Near-death experiences on the triathlon circuit.
There were many opportunities to call it good today. The signs were all there to pack it up and go back to bed. I didn’t listen to them, and if I had, I would have missed out on one of the most sobering moments in my career.
Although the race was only a scant 28 minute drive from home, a 6:00am departure was barely enough to get to the line on time. Registration for the race cost me 1 hour of standing there. In perhaps the slowest line I have ever been, the clock clicked closer to 8am as I inched toward the front. Once I got within sight of the table, I had to dash the 400m back to the car for cash. The day license for the race was 70 rand; I swore I had paid that online. After my panic-stricken sprint for a half mile to get funds, I arrived back at the table, thankfully before my spot was up. Having only brought 70 rand – enough for the license, I was informed that I had paid that online, which would have made my sprint worthless were it not for the timing chip rental of 80 rand, 10 more than I had on me. After some smooth negotiation, I was able to register for less and get marked up.
The race was delayed long enough for me to drop my bike in transition and use the toilet, though the line was too long for a sit down experience. Unfueled, heavy, and under hydrated, I wadded into the water, hoping things would improve. They didn’t. At the gun, I hit the start for the interval timer rather than my stopwatch. So for the duration of my swim I was treated with 8 seconds of beeping every minute. Sound sure carries underwater. In the end, I climbed out of the lake with no idea of my swim time.
A quick transition and I was out on the road. Splat! One Gu packet fell from my new tri top onto the ground. Cursing, I stupidly thought I could scoop it up on the next lap. A mile later the lone remaining Gu packet fell out of the other pocket leaving me without for the rest of the race. I saw those damn packets smashed each time I passed. Cursing this time at Profile Designs who was responsible for not only my lost Gu but my constantly slipping aero bars attached to my handlebars, I rode on. It was a four-loop out-and-back course and each loop was slightly rolling with a strong headwind on the way back in. Instantly after mounting the bike, a sharp stomach pain hit me and stuck with me the rest of the day. It didn’t debilitate my ride so much as suck the life from it. While I held a decent pace (~23.1mph), I did not make the progress I hoped and lost some spots to competitors I normally might outride. My pedaling lacked life and I was content to just ride to the finish, hoping the run would go better than the rest of this day had gone.
It didn’t. Right away the stomach cramp became a sharp side stitch worthy of high school cross-country camp after a summer of no running. The entire 10k was spent speeding up until the cramp bit and then backing off till I could run without it hurting, and adjusting from there. No slouch on the run, I still moved well, and split a 42 flat run, which, minus the issues, could have been much faster. All in all my time was acceptable and I know I could have done more. I actually walked away from the race feeling like I hadn’t really even pushed that hard. But it wasn’t over yet.
Due to the large number of races occurring, athletes must leave their bike in transition until all competitors have cleared the course. This meant an hour or more of sitting around, sweaty and cold. The timing chip had sliced a nice gash in my ankle and I started to shiver, again cursing anyone and anything that got me here. I changed and walked to the car to wait out the bike issue because the sky had just opened up and the rain was coming down in a spray of icy water. As I moved back up the course, a runner was screaming “Medic! Medic!” so I naturally looked around to see a cramping or puking runner. What I saw was much worse.
Already halfway across the street, I doubled back to where two others surrounded a fallen male runner. But cramping he was not; his body was limp and he was face down on the pavement. I picked up his head off the ground and we pushed him to his back. He was very cold. There was talk about moving him out of the rain but there was a more immediate problem – he wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. My hand was on his neck expecting to feel the rapid heartbeat of a dehydrated or exhausted man. I felt nothing and he was completely unresponsive. My head was spinning trying to think back to the training on how to deal with this and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt incapacitated – too ignorant to know what to do. I looked around hoping for medics but none were in sight. The two guys agreed to start CPR and one started pushing on his chest. The other yelled at him not to do that and cupped his hands in a straw-like formation and tried to blow into his mouth, as if he didn’t want to touch lips. The first yelled at him that no air was going in and started doing chest compressions anyway. The other said it was supposed to be 30, not 5 compressions. I looked back and forth between the two as if at a fast-moving tennis match, although the contestants appeared to be two retard monkeys vying for who could screw up the 3-step CPR they teach to prepubescent teens desiring to become babysitters.
Maybe it was the cold head in my hands or perhaps the shock of the thought of no pulse meant he would die, I finally snapped out of it. I yelled at the guy to push more and faster and for them to keep going. My only thought – aside from where are those freaking medics!?!? – was that bad CPR was better than no CPR. I should have done it myself but maybe I didn’t want the responsibility of trying and failing. What was the right thing to do? Could I let this guy die and live with myself? I don’t know. In spite of our futile efforts, the man gagged, his white tongue protruding from his purple lips, and heaved a breath like those people with sleep apnea. I held his wrist and felt a strong pulse. We pushed him to his side and heard another gasping breath. The bumbling, chunky medics had somehow unwedged themselves from their chairs (did I mention that we weren’t more than 200m from the finish line, though out of sight, and at least 5 minutes has passed?) and arrived. I backed out of the way and handed the guy’s sunglasses to a bystander friend of his. Not knowing what else to do, I walked away, thinking if he was going to die, I wasn’t going to watch while the medics administered oxygen and he faded into nothing.
An hour later I had my bike and grabbed a medic. She said he was awake when they sent him to the hospital and should be fine. It really puts the race in perspective as some things just aren’t worth it. So this guy Greg and I both had a rough race. I am just glad it wasn’t the last for either one of us. My time and place? Who cares? I was just glad to walk back in my front door.
There were many opportunities to call it good today. The signs were all there to pack it up and go back to bed. I didn’t listen to them, and if I had, I would have missed out on one of the most sobering moments in my career.
Although the race was only a scant 28 minute drive from home, a 6:00am departure was barely enough to get to the line on time. Registration for the race cost me 1 hour of standing there. In perhaps the slowest line I have ever been, the clock clicked closer to 8am as I inched toward the front. Once I got within sight of the table, I had to dash the 400m back to the car for cash. The day license for the race was 70 rand; I swore I had paid that online. After my panic-stricken sprint for a half mile to get funds, I arrived back at the table, thankfully before my spot was up. Having only brought 70 rand – enough for the license, I was informed that I had paid that online, which would have made my sprint worthless were it not for the timing chip rental of 80 rand, 10 more than I had on me. After some smooth negotiation, I was able to register for less and get marked up.
The race was delayed long enough for me to drop my bike in transition and use the toilet, though the line was too long for a sit down experience. Unfueled, heavy, and under hydrated, I wadded into the water, hoping things would improve. They didn’t. At the gun, I hit the start for the interval timer rather than my stopwatch. So for the duration of my swim I was treated with 8 seconds of beeping every minute. Sound sure carries underwater. In the end, I climbed out of the lake with no idea of my swim time.
A quick transition and I was out on the road. Splat! One Gu packet fell from my new tri top onto the ground. Cursing, I stupidly thought I could scoop it up on the next lap. A mile later the lone remaining Gu packet fell out of the other pocket leaving me without for the rest of the race. I saw those damn packets smashed each time I passed. Cursing this time at Profile Designs who was responsible for not only my lost Gu but my constantly slipping aero bars attached to my handlebars, I rode on. It was a four-loop out-and-back course and each loop was slightly rolling with a strong headwind on the way back in. Instantly after mounting the bike, a sharp stomach pain hit me and stuck with me the rest of the day. It didn’t debilitate my ride so much as suck the life from it. While I held a decent pace (~23.1mph), I did not make the progress I hoped and lost some spots to competitors I normally might outride. My pedaling lacked life and I was content to just ride to the finish, hoping the run would go better than the rest of this day had gone.
It didn’t. Right away the stomach cramp became a sharp side stitch worthy of high school cross-country camp after a summer of no running. The entire 10k was spent speeding up until the cramp bit and then backing off till I could run without it hurting, and adjusting from there. No slouch on the run, I still moved well, and split a 42 flat run, which, minus the issues, could have been much faster. All in all my time was acceptable and I know I could have done more. I actually walked away from the race feeling like I hadn’t really even pushed that hard. But it wasn’t over yet.
Due to the large number of races occurring, athletes must leave their bike in transition until all competitors have cleared the course. This meant an hour or more of sitting around, sweaty and cold. The timing chip had sliced a nice gash in my ankle and I started to shiver, again cursing anyone and anything that got me here. I changed and walked to the car to wait out the bike issue because the sky had just opened up and the rain was coming down in a spray of icy water. As I moved back up the course, a runner was screaming “Medic! Medic!” so I naturally looked around to see a cramping or puking runner. What I saw was much worse.
Already halfway across the street, I doubled back to where two others surrounded a fallen male runner. But cramping he was not; his body was limp and he was face down on the pavement. I picked up his head off the ground and we pushed him to his back. He was very cold. There was talk about moving him out of the rain but there was a more immediate problem – he wasn’t breathing and had no pulse. My hand was on his neck expecting to feel the rapid heartbeat of a dehydrated or exhausted man. I felt nothing and he was completely unresponsive. My head was spinning trying to think back to the training on how to deal with this and things seemed to move in slow motion. I felt incapacitated – too ignorant to know what to do. I looked around hoping for medics but none were in sight. The two guys agreed to start CPR and one started pushing on his chest. The other yelled at him not to do that and cupped his hands in a straw-like formation and tried to blow into his mouth, as if he didn’t want to touch lips. The first yelled at him that no air was going in and started doing chest compressions anyway. The other said it was supposed to be 30, not 5 compressions. I looked back and forth between the two as if at a fast-moving tennis match, although the contestants appeared to be two retard monkeys vying for who could screw up the 3-step CPR they teach to prepubescent teens desiring to become babysitters.
Maybe it was the cold head in my hands or perhaps the shock of the thought of no pulse meant he would die, I finally snapped out of it. I yelled at the guy to push more and faster and for them to keep going. My only thought – aside from where are those freaking medics!?!? – was that bad CPR was better than no CPR. I should have done it myself but maybe I didn’t want the responsibility of trying and failing. What was the right thing to do? Could I let this guy die and live with myself? I don’t know. In spite of our futile efforts, the man gagged, his white tongue protruding from his purple lips, and heaved a breath like those people with sleep apnea. I held his wrist and felt a strong pulse. We pushed him to his side and heard another gasping breath. The bumbling, chunky medics had somehow unwedged themselves from their chairs (did I mention that we weren’t more than 200m from the finish line, though out of sight, and at least 5 minutes has passed?) and arrived. I backed out of the way and handed the guy’s sunglasses to a bystander friend of his. Not knowing what else to do, I walked away, thinking if he was going to die, I wasn’t going to watch while the medics administered oxygen and he faded into nothing.
An hour later I had my bike and grabbed a medic. She said he was awake when they sent him to the hospital and should be fine. It really puts the race in perspective as some things just aren’t worth it. So this guy Greg and I both had a rough race. I am just glad it wasn’t the last for either one of us. My time and place? Who cares? I was just glad to walk back in my front door.
