Lake in the Hills Triathlon Part I

Hello Again! It's been a long time since I've posted. Let's catch up:

About four weeks ago, while on a training run in my new New Balance shoes, I felt a sharp pain on the bottom of my foot. My first training injury! A little plantar fasciatis. Damn thing hurts to this day.

Turns out New Balance makes walking shoes as well as running shoes. Being the cheapskate that I am, I spent less and bought walking shoes instead of running shoes.

I ended up having to go to Dick Pond to get a new pair of shoes. By saving $30, I ended up spending an extra $110 to buy a new pair of Mizuno running shoes. Mizuno not only makes good baseball gear, they make a damn fine pair of running shoes as well.

A quick aside here: the folks at Dick Pond in Schaumburg were amazing. They gave me about 8 pairs of shoes to try on, and then watched my gait on a treadmill at different speeds. I highly recommend that place for any serious runner.

While I was in the store, a guy came in with a pair of flats that looked like they'd spent 2 minutes in a blender set to puree.

"How'd those flats work for you?" asked Chris, the guy that was helping me out.

"I had to take them off after mile 13. They were killing my feet. How about a trade in." The guy holds up his shredded shoes.

I expected Chris to laugh and tell the guy to go to hell, which is typical of most big-name sports department stores' customer service. Instead, he suggested two other kinds of shoes and did a straight up trade- brand new flats in exchange for ratty torn-up sneakers. Amazing.

Back to catching up.... So the plantar fasciatis made it difficult to run. I focused on the bike and the swim, figuring I'd push through the pain during the run.

In the days leading up to the event, I was nervous about my conditioning. I felt like I had done more before my last tri, but at the same time, I was sleeping better. According to my Triathlete's Training Bible, restless sleep is a sign of overtraining. I guess I would have to take my chances.

Lake in the Hills is a smaller city about 40 miles northwest of Chicago. It's a bit of a rural area compared to some of the other Chicago 'burbs. It's also a hike from my house.

The wife works with a PA (Physician's Assistant) who lives a short jaunt from LITH. He was nice enough to go a couple days early to pick up my packet. What a guy! I met him the night before the race to pick up the packet, which contained some cool samples and a nice wicked t-shirt. Definitely a better goodie bag than the Rockman Tri.

The night before the race, the wife and I packed up the bike and the dog and headed to my parents' house, where we'd be staying the night before the race.

Here's where I made my first mistake. I didn't pull out my checklist. Why, you ask? Well, because I'm a male that doesn't stop for directions and forgets birthdays and anniversaries. In short, I'm an idiot. But we'll get to that later.

We pull into their place, which is just south of the Wisconsin border, at about 8:30 after fighting the traffic heading to Country Thunder. I've never seen so many pickup trucks on the road. Damn hillbillies.

Walking into the house, our black lab Payton makes a beeline for Coachie, my sister's peki-pom. They spend the next three hours chasing each other. It's funny watching an 80 lb black monster of a lab try to outcorner a 12 lb. squeeky toy dog.

We eat a great pasta dinner- thanks Mom! I eat three plates of pasta to carbo load. I decide to have a glass of wine to settle my nerves. While opening the wine, I make my second boneheaded move. I slice the holy bejebuz out of my right thumb. I'm bleeding like a stuck pig. I debate using the old bartending trick of cauterizing the wound with a lighter, but opt instead for hard pressure followed by a band-aid.

While I'm holding a kleenex to my oozing wound, my Dad takes me out to the garage to offer up some of his old bike gear. He's got a box full of great stuff, and I take a small tool set off his hands.

As we're sifting through the box, I come across his old helmet. It's a big red number that was state of the art in the late 80s. I start laughing until it hits me; (remember that "idiot" thing? here we go...) I forgot my damn helmet. I can see it in my mind's eye, perched regally and aerodynamically on top of a box in my garage, an hour's drive away.

"Dad, I forgot my helmet," I say.

"Really? No you didn't... Ryan!" It's sort of funny that he doesn't sound too surprised. Sort of.

"Yeah I did- I'll try to buy one there tomorrow."

"Take this one just in case."

I take a closer look at the helmet. Not only is it huge and red, but it's also filthy. Oh well. Beggars can't be choosers. I'll just have to go through the race looking like a black, blue and red penis.

Not too much longer and I'm off to bed. I wake up about 30 mins before my alarm, which is set for 4 am. Adrenaline is coursing through my veins and I know I'm not going back to sleep. I get up and head to the rest room.

The dog jumps in front of me. He wants a bathroom break. I grab his leash and head downstairs.

I open the front door. The dog takes two eager steps and stops. He looks up at me and then back out towards the yard. He turns around and walks back inside, trailing his leash behind him. I'm staring out, mouth agape. It's pouring outside. Lightning flashes and thunder rolls, perfect accents to weather more suited to a B-horror movie than a triathlon.

I'm expected to swim, bike, and run in this? You've got to be kidding...