I joked a lot before the race, and backed up the ridiculous smack talk with an astoudingly mediocore performance. But I’m so happy! It was a great experience, and I owe Slowtwitch an epic debt of gratitude for making it that way. Director’s cut (with pics) on my blog.
The Stroke Face Cometh
The freaking world championships! I’m kind of a big deal. Not actually, but I want to emphasize that as much as I can before I go back to real life in NYC (which mostly entails being humbled by doors that are slightly heavier than anticipated). Overall, I’m ecstatically ambivalent. Fifty-second and ninth age. In addition, I confronted my fears of Canadians. The northern contingent was probably confused when I held up a bible and attempted to exorcise their Canuck demons out with fluent Latin.
Pre-Race:
Left school on Thursday morning, sick as a dog, but anxious to get to scenic Lowe’s Motor Speedway (because I don’t see enough asphalt in NYC). Couldn’t get any exercise in due to the feeling that a family of ambitious beavers was building a dam in my throat (as an aside, “The Ambitious Beavers” would be the name of my all-female venture capital firm). Friday dawned after dreams influenced by the sweet siren song of Nyquil. My immune system had delivered a roundhouse kick to the solar plexus of herniated sinus, or whatever was causing me to tell everyone I loved them on Thursday. A quick summary of Friday would revolve around meeting sweet people, taking sweet pictures, and anticipating sweet victory (it tastes like Skittles!). Slept until 10AM on Saturday, and ate my Wheaties. That is a metaphor, I actually ate Peanut Butter Panda Puffs, a children’s cereal that is most likely laced with crack or horse steroids. Or both. A quick jog around noon-thirty followed by a shower and some food had me ready to put on my uniform. JUICY David activate! I figured, what the heck, the jersey could use one last stretch. So I put my foot in the butt and pulled….RIPPPP! Poop, I exclaimed. The ROCHE on the derier had ripped in what would be considered a very inopportune place outside of discreet rooms at New Jersey Turnpike rest stops. Oh well, the show must go on. And like Janet Jackson, my wardrobe malfunction most likely horrified innocent children and caused the downfall of broadcast television. Race site, bike check, schmooze with nothing to lose, and WE’RE OFF!
First Run:
The weather was poopy (poop seems like a theme today), which is awesome. Got to the start line, and the requisite profound silence gripped the field. WE ARE SO SERIOUS RIGHT NOW! So I said, “Does anyone mind if I let out a massive fart?” Fart must in the universal dictionary because the Japanese guy beside me let out a belly laugh. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—I AM CLASSY (And GASSY)! The gun sounds and a field of skinny men in tight clothes ran away from me. Was there pizza at the finish line or something? Count me in! Started slowly (about 5:30 pace) and accelerated through the field of a few hundred elite athletes over the first 10km. Some hills, some awesome names on butts. NICE, ROCKETT, and BOOMERKILL were butt-to-butt-to-butt. My childlike sense of humor told me it was going to be a good day. Worked my way through the field, going through the 5k in mid-16s, and arrived at the big hill on the course. Running with a New Zealander, I thought of Flight of the Conchords (NZs third most popular folk-hiphop duo!), and was happy. Then, a guy draped in their flag started screams, “KIWI’s DON’T QUIT! DON’T LET THE AMERICAN TAKE YOU.” Scary. I always assumed they were soft and cuddly like koalas or Nicole Kidman. Australia and New Zealand are the same place, you see. Came into transition in 34, a good 10km and in front of all but the skinniest and most compression-socks clad of the bunch.
Bike:
In transition I thought of building an ark rather than grabbing the bike, but thought it might result in a penalty. Hopped on my aerodynamic instrument of pain infliction to ride two loops of the turny course. It felt like the person designing it had an epileptic seizure while drawing the map. Mostly wanted to stay upright, and was probably far too conservative with pacing/drafting in the first 5 miles, letting a few under-25s get away from me. The course had a few sharp turns, and since I was running carbon brake pads in the rain, I would grip the brakes like one of those arcade grip-strength games and pray to God I stopped. In the arcade game, I must have been registering ‘Wet Noodle’ or something because it got hairy and scary. Passed a bunch of people that yelled to me, which was either encouragement from the blog or mirth at my exposed bum. Finished with a sub-hour bike split on the “40k” course. If that was 40k, then my dad’s nosehairs are at least a mile long. Transitioned into the LunaRacers after a lap of the Speedway, and prepared to unleash………
Second Run:
THE STROKE FACE! Named such due to the extreme pain-induced facial contortions on the final run leg of a multisport race. Felt okay at the beginning, but at the first hill began to feel Parkinson’s of the quads, the trembling of legs on the verge of terrible cramping. So I ran the uphills like the modern republican party fights for civil rights. AKA very slowly with seemingly little intent to move forward. Bombed the downhills though, and saw many people I know on the course. As I passed one racer (ST’s CARL!-outstanding dude), he yelled “Crush my dreams Dave Roche.” That made me smile. Then again, it was a stroke-face smile so it most likely would have caused King Polydectes to turn to stone (Ivy league education has given me the ability to make bad jokes about antiquity!). Came into the finishing chute with a sprint after a painful low 18s 5k, happy to be done crushing dreams (namely, my own) for the day. Hour fifty-two overall, a few minutes left on the course, some sore legs afterwards, and a noticeably shrunken groin bulge from the cold rain.
A toast to everybody out there! Slowtwitch (especially my Canadian crush Cassie), family, friends, weird homeless people, Abraham Lincoln…wait, what am I talking about again? Seriously, thanks for everything!
And getting whipped by the American Zofingen RD John McG was certainly not my proudest moment.