Three Parts?

It is supposed to have three parts. A beginning, a middle and an end. This is taught as the acceptable format with which to tell a story. You start somewhere, add drama and conflict, build characters, come to a dramatic conclusion. There is the boy meets girl angle, the rite of passage story, the underdog taking on evil approach, the fish out of water allegory, and of course Hollywood's latest cash cow, the blockbuster superhero franchise. A story in three parts.

All making triathlon the perfect narrative template. Swim, bike, run.

Been there, reported that. Adjectives shouldn't masquerade as verbs. And verbs are where the actions is. Think what you will, see what you want and feel what you have, but the second you start TO MOVE, the magic begins, and the story unfolds.

I raise my right arm to take the first stroke of the day. Immediately I am painfully reminded of the tendinitis in my elbow. One stroke and reality joins the fray. Great. The water is 68 degrees, clear and calm. My mission for the 1,900 meters is to relax, take long slow, efficient strokes and conserve energy in order to unleash it in the saddle and on the run. This has been my racing strategy since 1995. Sometimes it works, other times, not. Today, however I am in the midst of another exciting training and testing experiment and there are some differences. We have added some tweaks, made some changes, dialed it up.

Fill a backpack with a dozen pounds of cantaloupe. Put the backpack on and go swim, bike and run. I can guarantee they will soon be catapulting cantaloupes as you try (too late) to lighten your load. That, dear friends, is why we train. Lose the fat, gain some muscle. Power to weight. I dropped 12 pounds of fat since I last raced the 70.3 distance a year ago. Power to weight ratio improved. Tweak One: Race lighter and stronger. My right arm is now twitching from nerve irritation and inflammation, feeling like a wood paddle, plus I am cramping from left hip to calf. We still have 500 meters till the big red buoy and swim finish. What was once calm is now concern. I can see rocks, sand, algae and shadows from the scattered clouds overhead. It hurts, but this space is comfortable. I glide through it. I am mentally preparing for transition and the next assignment. The fish is out of water and there are girls to meet, dragons to slay.

Tweak Two. Nutrition. Big deal for a sprint? Not really. For a half-iron? Crucial. We tested First Endurance Nutrition on Saturday. I took on 700 calories and electrolytes in two 12 OZ water bottles on the bike and another 400 as EFS on the run. 1,200 calories and plenty of electro replacements. I am riding Phoenix Red for the first time in race conditions. She seems delighted to be with me today. We are joined at the pedal. It is a dance of love. It is innocent and pure. We go. We go hard. We are laughing, happy to be alive and wanting nothing from the day other than our all. We will get there or forever live with the nightmare that we missed our one opportunity to do this today at red line. We may never be here again. Wet wind whistles past. The road is slick, shiny with rain. We don't care. It is the same for everybody and our skills are good, tires, fair. We climb. We scream through the tunnel, get sucked by a fifth wheel at 50 mph, then start the signature attack through Navarre Coulee canyon. It is to be here, or never, I ask for more. She responds like a lover. We can do this, I whisper. Shhhhh she says, just ride, don't say a word, I am here with you, seize the mountain.

It is a fast 56. Almost too fast. As much as my back needs some stretching, another 56 to make it an IM would be do-able today. Nice work crimson lady, let's do it again, soon. PR is racked and the true test begins. How will all this tweakage manifest on the run? 13.1 miles. Will she blow? Loose a fuse? Bonk? Will I succumb to the ultimate right hook of reality and finish my day walking in like a drunken sailor from shore leave? Funny thing, I feel great. We begin. I feel light, strong confident, running upright and with a controlled heart rate. By mile nine, an interesting thought appears: Maybe all this time what you attributed to muscular fatigue was actually the ugly condition of dehydration and under nourishment. (You mean it took me 25 years to figure this out?) Very few times in a half-iron have I laughed out loud at mile ten, but today I do, realizing that all this change has provided substantial gain. I am the fool giggling at himself from the reflection off the water. Silly boy, you had it all along, it was always here. This. Now. Mile eleven and I am doing the math again. There is no way I am going to run back to back five minute miles and go 5:10.

So what, I say aloud. The lessons of this day will be here forever. It was a great effort, noble even. Bow as we pass, Don Quixote. We got to race, to mix it up, get out of the complacent comfort zone and see how long we could take it. There was a test. We got some important answers. There was meaning. Value. Reward. Mile 12 and the finish is in sight. Cheering, laughter and applause all bouncing off the water. I hurt. There is pain. My performs is on fire and the blister on left foot is raw. My legs are tired, I take quicker steps as breaths deepen. To my left I see the floating red turn buoy, to my right a biker is just now returning from her ride. I am so happy to be alive. Moving.

I search for the perfect adjective to modify, but find none.

Finish. Strong. Always.

5:21, 20th overall. AG win. The story is just beginning.

Pic: Is the swim part one, the start, or something else, maybe bigger?

Some video tomorrow.