I did.
So when the rain came down on Saturday evening, and started up again halfway through the bike leg on Sunday morning, I was in real familiar territory.
Mudville! My home town!
As all tri's do nowadays - on road or off - the organizers get started pre-dawn. Sailor and the Cap'n were volunteering, and Popeye, Tri-Lady, and I all wanted to be at the venue an hour before race start. That meant a 5:30 wake up and a 6:30 departure from our host's (the Bligh's) adorable north Ft. Meyers home.
Ouch. Hopefully with that, the most painful part of the day is over!
Setting up in the yawn.
transition area - 7am
(sometimes there's just not enough coffee in the world)
This April day, the bike course at Caloosahatchee has something for every kid who ever jumped into a puddle.
A 20 yard section of trail, flooded hub-deep over muddy mush starts us off, and that's before we even get across Route 78 to the official bike trail.
A counter clockwise spin of Caloosahatchee begins with nice flat fields - high and dry - with an easy going temperature under the heavy gray sky.
But too soon the easy is over, and one descends into the gloom of the dreaded Far East.
Ups and downs, swoops and whoops, banks and turns, dips and slips.
Even dry, the Far East is challenging. But in steady rain, hard packed dirt morphs into brown vasaline. Footprints, hand prints, and five fingered gouges mark the upward slopes. Once unclipped, there was no clipping in again.
Even for mediocre riders like me, accustomed to pushing bikes up a climb, there was the novelty of actually having to go off trail and climb through the palmettos in order to get any footing at all on the steep parts.
Once done with the dark side, it was smooth, but careful, sailing for those of us with disc brakes and light weight, mud-shedding tires.
Oh baby!
I haven't skied in years but I do remember the feeling!
Transversing the "slopes" of those miles of twisty mud ribbon was the best bit of fun I have ever had, in any race, anywhere!
Popeye said later he passed a lot of folks walking their bikes after the Far East.
By the time I came skiing through, the only riders left were the ones stopped, poking at mud-caked tires, frames, and V-brakes with sticks; or simply slamming their bikes on the ground in an attempt to knock the mud free.
Whew. Really glad I shed the big knobs, when I saw how thickly the mud packed into the knobbies on other bikes. "Skiing" was much easier than carrying twenty pounds of wet clay along for the ride!
Pre-race announcements are half heard in the coffee free haze of pre-dawn. The course I don't worry about, I won't be the first one through it by any means. But I do perk up and pay attention when Theirry, the race director, announces that the Camelback humps are optional and it will be permitted to go around them. Whew! Thank you Theirry, for the camelback waiver!
Then it's time for a long walk to the short pier.
The race starts with a shallow dive into deep red water, making me think of the Everafter in a Kim Harrison novel.
Then it's time for a long walk to the short pier.
The race starts with a shallow dive into deep red water, making me think of the Everafter in a Kim Harrison novel.
As all us slowfolks know, if you aren't one of them, it's always wise to wait for the fast folks go first. No one likes to be run over. Then again, when you're a middle-of-the-packer, it's crucial to start ahead of the breaststrokers.
Even though I feel the churning of swimmers all around, all I see are one pair of fluttering feet ahead, glowing pinkish red, leading the way through the surreal burgundy of the Caloosahatchee.
Soon, the thump of heel-shots to my leg tell me I misjudged my start. I am in between two sidestrokers, of all improbable things! It doesn't take too long to clear them, but there are breaststrokers ahead.
It always seems in off-road tri there are guys so good on the mtn bike that survival level in the swim is good enough. I pass them now, but I know I'll see them later.
It's a two loop swim course and we get to wade through the weeds, climb up the bank, and dive off the pier again for a second go round of the big orange buoys.
Even though I feel the churning of swimmers all around, all I see are one pair of fluttering feet ahead, glowing pinkish red, leading the way through the surreal burgundy of the Caloosahatchee.
Soon, the thump of heel-shots to my leg tell me I misjudged my start. I am in between two sidestrokers, of all improbable things! It doesn't take too long to clear them, but there are breaststrokers ahead.
It always seems in off-road tri there are guys so good on the mtn bike that survival level in the swim is good enough. I pass them now, but I know I'll see them later.
It's a two loop swim course and we get to wade through the weeds, climb up the bank, and dive off the pier again for a second go round of the big orange buoys.
Too soon the fun part is over.
Through the tangle of lily pads, up the bank, and a barefoot quarter mile run to the bike. All is going well! TriLady's standout project one Trek is still in transition, telling me I am ahead out of the swim.
Through the tangle of lily pads, up the bank, and a barefoot quarter mile run to the bike. All is going well! TriLady's standout project one Trek is still in transition, telling me I am ahead out of the swim.
Yes!
Helmet on, shoes, gloves...
No!
A strap of the Camelbak I hung on my handlebars is wound around Killer's front disc brake. The plastic clip is stuck so tightly I actually have to drag the bike out of the way of the other racers, and turn it upside down in the grass to pry it out.
And when I finally pick my head up, TriLady is long gone.
This April day, the bike course at Caloosahatchee has something for every kid who ever jumped into a puddle.
A 20 yard section of trail, flooded hub-deep over muddy mush starts us off, and that's before we even get across Route 78 to the official bike trail.
A counter clockwise spin of Caloosahatchee begins with nice flat fields - high and dry - with an easy going temperature under the heavy gray sky.
But too soon the easy is over, and one descends into the gloom of the dreaded Far East.
Ups and downs, swoops and whoops, banks and turns, dips and slips.
Even dry, the Far East is challenging. But in steady rain, hard packed dirt morphs into brown vasaline. Footprints, hand prints, and five fingered gouges mark the upward slopes. Once unclipped, there was no clipping in again.
Even for mediocre riders like me, accustomed to pushing bikes up a climb, there was the novelty of actually having to go off trail and climb through the palmettos in order to get any footing at all on the steep parts.
Once done with the dark side, it was smooth, but careful, sailing for those of us with disc brakes and light weight, mud-shedding tires.
Oh baby!
I haven't skied in years but I do remember the feeling!
Transversing the "slopes" of those miles of twisty mud ribbon was the best bit of fun I have ever had, in any race, anywhere!
Popeye said later he passed a lot of folks walking their bikes after the Far East.
By the time I came skiing through, the only riders left were the ones stopped, poking at mud-caked tires, frames, and V-brakes with sticks; or simply slamming their bikes on the ground in an attempt to knock the mud free.
Whew. Really glad I shed the big knobs, when I saw how thickly the mud packed into the knobbies on other bikes. "Skiing" was much easier than carrying twenty pounds of wet clay along for the ride!
Since TriLady already let the cat out of the bag, I will freely admit right here, right now, that nobody was more surprised than I was, on popping out of the bush, to see her up ahead, spinning out on the incline to the final ridgeline section. Her own mud-shedders were a little too slick, and reluctantly I took advantage and passed.
Silently thanking Theirry again for the camel hump waiver, it was back through the free wheel-wash on the south side of the park and into transition.
The run is full of welcome sights. Sailor handing out Gatorade, Cap'n Bligh riding sweep after the final cyclist. Popeye waiting at the end with Gatorade.
Wouldn't dream of boring anyone with my personal sorta-able-to-run summary, except to say that the added detours of leaving trail, wading into the river and back out (times two!), provided a welcome footwash for this muddy runner.
(Popeye had more excitement on his run. He missed a red arrow, ran a bonus mile, and still finished first! Awesome, or what?)
Finish line cheering. Gatorade to chug. Friends holding awards.
All's well that ends well.
But no wonder the line at the bike wash was so long!
TriLady's Fuel
And that was with low profile mud-shedding tires!
After kicking off enough mud to get clipped back in.
Apres-ski.
Killer just fits into the campground shower.
Now, just one quick word about awards and I'm done yakking for this week.
Obviously the attempt was made for more "serious" awards this year.
Maybe for first timers, a serious award is nice...
But for myself, except for a glass etched beer mug from a long ago Battle of the Bridges, the awards at this race have been the best ever! Certainly the most creative!
Coconut head
(on curtain rod at home)
1st place - 2008
.JPG)
Alligator candy dish
2nd place - 2009
(In use at Adventure Cycles)
chain ring plaque
1st place - 2010
And because Popeye and I each got a first place in our respective age groups, we have two of these...
Hmm, wind chimes????
.JPG)
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