Well, apparently a few of you did and since you were short-sighted enough to indulge my enormous ego kind enough as to e-mail and ask if I survived the experience – and since my fingers have started bleeding from typing define survive – I’ll just throw a post up here with a run-down of Steph’s 1st Olympic-Distance Triathlon.
Well, the morning started off with me having my transition point ganked by Athlete Number 948 who had apparently failed to realize that while number 948 was relatively close to 958 which was my number, they were not in fact one and the same. Luckily for her, Athlete Number 948 reappeared before I had the opportunity to douse her wetsuit in Tabasco or deflate her bicycle tires.
The incident was quickly forgotten however when, just five minutes later – I was at the inflation station letting the air out of the tires on my coach’s bike. To be fair, I hadn’t intended to let the air out of her tires but it sorta happened because, well, I’m retarded and I don’t know any better.
So it was that during the moments when my coach and I were supposed to be down at the beach enjoying a nice pre-race anxiety attack I was still in the transition area pleading with random strangers to please, please, please help me operate this hand-held device, I believe it is called a bicycle pump? Because I haven’t yet mastered the use of simple tools and I need to un-sabotage my coach’s equipment.
Finally we made it down to the beach in time to see this:
Of course video, photos and words cannot adequately convey the beauty of kelp forests or the thrill of the open water experience either and that kind of made up for the multiple elbows I took in the nose and having my goggles ripped off in the kelp.
In other words: the swim was crazy fun. However, I just have to ask: would it have been terribly unfair to shove the photographers off the cliff and into the sea? So far as I can tell there has never been a flattering photo taken of anyone wearing a wetsuit and I, for one, wouldn’t be heartbroken if I could make a beach exit without these people standing around prepared to create images of me looking like a bloated harbor seal.
Anyway, the rest of the race was pretty much a blur; I did intentionally crash on my way into Transition 2 when I failed to unclip from my bike in time. Basically, it came down to crashing or staying on the bike and being disqualified and I chose to eat asphalt. And if that choice makes no sense to you whatsoever then don’t worry – it just means your normal.
This is the entrance into T2 where every bicyclist except for me dismounted in an orderly – and vertical – position. I only post this photo to show everyone the big DISMOUNT sign that notified people as far away as Japan that THOU SHALT GET OFF THINE BIKE HERE. And? Just in case athletes missed that message the sign was flanked by a bunch of over-caffeinated race officials shouting “DISMOUNT! DISMOUNT! DISMOUNT!”
Such features are very useful for people who, unlike me, have mastered the art of disengaging themselves from the tiny clips that keep their feet attached to their bike.
So after the swim was the bike and after the bike was the run and when my coach caught up to me during the run we looked at each other and simultaneously mouthed the words, “Dude, seriously… next year we sit on the sidelines and drink beer.”
