To study the race results, you'll see that he BEAT me. The Tall One, that is. So did the Governor of our state and a lot of other people in Spandex.
The Tall One and I spent our Saturday morning dressed up like triathletes -- on a totally gorgeous, beachy, sunny day. Totally. The sounds of Journey and Bon Jovi rang out as triathletes of all makes and models set out on a course so short it was less of a "sprint" and more of a "dash."
A short 300 m swim in PERFECTLY warm water. A brief 11.1 mile bike on a flat and sometimes rolling SHADED country road. A beautiful field of red poppies and purple heather. A very flat, hot and seemingly endless 2.1 mile run on legs that didn't conserve quite enough on the bike.
I'm a different person at a race. I suddenly become an expert on stuff I don't know a lot about. Pace. Transition. Wave position. Nutrition. FASHION. And I don't mind telling you. To The Tall One, in his first race, I sounded like a first-class know-it-all -- and someone I wouldn't like very much ... on the street.
But, at a race I become this person who likes to cuss. Who can run across hot, asphalt pavement oblivious to the pain on my usually tender feet. I wipe my nose on my hand. Pour water down my shirt. Hurl my empty water cups into fields of onlookers. Step into a Porta Potty barefooted. Sit DOWN rather than hover. Drink beer and eat ice cream simultaneously ... post-race.
Swagger. Stretch. Sweat.
I LIKE me at a race. I like the way I feel, move, endure ...
The Tall One beat me on Saturday across the board ... by a hundredth of a second in the swim, by several minutes in the bike and run.
BUT, in those critical minutes between events -- those seconds/minutes when you sling goggles and swim caps and socks and Gel Shots -- I DOMINATED.
I TOTALLY beat The Tall One in the transition area.
I can TOTALLY change shoes faster than he can.
