The Tri Town Times: 9/21/20

Posted on 21 September 2020

By Antonio Gonzalez

Posted in the tri town times

LOCH BLATCHFORD 17 March 2021 at 18:56

I noticed a few comments about my triathlon career in your Tri Towns Times of 9/21/20 and thought you might enjoy a summary of my latest race. Cheers Loch

ENJOYING THE MOOLOO TRI
The day before the race I was interviewed by ABC radio. The final question was for the one piece of advice to offer competitors. I said, if you can’t win make sure you enjoy the race. This is how I did it.
I knew I had little chance of winning. I was the oldest person racing. The others in my age group were a few years younger and much faster. So, my goals turned to finishing uninjured and to enjoy the journey.
The swim was fine. A bit hard to find the marker buoys in the morning sun but I had plenty of splash to follow.
The bike start was a bit chaotic. Narrow exit and entry lanes with cyclists going in both directions. The crowding caused a bit of chaos as some had trouble locking in their shoes and others bumped into the security fence. This was the beginning of the fun.
I successfully negotiated the streets and made it up and down, up and down, and up and down the Alexandra hills until I hit the motorway. Now I could relax. Thirty plus kilometres of flat, smooth road. What could go wrong. “Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht” (Man plans and God laughs).
I hit a slight dip. It felt like I had run over a house brick. No brick, just my seat post disappearing into the bike frame. My bike was instantly transformed from tri bike to BMX. My bum was caressing the back wheel and my knees were up my nostrils. “Enjoy!” I shouted to no one in particular. “This is fun,” I sang. But no one was listening. Only thirty-five kilometres to go.
My quads started to complain. My hamstrings followed soon after. My 79-year-old knees began to grind. The aero bars resulted in an embryonic rather than aerodynamic position. Only thirty-four kilometres to go. And, thankfully go it did.
I crawled off bike after the slowest bike leg I’d ever done. Quasimodo like I lurched through the bushes and up the path towards Mooloo. Children screamed and mothers clutched them to their breasts. I smiled to reassure them but this only made the screams louder. My legs wanted to go home but my head said, “No!” Surely there was more fun to be had. And there was.
Towards the top of Alexandra Headland was a small group of enthusiastic supporters. They cheered and clapped and yelled encouragement. They made me feel so good that I turned around and ran partway back down the hill so I could approach them again. It was sad to say goodbye but there was unfinished business. I promised to stop for a chat on the way home.
Downhill felt good and I broke into a dunny run shuffle. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the drink station where I shocked a few youngsters by pouring electrolyte over my head to cool myself down. “That’s sports drink!” they cried. “But it says ‘Water’ on the cup,” I answered. “We ran out of cups,” was the explanation. I hope God was enjoying the race. I was giving him plenty of material.
Past the turn-around and back towards that bloody hill. Luckily, I hit a red traffic light at the bottom so I stopped and rested. A volunteer ran over calling out, “Wot chu doing!” “Red light,” I explained. “Yu go, yu go!” she insisted. So, a look to the right, no cars. A look to the left, no boats. Off I go again.
A quick shower before the hill, another on the way back, and others when they were offered. The hose holders seemed to enjoy the process as much as I did. Made my shoes a bit sloppy though.
At the final turn as, I headed for home were half a dozen motor scooter volunteers. “Are those for rent?” I called. “What’s the problem?” One asked. “Big bum, big hill, I answered. “No big bum gets on my bike,” he replied. By then I was past him and too tired to negotiate anyway.
Back to the traffic lights. They were green this time. So, no confusion. My new friend was on the road calling, “Yu go! Yu go!” Accompanied by sweeping arm movements in case I didn’t understand English. I complied and go-ed. I was rewarded with a double thumbs up. Better than an index finger, I guess.
A final goodbye to my personal cheer squad. They had moved to the top of the hill to see what was keeping me. Then down to Mooloo and into the finish chute where an audible sigh arose as people realized the end of the race was near. The fat lady had sung. The sweeper had swept and ‘Lochy Last’ had made it home again.
I didn’t win. I came second. I spent the afternoon relaxing by my phone waiting for a text message to tell me when to collect my medal. No message. No medal. Never mind, maybe next year.
Now for that chat with my bike mechanic.

Comments

LOCH BLATCHFORD 17 March 2021 at 18:56

I noticed a few comments about my triathlon career in your Tri Towns Times of 9/21/20 and thought you might enjoy a summary of my latest race. Cheers Loch

ENJOYING THE MOOLOO TRI
The day before the race I was interviewed by ABC radio. The final question was for the one piece of advice to offer competitors. I said, if you can’t win make sure you enjoy the race. This is how I did it.
I knew I had little chance of winning. I was the oldest person racing. The others in my age group were a few years younger and much faster. So, my goals turned to finishing uninjured and to enjoy the journey.
The swim was fine. A bit hard to find the marker buoys in the morning sun but I had plenty of splash to follow.
The bike start was a bit chaotic. Narrow exit and entry lanes with cyclists going in both directions. The crowding caused a bit of chaos as some had trouble locking in their shoes and others bumped into the security fence. This was the beginning of the fun.
I successfully negotiated the streets and made it up and down, up and down, and up and down the Alexandra hills until I hit the motorway. Now I could relax. Thirty plus kilometres of flat, smooth road. What could go wrong. “Mann Tracht, Un Gott Lacht” (Man plans and God laughs).
I hit a slight dip. It felt like I had run over a house brick. No brick, just my seat post disappearing into the bike frame. My bike was instantly transformed from tri bike to BMX. My bum was caressing the back wheel and my knees were up my nostrils. “Enjoy!” I shouted to no one in particular. “This is fun,” I sang. But no one was listening. Only thirty-five kilometres to go.
My quads started to complain. My hamstrings followed soon after. My 79-year-old knees began to grind. The aero bars resulted in an embryonic rather than aerodynamic position. Only thirty-four kilometres to go. And, thankfully go it did.
I crawled off bike after the slowest bike leg I’d ever done. Quasimodo like I lurched through the bushes and up the path towards Mooloo. Children screamed and mothers clutched them to their breasts. I smiled to reassure them but this only made the screams louder. My legs wanted to go home but my head said, “No!” Surely there was more fun to be had. And there was.
Towards the top of Alexandra Headland was a small group of enthusiastic supporters. They cheered and clapped and yelled encouragement. They made me feel so good that I turned around and ran partway back down the hill so I could approach them again. It was sad to say goodbye but there was unfinished business. I promised to stop for a chat on the way home.
Downhill felt good and I broke into a dunny run shuffle. There was a bit of a kerfuffle at the drink station where I shocked a few youngsters by pouring electrolyte over my head to cool myself down. “That’s sports drink!” they cried. “But it says ‘Water’ on the cup,” I answered. “We ran out of cups,” was the explanation. I hope God was enjoying the race. I was giving him plenty of material.
Past the turn-around and back towards that bloody hill. Luckily, I hit a red traffic light at the bottom so I stopped and rested. A volunteer ran over calling out, “Wot chu doing!” “Red light,” I explained. “Yu go, yu go!” she insisted. So, a look to the right, no cars. A look to the left, no boats. Off I go again.
A quick shower before the hill, another on the way back, and others when they were offered. The hose holders seemed to enjoy the process as much as I did. Made my shoes a bit sloppy though.
At the final turn as, I headed for home were half a dozen motor scooter volunteers. “Are those for rent?” I called. “What’s the problem?” One asked. “Big bum, big hill, I answered. “No big bum gets on my bike,” he replied. By then I was past him and too tired to negotiate anyway.
Back to the traffic lights. They were green this time. So, no confusion. My new friend was on the road calling, “Yu go! Yu go!” Accompanied by sweeping arm movements in case I didn’t understand English. I complied and go-ed. I was rewarded with a double thumbs up. Better than an index finger, I guess.
A final goodbye to my personal cheer squad. They had moved to the top of the hill to see what was keeping me. Then down to Mooloo and into the finish chute where an audible sigh arose as people realized the end of the race was near. The fat lady had sung. The sweeper had swept and ‘Lochy Last’ had made it home again.
I didn’t win. I came second. I spent the afternoon relaxing by my phone waiting for a text message to tell me when to collect my medal. No message. No medal. Never mind, maybe next year.
Now for that chat with my bike mechanic.