Training for Ironman Wisconsin, I was led to believe that I should just keep biking the course so it just becomes commonplace. And it has. I'll make my way there, bike part of it and bike home. I'll bike just the course. I'll bike the course over and over again. When my miles go up, I'll bite off more and more of the course. The bike portion of the Ironman Wisconsin is 112 miles--possibly the bulk of the time will be spent on a bike. Training for that second portion of this triathlon is essential to surviving/finishing the race.
I'm biking enough that I see other cyclists out and they give the nod. As we pass, it's a quick hello to fellow passers-by who are on two man-powered wheels. The difference between me and them is that I don't enjoy this biking thing. It's boring. And I still have this thing about cyclists who don't acknowledge runners. There's no community among bikers and runners when it comes to 'the nod'. I've tried time and again to give the nod/wave to cyclists while I'm running, but usually I get nothing in return. I feel no affinity to the cycling culture even while I'm biking. Cyclists pass by the opposite direction and say 'hello' or nod but I ignore them. I'm not them. Yet, here I am--biking among them--on their courses.
As Brian and I were biking an easy 40 on the Ironman "Loop", we moved through many small communities. Like Cross Plains, where I slowed to halt at a stop sign.
While my bike was at a stand still, waiting for the car across from me waited, the driver looked me down and waited like we were playing chicken. I turned the wheel left and right to balance while she sat. A moment passed and she turned left. As I began to pedal, she stopped her car right in front of me, rolled down her window and waved to me to approach the car. This is what she said:
I'M SICK AND TIRED OF YOU PEOPLE NOT STOPPING AT THE STOP SIGN. THERE IS A STOP SIGN. YOU ARE SUPPOSED TO STOP. YOU KNOW, THERE ARE KIDS IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD WHO SEE YOU *BLOW* THROUGH STOP SIGNS AND THEY THINK IT'S OK, SO THEY BLOW THROUGH STOP SIGNS TOO. THINK! THINK! I'M SICK AND TIRED OF IT.
She drove away in black Toyota Camry on Monday at approximately 11:45AM, leaving me with no response. She drove down the road. At my fight or flight, I was left to wonder if I should bike towards her, so I could respond in some way.
Now I'm being lumped in with cyclists. Just great. I'm like a man without a country.
When my face came out of the Lake Ripley water, it was like I was waking from a dream. I felt like I didn't know where I was or where I was going. I thought I had been transported and it was spinning. My right foot picked up and planted so I wouldn't collapse. This would be a good time, I thought, to end Bubble Day.
Earlier that morning, I was driving down Monroe Street while I turned completely around to look Ian square in the eyes. I spoke and reassured him, "I will bring the bubbles," he likes nothing less than a step-by-step account of how you will get done what he needs done, "I will drop you off at school, drop Franny off at Mom's, go get stuff for bubbles and drop it off at school. I won't forget this time." My recent incident when I forgot to return to his school with this library book left him disappointed with a chip on his shoulder. That's why it was necessary to look him in the eye and assure him that I wasn't going to forget.
Today was a good day to run on such errands since I had the day off. I have taken every other Monday off to help train for Ironman Wisconsin after I have the kids for the weekend. Target's population during an early Monday morning is very low. I could practice my shopping hunter skills with great precision with no browsers in my way.
I arrived at the bubble section. There were more bubble choices than I anticipated. Five types of bubble guns, twenty different types of simple bubble bottles with wands, three types of bubble making machines and even the foam bubble alternative in four different delivery methods. My eyes glazed over at the many choices. I tried to visualize which one would win Ian's confidence back or maybe there was one that would really appease his bubble appetite or another one that would make his the focus of attention among the kids at school. Would the school frown on bubble guns? After all, they're guns. No school, no matter how much fun it is, likes guns. So, what's better than that? A very large, over the top size container of bubbles. I purchased a 64 ounce jug of bubbles that is held in a space age container. The wand is so large that it dwarfs his head.
I check out and return to Ian's school where I drop off the bubbles. As I walk in, I explain to the strange glances, "It's Bubble Day. We forgot our bubbles."
I explain again, "It's Bubble Day. We forgot our bubbles."
Another odd stare, "It's Bubble Day. We forgot our bubbles."
"Hey Ian. Here you go buddy," I hand him the "Gazillion Bubbles".
His friend is in disbelief in what's happening. His stare along with gaping mouth only with one thing to suggest, "Ian, let me help you put that away! Let me help you!"
As the bubble crisis is averted, I head home to begin my 60 mile ride, followed by a short run. The day begins to heat up and I load up on nutrition and salt tablets as well as water and gatorade. I realize that I haven't pumped my tires in a while and I fill them up.
I get on my bike and start the first few miles in the Arboretum. I pass a runner and I nod to him. As a runner, I don't notice any cyclists nodding 'hello' to runners. I make a concerted effort to break that cruel streak.
He doesn't return the salutation as I pass then my tire fires off a BANG. The tire completely blew out. As I change it, the runner jogs closer to me. "I haven't heard one that loud in a while," I lighten up with him.
He replies, "Yea, well it scared the crap out of me." He continues on his way.
As the tire gets changed, I continue on my day long trek. It's a long, hot ride. The course is hilly. I try to take care of myself the best way I can.
When I reach home, the bike gets put away and I slug the end of the gatorade. After getting a taste of the air conditioning, I decide to cut my run from 30 minutes to 20 minutes.
By the time I hit the shower, it's after 2PM. I have some time before the 6PM Open Water Swim class at Lake Ripley.
I left early for class to pick up a new swim cap. All three of my swim caps are very camoflaged. Jessica told me to bring a brighter cap so she can spot me. Today, my choice of swim caps has a bulldog boasting the school name "Chelsea" in day glow yellow.
As I sit in traffic, I begin to become frustrated and irritated. My iPod really isn't giving me much to distract me. By the time I got to Lake Ripley, I had been in the car for about an hour. Class is already ten minutes into it. I felt like I was going to kick into scurrying dad again, "It's Bubble Day. We forgot our bubbles."
The buoys are set up 100 yards apart. Swimmers are going clockwise. It's a day when you perform five full exhales in 'dead man' pose, then swim for 1 then 2 then 3 then 4 laps.
The thought of traffic and blowing up bike tires drift away, I'm looking at the bottom of the lake as I swim. The sun beating down and the water so cool, this swim becomes refreshing and tranquil though a dozen people swim around me. What usually drives my anxiety to stomach-churning levels has become something that has calmed me. My stroke and breathing feed into each other like a factory line, delivering me from buoy to buoy with little effort.
Jessica reminds me how much work I did this morning on the bike and run--to insure that I don't cramp up. I go for another lap or two to finish. I wanted to make sure that I felt this way as I finished the swim tonight.
I swam back to shore, not even sighting. When I did stop to look, it was like I was waking up from a dream. I didn't know where I was or where I was going. It was amazing.
