A Less than Historic Day

On August 21, 2010, I completed my first triathlon. It was a half triathlon, to be precise, but why quibble about the details? It was three sports together, and it is done. You can call me a triathlete. I am proud to have completed it, especially considering several key factors working against me. First, I am not in very good shape. This could be overcome with a rigorous training regimen, but that discounts the second thing working against me, namely that I decided to compete in the event a full hour and ten minutes before the starting gun went off. Finally there was my bicycle.

A triathlon is a swim-bike-run race, and of these, my strongest suit is by far swimming. My plan was to do respectably in the swimming, hold my position in the bicycling, and with any luck complete the running. The logic proceeded thusly: In college I regularly swam up to two miles a day. In the last eight years, I have swum at least three times. So that part should be no problem. Bicycling- well, you never forget how to ride a bike, and my friend’s bike will be back from the shop by the time the race starts, so I should be okay there as well. Running on the other hand is where I expect everyone to pass me by. So much for training and preparation.

This race consisted of a 750m swim, a 20+km bike ride, and a 5km run. I got off to a strong start in the water, not taking the lead, but at least holding my own for a good ways. At some point I realized that, this being the mouth of Kilifi creek, I would not have a wall to push off, and 750 meters is a long way to swim. Still, by conveniently switching to the breaststroke a third of the way through, I managed to swallow less water and finish at least in the upper 75% of the pack, possibly even in the upper 50%. It was hard to tell exactly where I stood as I made my way on rubber legs to my friends who stood by my bicycle.

Standard procedure at this point, I believe, is to have some water, put on your shoes, and get going. Never to be one who does things by the prescribed method, I took a nice five minute break to catch my breath, have a little more water, and advise the people who sped by me to take it easy, don’t make any rookie mistakes. Finally it was time to get on my bike and to be on my way up the dirt trail. A flying start was not in the works, but a wobbly start was just as good, and I was off.

“Standi! Standi!” yelled the kids who I rode by for the first few minutes. Not knowing what that meant in Swahili I took it as words of encouragement. “Thank you!” I responded, pushing my way up the hill from the beach to the main loop around the sisal plantation. After passing a few more groups of kids who helpfully pointed at my back wheel, I realized the jangling sound my bike was producing was from the kickstand being down, bouncing on the rocks and the dirt. 'Standi' means kickstand. Duly noted. A quick kick with my left foot and I was still moving, not having missed a pedal push. A minute later there was more jangling, and more shouts of “Standi!” and regular pattern soon emerged of me kicking the stand up, and the stand falling down.

Somewhere around kilometer four, where the path around the Mnarani plantation opens up and you can see past the few scattered luxury villas out over the Indian Ocean, I realized my back tire was completely flat. It was still moving, but it was completely flat. By kilometer five, where you yell your number to a race official who is making sure no one takes any short cuts, I still had not been passed by anyone. Not a bad showing on a flat tire and a dragging kickstand, but it was not to last. The second half of the first lap saw me get left behind, as pedaling my bike with its flat tire became more and more difficult. One friend who passed by said, “Ouch, you’re not going to make the second lap on that.”

“Oh yeah?” my spirit responded.

“Yeah,” replied reality.

By the end of my first lap I was firmly in last place, and the leaders were passing me by again, completing the bicycle portion and moving on to the running. Cries of “Standi!” were joined by shouts of “Puncture!” indicating my back tire. The thought crossed my mind of simply stopping there at the finish line. It was excusable. My back tire was flat, and I was out of the competition. But then I thought, “What the hell, I’ll keep going,” and that proved enough reasoning to keep me pushing through. I have found that I don’t have a very strong competitive streak, but my ‘Oh, what the hell’ streak is fairly well developed.

So I proceeded to begin the second lap, slowly trudging over the dirt roads, taking in the nice views, smiling at the cries of “Standi!” and “Puncture!” and the quizzical looks I received from plantation workers and grounds keepers. They stared as if to say, “Didn’t those crazy bicyclists finish their race an hour ago?”

Somewhere around kilometer 17.5, the back tire came off completely. The wheel stopped turning. The bike was dead. I got off and pushed. The final stretch was over a grass airfield, and the tire dragged considerably, so I picked the bike over my shoulder, determined to finish in dramatic fashion. I dropped the bike past the finish line, smiled to my friends who were laughing at my predicament, and began jogging.

By this time, the sun was getting low, and I could take it easy on my lonely trek through the plantation. It was a beautiful day, and I found it quite relaxing to not be racing anyone as I shuffled my feet in some pattern that resembled a run. In the end, I think that my bicycle was actually a saving grace. It spared me the embarrassment of coming in last place on my own merits. It also provided the motivation to keep going. I had originally thought that after swimming, everything was a wash anyway, that I might do the bicycling just for fun, and that in the run I stood no chance. Once I had the bike meltdown, my drive to finish, my stubbornness, took over. By the time I started the run, there was no question that I would complete the whole race.

I made the final turn to come down the airfield and finished it off with a ‘Chariots of Fire’ sprint. The awards ceremony was almost finished, and people applauded, friends laughed and gave high fives. Done. You can put it in the record books. Last place. Saved by the bicycle.