OK, so it was a small local race—the kind where simply finishing virtually assures you of an age group medal. And the competition was mostly high school kids and lumberjacks on bikes with kickstands. But for a few exciting—if puzzling—minutes, I was actually LEADING A RACE. And I almost WON THE RACE…sort of.
The Bigfoot MTB tri featured a .5 mile swim in 56-degree
Inspired to get the heck out of the cold water ASAP, and putting my Team Psycho Swim Clinic lessons to good use, I led to the first buoy. So…what does the person in the lead do? Certainly not swim in random zig-zags. Fortunately for the rest of the swimmers, the only ringer in the race (Jamie Whitmore, runner-up at the 2002 XTERRA World Championships) took charge.
Exiting the water 10 yards astern of Whitmore, I was still the lead male. I lost her during one of the more inefficient transitions on record (memo to self: practice removing the new wetsuit more than once before racing in it) and then she kicked everyone’s ass on the bike.
I biked by myself until I flatted halfway through the bike section (memo to self: put a quick-flate for the mountain bike; flogging a mini-pump 60 times is no fun while watching people zip by). I passed most everyone back, but then got a real scare.
Two spectators were hollering “You’re almost there! It’s right there!” and pointing over the next rise. I thought they were saying “It’s a bear!” I mean, every gift shop and café in a 50-mile radius had “Bear” in its name, and all the roads seemed to have “Bear Crossing” signs. It COULD have been a bear—or a Sasquatch, even. My heart jumped 20 beats higher than Don Alden’s theoretical max. But no, they were pointing toward the transition area.
I was told I was the third individual male entering the run, which I confirmed by watching the color-coded race numbers of the leaders headed back from the turnaround. I tried to run the guy in front of me down, but fell short by 20 yards (memo to self: leg speed and fartlek).
As the guy just in front of me crossed the finish line, I heard the announcer say: “And the first individual male is…” Damn. The guy we both thought was minutes ahead of us as the men’s leader had the wrong color race number—he was part of a relay team. Not that I could have made up those final 20 yards…or…naaah. Of course, Jamie finished something like 12 minutes ahead of both of us he-men.
Post-race fun included hoofing up the flanks of