Holy Toledo Triathlon Challenge II

So, with my race directions in hand, and my wife, daughter and all my nerd trigear in tow, we headed into the deep piney woods of Northwest Louisiana or Toledo Bend, the bass fishermans Mecca. When turning into the Cypress Bend Resort, our host hotel, we were greeted with two huge winding hills that my Vortec V8 struggled to climb. I told my wife that I sure hoped these weren’t part of the race course and obviously were too winding and dangerous to even be considered. What is that cliche about spitting in the air? I was also beginning to become real happy that Ben had talked me into purchasing a 12-25 cassette.

After attempting to check in, we decided to go to the race start at the state park to check things out and get a feel for the course. Upon arriving I witnessed a man enter the water and proceed to swim out a small canal near the boat landing. He turned, swam back, and reported to another guy standing on the bank his time and estimated distance I figured we had seen enough and we started back to the resort. At the same time, a young man was taking off on a bike. He left the state park right in front of us. As I watched an extremely fit young man on a road bike struggle up the hill in front of us a wave of fear and dread swept over me. Then my rationalizing side took over and said, " how bad could it really be?" Well, I was soon to find out.

That night at our pre-race meeting, I found out who the "man on the bank" was. It was Bobo our host, race director, and soon to be torture master. The man in the water was Jordan and the young man on the bike was Kyle, Bobo’s assistants for the race. Anyone who has completed one of Bobo’s races can attest that he is not well. He is surely the Marquis de Sade of the triathlon world. Some of his comments explaining the race course included, swim out to the cypress tree, shake it to knock out the snakes, and then swim to your left. He also filled us in about some sort of hot tamale eating contest at the halfway point on the bike course. The winner would receive a free entry into next years race. He further explained not to ask the number of tamales that the current winning tamale eater had inhaled, as this was a true time trial format. The man is sick, very sick, and if I didn’t realize it at the prerace meeting, I was sure to have full realization on the race course the next morning.

The next morning I realized that the new cassette that I had just purchased and put on my wheel was not shifting properly. Brilliant rookie/newbie move on my part not to fully test my new cog out. I kept telling Ben that I wouldn’t be needing that 25 anyway. Boy was I wrong!!! Ben insisted that I get it fixed. So with all of the shenanigans of race morning going on, Jordan and John Fell looked at my situation and Jordan quickly remedied it with a screwdriver and a little tinkering. Little did I know that Jordan had saved my little ass from carrying my bike over a few of the hills that were to come.

Well, we donned our wetsuits and the race was set to begin. I was as nervous as a queer at a weenie roast. John Deshotel decided that we should all shoot the bird to the camerawoman for a great group race photo. Everyone obliged and what a fitting start to this race it was. I started somewhat back in the pack, but still managed to be mauled a few times. After settling in, it wasn’t long before I reached the cypress tree. Thoughts of water moccasins danced in my head and I think my pace picked up a bit. As I turned for home at the gazebo on the end of the fishing pier and rolled up to breathe, I noticed a fishing line above my head. To hell with the snakes, some little boys were fishing off of the pier and right in the middle of all of the racers. This was only the beginning of the shear craziness of this race. Well, I finally reached the finish, OK the boat ramp, and scampered out of the water happy as hell to have not been hooked, bitten, run over by an 80 mph bass boat, or some crazy fisherman backing his trailer down the ramp.

I shouldn’t have been smiling when I exited the water, I should have been crying. What I failed to realize at that point, was that the swim I had just completed was the only FLAT section on the entire race course. After dumping my suit and mounting my trusty steed (I should have brought a mountain goat not a bike), I attempted to make it up the first hill. Immediately out of transition was at least an 8% grade hill. If you weren’t in an easy gear, you were sure to fall on your butt. We were assured by Bobo at the prerace meeting that anyone falling on that hill would definitely have their picture taken for the race brochure next year. I sure didn’t want to be the poster child for that one.

So, out of the park and up the highway I went. Up being an understatement. I remember reading somewhere to let my heart rate settle out of the water on the bike before starting to eat, etc. The hills that I encountered out of T1 would have the "Texans" heart rate soaring, much less a little coonass like me who thinks an overpass is L’alpe d’huez (hell I can’t even spell it). About 1.5 miles out of transition, Bobo had us turn into the resort for an out and back through the steepest hills I have ever seen in Louisiana. The hills in this out-back went like this for me, 45-49 mph down and 5-6 mph up. I even saw one guy carrying his bike. Did I fail to mention that the course was open to traffic and that a Fraternity had a party the night before at the resort. All I could think of was being impaled on the hood of some still drunk from the night before Frat boys car. The deceleration trauma and road rash could have caused some real pain. Needless to say I made it through the resort hills and down to Zwolle (don’t ask - buy a map) and the turnaround. All the way back, I kept thinking, don’t press, you still have that out and back to the resort before T2. (Yes Bobo had us do the out and back to the resort twice). Those thoughts must have scared the piss out of me, because I had no choice but to pull over on the side and relieve myself. I figured there was only a couple of women in the race anyway, what are the chances one will happen to come by now. Well, one lucky girl game "whizzing" by, no pun intended. Needless to say, all she got to see was piss running down my leg and onto the ground. I still haven’t perfected the art of pissing out of a trisuit. Anyone with tips, please email me. And don’t tell me, I need a longer one, I already get those emails everyday and their offers to help me out.

Well, I finally made it back to the infamous resort out and back. On my way up the final and most grueling hill. Bobo and Jordan were there to offer their encouragement. I can remember things like, "come on Smitty, this is a race, what are you doing?", "are you in your big ring?". They have no mercy on the suffering. However, I still could have kissed Jordan for adjusting my derailer before the race so that I could get into my 25. Hell, in my 39-25, standing with all 130 pounds of giantness I was barely crawling up the hill. I could only imagine 39-23. At that point I was hoping to put my rear cog on the front and my front chainrings on the rear tire. I was also sure glad I had a set of ZIPP 909s on my bike at that point. At least I looked fast as I was blistering up that hill at 6mph.

At last I made T2, you could have timed my race thus far with a calendar, but I didn’t care. I was having the time of my life. I mean it, I really mean it. I was laughing the whole time. The course was brutal and I loved every inch of it. The run started easy enough with a loop through what Bobo had said was a trailer park of some sort. To me it looked like the set off of Deliverance. If only I would have heard dueling banjo’s or someone would have yelled, "you have a pretty mouth boy", I might have run a 4 minute mile. After that nice little jaunt, the insanity began. In Louisiana when they say turn left off of the paved road, things get bad, real bad. This was no different. At that point the run was starting to take its toll. I noticed several people walking and a couple of others in possible need of medical attention. Nonetheless, I turned and down I went. My quads pounding and being turned into mush. I then turned onto the infamous highline. A clearcut where CLECO’s powerlines run through the woods. My first hill took me straight up and then straight down. I was probably running a 6 minute clip on the way down, OK falling at a 6 minute clip when my left big toe hit an immovable rock/root. How I managed to stay on my feet is a miracle. This is the one time in life my shortness paid off in dividends. All the way up and down the next series of hills my toe throbbed like a truck was parked on it. I finally came to the realization that I had broken my toe. Great, 7 miles left to go through some of the most brutal terrain and I have a broken big toe. Oh well, as they way, "if the bone ain’t showin, you gotta keep goin". Whoever wrote that has never done one of Bobos races, on second though maybe they have. Finally, an aid station appeared and so did the pavement. The sad realization was that this pavement was the infamous out and back to the resort. It was there where that I was able to complain to Jordan and Jerry Martinez about my broken toe. I don’t think they thought I was serious. After some small talk and a fig newton I was off to the resort out and back again. At least I was on pavement again, but the hills that ate me up on the bike were there again to greet me on the run. When I got to the bottom of the first hill and looked up, way up, to the resort where I was to climb and then return down, the smile finally left my face. I felt the dread of a boy whose parents just dropped him off for a sleepover at Michael Jackson's house.

My toe was throbbing so hard, that I no longer needed my heart rate monitor. I knew exactly how many times my heart was beating for the rest of the day and still some 24 hours later as I type this. Upon reaching the top of the pit of despair I met a man on a 4 wheeler, who proceeded to point to a white poster in the distance and tell me that the turnaround was a mere 300 yards that way. Some 2,000 yards later after traversing three of the deepest pits I have ever seen in my life, I reached the poster. As I passed the man on my way out, I asked him if he was raised by "crows". I don’t think he got the joke, but I did tell him that if he continued to tell racers that the turnaround was 300 yards away, he was surely to get his butt whipped. He laughed and probably thought I was just delirious and about to bonk.

I made my way back out and past the aid station for the third and final time only to greet Jordan and Jerry, both grinning like they had just pumped the neighbors cat. I smiled, waved to my wife and daughter, and proceeded to the finish. It was one final sprint down the boat ramp, OK, a contolled fall down a long expanse of cement heading towards the water and finish line. I crossed, and continued smiling as I had done all race, shook Bobo’s hand, and received my dog tags and coffee mug. The smile is still on my face as I type this. Yes, the race was unorthodox and brutal. Yes, my time sucked and I broke my toe and have a ½ ironman in 3 weeks to continue training for. Yes, I drug my family to the middle of nowhere to watch me act like a lab rat in the mad scientist Bobos experiment. And yes I had the time of my life and Bobo can sign me up for next year. I think the t-shirt for the race says it all, "the cowards didn’t show and the weak died." To anyone who missed this race, you missed a good good one. Bobo says he wants everyone to camp out at the state park next year. Looks like I’ll be buying a tent to add to all of my trigeek gear. Does ZIPP make tents, on second thought does ZIPP sell mountain goats?