Victory

Those of you that have been onboard for a while know that yesterday was Day 11. Race Day. Coming off the 8 week illness compliments of the 35 total air hours to and from Australia, I had a precious 11 days to prepare for the Memorial Day Triathlon in beautiful downtown Elma, WA. I have been racing there since 1997, and even managed to eek out a victory back in 2004 or 5. That was a big day for little me. My only race of last year was in Elma on a freezing steel gray October morning in the pouring rain with nine others. That's right, nine. But it was still a race and therefore represented all the glorious things that racing provides. Safe, thrilling, testing, demanding, challenging, proving, vindicating, all of those and many more, always personal, always collective.

I needed an answer about base. Despite an eight week layoff (and dramatic reduction of overall training gong back to 2006), could I still manage a "decent" effort relying on base alone? Or, like so many other things, was that history too? So the eleven day ramp was fun, back to the training laboratory, a goal, a mission. And after a series of 5K runs, a couple of short rides and a 25/5 brick on Saturday (and Sunday's taper), yesterday we hit the course.

Overcast skies, about 50 others this time and a chance for redemption. A victory of my own definition. To test the theory, hoping like hell that I won't need to start from scratch. Bob shouts GO and we're off. I could write more about the swim than the four minutes it took to complete the 300 or so meters, and now the 'official" clock starts. Thirteen flat miles at max and then a three mile run. The Softride formerly known as The Great Panuzi was feeling her oats, passing the faster swimmers by the handful, until the pack was whittled to the elite riders up front. Being an out-and-back I began the count, hitting the turn with nine ahead. Time to push some buttons, get some answers. Now the back, butt, hip pain lights up the left side like a welder has stuck a oxyacetylene torch to my side. Form, bring the knees straight up, balance it out side to side, and keep the pressure constant over 360 degrees. Get aero, stay low, breathe deep, relax. Sing that song. Two more down, seven ahead, two miles to T2. The welder keeps it hot, but suddenly, from somewhere, the realization is that I WILL NOT MELT. I see Gandalf the Grey screaming at the Ballrog in that classic Middle Earth confrontation, "You WILL NOT pass". And I am now out of race consciousness and on a quest. There are lives in the balance. I hear bagpipes. I smell smoke. My thumb reaches for the lever and with a valiant breath, Panuzi is commanded into high gear, 56 teeth mashing at Mach 5, wind warning smaller craft. I have an opening, a slight chance, odds against, BUT the stage has been set. I have the chance to do the heroic.

And this is why we race.

Under what conditions will we stop? How hot does the torch need to be? At what point will we give up, throw in the towel, hoist the white flag? What are we truly made of? What character traits are to be manifest under these "interesting" conditions? Who are we?

So the test wasn't about the physical at all. It was, and is, about the spiritual. Finding more about who we are and who we want to become. I had forgotten and it took the heat of battle, the race, to rock and recall the memory. We are so lucky to be able to do this. And to the five who finished before me, I salute you, to the 45 who finished behind, I applaud your efforts and ask a simple question, knowing this, define victory.

Tom Demmerly of Bike Sport Michigan writes of this in a much more elegant manner here: www.bikesportmichigan.com/editorials/0000122.shtml