Dude Where's My Bike Pump?

beautiful seacliff beach, aptos, ca - .5 mile swim around the cement shipwreck

Mr. Sandman brought me a dream alright, a dream of seeing the finish line. . .
I woke up around 11:30AM on Saturday morning feeling most excellent and ready to take on the day. Have you ever slept so much that you almost feel like the whole world has sprung to action but yourself? As Mr. Sandman's dreams sifted from my subconcious I gradually put my ass in gear to get the heck out of SF. Two nice dark cups of coffee and a bowl of cereal later I was on the road.

Santa Cruz is my alma mater, I graduated from UCSC in 1998 and lived there for about 5 years (don't do the math). And yet having spent so much of my youth in this nook of the California coast 1 1/2 hours south of San Francisco, I rarely am tempted to return. There is a myth about Santa Cruz that a hippie dippie friend of mine once shared- he said it was Native American but whatever. Basically it says something like all the white men who move to Santa Cruz will be trapped there, if not forever for, like, a really really long time. Thank God I aint white.

But nevertheless, I did live there for some time. And it was only fitting that I should have the most unique of my triathlon experiences here. My hosts were this Filipina-Puerto Rican couple I've known since highschool who shall remain nameless due to their wishes. These two kids are possibly the funniest and most perfectly matched pair that I've known all my life. But we're not gonna talk about them. I'll just say this, they now live less than a block from the ocean and had the coziest pad for me to chillax at before my race. We burned some time together.

When I awoke on race day (Sunday) to coffee being made, I felt bad about having to turn it down. Now I love me some good café but not on race day. It dehydrates the body too much- and lawd knows the beer I drank Saturday night did enough damage. I find my way to Seacliff Beach by 8am, the race has a very humane 9am start time. Jerry and Christopher are at transition when I get there. Somehow I can't chit chat too much before getting in the water- it's part of my ju ju I guess. My wave is the first to go so I get into the ocean right away to warm up.



Unlike my last time in a triathlon in the Pacific (Treasure Island - Nov. 05), this race begins on the beach and we run to the water at the sound of the horn. I thought this was really cute and all but I guess I shoulda ran a little faster because I got hit by the first wave of water and was held back a bit. Fine, I thought, I'll just swim at my own pace since this part kind of freaks me out. I was doing real well out there, my head was calm and the water felt just right. A secret I learned surfing while in school was to pee in your wetsuit, it sounds like a bad scene out of folsom street fair but let me tell you it will warm you up quick! I'm feelin good in my now warm space and doing the breathing my swim instructor taught me. Stroke, stroke, stroke, Breath, stroke stroke stroke, Breath... very zen.

All of a sudden some asshole kicks me square in the face - hard. I swing at him futiley but only manage to fuck up my rhythm. He kicks me again- harder. I'm trying to stay cool, take it easy, that's part of the sport I tell myself. Keep on swimming. It quickly comes to my attention that I cannot see out of my left eye because he kicked my goggles so hard they are like supersucking my eye socket. I can't even blink the shit is so tight and I can feel the pressure on it. Keep on swimming. I think I see blood in the water, actually it's a red tide. I try not to swallow. The first buoy is just ahead so I gotta keep going. I'm fuckin quasimodo in an ocean of red piss and somehow I manage to maintain my cool!

Now I know they say it's a .5 mile swim, but I really have to challenge that. I would have a better idea if they actually issued us timing chips but all we had to work with was the total time. Maybe that's a good thing. See I made it out of the water feelin brilliant, got into my bike shoes and put my helmet on and zoomed on outta there - they even had to tell me to dismount my bike until I left transition I was so happy to get out of the water - happily chuggin along what I thought was the front of the pack. I get passed once, twice then again and again and again. I notice that the age group is changing, the wave 5 minutes after me has caught up! Next thing you know I hear Jerry call out "Good job Sam!" Good job my ass, you just passed me with 5 minutes in my favor!

Next thing you know I'm done with the first of the hills and humming along a straight highway... I had seen two other suckas fixin their flat tires and thought to ask if they were okay (universal sign for are you okay = thumbs up). But I decided not to be so cynical, who was I kidding I wouldn't have stopped. But I sure was slowing down...
I look below at the rear tire I just had "fixed" at a bike shop in Santa Cruz the day before and it is flat flat flat. I think God does have a sense of humor. Of course I had brought a spare tube- DUH. But dude, where's my bike pump?

It is not uncommon for triathletes to not carry bike pumps actually, so I've been told. You figure, if you are unfortunate enough to get a flat- basically you're done. Well I was unfortunate but I wasn't ready to give up. See, I'm not a quitter. But I am a loser. I went door to door interrupting mommies with their kids having breakfast until one finally was able to help. Her husband was really nice and dug through his tools to find the right adapter for my tire. 30-40 minutes later I was back on the road, giving directions to other poor souls who were stuck on the side of the road with their flats. One of these characters later passed by me on the run, he just starting as I was finishing. We slapped high fives as if this were the our moment of glory- overcoming adversity to finally, FINALLY reach the end of the sandy line.