Vicissitudes

Warm, crimson blood issued from a jagged laceration from my right elbow and ankles, staining my ruined cycling kit. I slowly made my way off the bridge, where I leaned my battered bike against some guard railing, and attempted to rinse the wounds with some of the clear, cool water from the Tumalo Canal, with tepid handfuls, not certain if this was doing more harm than good; who knows where this water's been? Kinsey came to my rescue a few moments later. On the way home, It was hard to think of much else other than the sudden and unexpected setback and preventing my backside from staining the upholstery.

* * * 

I used one of Ramada's cheap coffee makers to heat some water to get my 4 a.m. hit of caffeine going in the form of a few Foursigmatic instant packets.  Despite my wave not starting until close to 9, the vast transition area at USAT Nationals closed down at 6:55, on the dot, to allow all the competitors from the earlier waves to clear out in time. After being rerouted a time or two due to the road closures, I pulled up with my teammates to the parking area by FirstEnergy Stadium before taking the shuttle over with plenty of time to spare.

The waters of Lake Erie lapped gently against Edgewater Park Beach under the soft shadows of Cleveland's skyline. Swim conditions were looking great under the 7 a.m. orange rays.

* * *

While I was thankful no bones were broken, this wreck was injury on top of the recent insults life had shot at me. About six weeks prior, I'd very unexpectedly lost my job, we were right in the middle of a stressful move, and our newly adopted rescue pet had a habit of easing her anxiety by plucking random objects off our living room bookshelf and turning them into many, much smaller objects. A whirlpool of anxiety, frustration, incredulity, and, heck, why not anger, denial and bargaining thrown in, swam around my head for many weeks. The added time to ride was one of the seemingly few things that were positive about the situation; I could let go, cruise, enjoy the process of getting ready for the thing I love. Then the Wreck happened.

* * *

Two hours later, a group of nearly 160 blue-capped athletes plunged into the now raucous chop that greeted us onto the first 1500 meters of our race. Sighting was my biggest area of improvement today. I should have been peeking up to check my line every 5-7 strokes without fail, but it seemed that more often than not, I was headed in some other direction than towards to turning buoy. I hoped that the return trip, waves coming from behind, wouldn't be quite as bad, but I was wrong. 

As soon as my fingers brushed against the soft surface under more shallow water, I popped up and scampered up the beach, managing to jam a toe in the soaked sand in the process, and headed for my bike, racked on the far end of the transition area. En route, I ran into some traffic from racers in other Age Groups now coming into their T2. I was rerouted for not the first time today, and for a few moments, couldn't seem to locate my bike among the vast sea of carbon and alloy. 

I lost maybe 30 seconds trying to find my steed but no sooner did I navigate around the traffic clogging the mount line did I already have the incident out of my mind and power was smoothly  transferring to pedals.

* * *

Removing the gauze was the worse. I'd never seen that consistency, or color, of fluid come out of my body. Any time I saw a crash while watching the Tour, I felt strangely comforted that I wasn't the only one, and in fact, this is part of my sport, this is a risk I take every single time I clip in. I've been lucky, I've been guarded, from an event like this for the last seven years, but the Wreck was the end of a long road of safe riding. I think that it came at the lowest point of the summer was, in fact, no accident...

* * *

Being a "national" level race, I knew there were bound to be a substantial number of other racers I'd have to contend with on the course, both people trying to overtake me, and others racing along at significantly slower rates of speed, but still suffering all the same (not to mention the potholes). A small group of about five athletes from my age group formed and for the first half of the race, we took turns surging, passing, pace setting, then getting overtaken by another rider. By the turn around, I'd bested three of them while one remained ahead, spurring me on to keep a high pace.

With his bright yellow kit, he was hard to miss. He put about 25 seconds on me into T2, but my transition this time around was much smoother. Satisfying though it was to make up that much time with just the transition, he still had some strong legs and passed me for the last time early in the run.

* * *

After the untimely news from my previous employer, I had to find a job immediately if Kinsey and I were to keep our loan. Our friend Curtiss offered a suggestion, that I work for a bar that happened to be the title sponsor for one of our favorite races of the season, Pac Crest, located in Sunriver, about a 25 minute drive south. I honestly didn't have much of a choice, so I pulled the trigger and we began to move in to our new ranch home in late June.

Within the first few weeks of my new position, I had to call in sick, or, more accurately, hurt. I did my best to hide the bandages so my tables would not be put off the next time I came in.

* * *

In previous Olympic distance races, I always felt I may have had just a bit of extra to give during the ride, but rarely get the chance to race with so many others around me. Today, I knew I gave it just about everything for the last 57 minutes. The effort on the bike proved to pay off with the 5th fastest age group split on the day. After I traded carbon shoes for foam, I had one gear to run with and it wasn't going to last much longer.

The run course took us on two serpentine loops through the western portion of Edgewater Park and, at times, the path did not afford us much elbow room. If the bike course was crowded, the run course was downright overflowing with runners. With the added challenge of weaving in and around the sharp, congested course, I was running on some terribly fatigued legs at this point. With a mile left, I thought to myself more than once that I would be disappointed if I crossed the line and still had any gas in the tank. I couldn't tell if any of the other guys I started with were nearby; I had to assume some were breathing down my neck. I made the last, short descent hurt, the hot spots on the outsides of my feet groaning, and gave it all I had to the line. 

* * *

The alarm in my fitbit vibrated, and I gingerly rolled over to my right side, doing everything I could to avoid pressure on the injured areas and let my feet drop to the carpet. With less than 24 hours separating me from the Wreck, everything still hurt. Fresh wrappings in place, I slipped my running kit on, filled a water bottle, and drove up the mountain with Joel to tackle a new trail in the Cascades. The Creation we experienced on that run was more than enough to let my brain forget about hurts that would heal, careers that would live, and a past that will remain in the rear view. 

* * *

That evening, after the awards ceremony, I sat with half a dozen other USMES teammates that made it out to the Buckeye State, and enjoyed some local fare and brew, whiling away the dusk-light hours, soaked in mirth, as my 7th place Age Group medal sat securely in my right pocket, resting over healed wounds already forgotten.