The second year of Druid Hill, I wasn't what you'd call an old hand, but I certainly wasn't green. Or at least, I wasn't as green as I was only a year before. By that time, I'd competed in two Olympic distance triathlons and had accomplished a fair bit of training to make those events manageable. But even so, I still wasn't a contender for the overall in my own mind. I didn't approach the event as a competitive thing. (In fact, I don't think I acquired the desire to contend until after Savageman later in the season.) The main difference - apart from a spiffy new bike, an exorbitantly overpriced set of Zipps, and familiarity with the course - was that I was attending with a posse!
That's right - the triathlon devotee had successfully converted three of his family to one-time triathletes! I say one-time because, to date, each of the three initiates has only competed in one event. But the story of their results is hilarious - to me, anyway.
Now, at the time Druid Hill took place in 2014, I'd just left my job as a CO and its attendant shift work. In fact, I was working midnights the Thursday before, which saw me in the jail's control room the night of the 8th into the morning of the 9th. I really lucked out in this, since that Thursday was the end of my set - the group of days constituting the "work week" for many law enforcement agencies. It's standard to have a brief respite - usually two to four days - between sets, since each set alternates: early, late, midnights, and on and on and on for interminable eternity.
(Those days between sets are extremely important for people in rotating shift work: they give the body time to normalize or adjust to the next set. For law enforcement shift work in general, and in our facility particularly, the midnights are very difficult and unhealthy. The body naturally develops its circadian rhythm, the pattern of physiological effects recurring on a 24-hour clock: sleep, metabolic processes, regeneration - these are all intimately linked to the process of exertion and recovery that happen over consistent periods. Interruption of the body's circadian rhythm can complicate recovery times, lead to artificially-induced hormonal imbalances, and chronic adrenal fatigue. Such working conditions often lead to depression, metabolic disorder, obesity, and severely-compromised personal and family relationships.)
In this case, I was scheduled to come off my set, and off the uniformed job, that Friday morning. I would then have Friday to recover, Saturday to prepare, Sunday to compete. I'd timed it just right, so that after Druid Hill I'd be spending a week off with Lydia to vacation in Wildwood, NJ, after which I'd compete in the General Smallwood triathlon before returning to jail as a civilian office aide. So after staying up most of the day Friday in an attempt to "reset," I woke Saturday and packed for the week with Lydia, whose attention was mostly directed at the upcoming week. To be fair, she had coordinated this entire trip between three different branches of her family tree and was probably mentally fatigued before the vacation even began. In this sense, she probably really needed some time off! But she was a good sport about it, although I expect she signed on mostly to indulge me. I guess I was projecting the importance of a fit, active lifestyle early in our relationship and she wanted to conform to it - if only to show that she appreciated my hobbies.
For my part, I felt like I was indulging the novices, since in addition to Lydia, my cousins Paul and Barry would both be participating this year. But the strain had started to show by time we convened at our staging area Saturday night. We'd arranged to stay with my brother, Christopher, in Columbia. Within easy driving distance of the race, we could spend the night discussing race tactics, as if any of us had done more than a handful of these things before. After picking up our race packets, we hit the course on two wheels to reconnoiter: two quick laps where I pointed out a good line through a turn, where to begin slowing on the long, fast descent, the mount/dismount line. Afterwards, we rushed home to Chris's place.
Now, Lydia'd had a long day, and wrapped up in our enthusiasm, none of us noticed that our eagerness was becoming loud and oppressive. We were jovial about monopolizing Chris's kitchen, and he didn't seem to mind half-assembled bikes and spandex athletic wear littering the house as we waxed esoteric on the finer points of stride efficiency. He was a champ about the fact that a makeshift bike shop had appeared in his newly-tiled dining room (imported Italian tiles, mind you!), and he stayed up late into the night with us as we prepped our race kit, finalized transition bags, and otherwise just tinkered about the bikes, looking for excuses to sound off about how much we knew (from the internet). I think we debated sports nutrition (as if any of us except Chris, the sole non-competitor, had a clue) before making a last-minute supply run. In our great foresight, none of us had planned for breakfast Sunday morning. At this point, I began to wonder if Lydia was feeling alright: she'd grown quiet and withdrawn from the conversation by time we got back to the house.
I swear, we must have cited half the internet in our eagerness to share our (predominantly reading) expertise: strategies to pace the swim, techniques to streamline transition, and when to drop the hammer on the run. "It's a pool swim, so you'll gain time with the flip turn." "Yeah, I'm leaving my shoes clipped in the pedals - speed things up out of T1." "You'll want to be well into your kick by time you see the finishing chute, 'cause the end comes up so suddenly once you make the turn in."
At some point during the pre-race conclave, Lydia disappeared. I took that as my signal to retire for the night as well, and I found her in our designated room. We made up the bed for the night and set our alarms, and I resolved to try and include her more - which was a dumb thing to do and showed that I obviously hadn't listened when she told me that we were all being too loud. What she was saying had nothing to do with volume, though: we'd become so enwrapped in our plans for the event that we hadn't even given her much stake in the conversation OR acknowledged the work she'd done for what was for her, the main event: her long-anticipated vacation.
For those of you aspiring or current triathletes who may be reading this, if you haven't learned this trick already, learn it now: NEVER under ANY circumstances FORCE or even STRONGLY URGE your girlfriend (who will later become your fiancée) to participate in a first triathlon - even if it's "just a sprint" - after she's coordinated a weeklong vacation with her uptight relatives, without first offering to help with the planning and at least actually helping with some of the planning. Just don't do it.
After a short night of fitful sleep, we got up at five Sunday morning. Descending on the kitchen, we cracked open the eggs and bacon and avocado we'd bought the night before, whipped up a decent spread, and bolted it down. We were getting the jitters as we loaded up the bikes and bade Chris and his war-torn kitchen farewell. On I-95 northbound, I noticed that Lydia was still quiet from the night before. I attempted to reconnoitre.
"Babe, you feeling alright?" I asked.
No response.
"Sweetheart, what's wrong?" I offered.
"I'm just not as excited about this as you are." She said. Or at least, I think that's what she said.
What I heard was this:
"This is a big old bunch of stupid crap."
What I should have heard was this:
"This is a big old bunch of stupid crap that I don't want to do with you and your loud cousins on the first day of the vacation that I worked so hard for without anybody's help."
And to make matters worse, I'd completely forgotten the fact that Lydia had just learned really to swim that summer.
Fellow Triathlete men, if you're ever fortunate enough to find a woman who is so devoted to you that she'll climb along for a first triathlon at the end of a hectic summer just before her vacation and she just happens to have learned to swim THAT VERY SUMMER, you'll want to demonstrate a bit more sensitivity than I did. You'll just want to do it.
But, zoned in as I was, I told myself that I needed to stop worrying about Lydia's nerves and focus on my own race. "Run your own race." All the blogs and magazines said so. Don't get inside your own head. Don't let other people in there either. You'd think from my level of focus that I was going for Olympic Gold!
We arrived to the race with time to spare for the family who'd come to cheer us on. Where last year it had been only my mom and dad as last-minute spectators, this year we'd brought a clan. Paul's wife, Michele, and their three kids: Kayla, Brianna, and Austin; Barry's wife, Kristen, and their four kids: Callie, Meghan, Emily, and Colton; my mom and dad; aunt Jo and Uncle Bruce (Barry and Paul's parents). And they'd gone all out, too. They had colorful signs and posterboard calling us out by name.
This was a special event for all of us, but it was especially resonant for Paul and Barry. They'd recently attended a funeral for our cousin, Rusty. Rusty was a cousin on my father's side who'd lived in Florida with his wife and young son. He'd died very suddenly - within a week - of being diagnosed with Leukemia. Russell was too old and too distant for me to remember - we'd only met a few times in my life - but Barry, Paul, and Rusty were close when they were younger, and in recent years they'd found the commonalities of parenthood to renew their bond. It was a tough time for the whole family, but for Paul and Barry it was especially difficult.
The thing was this: Rusty'd met his wife while training for Ironman Florida, which they both completed. So we'd all be running Druid Hill this year to honor his memory. When we saw all the family gathered on the hillside overlooking the pool, we began to realize how much the day resonated with significance. (The kids would later all swear they saw a brilliant shooting star course across the predawn sky as they caravanned to Baltimore from Southern Maryland.)
(From the Left: Barry, Paul, Lydia, Me as we await the swim start)
The day began with a staggered start for our crew. Paul went off first, having estimated his time up near the competitive end of the field. I went second, having for a second year running underestimated my time and been placed towards the dull end of the stick. Barry, Lydia, and I saw Paul finish the swim and start the bike before I had to dive in.
This year was considerably better for me, having some experience with the course. The swim went by quickly, though not so fast that I emerged winded - which one cold argue means I didn't go hard enough. I managed not to get caught out behind clutch of poor swimmers this year. When there was congestion, I just went under or around. But if I didn't finish the swim winded, I was certainly huffing by the time I got to transition. After the swim, when you exit the pool you have to cross a road that cuts through the park and climb a short but sharp hill to reach the transition area. Anybody who doesn't reach this mark within the first fifty or so people has to contend with the sodden mass of grass and mud that remains after the post-swim drippings erode any semblance of footing. You make it to the top, but not without a-slippin' and a-slidin'!
Transition this year started out poorly for me because I reached my bike rack only to discover my bike had been stolen! I checked and double checked: there was the rack card announcing that I was in the correct row. Here was my towel lying on the ground. Here even was my transition bag, a distinctively colored Under Armour drawstring bag, with florescent ---
Wait a minute! That's yellow, not green! Where the hell is my bike?!
I looked around and found that I was indeed in the correct row, but I was facing the wrong way! The culprit who'd stolen my bike (and shoes and helmet) had actually made off with his own materials while I stood there wrongfully accusing him of theft while my belongings lay right where I'd placed them - behind me. I looked around sheepishly to discover who'd witnessed my faux pas. Nobody? Good! On to the next disaster!
I donned slammed on my helmet, slid on my sunglasses, and scanned the area for my socks. Where the hell were my socks? Had somebody stolen them like they'd stolen my bike? After an eternity (which was probably closer to six seconds), I abandoned any hope of finding them and decided to go barefoot. I flew from the transition area towards the mount line, mounted my noble (and new) steed (with the flashy carbon wheels), pedaled pro-style for a few meters before slipping my feet into my shoes like a rock star.
Except my left foot wouldn't go in! What the hell was wrong! Did someone steal my left cycling shoe and replace it with a dwarf's?! Wait - those are my missing socks!
Swiftly and immediately I pulled the offending articles from the shoe and tossed them to the ground, which was now whizzing by beneath me on account of my superior fitness, the new bike, and the carbon wheels.
Me, about to discover the epic musket wadding that is my sock, forgottenly tucked away within my left shoe!
Once I found my stride, I really punched it. In the preceding year I'd averaged approximately 18.9 mph on the bike course. This year I averaged 20.1 mph. And you know what? It was worth every cent of those two grand I dropped for the wheels and sweet new bike. The bike passed by more quickly that I'd recalled from the previous year - perhaps because my familiarity with the course, but likelier because by this point I'd done some serious speedwork and longer distance training. There was a brief moment when I saw Lydia on the bike as she was going out and I was coming in. Also, the groupies were all clustered near the mount/dismount line so as to shout encouragement as we passed.
From the Left: Aunt Jo, Brianna, Triplet 1, 2, 3
But by time I reached the run I was looking for the rest of my crew: where were Barry and Paul? Lydia had started last, so Barry had to be between me and her, but it was highly likely that Barry'd hit the bike course while I was on the far end of it on either of the two laps.
Where, then, was Paul? Being fit and athletic for most of his life, Paul was the most likely of all our crew to perform well in the event. He had the hunger for it fresh out of the gate, while I was concerned to preach the gospel of triathlon to my family. But when it became apparent that I couldn't have a reunion on course without seriously damaging my chances of a sub-hour finish time, I pressed on. Paul would be at the finish by time I was there. Who knows? Maybe I'd even catch him on the run? (That was definitely not the case! But I tried it anyway!)
I powered home in 57:27, a fair time on a moderately challenging course (given the hilly sections of the bike). Paul had run in a strong 59:15, a great time for a novice age grouper. He and I both hoped to break one hour, and we both did. But that wasn't the end of our celebrations on the day.
With our finishers' medals in hand (or round the neck), Paul and I drifted up towards the finishing chute to see who would come home first: Barry or Lydia. I learned that Lydia was the last of our group onto the run course, but she was making good enough time to pass Barry and drive home in a very respectable 1:09:38 - pretty good for a first-time, stressed out, "just not as interested in this as you" age grouper. In fact, in her age group, only two women would finish faster than she on the day. In a jubilant display of enthusiasm and accomplishment, Lydia leapt clear into the air a good twenty feet before she actually crossed the finish line, and Michele - ever trusty with a camera - caught the whole thing:
Jumping for Joy: Lydia sprints to the line
It remained only for Barry to round the bend and cross the line. He was trucking out a decent clip for his category - the Clydesdales. The Clydesdale category is a complimentary title bestowed upon the hefty male triathletes. (The female equivalent is the Athena category.) He crossed the line in 1:22:25, good enough for third place and a spot on the podium. As I looked to see where I placed, I was happy to learn that I'd placed 5th in my age group (25-29) and 20th overall. Then Lydia started jumping and shouting in hysterical excitement: she'd placed third in her age group as well. Then Paul discovered that he'd landed 27th overall and 3rd in his age group. It was a great day of racing and a fun family event. But Michele was kind enough to observe that I had the fastest time of the group and the least to show for it. She did console me with credit for everyone else's performance. And I hereby claim coaching credit for the rack of podium placers we put into that race!
Lydia takes 3rd place in the Novice Women's category
Paul has his place on the podium: 3rd place in men's age group, 30-35
Barry with his trophy for 3rd place in the Clydesdales
In all, it was a great day to swim, bike, and run. I'd achieved a personal best on the course, while my loved ones excelled in their first attempts. We'd had a blast while also tipping our hats to our departed blood. It was a good day to Tri, and it was a great day to be a Bevard (or soon-to-be Bevard)! We had a fantastic day, and I've successfully transmitted one of my greatest passions to other people. Perhaps next year we'll hash out a team jersey or something.
