Rain, Rain, Go Away
Uvas South Bay Triathlon
3/4 mile swim / 16 mile bike / 5 mile run
May 22, 2006

I am a wimp about riding my bike in the rain. I confess it freely. I didn't use to be a wimp. I used to take my purple Specialized Rockhopper mountain bike out in all weathers, reveling in the sensation of rain seeping in through my helmet vents. But now I'm older and heavier; I ride a road bike with slick skinny tires and a higher center of gravity, and I have become hesitant to test my bike handling skills when the rain comes down and the roads get slippery.

Fortunately for my triathlon career, however, it almost never rains in my neck of the woods after early May, so I've been able to do most of my training and racing without thinking about the condition of the roads. But to my astonishment, the forecast for the Sunday of the Uvas tri looked extremely wet. 6 am? Rain. 9 am? Rain. 12 noon? Rain. Rain for 3 pm, 6 pm and even up to 9 pm. I checked another website, then another. All the same. I didn't believe it would really rain though. Maybe a few little showers. I put a couple of extra plastic bags in my backpack to help keep things dry.

I had a hard time sleeping, and I don't know why. I didn't have that keyed-up, adrenalized excitement that I have before a big race or a new adventure, and I wasn't stressing overtly about the possible wet conditions. I just couldn't get my mind to go nice and blank and empty. I tried measuring out my breathing: in for four heartbeats, out for four heartbeats. I tried the technique shared by John D. McDonald in one of his Travis McGee novels. This involves visualizing the space behind your closed eyes as a huge, perfectly round, perfectly black circle. All you focus on is keeping that circle big and round and black. Sounds goofy but it works like a charm. Usually. I had to get up and watch some "Law & Order" and "Without a Trace" on TiVo. I contemplated just bailing on the race. It was going to rain and I wouldn't be well rested. But I persuaded myself that I could just drive down to the start, and if the weather was truly vile, I could bail then. And I could come home and nap for a long, long time. Midnight came and went long before I finally collapsed into the jersey knit sheets.

To my surprise, I felt pretty alert when the alarm went off at 5:20. The open windows didn't carry the sound of rain into the house, so I felt mildly optimistic. By the time I'd downed my pre-race Endurox and carried my stuff out to the car, though, a very light rain was starting to fall. The skies were heavy and grey, though I told myself they looked lighter down to the south, where Morgan Hill lies. A few sprinkles along the way, but as I headed up into the hills south of San Jose, the sprinkles turned to a steady rain.

I could smell wet grass and the faint overtone of cow in the field where we park for the race. It reminded me of Wales. Next to me were two guys from SVTC whose names I could not remember. "What made me think this was a good idea?" I asked them as we put our bike wheels on and gathered our gear together. We shared our misgivings about the conditions, all agreeing that the one place it didn't make any difference was the swim. I knew, though, as I had known full well the night before, that I was not going to turn around and go home. The crowd of triathletes, though more subdued than usual, was giving me that festive feeling that I crave. We got racked up with our teammeates and exchanged loud greetings and rueful grins. I was glad of my plastic bags. I stuck one over the cockpit of the bike where I had my helmet and shades balanced, one over the seat, and one over my bike shoes. I kept all my running stuff inside a fourth bag, and zipped my pack tight. Meanwhile, though, the rain eased up and the sky brightened considerably. I slipped off my fleece and my hat and was out of the transition area with plenty of time before the first wave. Eschewing a wetsuit removes a lot of stress from my pre-race ritual.

Down in the big tents thoughtfully provided by J & A Productions (a very fine race organization), I ran into Sandy, a fellow Weight Watchers member who I had met through the WW message boards. We had met in the meatspace for the first time earlier in the week, when Sandy had provided an awesome display of cycling power over a rolling ride. This was only her second tri, but she had been well prepared by Team in Training and also had a terrific attitude. I love seeing new triathletes in their first flush of excitement about the sport.

When I went down to the water, I was amazed. The heavy rains of the early spring had raised the water level a good 30 feet above what I was used to. I eased into the water and was pleased to find it cool but not particularly chilly as I warmed up with a bit of freestyle and bit of backstroke. I fluttered my legs hard, hoping to avoid a recurrence of the foot cramping that had plagued me the previous week.

By the time our wave (the last, of course) went off, the cool little cannon that was serving as a starting gun had quit working, so we had to go by the announcer's countdown. Not that getting a hairtrigger start was going to matter that much, but there is still something very exciting about hearing the horn, or the gun, or the "GO," flinging yourself forward, totally committed to the moment. I hit my watch's start button and stuck my nose into the scrum. I got off to a good start this time, no cramping, but after less than 50 yards, my goggles started to leak on the right side, and I had to stop and fix them. Still, a better beginning than last week. There were still swimmers around me, even behind me. I got my sight fixed on the first buoy and set off to circumnavigate the little peninsula that defines the swim leg.

About midway through the swim, I found myself in a clump of about four swimmers. I bumped and weaved with them for a while, and suddenly recognized Sandy's green-tagged wetsuit and blue goggles on my right. I waved at her for a few strokes, but couldn't tell if she saw what I was up to. I felt a few taps on my toes from someone behind me, and kicked harder, not to try and kick the follower, but just reflexively, like swatting at a fluttering bug. It kind of made me understand how a horse is motivated to run faster by a swish from a riding crop. As we rounded the curve of the peninsula and the boat ramp came into view, I concentrated on making my strokes longer and more powerful, and I pulled away from Sandy and the clump by a few yards. I checked my watch as I lumbered up the slope - cool! I was running a good five minutes ahead of last year's time.

I yanked the plastic bags off the bike and struggled into my socks. I feel like I should quit wearing socks on the bike, but my shoes are slightly too long as it is, and my feet would swim around in them if I went sockless. I was thoroughly wet, of course, so it took me a while to realize that the drizzle had started up again. Out on the bike course, I regretted forgetting my orange-lens glasses, which are so excellent in cloudy conditions, but I could see well enough even with the fine mist covering my vibrant blue shades. The first third of the bike is rolling, with a few short steep hills and one gradual upward slog that the fast cyclists probably don't even notice. Sandy and a few others had passed me by while I was still getting my breath from the swim, and I was largely on my own at this point. Down the steep and exhilarating little drop before the turn onto Oak Glen, I was delighted to be going fast again, and I didn't feel too panicky about the turn ahead. I took it slower than I normally would and noticed my lack of momentum right away as the road eased slightly upward again.

After another mile or so of riding, I started to see jerseys up ahead, and I felt the thrill of the chase. I was pedaling pretty strong now and I felt like I could catch somebody. When I did catch them, I tried not to notice that my first victim was at least 20 years my senior and the next was riding a heavy mountain bike. A catch is a catch, when you're way at the back of the race anyway. Winding around what I think of as the backstretch of the course, along the banks of Calero Reservoir and past the houses and fields to the south, I passed a few more people, mostly by being more confident on the wet pavement than they were. I hadn't felt any significant loss of braking capacity, nor was the bike sliding around on the road, so I was willing to gun it a bit. Besides, the hill on Sycamore Road was coming up and I needed all the speed I could get here.

Last year, I had been riding my own bike with the double chainring up front, and I'd been forced to walk about 2/3 of the hill, severely impacting both my bike split and my ego. This time around, I was borrowing a bike with a granny gear, and I intended to make full use of it. I hadn't spent much time worrying about the hill, in fact, since I'd pumped up a bunch of gnarly hills the week before at City of Gold. I should have worried a bit more. The hill kicked up right away, and I was in my lowest gear before 100 yards were past. Worse, I couldn't come anywhere close to actually spinning that gear. I was just mashing it like it was a 52/11, and I was practically standing still. The bike computer said I was wobbling between about 3.9 and 4.5 mph, which was still faster than I would have walked, so I kept pushing. About 2/3 of the way up, I met Sandy, who was walking. Her bike has a tendency to lose its chain, so I thought that might be the problem. Didn't have the breath to ask though. I pushed on, and now my legs were really burning. My lungs, too. I was making this labored "hunnnhhhhh, hunnnhhhh" sound with every exhale, contorting my face, and generally looking really bad. Which was appropriate since I was feeling really bad too.

The hill is probably less than half a mile in length, but I was just whupped when I got to the top, panting and blowing like a beached whale. I gulped some Cytomax and moved my legs feebly, waiting for gravity to switch allegiance to my side as the road dropped down into the valley. Rain be damned, I thought; I was going to swoop down that hill like Il Falco, Paolo Savoldelli, the Team Discovery Channel cyclist whose descending skills are legend. I got my butt in the air, tucked my head low, and swooped. Fortunately there weren't any other riders to contend with during the steeper part of the drop, and I was able to relax and enjoy. The worst was over. About three miles or so of rollers back to the Uvas dam, although the last mile or so was mostly uphill. The rain had totally stopped at some point, probably well before the hill, but I had been too busy to notice.

That last half-mile before the dam proved more difficult than I remembered, and I was passed by a few people, some of whom I hadn't seen before. I couldn't figure out how they could have been behind me all this time and be passing me now, looking so fresh. I had been in the last wave, after all. Maybe they were all saving themselves for this last little stretch of the bike. No matter though. They would have passed me in the first few hundred yards of the run, and anyway, it's not like I was competing with anyone for anything beyond avoiding a last-place finish.

Back out onto Uvas Road, and I fumbled with my race belt as SVTC-ers cheered me with a rather touching enthusiasm. I went to pull the number round to the front, and ping! Off popped one of the snaps that holds the number on. Dagnabbit! I looked for it for a few seconds, but there was no way it was going to show up on that road surface. I adjusted the belt so that the number, now dangling precariously by one corner, didn't flap around too much. Adjustments accomplished, I was able to concentrate on just how lifeless my legs were. My whole torso felt constricted somehow, too, like the muscles holding my ribcage to my pelvis had gotten too short.

I gave myself a schedule to follow until I got my legs back: four minutes running, half a minute walking. This seemed to work pretty well, though the four minute intervals dragged on and on. I knew that the run was not going to be my finest athletic moment, but I was hoping to better my time from the year before. I was on pace to do that pretty easily, even without pushing the run, but I felt like with all my marathon training, I might be able to get a better time on the run too. So I plugged away through the first mile. Somewhere in the middle of the second mile, as is usually the case, my legs loosened up, my torso loosened up, my breathing loosened up, and I started to enjoy myself. I grinned at the runners coming back the other way and offered occasional encouragement. Even the fact that both of SVTC's septuagenerian triathletes were well ahead of me couldn't dampen my spirits. After all, they both go to Kona every year and battle for the world Ironman championship in their age groups.

As I approached the turnaround I stopped for a back-stretching break. As I bent over in bliss, I heard a cry of "Don't stop!" I looked up. A woman was jogging towards me. "The turnaround's just ahead," she said. Now, I appreciate encouragement as much as the next person, but I don't want to be told whether or not I can stop to stretch my back. I mean, what did she think I was going to do - stand there in the middle of the road indefinitely? I probably didn't need to say anything, but I responded, "I'll do my own race, thanks. I'm just stretching my back." She said something apologetic and I immediately felt abashed. She was just trying to be nice. But the one kind of cheering on that I don't enjoy is people telling me how to conduct my race. "Don't walk! Keep running!"-- stuff like that.

The turnaround was in fact just ahead, and as soon as I headed back toward the finish, the rain started again. Just a gentle mist, keeping me cool as I trotted along. Every year I forget that the out section of the run is a net uphill, and that the back section feels a lot more downhill. It's hard to see, but it's easy to feel. I couldn't remember what my run time was from last year, but I felt like I was running better. Between mile 3 and mile 4 the rain started to fall harder, washing stinging sweat into my eyes and making me almost feel a little chilled. This was a rare experience for me, since I'm usually roasting by the end of a run. It also motivated me to go a little harder. At the mile 1/mile 4 aid station, the extremely vocal volunteers (I believe from Leigh High School) screamed so loudly for me that I had to cover my ears in mock horror. I took a cup of water from one of them, gulped some, and set out for the finish.

I was willing to get my heart rate up a bit higher now that there were only 12 or 13 minutes of suffering left to go. I notice now that I have a few years of racing under my belt and I don't have any PR's in my immediate future that I'm not quite as willing to suffer as long and as intensely, either during training or a race. But the last mile is still time to go into the red zone, and I focused on picking my feet up a little quicker every time they hit the ground, on lifting my knees up a little higher, and on getting my whole body to lean forward from the ankles.

Being a (ahem!) heavier triathlete, I'm acutely sensitive to changes of gradient. This last mile was a false flat if ever I did see one, and I was very glad of it. The term "false flat" usually refers, in cycling, to the part of a climb where the road appears to flatten out but you're really still going uphill. I notice false flats all over the place. There's one on Alpine Road in Portola Valley where you could swear you're going downhill but you're struggling to go 11 miles per hour. This last mile on the Uvas run course, though, was the other way round. It looked for all the world like I was going uphill, but I was flying on the wings of gravity. I was breathing hard and my heart was pounding; the rain was pouring down my face, and I was having serious fun.

The peninsula and the transition area came into view as I pounded on. I passed my car, glistening in the soggy cow pasture. I was feeling so euphoric I gave the Cruiser (fondly known as the Bronze Hippo) a little wave. A little further on, a volunteer was directing traffic out of the pasture and onto the road. As she saw me coming, she held up her hand to stop the oncoming car. He ignored her and pulled out in front of me. "Hey, mofo!" I yelled, my euphoria switching abruptly to annoyance. I was offended that he felt I was so slow that he couldn't possibly wait for me. As I jogged by his car, now stuck in traffic anyway (ha!), he apologized through the open window. "No, no," I said, "Don't mind me, I'm just getting all fired up." I didn't have time to think about whether my reaction had been importunate, as I could see the transition area up ahead, and departing triathletes were cheering my slow-ass self as they walked their bikes back to their cars. As I approached the ramp into the final chute, a cry of "Runner! Runner!" went up among the volunteers and I got a hearty slow triathlete's welcome.

I felt so strong coming into the finish that I started to second-guess my run. I should have taken it a little harder the whole way, maybe. But those thoughts were fleeting as I stormed across the line and gratefully surrendered the timing chip from around my ankle. I always feel so humbled by the volunteers who spend their shift bending down to our sweaty, muddy ankles to take our chips off. What a job. I checked my watch and I had beaten my time from the previous year by over ten minutes, maybe even eleven. I was pumped. And I wasn't even overheated. This rain was pretty good stuff.

A bottle of water in hand, I waited to cheer Sandy through the arch, then set off to find another layer to put on, since I figured I'd be cooling off quickly in the continuing rain. Hmmm.... My fleece was pretty much soaked, since it hadn't made it back into my backpack. The windbreaker? That was damp from earlier. I finally wrung out the fleece and wriggled into it, since that polypro stuff is supposed to retain its insulating properties even when wet. I found my aloha patterned rain hat, and wrapped my chamois-like pack towel around my neck. Tres chic, n'est-ce pas? I wasn't yet up to packing up all my sodden gear, so I wandered back down to the tents, got some strawberries, bbq chicken and Sierra Nevada pale ale, and settled in to cheer the top finishers in each age group. The post-race festivities were a little less festive than they generally are on a sunny morning, but the chow was excellent. I couldn't eat very much yet; it usually takes a couple of hours for the ravenous hunger to come on, but the food was free.

When I finally did tackle the packing up, it was a nasty job. My transition towel was holding several gallons of muddy water, and my tired arms protested at wringing it out. My bike shoes were wet, and the plastic bags I had used to protect my stuff were clammy and sodden. The wet fleece was not really keeping me that warm, and I was feeling the usual Post-Race Stupidity Syndrome. But I was still pumped. I had ridden a hard race in the rain without feeling like I was taking foolish risks; I had gone out to have fun and to improve on last year, and I had done both under fairly adverse conditions.

And now I was ready for that long, long nap.