This is Lornes report from the Great Floridian Iron Distance Triathon held in Clermont, Florida (where our winter camps are located!) this race is not what you would expect in Florida with a hilly, tough challenging bike ride!
Greater Floridian Triathlon—Tougher Than Iron
As always, I just skimmed the entry information … bad mistake. The part about being tougher than Iron(man) … that would have been useful information!
A heat wave swept through Clermont (Orlando) Florida: so it was not wetsuit legal. The two lap swim was in a fairly clear, smooth, warm lake. The transition was over stocked with friendly volunteers as there were only 160 full distance participants. Off I went on my bike with a hill to climb right away. The bike had its great, good, bad and really bad parts. The course was open but the local and state officers did a phenomenal job of stopping or slowing down traffic. On the one open state road, the cars and trucks were so polite; slowing down and moving over to the other lane. (Yes I was suspicious). Now the worse parts: every single (&?%$#$/) hill–and there were lots–was preceded by a very sharp right or left hand turn. Traffic was in the other lane and sand was at the apex. Nothing like starting every single (&?*?$/#) climb at 5kmh! It gets worse: it was so hot, everyone knows to drink a lot of fluid. And everyone knows when you drink more fluid, take salt pills. And everyone knows if you drink way too much fluid and swallow way too many salt pills you will distend to the point of making the Pillsbury Dough Boy or the Michelin Man look slim. (well everyone–including me–knows that NOW!) No wonder my wife and daughter weren’t cheering for me … they didn’t recognize me! The 3 lap bike race was tough–and then just to guarantee I would be tougher than Iron–my feet were killing me. Only later did this make sense when Coach Fiona pointed out the generalized swelling likely increased my foot to an NBA player’s size. [gross factor alert!!!] I jumped off the bike and wobbled into my running gear … and the Porta Potty for my first (of 5!!!) visits. To be polite, numero duo came flying out like numero uno. That wasn’t the bad part: taking off my shirt, undoing my bib straps, doing my business, straps up and then somehow fighting to get that tight, wet, shrinking shirt back on. It wasn’t until weeks later Coach Fiona explained–what any woman knows from changing a bathing suit top or bra in public–you don’t have to take off your top–you move the straps down the arms and over the hands. (The sheltered life of a married man.) Finally the finished line appeared before me. I adjusted my race number in an attempt to cover some of that distention. I crossed the line, smiled, raised my arms in an Oscar deserving performance. Then I looked over to my family with a “don’t ever let me do this &?*%$/# thing again!” glance. And that’s when the official photographer snapped my picture. A very appropriate ending to the day. Thirty minutes later, after chugging my 2L of chocolate milk (over-hydration be damned: I deserve this!), I was thinking “I can do better, I can learn from this, I am tougher than IRON!!!!!” That’s when my wife called the Psychiatrist.
