Running in Diapers, a Flat Tire and ... a Medal

5 a.m. Jim's alarm goes off so he can get in the woods before the sun is up for a little bow hunting. My alarm is set for 6, but there's no getting back to sleep now. I start to wish I had hit the hay considerably earlier than the 11:30 p.m reality. I spend 30 minutes rolling over the list of things I thought I needed in my head. I'd gotten everything ready before I went to bed, but I remember GLOVES (it's going to be cold) and am thankful I had the time to take stock.

5:15 a.m. Jim comes to give me a kiss goodbye (he'll be gone when I get home) and tells me he pumped up my bike tires. Of course, I remembered last night at 11 p.m. that I hadn't checked them. He's nice.

5:30 a.m. I'm not sleeping. Might as well get up. I put on long running tights, a sleeveless tank, a long sleeve tech shirt, a Bondi band, and my winter running shoes. I know it's cold, but I'm not too worried about the run ... you warm up when you run. The bike could be breezy ... hence the more wind-proof shoes. I also added a zip-up wicking fabric coat.

6:30 a.m. Peanut butter sandwich thin and Cherry Coke Zero in hand, I load my bike, along with a backpack that contains my bike shorts, bike water bottle, running water bottle, gloves and sunglasses into my car and off I go. A mile down the road, I realize I forgot my bike helmet and turn around to go back for it.

7:40 a.m.-ish I pull into the very familiar Ixonia Fireman's Hall parking lot and it looks nothing like it has ever looked the other 984 times I've been there for family Christmases, family reunions, softball tournaments and wedding receptions. The music is already pumping, there's a guy talking non-stop on a microphone and there are a lot of cars with bikes. I park, take a quick walking tour around the joint to orient myself and then head to the registration trailer to give them my money, sign the waiver and pick up my timing band. The guy yammering on the mike tells everyone that it goes on your left ankle. Guess he serves a purpose afterall. Then I Google those Duathlon FAQs and learn that I'm to take everything I need for the bike to the transition area and put it on the ground by my bike.

This is what the transition area looks like from the outside. I'll explain it more tomorrow. 

8 a.m. Off to the transition area I go. I hang my bike in the space that has a number matching my bib number and I set my helmet, sunglasses, gloves and a windbreaker on the ground near my bike. I figure if I'm cold on the run, I might don the windbreaker for the bike. I look around. Some people have a towel with items precisely arranged on it. Looks like most people will be changing from running shoes to clip bike shoes. (I won't ... I use dorky "basket" pedals.) Someone even has a 5-gallon bucket ... to sit on, I assume, as he/she changes shoes. Shaving seconds off of transitions is apparently very important.

My bike is the one in the middle. My helmet and backpack are on the ground. Looks likethe cool kids hang their helmets on their bikes. 

8:05 a.m. Now I have 55 minutes to kill. I make several trips to the restroom. I walk around to warm up. I stretch. Mostly I wait. I laugh at the guy on the trainer warming up. I shouldn't. But I just don't understand the "seriousness" of these things sometime. Even if he wins every time, it's not like he's going to be in the Olympics. So, in my mind, he's just a dude running a weekend race. I do, however, understand wanting to be better ... to improve your own time. So I should probably just shut up.

8:45 a.m. They start lining up the elite runners in the first wave. As you can guess, I am not one.  I decide that I am going to wear my bike shorts over my tights and quickly run back to my car to put them on. Running in them feels like running in diapers, but having them on will make for a faster transition.

9 a.m. The elite leave and then they start taking groups of 50 entrants (by bib number) at a time for a staggared start. We're all wearing a chip, so the clock starts when you do. My wave is the very last one. That's what you get for signing up the day of the event. I AM the back of the pack.

9:05-ish a.m. We're off for our two miles. My knees are not feeling great, but two miles is doable. I pass a few people and settle into my cautious pace. Since I've never done this before, I'm unsure of how much to hold back or if I even should. The course winds by the houses of TWO aunts (neither were home) and we're back at the transition area before I know it.

Reminder that you cannot ride your bike in the transition area. I just like the sign because it says "MOUNT" in all caps. Remember Beevis and Butthead, heh?

9:23-ish a.m. Now inside the transition area. Helmet on and off we go. My legs feel surprisingly OK. My goal is to pass 17 people in 17 miles. And I have 9 of them in the bag around mile 12 with a big, gettable group in front of me, when ...

10-ish a.m. Mile 12, back tire feels wonky going up a hill. I shift through the gears, wiggle waggle on the road, test the brakes. I try to figure out what's going on. And then I notice that a few people I have passed start passing me back. What the hell? I'm pedaling just as hard, but I'm going too slow. And then I hear it. Thwap. Thwap. Thwap. Flat tire.

10:05-ish a.m. I start walking my bike along Highway E as everyone and their dog (their three legged, blind dog, for the record) passes me. "You OK?" they ask. "Flat tire. No tube," I say. "Sag wagon's coming," they cheerfully observe. Grrrrrr.

10:24-ish a.m. The sag wagon has indeed arrived. I probably walked a mile before he got to me. He has an injured or over-exerted rider inside the van who appears to be OK. Sag Wagon Guy is a darling man. And he proceeds to give me the full You Tube demo of how to change a tube. I nod and throw in some "I sees" and "Ahs" and "Oh, I get its" in there as if I'm really paying attention and all I can think about is how I'm going to ride around the parking lot, come in the back way, load my bike and get out of there with a DNF (Did Not Finish). By 10:30 or so, I'm back on my way again, just over three miles to go to the transition area.

See ... "DISMOUNT" is just not as funny.

10:45-ish a.m. I round the corner toward the transition area and I know that I won't just pack it up and go home. As late as I am, there is still a full contingent of cheer-ers on the course, even though I can hear them giving awards away for the top finishers over the PA system. (I know now that there was ONE person behind me at this point. One.) I hop off my bike before the line on the pavement, jog it into the transition area, take off my helmet and start running. I vow to pass a few people ... because I didn't get to do it like I wanted to on the bike. And pass them I do. Four of them.

A little after 11 a.m. I cross the finish line. I pack up my bike, pick up my medal and I'm in the car by 11:19 a.m.

It was a good day.