We settled on piloting Jim's newly paid-off 2005 Honda Civic. It boasted a barely damaged Thule roof rack, two adjustable seats, and 4 rubber tires. Halfway through Texas I was praying for an air recycler. See, Jim was exchanging so much gas from his lower intestines, I got the sneaking suspicion that they were really serving him as a second set of lungs. I composed a memo to the USAT ethics committee. We tried clicking a button on the dash that had a picture of air in the form of a revolving arrow, but it only recycled the fumes coming off the top of our cheap running shoes.
With our early 21st century bikes vibrating on the roof as we passed through every semi's wash we traveled the great state of Texas, then Louisiana. Crossing the Mississippi River, I tried to evoke Mark Twain's Huckleberry Finn by feign-arguing with Jim that slavery is natural and that abolitionism is wicked, but he was having none of that, no sir, and forbade any more of my minstrel-style humor.We arrived in Tuscaloosa, 19 hours after we departed from El Paso, and checked into a Day's Inn. Jim had a hankering for Southern food, so beginning that morning we partook of just about every kind of grits, fried apple, and biscuit we could find. By the end of the trip the Civic sagged low to the ground, its springs complaining from our ample girth. Look, I'd say, there's Chunky, Mississippi, and we'd laugh at the truckers with their bellies hanging low over their leather belts, even while our own laden jowls stretched earthward.
That same day we attended pre-race check-in and registration. From every corner of America came fellow triathletes. Most of the competitors were sun-kissed sculpted genetically perfect physical specimens. Their thews glistened, their thighs pumped as they waited in line. Vital fluids circulated within the wings of their latissimi dorsi.Jim and I cut awkward figures. He, freckled, twitchy, with a face that looked as if it had been southern-fried and then rolled in coffee grounds. Me, furtive, sweating, with a chest like a wine barrel and legs like champagne flutes.
We picked up our swag bags, or as we called them, Schwagg Bagges. In addition to a genuine USAT backpack we received a genuine USAT Nationals asymmetrical cool-dry running shirt, USAT swim cap, zippy shoelaces, travel soap, Zone energy bar, running cap, Hammer gel in khat flavor, other sundries, and of course a cow bell. I asked Jim if he wanted extra cow bells, in case his nephews showed up at the race, and he replied that his fever had broken and, no sir, he no longer needed his prescription for more cowbell.
At the hotel, as I was bringing in our luggage I could hear Jim arguing with the desk attendant. Here is a transcript of the conversation:J: I distinctly ordered a single!
DA: But sir, we also have doubles you can have for the same price.
J: No, I paid for a single bed, give me my single!
After a fitful night of sleep where Jim kept rolling over to wake me up to tell me that this was the most important race of my life, and that I was a child, inept, we awoke and rolled in style to the race start.
How can I describe the race start, in a way that hasn't already been put to print? Every athlete who wants to win gets butterflies. Those butterflies fill your stomach, mixing with the Gatorade and coffee in your stomach, until their specific gravity exceeds that of the gastric juices, thus forcing the mix through the intestines until it's time to hit the porto-potties. Jim, as proud as if he had already won the entire race, managed three productive visits within the space of an hour.
Meanwhile, my wave of 30-34 year olds, scheduled to start at 7:57am was getting into the water. I jumped off the dock and into the river, noticing quickly that the current took me away in seconds. Not wanting to get a fish hook to the eyelid, or a styrofoam container of India Palace curry upended onto my swim cap, I swam back to the dock and held on for dear life.
See, and here's where the story really starts, the upstream dam authorities, with the wrath of Poseidon, had decided to release a full vertical foot of fetid, murky reservoir water into the river that day. To the race director's credit, these actions seemed entirely unanticipated and unwarranted. As racers departed from the dock they enjoyed a very quick 200 meters with the current, then had to turn and fight the rest of the 1300 meters against the current.
I heard it alternately described as being in one of those Eternal Pools, towing a barge, and even Good God I can't take this anymore! What should have been a 20 minute swim for Jim, a 30 min swim for me, turned into an arduous 35 and 60 minutes respectively. Unfortunately, since I've never been more than a piddling, average swimmer, relying instead on my gibberingly large quadriceps to power the bike, and tiny t-rex arms to gobble up the run, this became a nightmare for me.With each stroke I could feel the ghostly fingers of mob victims, floated down from the reservoir, as they caught and picked at every loose fold of my tri-suit. Jim said that by the end the current had even pulled his zipper down, and allowed the entry of a host of empty ketchup, mustard, and soy sauce packets into his crotchal area.
At some point, because Jim was such a strong swimmer, he must have clambered over me despite my 30-34 wave's headstart. All I know was, as I emerged from the murk, nursing a distended belly full of river water, the race was over for me. Yes, I was still eager and competitive, but with so much time and energy lost in the water, it would be impossible to claw my way back to the leaders. Jim knew this too, so he took an extra few minutes to shave, comb his hair, and brush his teeth. To be more appealing to the course photographers, of course.
I can't say too much about the bike and run. I rode in pain the entire time. The pain of being at your limit. Jim had a much more adventurous latter half of the race. For miles he was neck and neck with a 60 year old woman and a 20 year old girl. They played a game of cat and mouse, all the way to the end, when Jim out-sprinted both to the line. Later, he received the ultimate reward of watching the girl vomit into the bushes, as we walked back to the car. Only the brave deserve the fair, he said.
With our commemorative cups packed safely away, Jim and I took a rest one more time at the Inn, snug in our single bed. It was another 19 hours to El Paso, a trip that would take us to the very threshold of our respect for one another, respect we would find wanting by the end. But that's another story.
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