Here's a rough draft/race report from the Chicago Tri from someone
at the back of the back of the pack. (The audience doesn't know
much about triathlon, so I tried to avoid jargon.)
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Every year, thousands of people and their bikes arrive at the shore of Lake
Michigan before dawn. The Chicago Triathlon draws competitors from all
over the world, including pros and Olympic athletes. This year, the
organizers were attempting a world record and there were over 7500
entrants.
A few years ago, I'd done the Chicago Tri. But since then, I'd been
sedentary for a long time and was also about fifty pounds heavier. The
folks at McKinley were concerned about a number of issues, and one of my
friends who also had PCOS had already developed full-fledged diabetes. I
sometimes remembered how it felt to go fast on the bike, and missed it.
Maybe that was what possessed me to sign up for the race this March.
Although a triathlon officially starts at the water's edge, it actually
begins long before that. People log hours practicing their swimming,
cycling, and running. Folks in triathlon tend to be very focused on the
numbers - mileage, speed, heart rate - perhaps as a way of motivating
themselves to keep pushing even when they don't feel like it.
Unfortuately, my own numbers were dismal. Some of my coworkers and I went
for a short ride, and the average speed was really slow. They
diplomatically said that recovery rides were good sometimes. But the bike
hadn't even been my weakest area - that would have been the run.
The Second Wind Running Club organized a beginning women's running group.
A cheerful sign at work read, "Thinking about running? May 2 would be a
good day to start!" I figured that they wouldn't be nearly so optimistic
when they saw me in action. It was a much better experience than I
expected, though, and some other heavy women showed up to the first
session. It got a little harder when we started running further, and some
of the folks who were slower than me stopped coming. But it gradually
became possible to keep going for a while, albeit at a glacial pace. The
mentors were supportive and encouraged me to stick with it. They seemed
really good - some of them placed in area races, and others ran marathons.
The end of August approached like a high-speed train. Registration was at
the Chicago Hilton the day before the race, and athletes with race numbers
written on their bodies swarmed through the elegant hotel. Most of them
looked formidably lean and muscular, but there were also some larger folks.
The Chicago Triathlon is a big event for heavyweight athletes, often called
Clydesdales and Athenas. After picking up my packet, I had to go stand on
the scale to prove that I met the minimum weight requirements. Everyone
who was going to race as a heavyweight had to do this. I passed by an
embarrassingly wide margin. Oh well, I was there to complete, not compete.
The next morning, we had to be there by 6 AM. The streets were almost
deserted, except for the athletes and their bikes streaming toward the
start. The race divided into waves, smaller groups that entered the water
together. Our wave was one of the last on the schedule, and I hung out and
watched the earlier groups. A friendly guy from Boston and I struck up a
conversation, and he looked at the lines for the port-a-potties and said,
"Ah, guess I'll just pee in my wetsuit." This was a great reminder to
avoid swallowing water on the swim.
Finally, our turn came. Our wave had hot pink swim caps, and the announcer
said that courage for guys wasn't doing an international distance triathlon
- it was racing in a pink cap! At the start of every triathlon, the same
thought goes through my head: "What the hell am I doing here?" But by
then, you're past the point of no return. People adjust their goggles and
wait for the start signal. When it comes, the water comes alive as a mass
of churning limbs. People generally don't think of swimming as a contact
sport, but some shoving and jockeying for position is inevitable.
Eventually you adjust to the water and settle into a rhythm. Finally, the
swim ends and there's a brief sense of disorientation as you adjust to
being back on dry land.
The bike course probably has the most rules. Riders are supposed to stay
on one side when they're not passing, and it's also forbidden to ride close
behind anyone else. Not wearing a helmet means automatic disqualification.
The pros and hard-core amateurs have very fancy equipment. For someone
riding at 15 mph or more, the biggest force that they overcome is drag. So
the highest-end bikes even have special wheels designed to reduce drag from
the spokes. A full setup can retail for well over $5000. My closest brush
with fame was being passed by some of the pros and Olympic athletes. I was
averaging an unimpressive 15-16 mph and they flew by me as if I were
standing still.
The run loomed at the end. After the bike, your legs feel like bags of
cement as you try to run. The only thing you can do is to push through it.
At first, it seemed like I'd be able to do this. I was moving really
slowly, but onlookers and other runners were yelling, "Go! You can do it!"
There were more pros running amazingly fast on their way back, and I
thought, "Wow." Then one of my feet started to hurt. I tried to keep
going, but the pain got too bad to run. Walking was still possible, and
that's what I had to do, feeling disappointed as I watched the time
slipping away. But everyone was still supportive. In fact, the sense of
encouragement and community may be what draws people to travel hundreds of
miles to participate. A handful of athletes will actually place, but most
entrants won't. However, other less tangible things drive them to return
year after year.
The disappointment over the slow finish subsided in a couple of days. With
more time to get in shape, 2006 could be a much better year. And there are
a lot of good races in the Midwest.