Thrash, splash, glug, stroke, breathe, splash, kick, stroke, roll, breathe, splash, THUD. Yow! A glancing blow to the nose sets a field of faint stars dancing before my eyes. Fortunately, my goggles remain firmly in place, and I've certainly been clocked worse, so I send the stars scrambling away with a shake of the head and plow onward, sprinting a bit now to escape the crowd.I'd picked a good position for the start, little dancing stars notwithstanding. There's a crowd, but it's a manageable one; for the most part, we spread out quickly and have a decent amount of space per body. Of course, I still somehow manage to find myself boxed in a couple of times within the first 5 minutes of the swim, or swum over by folks who can't seem to navigate their way straight between two river banks. One particular guy in a yellow wetsuit (he reminded me of a giant banana slug) defeats my every attempt to avoid him, so finally I make a sharp 45 degree turn and stroke 10 or 12 yards toward the right bank before continuing directly upstream. OK, I think that did it.
Let's get down to business here. Now that I'm in the clear I can concentrate and settle into a good smooth pace. The great beauty of a river swim, of course, is the mindlessness of navigation; whichever side you breathe on, you're going to see a bank, so it's pretty tough *not* to swim straight. Oh, except if you're a banana slug. ;-) Still, every once in a while I raise my head to gauge my progress by the line of buoys strung up the center of the river, as well as the large bridge crossing the river roughly halfway between the start/finish and the turnaround.
The water is a pleasant temperature, and my arms are just getting nicely warmed up and feeling good. Hmm, maybe I can actually push a little harder? It would be good to try to have a quicker swim than you did at Wildflower, I tell myself. You probably could push a bit harder and not waste yourself too much; give it a try.
OK, what the hell. I concentrate on lengthening my stoke and increase my cadence just a hair. "Remember to roll your hips," I command. "Glide, make each stroke count." I get into a rhythm and chant to myself with each stroke "Power...Smooth...Power...Smooth..."
I sing-song myself beneath and beyond the bridge, my mind wandering as I gaze up at its huge towers. I remember last year, after the International Vineman, Skippy and I had gone canoeing on the river. "Did we get down this far?" I muse as I splash along. "Didn't we go under this bridge? Naw, we couldn't have, we would have had to go over the dam at Johnson's Beach. So where did we..." Slap---whoops, sorry! That's what I get for not paying attention. I just nearly swam over a swimmer from the previous wave. Watch what you're doing here, TriBooby.
Ok, back to work: Power...Smooth...Power...Smooth. Y'know, I kinda have to go to the bathroom, darn it. Well, just keep stroking, see if you can let loose without stopping (ah, the joys of being a triathlete!). The porta-potties are not convenient to the transition area, and starting a 56-mile ride with a full or even semi-full bladder is not something I care to contemplate. I cease kicking and try to relax. Come on, come on, just go!
No dice. After 40 or 50 meters I give up and go back to kicking. What are my options here? I can see the turnaround just about 150 meters distant, so I'm close to half-way. Well, I could just STOP, get it over with, and then go on, but I hate to lose the time. But if I don't, I'll have to try to get to those porta-potties in transition, and that'll really take a lot of time. Or, I could just ignore it and go out on the bike having to go.....Not. OK, ok, make sure there's no one behind you that might run into you....all right, stop swimming for a few seconds...
Have you ever stopped and looked around in the middle of a tri swim? There's something surreal about being out there and stopping just to WATCH that of which you are a part, seeing the frenzy of splashing and thrashing and effort out away from the crowds at the start and finish. The earnest churning of hundreds of arms and legs kicks up a white chop and spray sprinkled with brightly colored swim caps, the splashing drowning out nearly every other sound.
Of course, this is all very interesting, but geez, come on, I gotta get going! I stand there (yes, stand---they weren't kidding at the pre-race talk when they said the river was shallow this year!) for perhaps 10 or 15 seconds trying to answer the call of nature, but I can't seem to find the 'phone. I see the first yellow caps from my wave already heading back to Johnson's beach on the other side of the buoys and say "To hell with this!" I throw myself horizontal again and stroke furiously for several meters, trying to make up a little of the time I'd just completely wasted. Damn, 10 or 15 seconds down the drain (or the river), for nothing!
Now I'm cranky as all get out, and my stroke suffers for it. I'm swimming hard, but not very smoothly, as I approach the turnaround. As usual there's a backup at the buoy, but I plow my way as close to the turn as possible and squeeze between two gals from the previous wave to make the turn. I hit the buoy, and WHAM! It hit back! Ow! Actually, what hit me was the girl on the inside; just as she turned the buoy, she stopped (umm....not smart), put her head up to get her bearings, and proceeded to breast stroke, her first outward kick nailing me squarely in the upper arm. Oh, man... We're not doing well today.
I'm sufficiently stunned that I stop a moment before recovering and swimming a few strokes away. Now I'm fuming. I stand up and holler something angrily in the direction of the girl who'd kicked me (knowing full well she can't hear me) and begin dolphining as hard as I can in the shallow water. I know that it wasn't really her fault, that this kind of thing happens all the time, and that I was just as much to blame for getting so aggressive at the buoy. But damn! That hurt.
I get going again and scold myself for being a brat. Well, I needed that kick to wake me up, anyway! I gotta get serious here. And I have GOT to go to the bathroom. I swim another 50 meters or so, and once again stop, determined to wait as long as it might take. I begin watching my watch, and I wait as the seconds and the swimmers fly by.....
17...18...19...20 seconds.... Go! Whew! Now I can swim!
Greatly relieved, I quickly focus and get back into my Power...Smooth rhythm. No more distractions! Power....Smooth....Stroke, glide, breathe, kick, splash, stroke, breathe, roll...Power...Smooth....Power....Smooth... Back under the bridge. Stroke, kick, roll, breathe...Power...Smooth.... Avoid these two slow guys from the previous wave, get around 'em..... Power...Smooth.... Keep up with this gal from your wave, she's got a good rhythm going.... Splash, breathe, stroke, roll....
There's Johnson's Beach, almost there! I quicken my stroke rate just a pinch. Go ahead and blow it out now, not much more left. I wind it up and begin to hammer, passing my pacer and making a beeline for the finish....Power! Smooth! Power! Smooth!
I stop and stand, glancing at my watch before fumbling for my wetsuit leash. 36:20. Hmm. Could be better, but under the circumstances, not bad at all--- that's still 1:34 quicker than Wildflower, despite all of your silly bungling out there. Now hurry up and peel off this wetsuit, unless you want your transition to be no faster than T1 at Wildflower!
Off with the neoprene and I sprint from the river through the finish chute. I hear Skippy and Steve (Janet's husband) hollering to me and toss them my longjohn before heading into the transition area. I call out "333!" to the timers and pause to slip on my Keds. Thank heaven for those Keds! The swim finish chute was carpeted, but after the carpeting came more than 50 meters of rocky, gravelly broken pavement and dirt in the transition area. I pass at least three people working their barefoot way gingerly to their bikes, one of whom remarks enviously upon my foresight. "I remembered this transition area from last year!" I reply over my shoulder.
Trot, trot, trot, all the way to the back row. Hey, what is this??? Get the hell outta the way! I do a Dave Scott impersonation, crying "Look out, Look out, Look out, LOOK OUT!" as I barrel through a passel of spectators who have seen fit to crowd *into* the transition area at this end to take pictures. I'm sorry, but that was just plain rude! Those of us starting in the last wave are no less intent on a good performance than those in the first, and it is insulting and unfair for folks to treat us like second-class citizens by failing to keep the area clear for us.
Irritated but remaining focussed, I have a good transition. Keds off, rinse the feet in the basin, on with the socks (SportSlick pre-squeezed across the toes inside), bike shorts, and cleats. Get the helmet on, Oakleys, throw a Pop Tart in the singlet pocket. Dump out the basin and stuff everything remaining in your numbered plastic bag, then hop on, click in, and go like hell.....
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