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I did my first triathlon of the year on May 21. It was the South Bay Triathlon in beautiful Morgan
Hill, California, put on by J&A Productions.
It’s also called the Uvas race because we swim in the Uvas Reservoir, which only opens for
swimming for this event. Uvas is Spanish for grapes, which is appropriate because I felt
like a raisin in the sun by the time I finished, but I’ll get to that.
I’d been excited about this race for a long time, but as race day approached I grew nervous.
I’d only gotten semi-serious about triathlons last year, and now I felt like a complete
newbie again. What if I forgot something crucial, like my bike(!), and couldn’t race, or
worse, lost my nerve on race morning and didn’t even go?
It took a long time to get my gear together the night before. I’d forgotten half of what I
needed and couldn’t find the other half. Lesson one: Make a list of what goes in your race
bag, or better still, just keep it packed; after each race, wash the stuff and then put it back in
for next time.
Prerace jitters
On race morning, when the alarm went off at 4:00 am, I realized that at least one thing had
changed. Last year I’d have thought, “I must be completely out of my mind to do
this.” This time I just thought, “Well, time to get up for the race.” Either I was
more of a triathlete than I thought or I was truly insane.
I carpooled to the race with two friends, and spent most of the ride thinking how much fitter they
were. I got even more intimidated when we arrived and parked in the sheep pasture (albeit cleared
of animals) next to the race. I watched the procession of lean, muscled people wheel their
expensive bikes toward the race site, and I knew they would eat me alive. Why hadn’t I just
stayed home?
But when we crossed from the pasture into the race area, my fears evaporated. This race was
small. The transition area was tiny. Since I hadn’t done my homework, I didn’t
know that Uvas only took 700 participants. I saw lots of people I recognized from last year’s
J&A races. And a lot of them looked like me—average. Suddenly this Death Race 2000 shrank
to a small, friendly family affair. Nicole, Jill, and I set up our transition areas. Slowly the
drill came back to me. Maybe I’d survive after all.
Splish splash
The MC summoned us to the swim start. I got into the cool blue water I’d admired from afar.
Up close it was somewhat less appealing: slimy grass underfoot, with occasional sharp things that
I hoped were sticks and not broken beer bottles. I remembered feeling great on the swims in last
year’s races and I was looking forward to the same thing this year. One little detail,
though: last year I’d done a lot of swim training; this year I hadn’t. My age-group wave
started, I began swimming, and I was tired immediately! Lesson two: Some actual training is a good
idea.
The swim, a 3/4-miler, started on one side of a little wooded peninsula. We swam around the
peninsula and got out on the other side under a huge inflatable arch with the J&A logo.
I’d never done a swim like this before and it was neat to actually swim from Point A
to Point B. To my relief I didn’t get completely dropped by my wave. I wasn’t leading
but I seemed to be hanging solidly in the middle. I even passed a couple of people near the
end.
Peel it off
Now came what is always, for me, the quintessential triathlon moment, when you emerge dripping
from the water and rip off your wetsuit as you run to the transition area. I’m always out of
breath as I try to sprint and undress at the same time, but this is when I feel most like a
triathlete. Got back to my bike, peeled off my wetsuit—too slowly, out of practice—and
put on my shoes, race number, and helmet. I’d planned to drink a lot of sports drink and put
on more sunblock, but in a bad last-minute decision I got on my bike and took off. Lesson three:
drink and reapply sunblock at the transitions!
The hardest lessons
It was about 9:30 a.m. and the sun was beating down. I started slowly but soon picked up speed.
This was my strongest leg, and also the scariest. The ugly accidents are always on the bike leg,
for obvious reasons (much less damage when runners collide). However, the small field and the fact
that I was in the last wave meant that there weren’t many other bikes on the road.
I started to push myself harder. I caught a few people and passed them. But I still felt
dehydrated, hot, and tired. The 16-mile road around the reservoir was gorgeous. There was one
brutal hill near the end, and I took it as fast as I could—which wasn’t that fast
because I’d already tired myself out and failed to drink enough. Still, some of my fellow
triathletes were walking the hill, and I wasn’t. A nice long downhill followed, and then a
few more little rollers got me back to the transition area.
The final, scorching stretch
Dismounting my bike I felt grateful, as I always do when I survive this leg unscathed. I spotted
my blue-green towel, racked my bike, put on my shoes and socks, and jogged out, skipping the
fluids and sunblock.
Lesson four: same as lesson three: Hydrate and use sun protection! Lesson five: Wear your white
mesh runner’s hat. Don’t go bareheaded! I usually wear a hat, but I had left it at home.
And was I sorry—this turned into the longest, most unpleasant run of my life. Everyone
I’d passed on the bike caught and passed me. The dehydration started to hit me hard. The sun
was screaming down. It felt like it was 100 degrees. I was taking very short steps. The course
seemed all uphill.
Somewhere after mile 2 I started getting chills and goosebumps. Very bad sign: impending
heat exhaustion. I got a little frightened. At the next water stop I grabbed two cups of water and
walked while I drank them. That helped a little and I started running again. I did the same at the
next two water stops but I was still running 15-minute miles. Lesson six: same as lesson
one—a little training might not be a bad idea.
The end in sight
Finally, after what seemed forever, I schlepped along until the course turned a corner and put me
back in public view for the 200 yards to the finish line. People yelled for me—“Looking
good! Finish strong!”—and it really helped. I produced a fairly decent kick across the
line. The volunteers in the chute took my number and handed me a bottle of water—already
open! I walked a bit and drank the water, then got back into the lake, sans wetsuit, and
cooled down. Slowly, with the help of more water, I started to feel almost normal.
Do I sound insane? Why would any rational person put themselves through this? Because of the
incredible feeling that you’ve accomplished something major. You’ve conquered the
elements: water, air (wind resistance on the bike), earth—and today, you can add fire to
that list.
It was a great race—well-organized, safe, friendly, and fun. I’ll be back next year, no
question. But this time I might actually try to train
first.
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