With apologies to Bolder, my uber friend and Iron role model, I borrow a paraphrase of his post for today as the starting place for my own. For it is off to Wildflower I fly tomorrow morning for the second HIM of the year.
"Well sportsfans, it's getting close to race day again, I'm about to jet out, and I feel myself winding up, like a tightly coiled spring---a compact titanium coil in the pit of my stomach. Preparing to unleash my preparation onto my opportunity on race day--or maybe getting ready to throw up a little bit in my mouth."
I don't think I lack preparation. According to my log, since the begining of the year, the numbers are:
Swim: 102,000 yards, 42 hours of training.
Bike: 1100 miles, plus trainer time, 103 hours of training.
Run: 200 miles, for 37 hours of training
Strength: Almost 26 hours of training.
That ought to get me to the line in reasonable shape if I just start at the beginning and proceed to the end by way of the middle.
Then why am I so nervous? Why do I feel like I'm 13 and I am the only jr. high student at the party for the high school band. (That actually happened, and notwithstanding my angst, a first kiss was involved, but that is a whole different story.)
I don't think it is embarassment over finishing times. I'm in it for the cameraderie. I have raced before with friends, and it is well known that I have no studly racing expectations. I am decidedly average. Not one bit better. But I have never raced with the tribloggers, and every time you meet a blogger in real life (IRL), there is always that gap between who you are and who they think you are based upon what you write.
I write for a living, so that gap might be pretty big.
Of course, I have already met many of the bloggers and podcasters in real life, yet, with me, it's always back to junior high school. "What if they don't like me?" and more importantly, "What if I make a fool of myself?"
But then you get to the spirit of triathlon. No one comes to this sport uniformly excellent in all three disciplines--and some of us come struggling at all three. Everyone is alternatively foolish and heroic, sometimes all at the same time. So there's room for everyone.
And unlike when we were 13, no one cards us when we purchase the alcohol to lubricate the social graces.
My bags are packed, I'm ready to go.
Caution. Epic weekend ahead.