Transitions
After the swim it takes me 10 minutes to remove the lake goo, splattered up to my thighs, then another 10 minutes to find my bike—in whose truck, exactly, has it been stashed? I massage my right hamstring, injured several years ago; it started acting up during the swim. The sun is warm, I feel great. I leave the carpark, with the mud-encrusted wetsuit draped over a truck bumper, and begin biking. Oops, forgot about the wind-chill factor. Ride back to the carpark and put on two thin wool sweaters beneath my windcheater. Then, a trip to the restroom, and it's on to the bike trail!
The fact that I see absolutely no one on my team should bother me, but it doesn't. After all, they are about 45 minutes ahead of me. And all are superior bike riders. Lynch Hill is the first portion of the ride, and I (shudder) have to give up and walk the bike every three or so minutes. Then I get astride the bike again and try a few more minutes. Then it's off. On a curve, a car comes up behind me, and I swerve to the shoulder out of fear of being hit. Big sigh of relief as the car passes harmlessly up the hill. Then a big "ouch" as I overcorrect while attempting to get back on the road. The bike has wobbled, as it is wont to do when I ride my extraordinarily slow pace, and I topple over. Gouge two places on the right leg. Blood. But no tears. And I haven't done enough work yet to sweat.
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In short, the 40K (24.8 miles) was long. I enjoyed scenery: cows, horses, goats, even some llamas. I admired the athleticism of the riders who passed me up ... while going uphill on a 6 degree grade. I smiled at everyone coming back. The freedom and "whoosh" of every downhill run—such an exhiliaration. The silence was lovely. The uphills were worth the payoff of the downhills.
I had told myself I would just complete 10 miles, a little less than half the full route. At mile 10 it struck me—the course was not a loop, but an up-and-back. The return trip would simply mean repeating what I had just done. I realized, "I can do this!" I didn't stop at mile 10. When it started to rain, at mile 10.5, I was glad about the two wool sweaters. When the light rain turned into torrents, I was glad I had less than one mile to go. But wait: had I missed a sign? I realized I hadn't seen any cement route markers for a while. No riders were in sight. A "water station ahead" notice was pointing up a side road. I backtracked down the hill about a quarter mile and was examining the notice. Had it been blown about by the increasingly strong wind?
Pondering what to do, I was startled when an SUV pulled up. In it was Michelle from the SoCal Tri Team, sent by Josh to look for me. She kindly offered to take my bike and me back to the campground, as the weather was becoming fouler by the minute. I'm ashamed to admit that it only took me 3 seconds to decide to "take the walk of shame" rather than ride. My right hip, hurt in a car accident some time ago, had begun acting up. By the time I got out of the vehicle, the hip had frozen up.
The wind picked up, tents blowing over and tarps straining against the gusts (30 mph, I heard later). Almost everyone gathered around a hearty fire; the rest did a few more ups-and-downs of Lynch. Event times and experiences were shared, with occasional blasts of rain and hail drowning out some of the conversation. A rainbow of extraordinatory hue appeared. Dinner was enjoyed in a large circle containing all of us. It was followed by a skit put on by the mentors—definitely the best performance of the day. Bedtime came early for me; went to sleep with the sound of rain on the roof (and with the worry that the makeshift rainfly wouldn't do its job).
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