Meat Pie Triathlon
Natchitoches, LA, September 19, 2004
1/2 mile swim / 20 mi bike / 3.1 mile run
PART TWO of TWO
As the start approached, I was overcome with nervousness. This was my first foray into competitive eating, and I didn't know what would happen to me. Would I make a mess, getting meat pie all over my face? Would I hurl in mid bite? What would people think of me, a demonstrably fat woman, getting up on stage to demonstrate in front of hundreds of people just how she got that way? This was sort of more embarrassing than being a fat woman jiggling down the road in spandex and running shoes. At least that shows a dedication to becoming less fat, whereas entering the meat pie eating contest seemed to show the opposite. But I figured this was a unique opportunity to take part in two very different kinds of competitions that showcase my ambivalent relationship between eating and exercise.
The organizers spread plastic on the top of the long tables, and then counted out eight meat pies per person, with the exception of Gentleman Joe, who got a full tray of 17. I guess the record was 16. We each got two large plastic cups of water, to help wash it all down. I tried to establish some sisterly camaraderie with Erica, but she had her game face on, or she didn't see the inherent humor and weirdness in the event the same way I did, or something. We were only going to have 8 or 10 minutes to eat pie, so that sort of limited the damage we could do to our digestive systems. I was relieved. Keri and volunteers placed plastic puke buckets behind us, which made me feel less relieved.
After an eternity of waiting, the announcer counted down to the start. I grabbed my first pie and took a big bite. Mmm, tasty. The first one went down fast and I grabbed the second. This one took a little longer, but it still tasted pretty good. On the third one, the dough started to seem more and more glutinous. I looked around to see what was happening with my competitors. Joe was well ahead, but most everyone else seemed to have about the same size pile of pies as I did. Erica was already a full pie behind though. Meat pie #4 didn't taste particularly appealing, and I started to think about walking away from the fray. Everyone was slowing down, but I grabbed #5 and broke off a piece of crust.
By this time I was looking for pies with less crimped dough on the edges, as this was definitely the hardest part to choke down. The filling was pretty easy to swallow without a lot of chewing. I sipped water as I went, trying to strike a balance between washing it down and further distending my stressed stomach. The sixth meat pie just looked revolting to me. But my competitive fire was burning nowand I figured I could give it a shot. I munched mechanically now, trying not to taste. As the crowed counted down the last ten seconds, I popped the last morsel in and chewed. I wasn't sure if they'd count the whole pie if I hadn't swallowed it all by the whistle.
We stood around holding our bellies as the judge came by to certify our scores. First guy, six and a half, then a DQ for puking, ten for Gentleman Joe, four for Erica, and so on. Most of the non-Joe guys were somewhere between five and 6 3/4 pies, so my six put me squarely in the middle of the pack. I was not formally announced as the new women's World Champion Meat Pie Eater, but I knew that's what I was. I didn't know whether to be proud or scared. A little of both.
My stomach felt pretty bloated when it was all over, but I have to confess, I've felt worse after some Thanksgiving dinners. Maybe it was the fact that it was just meat pies in there, or maybe it was that we'd only been eating for 10 minutes. Maybe it was going to be one of those things that would catch up with me in a half-hour or so.
It was still close to 100 degrees as I waddled over to get my registration packet for the Meat Pie Tri. I couldn't imagine going to watch football in this kind of weather, but clearly with my competitive meat pie consumption I already had blown my shot at being physically well-prepared for the race in the morning. I scoped the excellent goodie bag (a folding chair! A visor! Socks! AND a cool Meat Pie Tri t-shirt!), learned to my delight that there were over 200 people signed up for the race, and dragged my now thoroughly distended abdomen back to the house for a quick rest before the football game.
Even in the inferno that baked the campus, there were hundreds of students and alumni tailgating in the parking lots and playing fields next to the stadium. Chris and Kim introduced me around the barbeques, but I didn't partake, for obvious reasons. The game was a romp for Northwestern State, but the halftime show belonged to the dynamic and disciplined Texas Southern marching band and dancers. The dancers had been somewhat scandalizing some of the families around me, what with their sequined halter tops and briefs, and moves that owed more to hip-hop video than the sweater-and-megaphone school of cheerleading. I thought they were great. The band marched, danced, jumped, rolled over, and also did a great tribute to Ray Charles, with a little kid in a white suit doing a great Ray up in front of the band. I have never before experienced the power of a talented and well-drilled drumline thrashing out polyrhythmically hypnotic funk, but I want more .
As soon as halftime was over, I was outta there, off to the market to buy some cereal and bananas and Gatorade for the morning. It was getting on for 9 p.m. when I got back, but the Guy House was jumping. There was one couple with a truckload of tents, tables, folding chairs and cases of mysterious gear. They greeted me, made some cryptic remark about keys and mailboxes, then shot off into the night with their truck. Moments later another couple bounced up onto the porch and started fumbling in the mailbox. I opened the door for them, since they looked pretty nice, and so they were. Gary and Beth had driven up from Alexandria for the Meat Pie Tri, Gary as a cyclist in a relay team, and Beth as a dedicated supporter and volunteer. We got chatting about tri stuff - old yet reliable carbon-frame bikes, goody bags, training, that sort of thing - and Gary told me that a celebrity slow fat triathlete was going to be at the race the next day. Michael Pate, author of When Big Boys Tri, another memoir of hauling excess poundage around the course and having a great time doing it, lives in Alexandria, so this is one of his local tris. I was ecstatic. There's not that big a community of slow fat triathletes who write books, and two of the (I think) three were going to meet .
I said goodnight to Gary and Beth and to my amazement realized I actually felt a little bit hungry. Farewell, meat pies. I downed a small bowl of Total - would you think a bed and breakfast would have some cereal bowls? But no - and I set the alarm for 5:30.
Finally, race day arrived. In a sense, this was the triathlon that I had been planning towards for almost a year. It would be my last race of the season, and it was only a week after finishing a Half-Ironman with a pretty sore back. I was ready to race, and I was ready for this race to be over, and I was feeling a little wistful about the season ending.
Most of all, I was delighted that the weather was cool. This was the first time I'd been cool outdoors since Thursday morning. I even put a shirt on over my tri-suit to ride down to the river. I got set up in transition pretty quickly, and then, since I didn't have a wetsuit to worry about, I wasn't sure what to do with myself for the rest of the time. Fortunately Gary showed up and introduced me to Michael Pate, who is in fact a pretty big boy and a great promoter of triathlon for everyone. We chatted a little about author stuff - publishing, distribution, publicity - and a little bit about tri stuff and soon it was time to warm up in the Cane River Lake.
When I say "warm up" I mean that quite literally. The water was at least 15 degrees warmer than the air, so that once you got in, you really didn't want to get out. Except that you kind of did want to get out, because the water was a little earthy-smelling and there was a thick layer of fine mud on the bottom. And of course there were the rumors of snapping turtles. I swam about in the murk and then lurked in the shallows until my wave went off.
It was a quarter mile down, then a quarter mile back, and the river was only like 60 feet wide, so it was hard to get off course. I was amazed at how low I felt in the water without a wetsuit, but I swam decently and got out of the water in 19 minutes and change. I tried not to think about what kinds of microorganisms had gotten into my ears, nose, and mouth during those 19 minutes.
The bike course was a somewhat complicated out and back route, taking us past some of the town's finest catfish shacks and auto body shops, as well as past the more scenic Sibley Lake. We turned onto LA Route 6 (I think) and back towards the interstate, which made for some exciting interactions with roaring semis. I was feeling really good on the out part of the ride, and it wasn't until we turned around and headed back into town that I realized we had been enjoying a significant tailwind. But no longer. Sigh. The rolling ride back to the Cane River Lake took a bit longer than I would have liked, and I could feel the lingering effects of last week's FIRMman, all the travel, and the meat pies. Still, I was pedaling smoothly and enjoying the ride even against the wind. And the air still felt cool. One hour and 8 minutes, and I was done.
Back at the transition area under the Church Street Bridge, I made my final flying dismount of the season and jogged my bike back to its rack. Swap shoes, grab visor and race belt, and off again. The start to this run was simply cruel - a long steep flight of concrete stairs from the lower riverfront area up to street level. Oooffff! "These stairs are mean!" I huffed at a volunteer. I was smiling though. "Yeah, they are," she agreed. Over the bridge and then a left turn onto Williams. Yay Williams! Most of the run was along this street, which was nice, as it was thickly shaded with oaks and had some good views of the lake and downtown. Even though my legs were pretty poky, I was moving myself along steadily, and my back felt good for a change. Only 30 or so minutes to go, and I knew after all my racing this year that I could run for another 30 minutes no matter how tired I was.
Even though I knew I was tired, I was a little surprised at the turnaround at just how slow my 5k pace was. I was clearly going to take well over 30 minutes on this flat and shady course. Oh well, that's what you get for not taking a weekend off between races, I guess. I was delighted to see the bridge again, and I bounded across it as fast as I could. Alas, there was still another longish stretch down to the other end of the riverfront park, where I would make a hairpin turn and fling myself down the ramp to the finish. I kept churning those limbs and crossed the line with a total time of 2:07:04. About 5 minutes slower than I'd have liked, but OK under the circumstances.
The food vendors were still selling corn dogs, fried shrimp and of course meat pies, none of which had any appeal to me. The free post-race jambalaya was more tempting, but ultimately too tomato-y and poorly seasoned. But hey, it was free, and it wasn't a meat pie. I downed a bowl and went off to the transition area to perform an inadvertently risque costume change into a dry tank top and shorts, so I could be cleanish and comfortable for the awards. I knew I wasn't going to win anything, but I just wanted to hang out in the triathlon world a little longer. The sun was warm but not broiling, I was tired but not totally tapped, and the world looked like a pretty place.
The awards ceremony was long and raucous, with tri clubs from Baton Rouge, Alexandria, Shreveport, and Monroe cheering their members. A few people had traveled from Shreveport for the Meat Pie Tri the day after competing in Age Group Nationals! Yikes! And not all of them were in their twenties, either. I was impressed.
Finally, I couldn't find any more excuses to hang out, so I got my stuff together and rode back to the Guy House. I figured I'd better disassemble my bike and pack it before I took a shower, so I dragged everything into the shade and got started. Beth and Gary drove up to say goodbye, and in the finest southern tradition, we talked for another twenty minutes or so. I dealt with the bike and got cleaned up, intending to pack a little, watch a little football, and then head over to Bayou Pierre Gator Park for a little cheesy tourist fun. But, as so often happens after a race, I lay down for a minute and fell asleep for two hours, messing up my schedule.
I ended up laying low for the rest of the afternoon, only venturing out when the shadows were stretching far across the grass outside. I drove around town for a while, just soaking up the ambience and thinking about dinner. My thoughts led me back to Sibley Lake, to the Mariner's Restaurant, where I could sit out on the deck and watch turtles swim in the shallows. Just as I sat down, one of the waitresses gave a little shriek. She had seen a snake go under the deck just to my right. There was a small conference of wait staff, busboys and a manager, and they decided that there was no cause for alarm. I guess. I ordered fried crawfish tails and a salad, in a feeble attempt to reintroduce vegetables into my diet. The tails were tender, the batter light and fluffy, with a little spicy kick to it. I sipped a beer and ate and watched the sun set until I was full and the mosquitoes started their onslaught.
The next morning, as I rocketed down I-49 back towards Shreveport, I saw the largest flock of egrets I had ever seen, erupting from the scrub and grass in a flurry of wings. The rising sun made them all look pink, and for a split second I thought I was seeing flamingoes. Even without being flamingoes, though, they were exceptionally beautiful.
I packed a lot into the Meat Pie Tri trip, and a lot into my summer. I was pretty happy to sink into the mindlessness of air travel and fly home to Tim and Poodie and a very strict off-season diet.