When All I Want to Say Is "On Your Left"

A fitting end to the first week of training was the first bike meet. I had thought the awkward initial scrutiny may be over, but I'm getting used to being proved wrong time and time again.

It turns out to be a beautiful Saturday morning at the parking lot of SUNY Purchase as the group meets at 7:30. Light stretching, light gabbing, the occasional tire pump being passed around. Never had been part of an organized bike group, I looked at everyone's gear from the corner of my eye. 

Keep in mind that all the articles, websites, intro meetings, and the very handy "Your First Triathlon" book by Joe Friel tell the Tri newbie that anything on two wheels and a pedals will work for a first Triathlon. No need to dump $1000 into a fancy new road bike if you already have something handy. Its a quick read and very user friendly.

What Joe doesn't prepare the average reader for is the scrutiny and embarrassment of being picked out of the group during intro's of the prime example of "what gear not to have." Poland spring sport bottles - a no-no. Too awkward to pull out of the cage while riding. Make sure to have the sport bottles with the little pop-top. Oh, and to "keep the nipple up" at all times for a quick suck.

I was too busy trying to hide the flush rising to my face to make my standard side retort regarding the nipple comment. The coach continued on to point out to the rest of the group (who apparently didn't need this instruction since they all had the right equipment) how my street sneakers would not provide as much uphill power as the more fancier clip pedals and matching shoes would. To top the embarrassment off with a cherry, I was asked to go ahead of the pack during sprints under the pretense of, "its not your athletic ability that puts you at a disadvantage, its just that your equipment may hinder your progress versus others."

Everyone else's goal in the pack? To catch up to my 30 second head start. Greeeat. 

Nonetheless, I plowed through the morning wholeheartedly. Agony came in the form of hill drills. Climb the same hill 5 times; odd numbers sitting down, even numbers standing up.  Your break comes as you speed down to the bottom. My motivation was simply not seeing the cyclists that zoomed down the hill while I climbed pass me within the next minute.

Frustration replaces the burning thighs during sprints as cyclists on their thousand dollar rides yell from behind you "on your left" to let you know they're passing. I'm just patting myself on the back for investing in a Hybrid rather than trudging along on my tank-like mountain bike. 

Weary and craving caffeine, Erin and I pack up and search for the nearest Dunkin Donuts. (Cause we're American, and America runs on Dunkin, was our motto.) After a close and muddy encounter with a loose bike rack, declining help from a strange car pulling over to assist on the Hutch and giant iced coffees, we headed off to the swim portion of our day humming Talking Head's "Pscho killer, quest que cest..."