It’s Sunday—the morning after the University of Colorado Triathlon Team won the national championship. I’m up early, as usual. The kids were out celebrating until the early hours and are sleeping heavily. I quietly lace up my shoes and head out for an easy, long solo run with no real plan. As I take my first few steps, I decide to head down to the race site.
I want to solidify my memories of yesterday.
As I approach the Tuscaloosa Amphitheater, I’m on the road and path that made up the last couple of miles of the run. I can imagine the effort and speed that was left along this way yesterday—I’m outputting embarrassingly less.
I run past the swim start. The little park is empty and quiet except for the workers taking out the last section of the temporary dock that served as the starting line yesterday morning. Up the short, steep hill that I sprinted up and down yesterday in a wild eyed panic as Jess realized a few minutes before the start that she had left her timing chip in the team tent. Made it back with the chip and about 30 seconds to spare. Might just log that as a workout—2x 300 at panic pace.
Then past the swim exit and the locked, empty amphitheater. I peeked inside to see the spot where the finishing chute stood and where we later celebrated in our cowboy get-ups. I could picture all the great finishes—Rudy, exhausted; Ryan, elated; Chris, in his usual throes of pain from having given it all. The women heroically going all out to the line then wilting from the heat on the very next step. I anxiously waited for each of them and walked them to the medical tent to the ice baths. I remember my relief as our last athlete came in. It was hot. It was dangerously hot. Safe finishes were more important than fast ones. (Of course, we wanted both.) There was no shortage of women staggering across the line—I’ll admit, it was a scary and emotional at the same time. And then Nate falling to his hands and knees across the line after the sprint, throwing up, and then spraying himself down with a bottle of Gatorade—somehow simultaneously horrifying and hilarious.
Over by the area where CBS had interviewed some of our contenders for their broadcast of the race. Rudy speaking eloquently about the importance of “team.” Jess, poised and polished beyond her years—an ambassador and advocate for the sport. Chris, showing off his goofy sense of humor—his relaxation and ease a complete juxtaposition of the violently competitive effort he laid out on the course.
The transition area is now completely gone. Some chalked phrases on the ground and a locked USAT trailer are the only hints that a race happened here just a day ago.
I turn toward the hill by the train trestle that the racers came down at full speed. Every step must have been agony but our athletes looked smooth and fast—ignoring the pain. I ran through the intersection where Mike and I stood in the heat and humidity and yelled at our girls to drink as we watched them come through the halfway point of the bike with nearly full bottles. Then up the hill where we nervously counted the women and measured splits. They were all working so hard (and looked so thirsty)—it was going to be close.
I turned on University and ran by the sandwich and bike shops and then over to The Strip where on the first night, Corey nearly killed Andy from laughter as he told a story about a short Vegas stop a few years ago.
I ran past the grocery store where I found peanut butter, bananas, and just the right wheat bread for Rudy’s lunch. The cheap, poofy kind, like white bread—but wheat. Apparently I speak the language of wheat bread because I managed to find exactly what he was craving.
Back along the edge of the University of Alabama campus (Roll Tide!) where the kids commented on the massive football stadium and big red brick fraternity houses every time we passed through.
Down some stairs and a turn onto McFarland for a short spur. I pass the hospital where Bryant and I had retrieved Will and Steve the night before. Will collapsed on the course with less than a mile to go on the run. People talk about giving 100% (or more) but very few actually deliver. Will nearly ran himself to death with his effort. Literally. Think about that. Of course, we’re all thankful that it turned out okay. After we busted Will out of the hospital, the four of us spent a solid 5 minutes circling the parking structure trying to figure out how to get out. We may not be the smartest guys in the world, but that shouldn’t have been so hard. A light moment at the end of what was a scary trip to the hospital.
I ran along the busy boulevard to the Starbucks where Mike, Steve, Eric, and I arrived before opening and waited for the doors to be unlocked so we could get a caffeine fix. Next door is the yogurt shop where we celebrated after the awards ceremony. The team thankful out of proportion to the value of the yogurt Mike and I treated them to.
As I ran the last mile or so back up to the hotel, I reflected on how this group came together to support each other during this trip. The chant before the swim start (with Nate spelling Colorado correctly on his first try). Jess, after a disappointing (but still outstanding) individual result, breezily commenting that she was more than satisfied—the day was about the team. Bryn riding 30k on a flat tire and finishing the race because she didn’t know if the team might need her points, however far she fell in the standings. Letting the little stuff like delayed (and disabled) flights roll off our backs, cheering each other on, packing and unpacking bikes, getting everyone to the multiple venues throughout the trip on schedule (well, for the most part), and simply being there for one-another. I’m blown away by this group.
I started coaching this season with the idea of helping Mike out—not much more. As the season has progressed, I’ve become more and more attached to this group of outstanding people. Of course, they’re tremendous athletes, but I expected to be impressed by how fast they can swim, bike, and run. What has surprised me is how attached I’ve become to them. I fully expect to see future leaders of our community and beyond coming out of this group. I know I’ll someday be saying I knew him or her way back when…before the whole world knew.
I’m honored to be a part of this team and hope I’m adding the smallest sliver of guidance to the big picture of who they’ll become—on and off the race course.
