I cannot sprint like a Kenyan, but I can swim with the best of Arizona brats who grew up in fancy swim clubs. Last night’s race was a fun reminder of why I wish the swimming came last.
Let me paint the scene:
Me and 100 other folk waiting for the start of a two-lap swim around a Tempe Town Lake course. The other 99 (most with wet suits) are in the water. Me at the starting dock with my toes in waiting for the horn to start the race. I dive, I find my place in the pack, I emerge 20 minutes later or so in the first 20 or so folk. The advantage of not wearing a wet suit is apparent as I throw on my tennis shoes and sunglasses and take off. Soon enough I’m cruising through the out-and-back 1.8 mile course when I hear a set of feet behind me. A dude cruises by. Then another. Then another. Then it is a torrent of slower swimmers who’ve caught the hare and are flying past me in their fancy, sprinty, Kenyan ways.
I finished mid-pack and was pleased as punch; I swam and ran as hard as I could. I was so tired at the end I nearly puked, and considering these races provide some of the best male eye-candy in town, I’m really glad I didn’t. Instead, I pulled myself together and went out with a group for post-race happy hour.
Yet when I woke up this morning with two swollen pink eyes, I had to wonder if the dip in the city lake was worth the infection. It was a lot of fun but I am not going to be a happy camper if this morphs into another $50 spent on antibiotic drops for these wimpy peepers of mine.
Next up: Tri for the Cure on Sunday. It’s a sprint tri I’m doing as a relay with a couple girlfriends. And guess what? I’m doing the run. Thankfully I can hide behind a pair of sunglasses if necessary.