Over Da Rainbow
City of Gold Triathlon
1/2 mile swim / 12 mile bike / 3.1 mile run
May 13, 2006

Being a sucker for the opportunity to exploit my low-level celebrity, I wasn't able to turn down the invitation, even though it was going to expose my lack of swimming, biking, and hill running training. Leslie Clavey of the Chico Women's Triathlon Group asked me to come up and speak to the group about the joys of the sport, Slow Fat Triathlete style, and follow that with a brisk race around the hills of Butte County at the City of Gold Triathlon. I hemmed and hawed for a couple of days because I was worried about the hills, but I knew all along I'd say yes. Leslie seemed very cool, and the info I found online about City of Gold indicated that the race would be small, fun, scenic, and well organized. I also got invited to hang out, sign books and meet the public at Swim Bike Run and Then Some, Oroville's premier retail establishment for endurance sports gear, running shoes,and cute t-shirts. Two events in two days, and a race too! Whoo hoo!

I was worried about the race itself though. My running endurance was good from my marathon training, but I had only gotten in the pool for the first time on March 25th, and on the bike on March 26th. I did some little sets of hill repeats up in Los Altos Hills, where the streets are as steep as the home prices, and I struggled mightily with each session. At one point I strained something in my foot from pulling up so hard on the pedals. Iworked a bit on building up my running speed from the glacial pace of the marathon, but I didn't get myself up onto any hilly trails or anything. The great thing about the swim leg of a triathlon is that it never has any hills. Wind, waves, current, sea lions maybe, but no hills. My swim was coming along OK, better than this time last year, though still quite slow, what with all the weight I was still hauling around.

As the week of the big trip begain, I was in a funk. I had done some pretty good training the weekend before, but I felt tired and grumpy. I didn't feel ready for the race and I didn't feel organized or energetic enough to pack up all my stuff for the road trip: books, bike, clothes, towels, shoes, helmet, no wetsuit (still too large for that), Bodyglide, all the necessities. I also had to go by Russ and Michelle's house and borrow Russ's road bike, conveniently equipped with a triple chainring, also known as a granny gear. I figured I needed all the mechanical advantage I could get, and Russ is about my height . I was a little nervous about riding an unknown bike, though, and this added to my overall feelings of apprehensive apathy.

Once I got into the packing process, though, I started to feel the love again. I have a strong nomadic streak, and the idea of packing up the car and heading down the highway to somewhere totally new always gets my motor running. I had never been to Chico, nor had I seen Oroville since my family camped at the lake there in about 1975. I scooted out of work with a big smile early on Thursday afternoon and headed north. And north. And north some more. Where the heck was the turnoff for Chico anyway? I was looking for Route 32 and the little town of Orland, where I would leave the interstate and head east through the vast orchards of olives and almonds (pronounced "amminds" by the growers in that region). But Orland did not appear. I thought, well, if I hit the Oregon border, I'll know I've gone too far.

I didn't go to Oregon, in the end. I turned right at Orland and made it to Chico just in time to interrupt Leslie's shower. It could have been an awkward moment, but Leslie was so relaxed and friendly that I was instantly at ease. She and her husband Dave live in a sprawling, comfortable house which they share with two sleek Weimaraners, Odin and Freja. It was 94 degrees outside but cool in the house, and once Leslie was showered and dressed we fell to talking eagerly about triathlon, cycling, and Leslie and Dave's 2004 trip to the Tour de France. We talked so eagerly that we got a late start on dinner and were still chewing steak when the first folks showed up for the talk, which was happening right there at the house. Before I could blink, beer and chips surrounded me and I was chatting nineteen to the dozen with a whole pack of extremely amiable triathletes. I gave my little spiel about the book and the importance of having fun and all. It seemed to me that there were a few politely skeptical expressions in the group, which overall seems quite dedicated to the sport and to a regimen of pretty hard training, but on the whole I felt like people were into it, and we had a great evening. Leslie and I stayed up talking until about 12:30, which is astonishingly late for me in my new incarnation as early-shift commuter.

I had no real commitments on Friday until late afternoon, and it felt like summer vacation. Chico is one of the many places in California that gets hot in the summer and stays hot, but not having much to do, I didn't mind the heat at all. Leslie and I continued talking until late in the morning, when Maija and Teresa came by. We headed out to a "secret lake" in the middle of the orchards, about which I can reveal no more, for an open water swim practice. The other three gals shot off like so many river otters, but I was determined to swim reasonably slowly and not blow myself out before the race. I was also planning a little test ride on Russ's bike for later because I hadn't had been able to swap his pedals for mine before leaving for Chico. All the more reason to take it easy.

We celebrated our open-water adventure with an extremely tasty burrito at El Patron near Leslie's place and watched people on all kinds of bicycles. Chico is always voted one of the most bicycle-friendly towns in America, and it's easy to see why. Bike shops and bikes are everywhere. I was charmed by the ambience, and wondered if I could persuade Tim that he would like to live in a place where108-degree summer days are far from uncommon. On balance, I thought not. After the burrito fest, I was unable even to contemplate taking the bike out, plus it was getting up over 90 again, so Leslie and I did some more talking. It was quite phenomenal how much we seemed to be able to talk.

At 3:30, I headed southeast about 25 miles to the old gold rush town of Oroville, which is a little more in the butte country and foothills of the northern Sierra Nevada. The Feather River flows through it, lined with trees and all kind of greenery at this time of year. Swim Bike Run and Then Some is on Montgomery near the river, in a nice little old brick storefront. When I got there, there were a few people picking up packets and milling about inside. There was also an SUV covered with graphics for the Polar heart rate monitor company. This turned out to be the ride of pro triathlete Rachel Sears and her husband Phil Casanta, a coach, bike fit expert, and technical consultant for Polar. Julie Healy, the proprietor of SBR and Then Some, was warm and welcoming, especially considering she was in the midst of her first time as triathlon co-director.

I spent a couple of hours hanging out with Julie and Rachel and Phil, and Rachel and Phil's extremely mellow Chihuahua, Zola. I gabbed with some extremely nice people who were seeing my book for the first time, and with one guy, Ruben, who it turned out had come to the store specifically to talk to me, which was gratifying and amazing. I perused SBR and Then Some's inventory and came away with a long-sleeve technical shirt for a very good price, and a pair of Pearl Izumi bike socks with some orange trim to match my ubiquitous orange Crocs. Then it was time to cruise back to Chico for a quick spin on Russ's bike and some pre-race Thai noodles, which Dave was kind enough to go get for us. What with all the chatting and fun, easy workouts and whatnot, I was completely remotivated. I loved triathlon all over again.

As you might have been able to predict, Leslie and I stayed up talking a little later than I normally would before a 5:30 wakeup call, but we were having fun, so what the heck. I popped out of bed pretty cheerfully when the alarm did go off and bade a temporary farewell to Dave and Leslie. They had to get down there early since Dave was volunteering to be "The Bastard At the Top of the Hill," which is apparently an official title. I gulped my morning Endurox and banana and toted all my stuff out to the car. Which I was unable to open. I had a moment of panic when I couldn't find my key, but it turned out I had buried it deep in my bag in the pocket of a different pair of shorts. Phew. I would have felt incredibly stoopid asking my hosts to drive back from the race to let me in....or alternatively sitting there on their porch until they got back from the race.

The road up to Lake Oroville was pretty hilly, and the hills that went up and down prior to the boat ramp gave me pause because I knew they were part of the bike course. I cranked up the volume on my Braddah Iz CD and sang along with "Over the Rainbow" to ease my mind. I arrived with plenty of time to spare and marvelled at the huge amount of space in the transition area. You could build a house between each bike rack, and there were plenty of rack spaces for everyone. There was some classic disco playing on the sound system and a trailer with coffee drinks set up over by registration. The sun was brilliant but not yet too hot, and the lake glistened invitingly at the bottom of the boat ramp.

Leslie flitted around, taking care of her tri girls, making sure they had plenty of 'Glide in all the right places, giving pep talks. Dave put on his vest and radio and went to be The Bastard at the Top of the Hill, refusing entry to vehicles during the race. I went to talk with Rachel and Phil and Zola. Rachel had won this race three years in a row, but she was a little concerned about a gal we had spotted in the store the day before who looked extremely fit. She wasn't super concerned, but she did want to win if possible. I nodded. I don't have a lot of experience encouraging people who might have a chance to win a race for the fourth year in a row. People who are hoping to finish their first race are more in my line of work. Rachel was so incredibly nice though, I was totally rooting for her. I also had a crush on her Chihuahua.

Eventually, it was time for the last application of sunscreen and the walk down to the water. I was wishing I'd brought my Crocs with me because the ramp had been resurfaced to resemble concrete corduroy with inch-wide pointy ridges. Ouch! Ouch! We were all cussing and trying to walk down the little seams of flat concrete. I knew from experience that when I got out of the water my feet would be cold and I wouldn't feel the ridges so much, but it was painful at the time. Leslie and I eased into the water, and I was pleased to find that the temperature was perfect, cool but not cold. A few warmup strokes and we made our way over to the other side of the dock for the start. As I hobbled over the concrete torture ramp, the arch of my foot cramped up a little. I stopped to stretch it out before getting back into the water. We bobbed around and cheered as we waited for the horn to go.

As soon as it did, I hit my heart rate monitor button and struck out into the clear green water. The 2006 tri season was underway! And then my foot cramped up again, hard. Contracting brands of iron ran from my toes up to my heel, and it did not feel good at all. I tried to swim with one leg, but the pain in my foot brought me up short. I reached down and grabbed the foot, trying to pull the cramp out. Nothin'. Meanwhile, my whole wave was halfway to the first buoy. In a fit of frustration, I struck out swimming and flutter-kicked as hard as I could. I tried to get my feet to relax. It hurt like hell, but after a few seconds, blood started to flow back to the foot and the pain eased. I was swimming. I was way behind the pack, but I was moving. The 2006 tri season was underway! For real this time!

It was all a matter of process from there. Stroke left, stroke right, stroke left, breathe, repeat, repeat, sight for the buoy. Keep pressing the chest down; use the legs to help roll the body around, side to side. Every time I dropped my head after breathing, I tried to propel it forward a little, and that made me feel faster. I rounded the first buoy and sighted for the second. I struck out in a nice straight line, noting that some other women were making a rather large curve for some reason. I picked a landmark on the shore behind the buoy to keep me on line, and kept on stroking along. By the time I passed the second buoy and headed for the ramp, I had caught up with a few, but mostly I was just concerned about doing my thing. The ramp was a little ouchy on the feet, but I found a strip of regular asphalt which felt like velvet by comparison. Steep run up to the transition area, whoo yeah.

Panting, I took a few seconds to wipe off my feet, then got my shoes and helmet on and ran to the bike mount line. I had a few yards before the hill kicked up, time to clip into my pedals and get ready to shift down, way, way down. I was starting to feel at home on this bike now, a 2001-ish Bianchi Giro, 54 cm, and I had a good cadence going by the time things got steep. Preben, the Chico gals' coach, had described it as up, then flattening out, then up again, then flat for a minute, then up again. I thought at the time, "Oh, those are rather fine distinctions," but in fact it was true, and the short flat bits provided a welcome respite. But the respites were brief, as we climbed pretty much constantly for a mile and a half. I was pathetically grateful for the granny gear, as I was down in the small chainring before the end of the first half-mile. I pumped my legs as hard as I could and tried not to look at my speed on the bike computer. I saw Leslie coming back the other way, and I knew she wasn't too far ahead of me, so I looked forward to the turnaround, the sooner the better.

What goes up must come down, said Isaac Newton, and I was all too ready to come down when gravity called. I pumped a few times on the big ring, then tucked down behind the handlebars and hoped Russ's bike was as stable downhill as mine is. This is the part of any race that I love, the part where I pass the featherweights and the uncertain descenders, using my rather considerable mass to overpower the wind resistance and my ability to lock down my imagination so I won't picture the consequences of a momentary lapse. I swooped down towards Highway 162, reaching a respectable 44 miles per hour, and stayed tucked for as long as I could. We had to stop at the highway junction, but amazingly a large pickup stopped for me and my fellow competitor, and we were off again on the downhill side of a false flat. Even though I knew that it'd be hard coming back, I was feeling really fast, cruising at about 20 mph, looking around at the pastures and oaks that make rural California so charming.

At the turnaround on this end of the bike leg, I saw a couple of the Chico tri gals waving us around. I do enjoy knowing people at a race. I cheered as I whipped around the cones and headed back towards the Olive Something Highway (Growers? Orchards? Grove?). Sure enough, the false flat was false in a bad way on the way back. There was a rider in front of me who looked like she was just pokin' along, so I thought I'd try to ride her down, but I couldn't make any headway on that task until we got back to the highway and she had to stop. I didn't hold out much hope that I could stay with her though, since the longest, steepest hill of all was just past the crossroads. Ahead of us, a line of slow climbers crawled up the shoulder of the road. I would have been interested to know the actual gradient of this ascent, since I could picture it on a Tour de France elevation profile as going straight up like a wall.

Things were getting pretty hard at this point. My legs were tubes of fire, and I was breathing like a walrus after a long hot spell. I couldn't remember where the turnoff was down to the boat ramp, but it couldn't come too soon. And I didn't even want to think about a hilly trail run afterwards. "This bites!" I commented to another panting sufferer as she pulled up and passed me. "You wait till you see the run!" she announced cheerfully. Yup, just what I wanted to hear. Thanks!

The mile back down to the lake was exhilaratingly fast, but I couldn't get too excited, with that run ahead. I cruised into transition, swapped out the shoes, and jogged toward the Slope of Doom. It was all I could do to pretend to run up the hill to the turnoff to the trail, but there were volunteers and spectators cheering, so I felt like I should at least try. As soon as I got into the trees, though, I was walking, and it wasn't no peppy walk neither. My leaden calves threatened to cramp with every step, and then the hill got steeper. The trail was lovely, lined with sage and digger pines, and it would have been great for a Sunday morning hike. But I just couldn't see myself running up this. I couldn't actually see anyone else running up it either, though the people who passed me were walking faster than I was. This was definitely a moment to persevere and not worry about pace, though. I walked,I breathed, I saw the lake come into view far below me, and after a time I saw the first water station, which was purported to be the end of the uphill and the first mile. I asked the young volunteers if they'd been helicoptered in, but they admitted to coming up in the ATV, which they said was hairy enough. A few gulps and I was on my way again.

The trail really did flatten out right after the aid station, and I started to jog a bit. Now that's what I'm talkin' about, baby! The red dirt felt firm under my feet, the pines offered some dappled shade, and I began to feel a little like an athlete. The top of the hill was a plateau, like a lot of the hills in Butte County, so the trail wound around on this gentle flat for a good while, providing gorgeous views of the lake and surrounding countryside. A sharp right-hand turn, and I was cruising on a gentle downhill. I leaned forward as much as I dared and willed my feet to move fast enough to catch me. I saw another woman on the switchback above me and tried to pick up my pace a bit more. It was no good; she was going to pass me. But as she approached me, she started to chant affirmations at the top of her lungs. "We are STRONG!" she hollered. "We are SWIFT! We are TRIATHLETES!" I was slightly taken aback, as this is the sort of thing I am prone to doing myself, but I was willing to play along. "We are POWERFUL!" I yelled back. "We are SPEEDY!" And next thing I knew, she had zoomed past me with a chorus of "I Am Woman." I laughed so hard I started to cough and had to slow down and walk till I had my breath back. I do love triathlon.

The volunteers at the second aid station claimed that they were "less than a mile" from the finish, which I found gratifying, but also, in retrospect, possibly not quite true. Also, the lovely gentle downhills were interspersed with some uphills in this last stretch. The ups were gentle enough as far as those things go, but I was totally done with uphill and didn't want to do it for more than a few steps. Finally I caught a glimpse of the boat ramp and figured I was coming toward the home stretch. This was sort of true, but there were still a few more twists and turns before I came to the exit of the trail onto the boat ramp approach road. Just a couple hundred yards to go, and those yards were definitively downhill. I couldn't see the finish, but I knew it had to be really close or I was going to run right into the lake. A quick left-hand turn, and I was in the short chute, then over the line getting my finisher's medal. Leslie came dashing up to give me a hug, and then I was surrounded by a bunch of friendly Chico tri girls. Nice! I had finished a sprint course which I'd be willing to wager is the toughest in the West. (If anyone knows of a tougher one, let me know!) I was tired, but not too beat, and I was having a great time.

The post-race spread was pretty extensive, especially for a small race in a small town. There was pasta with what was rumored to be homemade sauce; there was salad and bread; there was zucchini bread and banana nut bread, bagels, oranges, bananas, Recharge energy drink, all kinds of good stuff. I grabbed some banana bread and a bottle of Recharge in between chatting to all and sundry. Rachel, looking as fresh and elegant as a catalog model, came to greet me. She had finished a close second to the very girl she had targeted as a threat back at the store. I was amazed at her ability to size up the competition.

Soon the awards ceremony was under way. Leslie came third in the Athena division, to my delight, and the Chico tri girls dominated the women's podiums in almost every age group. I won a Trek bike helmet in the post-race raffle, adding to my sense that I was having a purely magical trip. I needed to get going, since I was due at our friend Ken's birthday party in Lodi later that afternoon and I needed to find a shower, but I was having so much fun it was hard to muster the energy to pack up and leave. I snagged a plate of pasta and ate it under a tree as Zola hobnobbed with a couple other Chihuahuas. It was a weekend of excellent dogs as well as everything else. (By the way, Zola is entered in the Petco "Unleashed" Fastest Chihuahua regional time trials on June 3rd. I'm seriously considering going up to Santa Rosa to cheer her on and maybe even be support crew! Told you I had a crush on Zola.)

Finally I dragged myself away from the festivities, which were winding down anyhow, and packed my stuff into the PT Cruiser (great tri-mobile for those who don't want to go the SUV route). I headed west towards Highway 99, ready for a cruise through the farmland and another big dose of "Over the Rainbow" and "Henehene Kou'aka" from Braddah Iz. I knew where the end of the rainbow really was though - right in the heart of the City of Gold Triathlon.