By the time I was ready to participate in a legitimate triathlon, I'd been running and cycling for roughly a year. But my exertions were far from the top tier of athletics people so often associate with Triathlon. The hype, the energy, the speed, the endurance - all of the glorious associations which lay people associate with the visible, marketable side of triathlon - was as beyond my reach as a slam dunk is to a Hobbit. I was serviceably athletic, which is to say that I could do just about anything so long as it didn't require specialized skill or strength or endurance. It wasn't until I passed through the harrowing and addictive flush of completion that I caught the itch for competitive drive in earnest and began to pursue seriously an athletic lifestyle. For me, the story of Druid Hill is the story of how I came to live in my own head as an amateur triathlete after surviving the crucible of a First Triathlon.
When I registered for Druid Hill, I barely qualified as an amateur athlete at all. My only competitive endeavor in the preceding year had been a single bicycle race in the early Spring of 2013, in which I made a terrible showing after blowing up in the first 10 minutes of a 30 minute circuit race. I was unceremoniously dropped and swallowed up by the field as they lapped me with two to go. And while it didn't jive with my ideal self understanding of the competitor in me, the trouncing I got in this bike race didn't inspire me to make a lifestyle change that would change the defects. I rode the bike a lot, but I didn't do it thinking about going faster or hitting performance benchmarks. I rode first like I ran first: to get into shape. (I'd ballooned up to a whopping 220 lbs over the course of a two year Master's program; but when I started transitioning out of academics I started looking for ways to recover a modest level of fitness.) I was running regularly, but never more than 3 miles at a time, and I can remember when that was the upper limit of my range on foot.
Shortly after my ignominious induction to bike racing, a cousin of mine (with whom I have a bombastic, competitive relationship) dared me to complete the Columbia Triathlon with her. At that time I had a poor understanding of the sport and it's various distances, but a quick Google session later and I learned of the half iron and Olympic distances, despaired for a moment before discovering that one didn't have to sprint the whole way during a sprint triathlon. A second Google search - something good and pedestrian like "sprint triathlons MD" - led us to something called Druid Hill. We settled on this event as preparation for Columbia, and I started the way I always do: by reading. The next week saw me devour everything the internet could offer for free on how to train for your first triathlon. I learned the principles of transition and bike racking on YouTube, brick workouts and slipping out of your shoes early from triathlon forums online. (Later I would engage more deeply with functional strength training and intervals.) All the resources I consulted didn't automatically produce a rigid training regimen. I set about training in that haphazard way of the almost initiate who knows the lesser passwords of the arcane lexis of a lifestyle much greater than he realizes.
I arrived on the day completely alone and only a little terrified. My cousin had never registered, despite assuring me that she would as late as a week out. By then I'd abandoned hope that I would have a competitor-friend in the field and steeled myself to have a go. My training had proceeded well, though with significant bias for the bike leg. (Cycling remains my preferred and favorite discipline.) I wound up significantly underestimating my swim time and got held up behind some one-off triathletes. (Druid Hill starts individually in staggered intervals in a pool.) One-off triathletes are the participants who sign up for a Triathlon but who do little to no real training and are checking it off the bucket list - or have some other, non-lifestyle pretext for participating.
I was a one-offer, and I slammed into a four-person traffic jam at the end of lane three and discovered I was at least two strokes short of an efficient endurance pace. The jam didn't clear itself, and I had to make an impromptu scuba trip to get going again. I exited the pool and huffed over to transition coursing with adrenaline, so of course nothing went to plan. My neatly organized belongings didn't streamline the process nearly so much as YouTube had implied. But I remembered: the helmet first - if nothing else, I'd told myself, I would avoid a penalty or possible disqualification simply by putting on my helmet first! Once I latched my helmet, I stuffed about three gels (which was three gels more than anyone would ever need during a Sprint) into my jersey pocket, jockeyed my bike off the rack, and somehow managed to run my bike (I'd not practiced this maneuver prior) to the mount line. I'd seen videos of the pros running barefoot and sleek with their aero helmets secured and their cycling shoes snapped into place in their pedals, so of course I determined that I should do likewise.
It was nearly fatal.
In all the flurry of activity and the heat of the moment and the not practicing this feat I hadn't done before, I neglected to account for the frustrating way my shoes would swing like a pendulum if I didn't band them to the frame. It was probably half the most excellent maneuver I ever attempted and half the nearest thing to lunacy I actually attempted: in full sprint, I swung my leg over the bike and planted my foot squarely on the underside of my cycling shoe. It was too late to turn back, so I did the next foolish thing I didn't think of and I tried to slip my other foot directly into the other cycling shoe. The result was a predictable loss of momentum, a precarious and accidental moment of suspense that resembled a pathetic bastard track stand, and then - finally, blessedly! - forward propulsion. I'd managed to right the wayward shoe and insert most of my toes into the other, so I had some purchase against the pedals. Eventually I strapped in and let muscle memory take over. I even entered something of a groove during this leg, since I'd become comfortable and at home in the saddle. I began to overtake other competitors, and in my mind's eye this meant I was doing at least 30 mph. I later discovered my average speed to have been approximately 18 mph, a much humbler figure and one which a first timer could honestly be proud of - but which I owed heavily to the steep descent on a portion of the bike course. I finished the 8 mile bike course in roughly 25 minutes, and transition 2 came off brilliantly, which is to say I found my rack, tossed my helmet, and managed to put both shoes on the correct feet on the first try; I sped out of transition moments later and onto the run course to complete my first ever competitive 5k.
Having survived the bike and entered into my first real footrace, I noticed that systems were not all operating at peak performance. Even after a year of "training," I'd not mastered - in truth I'd not even begun to improve - the art of breathing and the essentials of efficient form. (Two years on at the time of this writing, and I'm only now beginning to witness measurable and quantifiable, specific improvements apart from subjective, perceived advancements.) I struggled with the heat as it reflected up from the pavement; I toiled to regulate breathing while still holding pace; I failed miserably to collect water from the aid stations and slurp it down. In all the things I'd learned from the internet, I'd not even noticed the age-old trick of pouching the cup. This is the practice of folding the rim of a paper cup onto itself to form a slot; you then press it to your mouth and slurp the fluid through the opening left between the forefinger and thumb. This allows you to take on water without inhaling too much of it while also experiencing the sensation of drinking from an envelope.
As I rounded the course to complete the first lap, I had a pleasant shock and a boost in morale. I discovered that my parents had decided to watch me complete the race and had taken up positions on the run course. Mom had gotten a few photos of me exiting T2, and she would snap another quick one of me powering home under the buoyancy of my second wind.
Here I am sailing home under the colors of Old Glory, whom I didn't even see in my state of excitement but whose endorsement I appreciate deeply. I completed the race in 1.01.37 and had the distinct pleasure of knowing no one with whom to share my achievement. Mom and Dad were very proud in the way parents are, and their presence was a great uplift. I gorged myself on pizza and other carbs that went like a fire sale at the finish line. I even saw and waved to a few people I'd met while waiting for the swim to start. But it wasn't the same as having a teammate or a competitive rival, someone with whom I could compare notes, swap exaggerated tales of suffering, and generally cement my newfound affection for the sport.
In hindsight, I think this may have been a good thing overall. Without the companionship I saw others enjoying, my mind turned to reflecting on how I much I enjoyed the day for itself, devoid of potentially negative self-worship that often comes with athletic success defined solely in competition with others. I completed the race and my First Triathlon, but my competition was myself only. My nascent athletic ability, which had lain fallow in the months of unconscious training I'd accomplished since my embarrassing debacle on the racing circuit, germinated under wholesome influences: desire for self-improvement, discipline, fitness, community. Over and above the thrill of competition, whose influence no one can deny on the day, these were what attracted me to the sport when I started and finished my First Race alone.
The Druid Hill Sprint has an amazing energy to it that I've observed in the consecutive years of my participation. It's simply amazing. Located on the grounds of Druid Hill Park in Baltimore, MD, the race is short and punchy, with enough ease to entice the beginner triathlete while offering enough of a challenge to the veteran and elite. (In fact, while my finishing time of just over an hour was wholly respectable and predictable, given the shot-in-the-dark and trial-by-error training methods I'd employed, the overall winner in 2013 completed the course before I even started the swim.)
The park gets high volumes of pedestrian and cycling traffic, and it's directly adjacent to the Baltimore Zoo. You could say it was crowded on the day of the event. And no wonder: it's basically an oasis for the foliage desert that so many cities often are. The run course is a two lap circuit around a reservoir, and on that circuit were cyclist, non-competitive joggers, in-line skaters, and people walking their dogs. This on top of the roughly 300 participants makes for a densely-packed park on the day of competition. But the numbers lead to synergy rather than malaise. The finishers' zone was simply packed and effused camaraderie. A palpable sense of satisfaction, happiness, and accomplishment suffused the air. It was joy.
I vowed the next year I would bring friends.
My finishing time brought me home in the top quarter of the field. And while that field wasn't intensely competitive (recall the one-offers!), this finishing position affirmed in my mind that perhaps I really could get good enough to compete, rather than merely complete. I would entertain this notion the following year to slightly more impressive results.
It was nearly fatal.
In all the flurry of activity and the heat of the moment and the not practicing this feat I hadn't done before, I neglected to account for the frustrating way my shoes would swing like a pendulum if I didn't band them to the frame. It was probably half the most excellent maneuver I ever attempted and half the nearest thing to lunacy I actually attempted: in full sprint, I swung my leg over the bike and planted my foot squarely on the underside of my cycling shoe. It was too late to turn back, so I did the next foolish thing I didn't think of and I tried to slip my other foot directly into the other cycling shoe. The result was a predictable loss of momentum, a precarious and accidental moment of suspense that resembled a pathetic bastard track stand, and then - finally, blessedly! - forward propulsion. I'd managed to right the wayward shoe and insert most of my toes into the other, so I had some purchase against the pedals. Eventually I strapped in and let muscle memory take over. I even entered something of a groove during this leg, since I'd become comfortable and at home in the saddle. I began to overtake other competitors, and in my mind's eye this meant I was doing at least 30 mph. I later discovered my average speed to have been approximately 18 mph, a much humbler figure and one which a first timer could honestly be proud of - but which I owed heavily to the steep descent on a portion of the bike course. I finished the 8 mile bike course in roughly 25 minutes, and transition 2 came off brilliantly, which is to say I found my rack, tossed my helmet, and managed to put both shoes on the correct feet on the first try; I sped out of transition moments later and onto the run course to complete my first ever competitive 5k.
Having survived the bike and entered into my first real footrace, I noticed that systems were not all operating at peak performance. Even after a year of "training," I'd not mastered - in truth I'd not even begun to improve - the art of breathing and the essentials of efficient form. (Two years on at the time of this writing, and I'm only now beginning to witness measurable and quantifiable, specific improvements apart from subjective, perceived advancements.) I struggled with the heat as it reflected up from the pavement; I toiled to regulate breathing while still holding pace; I failed miserably to collect water from the aid stations and slurp it down. In all the things I'd learned from the internet, I'd not even noticed the age-old trick of pouching the cup. This is the practice of folding the rim of a paper cup onto itself to form a slot; you then press it to your mouth and slurp the fluid through the opening left between the forefinger and thumb. This allows you to take on water without inhaling too much of it while also experiencing the sensation of drinking from an envelope.
As I rounded the course to complete the first lap, I had a pleasant shock and a boost in morale. I discovered that my parents had decided to watch me complete the race and had taken up positions on the run course. Mom had gotten a few photos of me exiting T2, and she would snap another quick one of me powering home under the buoyancy of my second wind.
Here I am sailing home under the colors of Old Glory, whom I didn't even see in my state of excitement but whose endorsement I appreciate deeply. I completed the race in 1.01.37 and had the distinct pleasure of knowing no one with whom to share my achievement. Mom and Dad were very proud in the way parents are, and their presence was a great uplift. I gorged myself on pizza and other carbs that went like a fire sale at the finish line. I even saw and waved to a few people I'd met while waiting for the swim to start. But it wasn't the same as having a teammate or a competitive rival, someone with whom I could compare notes, swap exaggerated tales of suffering, and generally cement my newfound affection for the sport.
In hindsight, I think this may have been a good thing overall. Without the companionship I saw others enjoying, my mind turned to reflecting on how I much I enjoyed the day for itself, devoid of potentially negative self-worship that often comes with athletic success defined solely in competition with others. I completed the race and my First Triathlon, but my competition was myself only. My nascent athletic ability, which had lain fallow in the months of unconscious training I'd accomplished since my embarrassing debacle on the racing circuit, germinated under wholesome influences: desire for self-improvement, discipline, fitness, community. Over and above the thrill of competition, whose influence no one can deny on the day, these were what attracted me to the sport when I started and finished my First Race alone.
The Druid Hill Sprint has an amazing energy to it that I've observed in the consecutive years of my participation. It's simply amazing. Located on the grounds of Druid Hill Park in Baltimore, MD, the race is short and punchy, with enough ease to entice the beginner triathlete while offering enough of a challenge to the veteran and elite. (In fact, while my finishing time of just over an hour was wholly respectable and predictable, given the shot-in-the-dark and trial-by-error training methods I'd employed, the overall winner in 2013 completed the course before I even started the swim.)
The park gets high volumes of pedestrian and cycling traffic, and it's directly adjacent to the Baltimore Zoo. You could say it was crowded on the day of the event. And no wonder: it's basically an oasis for the foliage desert that so many cities often are. The run course is a two lap circuit around a reservoir, and on that circuit were cyclist, non-competitive joggers, in-line skaters, and people walking their dogs. This on top of the roughly 300 participants makes for a densely-packed park on the day of competition. But the numbers lead to synergy rather than malaise. The finishers' zone was simply packed and effused camaraderie. A palpable sense of satisfaction, happiness, and accomplishment suffused the air. It was joy.
I vowed the next year I would bring friends.
My finishing time brought me home in the top quarter of the field. And while that field wasn't intensely competitive (recall the one-offers!), this finishing position affirmed in my mind that perhaps I really could get good enough to compete, rather than merely complete. I would entertain this notion the following year to slightly more impressive results.
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