Mullet Man

The Mullet Man Triathlon of 2007 has passed into history. And no, that isn’t my actual time. Start times were staggered, so you can subtract some from that. As with half marathons, your first one is just about surviving. That reference to surviving isn’t so trite when you consider the surf and currents we had to contend with. A nice easterly 25 knot wind was ripping white caps out beyond the 3 to 4 foot surf. Sixty six degrees sounds cold for a water temperature, but I had bigger things on my mind, like not drowning. Once we got out past the surf zone the current and wind continued to play hell with me. I ate a lot of seawater. Actually called over the lifeguard guy in a kayak to just sort of hang out with me. He was a great guy with a Kiwi accent who talked to me for a bit. I found out later that two people had to be rescued from the water. The guy next to me in the transition area told me he barfed during the swim.

The outbound half of the bike leg was great. Wind at my back, iPod in the ears, no surf trying to drown me. I practically flew. Had it in max gear for most of the trip. Until the return trip, where I had to ride into the face of that wind. It was like trying to ride with a deployed parachute on your back. Dropped down to midpoint in the gears and still was only able to make about half the speed on the return leg. Disgusted at the amount of time and effort the return leg took, I was happy to finally get down to the running. Aside from not being able to unlock my lower legs for the first 2/3 it was fine. I was able to genuinely sprint the last 200 yards.

Overall it wasn’t too bad. It’s definitely less effort than a half marathon. No post-race or day after aches or soreness. I found some serious holes in my training regimen. The first is the idea that I actually can swim. I plan on getting some professional coaching before I think about another one. Adam’s already trying to talk me into another. I think I need to, just to prove I can do more than merely survive. Oh, and one final note. The gulf coast of Alabama is about as white trash as you can get. It’s like the Bahamas and a trailer park had a kid, and the trailer park got the beach in the divorce.

Ares