I know I am tempting fate by using the Ironman name in my title, so I am expecting the trademark police to come knocking on my door any minute. If this recap of last weekend's Envirosports Napa ½ Iron Triathlon is interrupted mid-story, you know what happened.
A small, but hearty band of FOMOs trekked north to Napa, the land of cabernets, asiago, and Mercedes. Unfortunately, the race was in a section of Napa I like to call "Baja Napa" where it is more Bud Lite, cheese whiz, and '78 Dodge Maverics. I was joined for the 3rd annual running of the now infamous race by Kelby, Dave Stark, Rob Almeida, Erin Williams, and Kitty. Jim Briner was there to provide us with moral support and to race the Sprint Distance tri the next day.
Like last year, the minus 2 star Putah Creek Resort (they put the "ort" in Resort) hosted the event. All the locals came out to watch the buffed and spandexed triguys and trigals swim, bike, and run. You probably remember Cookie, the part time Putah Creek cook and full time meth dealer, Bubba, the harbormaster, plumber, and massage therapist, Shirley, the chain smoking, Jack drinkin, burger eatin resort nutritionist and fitness coordinator, and how can you forget Tiny, the part time tattoo artist and full time aesthetician. They all dragged their Lazy-boys out of their double wides, rolled a keg or two of their favorite brew next to their chairs, fired up their grills in anticipation of any road kill produced by the cyclists or course marshals, and retrieved the community set of teeth from Cookie who was using them for cutting up a pork rind appetizer.
If you have ever participated in an Envirosports race, you know it is more a matter of survival and navigation skills than actual triathlon training that leads to success. The swim course was loosely marked by orange buoys forming what could be described as a trapezoidal shape, but a fifth side seemed to appear mid-race. I believe one of the buoys actually moved during our second lap. The best strategy to employ in one of these situations is to swim around for about 30 minutes and then head to the exit, no one is the wiser. We self seeded ourselves into three waves, the guinea pigs, the martyrs, and the Einstein's. The guinea pigs took off first going every which way trying to see the turns amidst the chop and white caps followed by the martyrs who followed the guinea pigs, but who sacrificed themselves by foolishly following the wrong swimmers. The Einstein's patiently observed the chaos in the water, chose the best route to take, and then proceeded into the water in a calm and orderly manner. All the FOMOs chose to be guinea pigs.
After surviving the swim, Kelby exited the water first from our group, shouted something about "girlie men", and then shot out of T1 onto the bike course. Rob, Dave, and I swallowed our male pride, picked our way through the beer cans, chip bags, and cigarette wrappers which were used as markers for the transition area, then followed Kelby in hot pursuit. Erin and Kitty played it safe and let the boys burn off their testosterone, knowing they would catch us later. When the locals saw the exceptionally hot looking FOMO triathletes sprinting through the transition area, they gave us their traditional 21 beer & belch salute from the comfort of their Lazy-boys.
The bike leg was especially challenging this year due to a harsh winter that further deteriorated the road proving the Caltrans motto of "we will fill no pothole before its time" was still in effect. Layered on top of the bone jarring road, hurricane force winds circled us for the entire 56 miles. Someone claimed to have experienced a tail wind on the first out and back, but I must have been on a different course. Fearing the flat tire demons that plagued me last year, I made sure I was prepared this go around. I had two tubes, four cartridges, two patch kits, two tires, a bikestand, a bike mechanic, truing stand, floor pump, and I filled my tubes with that green slime stuff. Actually, I was all prepared with a spare tube and cartridge, but noticed after the race that I had not packed any tire irons…oops! The FOMOs all rode strong, pulling many riders from lesser teams along in the giant vortexes created by our blinding speed.
We blasted into T2 and exited to cheers of "Go skinny white guy" and "Good job person wearing a jog bra, but we don't know if you are a guy or a gal"!!! We fueled up with some Slim Jims, hydrated from the aid station garden hose, and hit the run course. Billy Bob, Jim Bob, and Bob Bob were out in their '73 Chevy Truck patrolling the run course to ensure everyone had plenty of pork rinds, beer, and chewing tobacco. Did I mention this was a very well supported race?
The run was on an unmarked, 2-loop, out and back course. Have you ever tried to pace yourself without mile markers? I guess Envirosports wanted to save on the cost of markers in order to provide the participants with a superior post race meal experience (more about that later). A strong side wind cut across the course being especially gusty over a long bridge. The upside to the wind was that it kept the temperature cool, but the downside was faster dehydration and the possibility of being blown off the bridge into the lake (although Billy Bob's half cousin/sister Sally Bob was waiting below in her 18 foot bass boat to pick up any wayward athletes).
The FOMOs ran strong, keeping each other motivated on the course, and proudly displaying the new FOMO colors. Dave and Rob decided to pull out of the run to save themselves for one of them there FULL Ironmans. Dave was nursing an injured hip and Rob planned a 20 miler the next day, so neither of them felt too compelled to kill themselves. Kelby, Kitty, Erin, and I crossed the line and received the official finisher's medal of a crushed beer can on a frayed piece of rope.
The post race meal was served in the boat repair/café/discothèque. We grooved to the sounds of Merle Haggard and Waylan Jennings while we feasted on week old salad, some sort of surplus macaroni salad flown in from the Green Zone, and mystery beans. Needless to say, we had to make an emergency Rubios stop on the way home. At least no one offered to share their BBQ'd roadkill with us, the locals seemed pre-occupied by a fight that had broken out over which Duke had better hair, Bo or Luke.
I encourage anyone looking for an alternative to the well organized, well executed, and well attended Wildflower, to give the Napa Half Iron, now named the White Trash Half, a try next year.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
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