My friend Leila had put the bug in my head that a Triathlon was close within my reach. Both being competitive swimmers in another life, she and I each had an upper hand in the third of the event that discourages most racers from participating. In the spring of 2010, Leila propositioned to me the consideration of seriously participating in the Chicago Tri, a race she had participated in at least once before, possibly twice if memory serves correctly. With a bit of thought, I accepted the challenge. Training was about to begin.
For the two months before the race, I was putting myself through a fairly rigorous training schedule. Five days a week, I built myself up to either swimming a full mile in the open waters of Lake Erie, biking 15 miles along the Cuyahoga Valley Towpath or running between 3-6 miles between the neighborhoods of Cleveland proper. Three of those days, I did two circuits of training. One in the morning, one in the afternoon, or sometimes even doing both consecutively. I can't say that I kept this disciplined schedule 100% of the time, but I did my best. With the exception of life occasionally getting in the way, this was my life for a full 60 days before the race. I felt myself getting stronger and more resistant to fatigue. I hadn't felt this good in years.On August 27th, following a short detour to attend my high school best friend's wedding in Youngstown, Leila and I loaded up our bikes and headed west towards Chicago. Six hours later, we checked into The Palmer House Hilton Hotel, dropped off our bags and walked a few blocks down Michigan Ave. to check into registration for the race. Excited, buzzing and anxious, it wasn't until here that I actually became a bit overwhelmed. For the first time, I saw a photo of the immense crowds that were lined up in heats for the starting line along the lake's promenade. It was just...intense. I stared at that photo for a good five minutes thinking to myself, "What the hell did I get myself into?" Surprisingly, being in that line itself is only a fraction as intimidating as the photo turned out to be. Or maybe by that time I had just gotten myself into a much deeper mental zone of preparation.
Following registration and a bit of wandering around the pre-race expo, Leila and I carbed ourselves up by heading a few blocks down Monroe to the Italian Village, a convenient cluster of restaurants that offered endless options for pasta and bread, a pre-race meal requirement that would help us efficiently store our energy for the next day's events. We chose the basement venue La Cantina Enoteca, a restaurant modeled after a Tuscan wine cellar and decorated with large, built-in fish tanks, narrow aisles and tucked-away booths. As we gobbled down enormous plates of linguine, lasagna, garlic bread and gnocchi, there evolved a growing fatigue between us that I had begun to sense almost immediately after registration. It was if our bodies and minds were sensing the culmination of all we had trained for and began to force us into automatic shutdown for the evening. We both recognized the signs and after paying the bill and taking a few minutes to explore the rest of the "village," we headed down the street for a few minutes to take in some fresh air and calm our nerves. This helped immensely, as summer night-life in Chicago thrived around us. Less than an hour later, we were back in our room, preparing our equipment and necessary clothing with our racing numbers to store in the transition zone during the race. Lights out was at 10:00 sharp. Exhausted, I had absolutely no trouble drifting off into sleep.
By 5:15am, Leila and I were on our way out the door, joining the army of silent bikers making their way down Michigan and Monroe Avenues to prepare their spot in the transition zone. My heat was supposed to be in the water at 6:38 for a 6:39am start. With about an hour to spare, , we sat on the hill after we had made our necessary morning preparations and watched as the Chicago Triathlon kicked off, the eastern dawn breaching the surface of Lake Michigan on the horizon. Thousands upon thousands of people were lined up on the promenade, recognizable by heat by the color of their swim cap. Knowing that in a few short minutes I would be among their ranks was surprisingly calming to me at that point in time. I wasn't nervous anymore, just anxious to begin. I felt completely and utterly ready...and the next thing I knew, we were in line, inching our way up to the drop point. Leila's start time was about five heats after mine and as I approached the scaffolding, we wished each other good luck and she disappeared behind me, swallowed completely by the crowd.
Swim: .75k. I remember it like this: I was treading water, shoulder to shoulder with about 100 other men my age for about 30 seconds before the gun went off. Planking my body, I erupted into a strong front crawl, only to get immediately kicked in the face by the swimmer in front of me. Numbed by adrenaline, I eased to my right and found myself passing around him. I had a half mile to go and with every stroke, the density of the crowd dissipated. Soon I found myself able to freely swim at full stride without a single hindrance of the swimmers around me. The water was crystal clear and I remember thinking it odd that I could almost reach down and grab the columns of seaweed that was rising from the rocky bottom of the marina below me. If I grew tired, I would switch to breaststroke, but for no more than 10 strokes before switching back to crawl again. I never broke my pace and I kept my eye on the finish line the entire time, even passing those in the heat ahead of me and pushing myself harder than I ever had in the water before. Next thing I know, I'm rounding the buoy and climbing the scaffolding into the Chicago Yacht Club. I had a quarter mile run to the transition zone to prepare for the biking event. My legs felt like gelatin. I never ran full sprint directly after a distance swim before...I wish I had.
Bike: 22k. My helmet was on and after a quick four minutes in the transition zone, I was mounted on my bike and headed north up upper Lake Shore Drive. Well, actually...it wasn't my bike. Just days before, someone had broken into my garage and stolen a number of things, including the bike I was preparing to use in the Triathlon. Panicked, I put out a call on Facebook to ask if any of my friends in Chicago or Cleveland would be kind enough to loan me their bike for the weekend. More than enough answered, but it was my friend Jeff that really came through. He lent me his finely tuned and hardly used road bike, which I only had a day to train on as I was used to riding a hybrid at this point. Almost immediately, I could feel the difference. Within a few minutes, I was riding along the Parkway, the fresh morning sun only inches above the horizon line of Lake Michigan, with complete confidence and efficiently shifting my gears to match the slight inclines ahead of me. Six and a half miles in, I hit the turnaround and pedaled back south towards downtown Chicago. Less than a mile after that, I saw Leila, still northbound, pass me on my left. I dug into my toe grips and picked up speed. In what seemed like a fraction of the time that I took me to complete the first half of the bike route, I followed the signs down the ramp and found myself pulling back into the transition zone to prepare myself for the final leg of the race; a 5k run.
Run: 5k. It wasn't 100 feet into the run where I silently uttered my first "uh-oh." My body was fatigued beyond anything I had ever experienced before. The lactic acid in my legs felt like I was dragging 50lb dumbbells behind me. Every step was a complete struggle and every breath was a sharp, blinding pain in my side. I tramped, sluggishly down the hill and across Grant Park where just 90 minutes before, Leila and I were sitting, watching the beginning of the race kick off. Suddenly, as my feet found pavement and I hit the concrete walkway that led past Buckingham Fountain and around the John G. Shedd Aquarium, I amazingly rediscovered my stride. The pain and sluggishness disappeared. I was able to quicken my pace. My breathing returned to its normal rhythm. I hit a quick turnaround and headed down the hill and towards the finish line, which was growing louder with each and every step I pushed myself. Soon, just as I hit the three mile mark, I could see the finish. I was almost there, and whatever I had left inside me, I used. I broke into a full out sprint and crossed the finish line strong, hearing them announce my name as my pace slowed into a tepid walk...the first moment of negative momentum that I had allowed myself in nearly one hour and forty five minutes.
About four minutes later, I watched Leila cross the finish line as well. After a much deserved and sweaty congratulations, we both collapsed on the shady grass behind the food court, willing our bodies to recover just enough so that we could find the strength to eat a full meal provided to us by the race committee.The rest of the morning, we spent exploring the extra curricular activities that the event had to offer. We marveled at the the competitors of the International Race (which was over twice the length that we competed in). We listened to a few bands get up and perform for the energized crowds. We ate, took pictures and finally, as noon was steadily approaching, gathered together our things and marched our way back towards the hotel for long showers and a change of clothes. As we left Chicago and made our way back to Cleveland, the events of that morning seemed to suddenly slip towards the back of my mind, coming to me in what seemed like a dream. It was almost surreal to me, as I pulled into my driveway a mere eight hours later, to think that only that morning, I was competing in the Chicago Triathlon with some of the best tri-athletes in the world. As I look back at that day, I can say that with sincerity that the bug has been contracted. There will be many more to come. Due to the encouragement of a good friend, my Triathlon experience has only just begun.
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