.
I dragged myself out of the pool after what seemed an eternity of swimming. I was so relieved to be finished. I could barely feel my arms and legs after the herculean task of swimming the five lengths of the pool. Then the thought suddenly flashed across my mind that a 6 mile bike ride was awaiting me—immediately! But first I had to run to the place I had left my bike a couple of hours earlier. I had to run in order to climb onto the bike with legs that no longer wanted to obey my mental prompts, and then force them to pedal for six miles in order to complete this leg of the “race.” This was no race for me—it was survival!
I soon discovered that I had further handicapped myself by securing a mountain bike with which to enter the race. The bike I brought from Riverside especially for this excursion was a rugged and manly ½ ton bike of heavy metal and iron spokes. Although I am mentally certain that it truly did not weigh half a ton, my legs were not convinced. I tried to smile at all the young people trying to guide us along the pre-determined course through the surrounding streets of Scottsdale. I was thirsty. But no one offered me water. My head was hot, but no one offered me a hat. I was wet from the recent plunge, and very happy to have something to cool me down as I tried my best to be brave. After two trips around the road course I coasted back onto the campus of Thunderbird Academy. The signs said “dismount bike here” but my eyes did not understand the meaning. Penny was taking pictures of her dying husband in the last vestiges of his mortal life. I almost ran her over since my body was not responding to any command other than pedal—not brake; not dismount; and certainly not prepare to run two miles, immediately!
Unfortunately there was no option. I fell off the bike on the grassy knoll in front of Thunderbird Elementary, threw the bike on the floor and visualized myself running out the gate towards the running course. The problem was that my legs did not want to move anymore. I willed one leg in front of the other in what can best be described as an inebriated stumble through the initial yards of the run. I was moving, but just barely. I could not see straight. I heard voices and I followed the path between them. I heard people say “this way,” “go that way,” and such. I followed as in mental default. My legs kept moving because they did not know what else to do with themselves. I had some options circulating in my mind, but I could not read them—I was half dead by now. I was losing touch with reality.
The last thing I remember was seeing/hearing someone tell me to follow the arrows through the adjacent Thunderbird property. I followed blindly. There did not seem to be anyone behind me, and I could not see anyone ahead of me. I was on my own! Man against nature. Nature won. I ran and ran, and continued to run until I realized that I was running on a dirt path in an area I had only visited once before. I thought in the vacant recesses of my mind dulled by thirst and exhaustion, “where do get out?” I kept running while surveying the surrounding areas for a possible exit to the course and finish line. I ran for what appeared to be hours (in truth a few minutes) before I concluded that I was hopelessly lost and I would have to be creative if I was to finish the race.
This is where the memory of Rosie Ruiz came to play. I could not see myself running in reverse in search of the race course. So I considered the only viable possibility for the only contestant who had detoured from the designated course. I would find a fence and climb it. I had not considered that my legs might not be inclined to climb anything. I considered how ridiculous I would look rolling over the concrete fence. Or worse I even contemplated what people might think as they saw me climbing over the fence to get back on the course—of course that would be (pun intended!), Rosie Ruiz, the infamous New York Marathon cheater who took the subway and won the race only to have her misdeed uncovered before the entire nation and subsequently stripped of her crown.
I didn’t care; I needed to get back on the course. I had little left in the tank and failure was not an option. I climbed up on some abandoned steel piping and climbed on top of the fence and then jumped off. I landed hard, but recovered my dignity only to hear shouts of “cheater” coming from some unknown source. I came to a checkpoint that sent people into the next portion of the run. They asked me if I had run a lap or something. I did not really hear them. I saw “Lap 2” with an arrow pointing left and I followed it in light of the fact that I had already run lap one. In hindsight, I believe I was supposed to run straight and run the course again, which was insanity since I had already run it once and had been running off course for a considerable time as well! History will judge me.
When I turned left I saw it! The finish line. I ran with an extra hiccup in my step. My muscles were celebrating early. “I can do this,” I kept repeating to myself. I was not listening. I was simply letting one leg trick the other one into keep moving. I arrived at the finish line ready to collapse in a heroic heap. But alas, there remained the crowning portion of the Mud Madness Triathlon—the Mud Madness! This portion consisted of a moat of water, dirt and other unspecified compost-like materials with a mound of dirt dividing the first portion of the muddy ditch from the finish. I did what any tortured soul would do with nothing to lose or gain at the end of a harrowing and tortuous sojourn—I belly-flopped into the muddy morass, clawed my way up the mountain of mud and slid down the other side towards the finish line.
I don’t know if I really officially finished considering the creative course I blazed. I know I did not medal in my division. I was the only non-medalist in my division. But I was standing, barely, but standing. I can’t wait to begin training for next year!
No comments:
Post a Comment