TRIATHLON No. 1
"It's Not Whether You Win Or Lose, It's How Hard You Tri"

Yesterday morning, at 10:06 a.m., I finished my first Triathlon. A 350-meter swim, 12-mile bike, and 3-mile run.

Admittedly, I'm not exactly what you'd consider the stereotypical Triathlete. On Friday, my buddy Vinny Minchillo told some other friends of ours that I was doing a Triathlon on Sunday. Their response was, "don't you have to train for that?"

It's good to have friends.

The thing is, I HAVE been training for this for about 11 months, along with my buddies Peter and Brian who decided a year ago we were going to do a Tri together. They are in far better shape than I am, but we all went into yesterday with the same goals in mind - finish and break two hours.

We met at Peter's house at 5:00 a.m. Sunday morning to load up the bikes and head over to The Colony where the Triathlon was being held. None of us slept well fearing we'd miss the alarm and I was still wiped from two days driving 1,000 miles through the desert in a 1974 VW bus with no air conditioning. But that's another story for another blog.

Having "carb loaded" the night before, we downed a few Pop Tarts and a Strawberry Banana Power Gel and headed over to the Lewisville Aquatorium where the swim would be held and in whose parking lot the transition area would be set up for the transfer from swim to bike and bike to run. We pulled in around 5:32 a.m. and headed inside to check out the 50-meter pool.

Because I was on the road Friday and Saturday, I was unable to pick up my race packet ahead of time which meant I had to check in and pick it up on Sunday morning. I was excited to get my official "Take On The Heat Triathlon" T-shirt, but before I got that, the girl at the check in table handed me a big 264 and told me to pin it on my shirt. I told her I thought it was rude to make us plaster our weight on the front of our shirts. She said it was my race number based on the ranking of my estimated swim time. I told her I was kidding and hadn't weighed a pound over 260 since Junior High. She smirked. Woman had the sense of humor of a turnip.

At 7:15 we herded into the pool area with the other 400 people who paid $65 to put themselves through this and started to line up according to the race number that had been written on our arms and legs out in the parking lot. On the way into the pool, a DJ started cranking some music on a huge set of speakers outside. The Fray's "In Over Your Head" started to play and we all laughed. It was the last time.

About 7:45, Triathlete #1 hit the pool and knocked out his 350 in just under 4 minutes. Showoff. One by one people dived in, jumped in, slipped into the pool until the line wound down to the three of us. This was what we had been getting up at 6:30 on Saturday morning for. This was what the midnight swims at Lifetime had all been about. There was no need to panic. We could do this.

Brian started 100 spots ahead of me. He knocked out his swim in about nine minutes and we never saw him again. I was second and rolled through my swim in a little over eight minutes. Peter was 30 places behind me and finished his swim in about the same time as Brian. With so many people swimming at once, everyone tended to bunch up at the end and when I got to the ladder, there were five or six people ahead of me waiting to get out. Time was ticking away so I decided to swim the extra five yards and get out near the starting blocks. I gripped the top of the wall and jumped up out of the water, but when I did, my swimming/biking/running shorts slid down about eight inches in the back and I gave the 250 people in the observation area a nice shot of plumber's butt cleavage. Someone in the stands screamed there was a Sasquatch in the pool. I think two cheerleaders may have thrown up.

With the swim down it was off to the bike. Two six-mile loops that had been billed as "hilly, but fast." What the brochure neglected to tell us was that we'd be riding into a huge head wind at every turn. The bike course was a big square and with every turn, we hit a head wind that all but stopped you dead in your tracks if you dared stop pedaling. I was convinced it was all for my benefit. Penance for the donuts I ate the night before at the tail end of the carb load.

On my second lap, I passed a number of people in way better shape than me. I felt pretty good about that. Then I passed four high school kids. I felt damn good about that. The last guy I passed was carrying his bike back to the start on his shoulders. Don't know if he had a flat or just gave up. By the looks of his age, I think he was the one guy I ended up beating in my age group. Think I might send him a Thank You inner tube.

As I rolled into the transition area for the second time, I was feeling pretty good. I'd knocked out the swim and transitioned to the bike in about 11 minutes. I'd knocked out the bike in 51. Now, all I had to do was run three miles in an hour and I was home free. I parked the bike, sucked down half a bottle of Gatorade and another strawberry banana Power gel and headed back out of transition to the run course.

Now, I'm not a runner. Never have been. And as I hit the concrete sidewalk and our old friend the headwind, my legs turned to jello. At this point, Roberts was way out in front of me, as was Peter who'd blown past me at the end of the first bike lap. All along, I knew they'd be into their second pitcher of Margaritas by the time I finished and that was fine. I just wanted to finish and in less that two hours. But at this point, I was feeling way worse than I thought I would.

The first mile was horrible. Everything hurt. My breathing sucked. I had a chestful of allergies and it was becoming painfully clear that I had no concept what "pushing through the pain" actually felt like. But then, I started feeling a little better. I grabbed some water at the one mile mark and started running slowly, but steadily. About 3/4 of the way into the second mile, one of the volunteers pointing the way lit up a cigarette and started exhaling billows of carcinogenic fumes toward the sidewalk. I thought, "What the hell? Rude little shit's gonna cost me at least eight seconds with the second hand smoke." Fortunately for him, I was busy having a stroke and didn't have time to stop and talk.

I continued through the neighborhood and came up on two more high school kids who'd decided to walk the last mile and a half. As I ran past, I heard one of them say, "Dude, why would anyone do this on purpose?" For a second, I thought of stopping and answering what I thought was a very valid question. If they'd had a portable oxygen tank, I might have.

As I neared mile three, I passed a guy sitting out in front of his house who told me the turn for home was about half a mile away. He said, "turn right at the corner and you'll be able to see the finish line." I turned the corner and found a graveyard on my right. Not sure that's what he meant, but it did seem a bit poetic given the circumstances.

Turning the corner, I had no idea where I was time-wise, but I knew I had walked more than I planned and wanted to finish strong. After all, Ginger and the kids, the Roberts and Browns and a third half empty pitcher of Margaritas were waiting for me at the finish. So I sucked it up one last time and hauled ass toward the finish line. Twenty yards from the last turn, I saw Matthew and Caroline clapping and cheering me on. I picked it up, rounded the last corner, crossed the finish line and heard my timing chip beep bringing the whole incredible experience to a close.

As I bent over to catch my breath, my little Caroline came running across the parking lot yelling "DADDY" and gave me a huge hug, not caring for a second that I was pouring sweat and smelled like a pack of Rhinos. At that point, I didn't really care what my time was. But I was curious.

A computer glitch delayed the results, but about 35 minutes after our finish, the four official results sheets went up one by one. I stared through heads and shoulders looking for my name and in the sea of 400 other names, mine just popped into sight. Truthfully, it wasn't that tough. I just started in last place and headed backward until I found my name. But there it was.

Michael Tuggle. Flower Mound, TX. 1:46:15. Son of a bitch.

Officially, I finished 19th in the Men's 40-44 division. Thanks to No. 20 who was a DNF, I avoided finishing dead last in my division and was 289th overall. Clearly, there's room for improvement. And really, I think that is what this whole Triathlon thing is all about. Brian and Peter finished 15-17 minutes ahead of me. They were pleased and too are looking forward to our next opportunity to prove something to ourselves.

Like I said, it's good to have friends.

Our next race is here in Flower Mound in September. It's roughly the same distance. Roughly the same weather. And now, will have to be performed in roughly 1:46:15 seconds.

If we catch a tail wind, maybe even a little quicker.