Crank, crank, crank....up the little hill from the river to the road. Weave through the oblivious spectators crossing the road, smile to the ones cheering. The ol' legs don't think this hill thing is funny, but it's quickly over; I make the sharp right turn at the top and click back up through the gears. Click, click, click! A little too much foot and auto traffic to get aero yet... through a weird little downtown intersection, now onto River Road, and down in the aerobars we go.Dang, a lot of traffic out and about. Hmm, another disadvantage to being in the last wave; it's already past 10 o'clock, and Guerneville is wide awake. It's not a huge problem, except that about a mile or so outside of town I spy a woman riding about a yard LEFT of the white line for absolutely no reason and traffic backing up behind her. It's just one of those days, I guess.
"Move the hell over and let the traffic by!" I holler at the top of my lungs as I approach. Sights like this always infuriate me because the LAST thing we triathletes should do is alienate folks living in the towns and driving the roads where our races are held. Even when every single participant behaves impeccably, triathlons can cause a heap of inconvenience for those in the near vicinity, so it's up to all of us not to abuse the privilege of sharing their beaches, lakes, rivers, and roads.
The road hog up ahead finally gets the idea after a second admonition from yours truly and sidles over into the bike lane. Very good. The traffic starts to flow smoothly by, and I manage to slip into a gap and power by the oblivious cyclist. I can't help but shake my head as I pass; geez, haven't you maybe considered that it might be *dangerous* (let alone rude and against the rules) toodling along in the car lane? Nahhhh!
Awright, time to focus. Get a good cadence going, don't push too big a gear, get a handle on how good you're feeling, get comfortable. Oh, shoot! Forgot to hit my split button when I left the TA. Sit up and hit it, even though it's sort of pointless by now. Oh well, that's ok, I can get my bike split from my bike computer anyway. Back in the aero bars and settle in for the ride.
River Road roughly parallels the Russian River most of the way between Guerneville and Highway 101 near Santa Rosa, meandering through stately redwood forests and rolling green vineyards. Cruising eastward on this flat (mostly), fast road, I'm holding 21mph without too much effort, feeling pretty good. Half-IM number 2! I'm excited, and happy just to be here. I gobble up cyclists here and there, among them a woman with that distinctive "Z" on her calf, the mark of a fellow Clyde. "Good job!" I compliment her in passing. "You too!" she replies. OK, that's one Clyde down; how many more are up ahead?
Next I pass Jon McClean, the wheelchair Ironman, out here earning his Kona slot just like everyone else. It's an honor to be on the course with this guy, those massive arms cranking away with probably twice as much power as my own lanky legs can churn out. "All right, Ironman!" is my greeting as I roll on by. I love this sport.
A right turn down a steep, rough side-road that winds about and then passes beneath River Road, and we pop up on the other side, now heading as much north as east. Lots of rollers out here, a power-cyclist's dream. I make the most of it, passing a whole lot of people on this relatively technical section, doing my darnedest to avoid some of the rougher stretches of pavement on these narrow rural roads.
Beautiful vineyards, tangled masses of oak, madrone, redwood, dried grass and scrub, a beautiful mid-summer panorama; we roll by small farms, large wineries, cowpens, orchards, wide green pastures. Still hiding behind protective high clouds, the sun beams down just warmly enough to remind us that it is indeed summer. Conditions could not be better.
Somewhere along here the leader of the the Full Vineman blasts by, followed closely by second place and a smattering of offical race vehicles. How do these guys do it?! They are FLYING, and they've already gone more than 60 miles, with another 50 to go. Just amazing!
A right turn and a longish downhill straightaway, then the turn to the Magnolia loop, a flat, open stretch over particularly rough, narrow roads through several small, homey vineyards. I grab a bottle and a banana at the aid station and thank the volunteers, dumping the bottle's contents into my JetStream and cramming down the banana as quickly as I can. Hammer through the loop, but try to remind myself to keep an eye on my HR, don't let it get beyond 165, kiddo, you'll blow yourself up, and you're only at about the 13 or 14 mile mark now.
Finishing up the Magnolia loop and heading back out to the main course, I quickly dispatch female Clyde number 2, motoring by decisively with a friendly greeting. OK, that's two down; how many left to go?
Flats, rollers, more fields, and, incredibly, the vineyards just keep coming and coming! No wonder they call this the Vineman. I chug along, eating and drinking, in a steady rhythm, my speed hovering right around 20 mph or above. I feel really good, and, what's more, this is FUN. But come on, stay focussed; how many more Clydes up ahead?
Out on Dry Creek Road, a wider and more trafficked thoroughfare with a wide, smooth bike lane. A bit of a climb to it here, but nothing really significant; drop a gear and keep that spin going.
Around mile 28, I'm gaining on a fellow riding---you guessed it---a tad to the left of the white line. "On your left!" I call out as I approach. No response. "On your left!" I repeat insistently. "I heard you!" he snorts back, but makes no move whatsoever to give me room to pass. In exasperation, I look over my shoulder, then gun it to pass him as quickly as I can. "You know, you're supposed to stay to the right at all times when you're not passing; you can get DQ'ed for blocking," I advise in a friendly voice, realizing he's probably not a "regular", and may not be familiar with the rules. "Thanks for the tip," he sneers, going into testosterone overdrive and blasting around me to get in front again. Oh, brother! What a chowderhead. I shake my head and roll my eyes, watching him crank away about 20 meters or so, then settle back down to his prior position just to the left of the white line.
Asshole.
I continue my steady spin, never varying my pace. The road rolls a bit more, and in another half-mile or so there's a straight flat stretch with ever-so-slight a downhill tilt---TriBaby terrain! Crank, crank, crank......Booom! That twit is history. I pass him like he's standing still and never look back, never see him again. I can't help but feel smugly satisfied. So much for Bozo the Blocker, and Boy! Was that sweet!
On and on, vineyards, gentle hills, pastures, oak groves, fields. The road curves and heads east again, and there's 101. The one significant descent on the whole course is a straight shot down this hill and under the freeway where we'll hook up with Highway 128. I crank it up and prepare to use the descent for all it's worth, tucking in tight and picking up speed. 25, 27, 30, 31 mph, 32, 33, 3 YOW!!! What in the---- There's a bloody yellowjacket stuck in my leg just above the knee, OWW! Get offa me, get OFF! I can't whack it away, I'm going over 35 mph on this hill and am not about to risk a major wipeout 32 miles into the bike, thank you. I maintain a death grip on the bars and glare helplessly at the angry insect pinned to my skin and flailing frantically. At last, after less than 30 seconds that feel more like 5 minutes, the hill flattens a bit and I urgently spare a hand to brush the damned thing from my leg.
An evil scarlet dot marks the puncture point, and the indignant skin in the general vicinity glows hot and pink. Geez, that thing hurts! Just what I needed. The thing is pulsing, and I consider how quickly the poison is getting churned about down there, what with my heart going at 160 bpm. Yuck! Thank god I'm not allergic, anyway.
All right, all right, try to regain some composure here, it ain't the end of the world, and it sure as hell isn't the end of the race! Under the freeway, make a right turn and thank the police and volunteers manning the intersection. Shake off the sting, ignore it, don't let it distract you. Riding through a small town, a narrow road and virtually no shoulder. This isn't Healdsburg, is it? I'm not sure what it is, but it's certainly a pretty little place. Too bad it looks like developers have found it....
Take a left, look out for traffic! Down a slight grade, across a narrow bridge---is that the Russian River again? Keep goin', eat some more PowerBar, drink some more Cytomax, stretch your back a bit.
128 is primarily a flat-to-rolling, winding rural road through (you guessed it!) more vineyards, open fields, farms, and ranches. It passes through the occasional small town or hamlet, and for the most part you can motor along at an excellent clip. I'm doing 20 mph or more, and still feeling pretty darned fresh. Approaching the mile 40 aid station, we're passing through one of the more heavily travelled stretches. It's a struggle to avoid traffic and, coming up on other cyclists from behind, to avoid drafting as well. It gets downright congested when, nearing the aid station, we come upon a small group of wine-country tourists toodling along on rented bikes.
I'm doing a good clip as I near the station, but holy cats! The damned tourists are RIGHT there, and a cyclist ahead of me is forced to brake heavily to avoid plowing into them. I see them cheerily wave off bottles offered by the confused aid station volunteers, but I'm cursing at the top of my lungs because I NEED one of those bottles, dammit. Geez, get outta the way!
Utterly furious, I shift into overdrive and storm around the hapless tourists----must 'a' scared the hell outta them, I'm rather ashamed to admit. Well, it was just a case of lousy timing, and I should have been more mellow about it. But Shoot! I'm racing here, and the bike is the only place I can really make time, so I was pretty steamed.
Fortunately, this was an exceptionally long aid station, so TriBaby got her bottle (the big baby), and proceeded to feel abashed for exhibiting such aggressive behavior. Sheesh, you'd think I take this sport *seriously* or something. ;-)
Onward! The last 10 or 15 miles of the bike actually have a couple of hills, and so it's time to prepare for those. They didn't appear particularly imposing yesterday driving the course, but after 45 miles of racing, it's always a different story. Chalk Hill is supposed to be kinda nasty, and I keep looking for it; as the road begins to roll, I try to remember at exactly which point the *real* hill begins.
I start one climb and think, "Is this it?" as I doubleshift and proceed to drop my chain. Oh, hell. Can't get it back on by shifting the front derailleur, so I stop and click out to fix it. Takes me all of about 10 seconds (heck, I needed a rest anyhow ;-) , but it's enough time to allow one gal to ride by me. I catch her on the next rise and ask, "Is *this* THE hill? I can't remember." "Oh, I don't know, I've never done this race before." "Oh, well, there's one semi-serious climb coming up, but I'm just not exactly sure where it is." "Man, everyone said this course was flat," she opines good-naturedly. "Don't worry, it's not a real bad climb; it's just where it comes in the race that makes it tough."
I drop her on the rollers, and by the time I finally hit the *real* Chalk Hill, she's nowhere in sight. As I said, it's not a real bad or real long hill; it's just that you hit it around mile 50, yuck! I simply drop to the 25 and spin away happily, watching a Full Vineman competitor fly by looking invincible. How do they do it? I wonder in admiration.
I crest the hill at last and stretch my back and legs, grin at the volunteer at the top, and settle back for more flats and rollers. One more aid station, this one "manned" by a troop of boy scouts, and then we turn and head back toward 101 for the last climb of the day, over the freeway. It's a little dicey avoiding traffic on the on- and off-ramps, but I roll through unscathed. The more dangerous part proves to be the railroad tracks we cross just beyond the freeway----Yow, I was convinced I was going to have a nasty flat (if not two of 'em!) with less than two miles to go, and wouldn't that just suck big wienies?!
Fortunately, Shamals are damned strong wheels; they hold up beautifully despite 20 tons of pressure exerted upon them slamming over those silly tracks. Whew.
Almost there! I can practically smell the transition area, I know it's close! A left turn and now we twist and turn on pancake flat roads through the business park; another left and I'm on Airport Boulevard, riding on the left side of the road while, across the street, runners stream by in both directions in various stages of fatigue. The sight fills me with greater urgency---I gotta get out there and start running too! Hang on, hang on, curb that energy, try to relax a bit and loosen your legs up; it's a long run ahead of you, give yourself a chance.
A final left turn into the business park, crowds cheering, athletes walking and running, the PA system booming. "Go, Tricia! Go, TriBaby!" I hear Skippy and Steve holler as I roll into the TA. Shoot, I sure wish I didn't have to go slow in the TA; it's a LONG way to the back. I softpedal obediently past the rows and rows of bikes, bending to rip open the velcro on my cleats. I overshoot my rack because, once again, there are a bunch of people standing around it chatting! I don't believe it, not AGAIN! URRGH. I shoo them out of the way and don't waste too much energy being pissed; I'm too happy with my bike split, 2:55:xx. Under three hours, and average speed was 19.2 mph! Excellent.
Shorts off, running shoes on. Helmet off, running hat on. Number belt, torso pack, a last swig of Cytomax, Let's go! Start the long trot back through the TA, casting glances left and right in search of the nearest portapotty. Nothin'. At last I exit the snow fencing and ask attendant officials, "Where's the nearest portapotty?" "Just up ahead," they reply.
"All right, Tricia! Way to go, girl!"
"Hey, Skip! I kept the bike under three hours," I cry gleefully.
"Good job! Go get 'em!" she responds.Ah, *there* it is! Into the little teal box I go, and emerge a moment later feeling greatly relieved and ready to run. NOW, Let's go!
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