The Mighty Casey...Sort of... Its 0800 hours at Camp Arifjan, Kuwait. Its a bit crisp. Theres a slight breeze coming from the east off the Persian/Arabian Gulf just a couple miles away. I stand on the pool deck loosening up. I swing my arms like a windmill; pull my arms one at a time across my chest and wince. Im the only one within 7,000 miles to don a Cadillac YMCA swim cap. Phelps Im not. Thankfully, neither are the others around me. My headphones flood my brain with electrolytes infused with The Cult, Van Halen, and ACDC. Its how I vibe as my friend Cesar describes it. My eyes are hidden behind smoke tinted black speedo vanquisers. His, the unknown competitor to my left, are behind blue goggles. Our tris here involve the pool. Two per lane. Heats of 12. 750 meters. Its better than the open water swims, which if you never have done one, is a bit scary. Its not the swim or distance in the open water that is the challenge, its the flailing arms, getting kicked in the face, and being crawled over by other swimmers all at the same time that makes it a challenge. I like the pool. Romi is one the OCNs (other country nationals) who works the pool and gym in zone 1 here at AJ. Our communications are usually just smiles and short exchanges. We see each other daily. I have garnered a bit of a reputation with some of these guys as I swim more than almost anyone here. When the water temps dropped below 60F, I was the only swimmer for 2 month thanks to my full length tri suit. Anyways, he just calls Elmore or sir. I know the OCNs at the pool for fun keep the track of the average lap times of their favorite swimmers. Im not the fastest. Im told; but in the tops three. Mi never want to know who are the other two. Might be him... Lets just call him Casey. Good luck Romi says. I think you get him today...? Unlike last time. Then he smiles. The other OCNs smile and say hello sir, and have a good one. Thanks Romi; thanks guys. One of the best parts of this mini adventure has been getting to know others of other nationalities and religions in a different country in a part of the world that many think hates Americans. Its funny, both cnn and fox dont seem to get it right, which causes us at home to develop misperceptions of this part of the world. Largely, I have felt welcomed. Oddly, the Dodge Charger and Porsche seem equally very popular here? Hmm? Anyway..... The crowd this time is mixed. There are some new faces. Some look ready. Some are virgins at the tri. Some look concerned. Most just like to take on challenges no matter what. That just seems to be hooah attitude to life....go out, do it, what the hell. Many dont even even have goggles. Casey does though. I discard the headphones and slip into the water. 82 degrees, ahh. Others drop in at random. I take a lap to losen up. He follows. Its going to be a race today. Good. After a couple laps., we congregate at the starting edge of the pool. We exchange some pleasantries and nods. They are fake of course for the tow of us atleast. They and the darkened goggles only superficially hide our desires to pulverize the other. The count starts at 10. Romis on the microphone. 9-8-7... We brace against the wall. 6-5-4... Breath. 3-2. Down. 1 HORN, (muffled under the water). Push. We are off. The first couple laps are simply a wild twisting of mechanical unorchestrated arms at work tearing up water. Splashes are everywhere. A couple of us start to pull a head. Left. Right. Left. Breathe. Right, left, right. Breathe. Repeat. Underwater all the sounds are muffled, but under the water is where the race can be felt. You can feel the currents off the other swimmers. You hear the muffled cheers and gurgles of the rushing and churning water. You can also see your competitor, and I can see him. Off the wall, I go for dolphin kick. He tries the straight kick. Some times he comes up first. Some times its me. When I emerge, I try and make it smooth . Once Im up, my right hand arm makes its first stroke. The water level at my forehead. My arms dont push forward as they enter the water; the reach out and come down to extend my paddle down getting the most of every stroke...or so I try. It goes on and we go back and forth like this lap for lap. There is always that moment in the swim where I think what the hell am I doing? My lungs burn. I have to hold my breath in a rhythm. I could be in bed. Its not like Im on espn. No-one cares. There is no money reward. Im a middles husband and dad. The feeling is always worse in those open water swims. The feeling and thoughts last only a lap and then disappear.... Thankfully. Its like I have to go through that process, because once I do, the nitro hits my brain and the switch, the one that makes us feel alive, that makes us push, that makes us...well...us, gets toggled hard to the right. Half way through the 18th lap, I get the yellow kick board jut down into the water by my lap counter Dennis (not sure if its his real native name, unless Dennis is popular in the Philippines) signaling my last length. I flip just a head of him. I push that last lap, hurting for breath. As I reach the wall, I come up, push, and pop out in one fluid movement (or so it looks like in my mind hi light reel). Got him on that leg, barely, but he is right there. We scramble to slip into our bike shoes, drop our goggles, and jam on a tshirt, which is a challenge as we r wet and running to our bikes. He actually drops a slight elbow as we round the corner leaving the pool. He gets to his bike first. We hop-walk our bike out as we clip in one foot, throw a leg over and clip in the other. Here we go. 12 1/2 miles. Now this is my weakest leg. The bike. He takes off quicker. We have both settled forward into our aerobars. Our legs are powering through to a strong rhythm. Pumping steadily. I tell myself I will let him break the wind, which is a legitimate approach, but that only lasts for a mile. He does not want to break the wind. I dont blame him. He pushes and holds me off about 100m for the rest of the lap. Biking is not just an athletic challenge, but also strategic and technical. Gearing based on your leg strength and length plus endurance while taking into consideration wind and incline is critical. That does not even take into consideration the bike, ring sizes, tightness of the chain, and so on. Today, he is better at it than I. Romi jinxed me I think for a minute. Maybe I am doing it to myself. Crap. Maybe today is not my day? He seems to inch up. After a lap of those thoughts I come to. But wait, my legs are still pushing. Im still breathing. My wheels still spinning. A swig of Electrolytes. Head down. Hit play on the iPod in my head. Guitar. Drums. Shoot to Thrill. Pedal. Pedal. Pedal..... Push. Pull... When I come out of it, he has me by about a quarter mile. 3 laps and change down. I can get him. Im still in it. As we come into the exchange, he has me still but only by 150 meters..and...we are coming into my strength. Oh, I dont run like a deer or gazelle these days. My Hope College days are 20 years and 30 pounds ago. Remember, Im just a middle aged husband, farther, and lawyer who plays soldier on occasion. However, there is still a fire and today, at this moment, as I see him dismount and we scramble again to change gear, I can feel it stoked ..buried but building. I too scramble, but as compared to the fluid and damn graceful exchange from water to shoes to bike, the exchange from bike to running shoes to running lacks those qualities. Even the highlight reel cant make this look good. The reason...hamstrings. Biking tightens them up and the leg turnover is entirely different than running. We shed our bikes. We change shoes much faster than Mr. Rogers ever thought possible. He has me me as we leave the exchange. I know this because I cant see him, but I know where he is. I know this post like the back of my hand. The first quarter mile off the bike is not really a run. Its a painful prancing as if you have two railroad spikes jammed up under each butt cheek at the top of those hamstrings. It hurts. But if you have it done several times, you know its just a matter of pushing through the pain. They will loosen up...some...somewhere.. You just hope its soon. I take off and hit the first right turn. There he is up a head. I push. My legs burn. Now this burn is different than the burn one feels just from running hard. Its a stiff, uncomfortable, tired, burn. We snake through a couple turns as we weave out to Patton blvd. I have narrowed the gap to about 75 meters within the first 400. Patton is a straight shot for about 1200 meters dotted with the Only bush that seems to grow in this arid dry desert. I push my legs to loosen up. the clumsy tightness levels out, and the lungs adjust to the new rhythm. Another challenge for the tri is how the lungs work differently between each event. By the time we reach the turn, I am literally on his heels. Now he has to break the wind for me or let me by him. Tough choice. He stays. Perfect. I make him do the work. Breaking the wind, pulling me along. (Think NASCAR but slightly slower. Same effect). Each of us breathing hard. Our feet are beating out the same rhythm. Pushing. A quarter mile and we hit the next left down South Abrams Loop. There is a climb a head us. This is where I push harder. It draws him in to push as well. A couple times I pull up along side, stay there for a few strides, and the let him slip up again. It makes him, who has been pushing the wind, to exert himself again a couple times. As we crest the hill, there is a natural desire to let up. Everyone does it. We do it driving, biking, running, and at almost in anything in life. There is a sense of tiredness and accomplishment right at that split second. Perfect time. Push through the top. If you can make it 20 meters passed the top, he will feel it. I push. He feels it. I slip a head. He tries to go with me. I hold on. He tries to ride me for a while and let me do what I did to him. The difference is he is tired. I even let him pass me, but once he does, he sits. Thats the sign and what I a have waited for the last 59 minutes.:). When someone sits, he gets in front and slows down just enough. We have all seen it on the freeway. That guy who barely gets in front of you but when he does, he sits, does not exert and seems to slow. the wind block he created slows him down and lets you gain just a bit of ground at the same exertion level. This is when you push and break him., As I come off his shoulder I pass him and I dont sit. I dont break the wind and dont let him suck up behind me. In 100 meters I almost hear a snap that actually comes from a sudden silence. The silence that signals his absence. He is not there on my tail. I push around the next left and hold until the next left a quarter mile down. Now Im in the last 600 meters. This is where I dont get passed. Hold steady and strong and ignore the burn. Then I get to the last 300-400. Im breathing hard. Im in shear pain. I want to stop. Damn it sucks. But... I say though the fog you can do anything for a minute. Dont let up. If you let up, you give up. The last 200 is onto the track and to the finish. By now my jellied legs hurt. My lungs burn. There is a flicker in my eye sight like I may black out. The blood is going elsewhere. But I push until .....The line. I hit the line hard, but still on my feet. My legs give up and I come to a clomping end, bent over hard and showing the agony as the pain sets in hard. I gasp for breath. But ... Just then I come to and out of the fog. There is silence and peace. There is no timer. Once I can stand, I turn to see no-one coming up behind me. It is just me other than a couple soldiers tossing the football on the field in the center of the track. As I continue to catch my breath, I stagger to the other side of the track to find my bike there on the rack next to the pool gate. I gather up my bike shoes that I had tossed to the side. Romi is there along with the others who work the pool. He watches my bike on these workouts granted being the prosecutor and the only one who had his wife ship over a bright red bike gives me some sense of security. Romis smile is big. He always smiles. It is his communication crutch to compensate for his thick accent, but it is also just his natural personality. You win this week Sir he says. I dont think its a question. its his way of saying good job. He has seen me do this workout once ever couple of weeks. He thinks I do It to race myself. He is right. Ya, boy Im getting old, things hurt more. Why do this? I failed at those hand-eye coordination team sports pretty much most of my life. Some people are just good at them; some, like me, just are not. Im sure there is some psychological potty training experience based reason, but lets not go there. I Have always been more drawn to the individual sports. How you practice, prepare, compete, survive, or walk away from the event is entirely up to just me. The only person to blame is me. The only person I need to beat it me. A long swim, ride, or run in or not In a race present great life analogies. Sometimes you are out there alone. Sometimes, you seem to have a competitor, but the real competitor is you. Some days you are smooth and graceful. Some days suck and its a struggle just to lace up your shoes. Some days the weather is perfect and some days it tries to beat you. Some days you have a riding partner or someone to help break the wind. Then there are those stretches when you have no choice but to tuck your head down and push regardless of the pain. No matter what though, its always up to you, always your win, and always your loss. Yet, in reality, you are never truly alone as I have seen God out there many times in the trees, wind, rain, frozen landscape, and even in the labored breath going in and out of my lungs. Thanks for watching my bike Romi. Have a good night colonel. See you at the pool..?..?:)
Posted on: Sat, 22 Mar 2014 22:26:16 +0000