Real MTB Triathlon, 3 April 2005, Granite Bay CA
My "warm up" in Folsom Lake left me with an ice-cream headache and a few extra misgivings. It was a mass beach start, including several pros, a blind triathlete, a one-legged triathlete, a 9 year-old, and about 180 of the rest of us. I followed what appeared to be a competent person into the water and thought nothing of the cold in the tangle of legs and arms. By the time I reached the first of three buoys, I was unexpectedly well-hydrated and impressed that swimming could be such a contact sport.
The field spread out after the first buoy and I had a surprisingly smooth swim, in a virtually straight line to the halfway point. I was feeling OK! Oops, a rubber-clad arm glanced off my cheek and somehow I had water in my lungs. I coughed and recovered and made it to the last buoy still feeling positive. Now my stroke was becoming increasingly asymmetrical and I zigzagged the rest of the way, adding a few extra meters to my path. I passed someone as I ran up the beach. I heard my dad's voice: go Benny!
I hopped onto my brand-new mountain bike feeling very confident and not too annoyed that my feet were numb. I passed a few people in the first stretch of winding single-track, and a few more on the first hill. It was harder than I expected, but I wasn't quite recovered from the swim yet. I chased a svelte 50 year-old over the next couple of miles, finally passing him in a muddy spot that appeared to challenge some of the less experienced mountain bikers. Nearly half-way through the first 8-mile loop, a 33 year-old passed me going pretty fast. That's my competition! I struggled to keep him in sight on an open stretch of relatively smooth beach. He was much stronger than me, but much more tentative on the technical stuff. I passed him when he dismounted to cross a sandy ravine. Even so, he was very smooth, evidently a cyclocrosser, and not left far behind. He passed me again on a brief paved section and I rushed after him as we dove back onto the single-track.
There is a spot there where two rocks jut out onto the trail from opposite directions. To clear it, you have to adjust your cadence as you weave through to avoid hitting first your left then your right pedal on each rock. I had been through it, no problem, four times over the last couple of months. But never on this bike and never this fast. My right foot hit the rock hard and I somersaulted. I landed hard on my right shoulder, the bike overhead still clipped in. Two riders passed as I got shakily to my feet. "You OK, guy?" "Yeah." "Good job!" I muttered "shoot"(you know what I mean) and got back on.
I wanted to cry for a second, but got organized and built up enough speed to get a head-to-toe soaking as I blasted through a deep puddle 100 meters down the trail. I would later learn that many people fell in this puddle, including the overall winner, a pro. I overtook the guys who passed me after my crash and they let me by on a twisting downhill section getting close to the end of the first loop. There are two hairy sand traps right at the end and I pedaled past two guys who had had to get off and walk the first one. "Sweet!" cried a spectator as I cleared it. I had to walk the second one, but so did everyone else.
I pedaled hard into the second loop. The lake water in my stomach was bothering me a little. My shoulder hurt when I lifted my front wheel over rocks. I grunted stoically as I brushed poison oak with my left cheek. I climbed hard and passed another rider.
My shoulder hurt. But I figured it wouldn't hurt on the run. If I could finish strong on the bike, I might see that 33 year-old cyclocrosser again on the run. More poison oak; no big deal. Nearly half way through the second loop, I caught up to another guy in my age group. His thighs were as thick as my waist and he pulled ahead on a short climb. But I came up right behind him on a technical descent through mud and rocks. These guys are stronger than me, but I'm better on the technical stuff! Then again, he's not the one bleeding … I stayed close to him and we were closing in on that 33 year-old cyclocrosser! They pulled ahead on the paved section and I locked out the suspension on my fancy front fork to help hold my speed.!
Back on the dirt, I wisely slowed down and cleared the rocks that threw me last time around. Ahead I could see the guy in front had dismounted to run through the big puddle and the guy with huge legs was passing him on the short climb coming out of the puddle. I would slash through the puddle again and remain close to my competitors! But I had forgotten to release the lockout on my front fork. Let's say that's why I flew off the bike again. I landed on my damaged shoulder in cold, muddy water. I rolled slowly out of the puddle, holding my breath against the pain in my shoulder. I wouldn't see my erstwhile competitors again.
Four or five riders passed as I wobbled to my feet. “Are you alright?” “Yep,” I lied. “Hang in there, buddy!” I muttered “shoot” (you know what I mean) and got back on. It was hard to get going again. I wanted someone to take me home. I was pedaling listlessly, muttering bad words. A polite woman's voice behind me asked, “can I please pass before the hill?” “OK.” She and several others spun past as I moved aside. !“Thanks.” I rediscovered a spark of competitive spirit and stuck with this group through the last big climb and passed them going down the other side. I finished the ride feeling better, despite having to walk through both sand traps.
“Shoot!” Pain shot through my shoulder when I pulled my running shoes on. My shoulder wouldn't bother me on the run, would it? It did. I ran the first mile Napoleon-style, holding the front of my shirt with my right hand. I followed a woman who held a good pace and we passed two 20-something men and a guy in my age group. She started walking on the first real steep spot and I churned past, taking baby steps but definitely running. New goal: don't walk. I passed another walker, I man in my age group! Cool. Pounding downhill hurt my shoulder a lot and I was almost glad to see the next really steep climb. I shifted into my baby-stepping run and chugged past two young men walking.
Somewhere in the final mile I was almost hit by a car. A young woman on a cell phone didn't notice the Park Ranger's attempts to stop traffic until he smacked her roof with his fist. I smiled at her, imagining myself bouncing off the front of the car and sprawling on the road. Fun. In the last quarter- mile I found some adrenaline and mustered, not quite a sprint, but a strong effort. The guy 100 meters in front of me (not in my age group) looked back nervously. I closed the gap but he crossed the finish line about 2 meters ahead. My shoulder hurt when he shook my hand.
I can't wait to do it again.