I am the only person who can starve to death in Spain. Jamon Iberico, tortilla, queso, vino – all
great stuff, but never when you need it.
Angie and Jason, and Dave and I, have no intention of
bucking our host country’s culture. We are willing to adapt; we want the full
Spanish experience. But it seems that the Spanish don’t require nearly as much
sustenance as I do. Coffee for breakfast, maybe a piece of bread -- then
nothing until many hours later. Seems you’re only permitted to eat between 1 PM
and 4 PM, and then again after 9 PM. Then there’s that siesta thing: everything – including every restaurant, café,
and grocery store -- shuts down exactly when your body craves a morsel of
something to gnaw on.
I am pretty much hungry all the time.
And nervous. We have arrived in Aviles, and I am no longer able to hide from the
inevitable. I had been in a state of semi-denial the weeks and months leading
up to Worlds. It’s a stress-management mechanism, and a way to stay focused on
what I need to do without worrying – unnecessarily – about outcome.
But now, we’re here and it’s real. Angie and I have 3½ days
before we are to compete in the most important race of our lives.
The gravity of the event hits me during the Parade of Nations. We are marching through the narrow streets of Aviles. All the athletes – 1400 total, representing 40 countries - are in team colors and lined up behind their nation’s flag. Every resident of Aviles seems to be here, too; there isn’t one unoccupied space along the curb.
Kristin Allyne, who is competing in her 9th world championship event with Team USA, carries the American flag and leads us along the route. When Team USA passes by, the Spanish people cheer loudly. I feel like a celebrity, returning smiles to strangers who are welcoming us as friends. It is all incredibly humbling, and I fight back tears. This crazy adventure will be enough of a blur without tears.
The entire time we are in Aviles, Angie and I wear the Team
USA uniform. We are representing our country, and have never been so proud to
display our red, white, and blue. For
all the bad press the US receives from foreign nations (some of it deserved,
some of it not), it just feels right to step out every day in our team kit. (Side note: I didn’t really have a choice. My
luggage arrived in Madrid a day later than I did, so I had to do with what I
carried on. Happily, it was everything I needed leading up to and including the
race itself).
The early part of the week is a whirlwind, starting with
figuring out how to park a modern car in a medieval village. (We would become
experts at navigating Romanesque-era roads by the end of this trip). The first thing we do after checking in to the
Palacio Hotel is to find the bikes we rented through Raceday Transport, a
partner with Team USA in shipping and fitting kickass tri bikes for events like
this.
We are told that the bikes haven’t arrived yet. Somebody
must have packed something in their bike box that they shouldn’t have, and
Spanish customs held up the entire shipment (which almost jeopardized the
entire team – but all’s well that ends well).
When they arrive the following day (insert big sigh of relief here),
Angie and I are fitted on our trusty temporary steeds: she’s on a QR, I get a
Guru. It’s not solid black, but other than that it’s perfect.
The days prior to the race are packed. We have a tight agenda:
Bike fit, course preview, team meeting, transition walk-through, parade and
team photo, opening ceremony, all in the same afternoon. When do we get to
eat??
We attempt to ‘grab lunch’ (a term that you will never hear
in Spanish) before our crazy afternoon agenda, but it’s hard to mesh our
schedule with the local culture. At 1 PM, we’re waiting for something –
anything – to open up that serves food. We wait for service, we wait for
water*, we order food and wait some more. Angie and I leave before the food
arrives, leaving the guys alone to try to explain this nonsense to the perplexed
waiter. I spend the afternoon hungry.
* For some reason, it’s really hard to get water in a
Spanish restaurant. It’s not a language barrier thing, either. Jason was an
excellent translator and our trip was enhanced because of his ability to connect
with local people through a shared language. The water situation must be a
cultural barrier, one of the quirks about foreign travel that make it both
interesting and frustrating.
I’m hoping this excess hunger is going to help me with my
skinsuit. The skinsuit, as its name implies, is meant to fit like a second
skin. It’s really a star-spangled sausage casing. It’s so small that
Angie
stuffed hers into the front pocket of her jeans before boarding the
flight to Madrid.
And it’s snug,
lengthwise. The straps dig into my shoulders, the open-back design is pulled
wayyyyy down. I’m a bit concerned about this.
If it rains during the race, I’m bound to freeze. And what if my ass
crack shows when I’m on the bike? OMG – here comes that American plumber girl
again. Ugh.
My nerves are calmed a bit when Angie and I ride the course
for a second time. There are circles all over this course: roundabouts and
U-turns and multiple laps of the same. I want to ride it enough times to be
able to not have to think about it during the race, but I will be relying on
barriers to keep me on course.
The evening before the race, the anxiety builds. We are
ready to get this party started.
The next morning, we are READY! Our bikes are already in
transition, we just need to haul our gear to the event start, do a bit of a
warm up, and wait for the gun.
Women 40+ Standard distance is the last wave. Waiting at the
start line with gals from all over the world, bonding with our US teammates.
The conversation turns political, much to my delight, and I attempt to convince
the British girls that all Americans aren’t ignorant. Laughter calms my nerves.
For the first time in days, the sun makes an appearance.
Mediterranean sun. It’s not ‘hot’, but it will be and I make a mental note to
STAY HYDRATED. I wish I had more food. Too late now.
The race site is a huge, post-modern dome, across the river
from the city center. Every day, we descend to the river via a twisting maze of
stone streets, walk up a cantilevered ramp, cross the multicolored bridge. By
the time the race is over, we will have walked this route many, many times. It
feels familiar. The race course is designed to encourage spectators, and from
the ramp and both sides of the river, fans watch and cheer. Racers must pass this
area many times: twice on the first run, 2 ½ times on the bike, twice more on
the 2nd run.
I take my position. The gun goes off.
The first run is fun and exciting. Cheering crowds, cries of
‘Vamos!’ and ‘Team USA!’ keep me on pace for the 10K. There are 2 aid stations
along the running course. Although Angie has been trying to teach me how to
drink while running without drowning myself, she has not been successful. I
take a bottle hand-up at every opportunity, sometimes choking on it but mostly
pouring it over my head, hoping that somehow the hydration reaches my
rapidly-depleting cells.
First run completed, onto transition. To those unfamiliar with multisport events,
the transition area is where you ditch your running shoes and get your bike
(T1), and then switch back again once you’re done with the bike leg and ready
for the last run (T2). The object is to do it as quickly and efficiently as
possible. Because of the huge competitor field, the transition area was extra
long, added ½ mile of running – ¼ mile each transition – to our race.
Once on the bike, I’m in my zone. I’m also confident that I
know where I’m going, thanks to the multiple course previews that Angie and I
did earlier. Still, the course is 2 ½ laps of circles, twists, and turns. Arrows
point out the routes for standard and sprint and lap count, but you have to pay
attention. Course re-con gave us an idea of where we could put the hammer down
without missing a turn or crashing into a barrier. Never underestimate the
power of course re-con!
Speaking of speed, this race was all about pacing. This was
the first time either of us competed in standard distance (10K run/25 mile
bike/5 K run). Strategy is required. Ours was simple: Do the long run at a moderate
pace, keep a moderate to high intensity on the bike but save something for the
2nd run, then open it up for the final 5K! Of course, this works
only if you have something left in the tank at that point.
Coming into the last half- lap of the bike course, my calves
start to cramp. It’s dehydration, I’m sure. I acknowledge it and then try to
block it out of my mind, strategize how to manage during the last run.
I’m off the bike and the world seems to be turning in slow
motion. With forced deliberation, I get my shoes on and force my leaden legs to
move. It’s only 3 miles, I tell myself – this race will be over in less than
half an hour as long as I keep moving.
Self talk when I’m suffering: Visualize the finish.
Visualize grabbing that little American flag and waving it as I cross the line,
smiling. Do it for your country. Do it for Team USA.
My heart feels like it’s going to explode out of my chest.
Good thing the skinsuit is tight. I slow my pace, but keep moving. I stop
running, but keep moving. Gasp out a ‘gracias’ to the guy who hands me a bottle
of water. Take a sip, pour the rest over my head. Water pours down into my
shoes, and I feel blisters emerging. My legs are protesting, and my brain is
fighting them. KEEP GOING.
The cheering crowds have thinned. I am happy for that. There
is nothing they could do or say to make me feel stronger, and I hate to look
like I’m suffering in front of people.
As I near the multicolored bridge, there is more spectator
fervor. Dave and Jason have been following us throughout the race, wearing custom
T-shirts to show who they support. All of it becomes a blur. Maybe I’m
delirious, or just too focused on finishing. I miss my little flag hand-up
somehow. I am relieved to finally cross the finish line, with a smile but
without a flag, and ready to put this race behind me.
If there is a finish line photo, it’s not the one I was
hoping for. I probably look a little
pale, maybe ready to fall over. The finish line photo I was hoping for is me
looking fresh, triumphant smile, arms raised in victory, little flag in hand.
Maybe next time. **
**Never say never.
True to Spanish sensibilities, the award ceremony starts at
10:30 PM (on a Sunday night! Don’t these people go to work on Monday??!!), and
lasts until well after we sneak away and head back across the river. It may be
Spain, but it’s still ‘Gin Sunday’ in my little world. Back in the Plaza, we
find one little outdoor bar still open.
I complete my rehydration protocol with a terribly
refreshing gin and tonic. We hear (rather than see) the fireworks that mark the
end of the 2016 World Duathlon Championship festivities. Now we can pack up our gear and sweaty
clothes, and embark on the next phase of our trip: a deeper immersion into
Iberian culture.
Sometime back in 2014, after a good finish at a local
duathlon, Angie suggested we compete at Nationals the following year (2015).
And we did, in St. Paul, MN, and qualified for Worlds, in Spain (2016). And we
competed at Worlds and we both finished well (she took 12th in her
age group, I took 5th in mine). And then, it was all over.
What next? Who knows? Time will reveal new opportunities.
For those who have the ability and desire to compete in a
National or World Championship event, I encourage you to go for it. By doing
so, you will be competing against the best in the nation, or the world. You
will get to experience a new place – maybe a place you never knew existed – as
a national representative on a global playing field. It’s as close as many of
us will ever get to an ‘Olympic’ dream.
Gracias, Aviles, and Team USA, and everyone who made this
event unforgettable.
Muchos gracias, Angie, for making the impossible happen. And
Dave and Jason, for your unwavering support of our great ideas.
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