Helmet, shoes. Helmet, shoes. Helmet shoes. I repeat it again and again as I make my way to Central Park. I am about to compete in “March Madness,” a biathlon sponsored by the
New York Triathlon Club, composed of a 2-mile run, 12-mile bike-ride, and another 2-mile run. At least I don’t have to swim the dreaded Hudson as I did for the NYC Olympic-distance triathlon. Even better, I’ve booked a massage at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park’s La Prairie Spa, so after the race, I’ll have a real reward!
No wonder this race is called “March Madness.” It’s six in the morning, but it’s pitch black and about 39 degrees. Yes, it will get light in an hour, but it’s not going to get warmer. I’m wearing two wicking layers, a warm jacket, thick biking gloves, biking shorts covered by heavy tights, and a skullcap beneath my helmet. I’m freezing. Where’s spring?
I walk my bike past the boathouse to the transition area. About two hundred people are already there, setting up for the first transition: when you finish the run, you race back to your bike, change from running shoes into biking shoes, jump on your bike, and ride twelve miles or two loops around the park. I have taped my race number to my bike and pinned it on my jacket. I lay my bike shoes on the ground, place my helmet on top of my handlebars, and finally, strap a chip onto my ankle with Velcro. The chip works the same way as an electronic monitoring bracelet.
We line up on the road all 650 of us. I’m jumping up and down, trying to get warm. The horn finally blasts, and we’re off. I hate starting a race uphill, and even worse, it’s so cold I’m gasping for air. This is completely insane. Why am I doing this? I could be home reading the Sunday New York Times. Most of the people in my triathlon club, TerrierTri live for triathlons and Ironman. Then again, most of them are younger than me, averaging 30 to 35. Maybe you lose your competitiveness when you reach a certain age? More runners pass me. I’ve got a sinus infection I can’t shake and I pulled a quad three days ago, so all I want to do is finish uninjured. Still, I hate it every time another person overtakes me.
Finally, I arrive at the turnaround and run back towards the transition area. Helmet, shoes, helmet, shoes. Put on your helmet first, then your shoes. You wouldn’t think I’d need to be reminded of two such obvious things, but I know people who forgot to don their helmet and were disqualified. That’s not the way I want to lose.
I start up the same hill on my bike, passing my favorite statue, the life-sized Black Panther just waiting to pounce off his rock and attack. I race by the entrance to the Reservoir jogging track, then fly down Harlem Hill where I overtake a cyclist. I round the bend and pedal up Heartbreak Hill, then fly down the other side. Giddy with joy, I pass one, then a second female cyclist. That’s three, I think. I will give myself one point for every cyclist I pass. Suddenly, a woman in a light blue jacket smokes by me. HOW DARE SHE! I will deduct three points for every woman who passes me.
I’m on the last loop of the bike segment. Nothing hurts. Keep going. I’ve passed nine people. GO ME! I dismount, run my bike back to the rack, take off my helmet and bike shoes, pull on my sneakers, and head off for the last run. Why does it feel like I’m crawling? When this is over, I’m never ever ever going to do this again. I don’t have to keep proving things. I turn and head for the finish line with less than a fifth of a mile to go. A woman passes me. Oh no you don’t, lady. I tear after her. She speeds up and hits the tape two seconds before I do. I hate being beaten by anyone.
I win second place for my age group. I exit the park, leave my bike with the doorman at the Ritz-Carlton Central Park, and head to La Prairie at The Ritz-Carlton Spa. Wrapped in a fluffy robe, I soak in the steam room and then lay back on a chaise longue in the relaxation room. The spa attendant hands me a music selection menu — everything from Bach to Tracey Chapman. Talk about luxury! Good. I won’t have to listen to that plinkety-plnkety elevator-spa music. I grab some fresh fruit and a handful of nuts as the attendant wraps a heated neck pillow on my shoulders. Ahhhh.
I have chosen a deep-tissue sports massage with Russian therapist, George. He kneads out the lumps in my shoulders, the knots in my quads and hamstrings and then does some foot reflexology. If this is the reward I get for doing a biathlon, then go ahead and sign me up again.
By Margie Goldsmith
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