I recently asked a fellow tri-athlete if he was going to get an overall 
age-group podium spot for the Southwest Challenge Series. He replied if 
I do it will only be by default. I thought to myself a second and then 
retorted...nothing is won by default. 

He felt that he could place in his age-group only if the faster 
tri-athletes didn't compete in the minimum number of races required to qualify 
for an overall podium spot. I don't dominate my age-group either...in 
fact I have only reached the podium in 3 of 8 races. But I have been 
close to the top 3 spots in just about every race. If you're unfamiliar 
with how the point system works you might think that you must win a lot 
of races to have a chance to snag an overall age-group spot. 

The Southwest Challenge Series is an opportunity for tri-athletes of 
all levels to prove to themselves that it is not about the fastest swim 
at the Polar Bear, nor is it about the fastest bike at Milkman or the 
fastest run at any race of your choice. It is about consistency and the 
determination to finish every race as strong as you can. Well...it's 
almost that easy. 

The Series will take your 10 best finishes and total the points for the 
top three spots in your age group. You will receive 10 for 1st, 9 for 
2nd, 8 for 3rd and so on for each race. You will also get .25 points for 
each race completed beyond 10.  And if you decide to take on Buffalo 
Springs or Las Vegas you get a boost in your points above the standard 
finish. You must compete in at least 10 races to qualify for an overall 
title.

We are actually 17 races into the 2002 season. With 10 more races to go 
things are starting to heat up in the age-group races. But, even if 
you're just starting the season you will have an opportunity to score 
points and race in enough races to qualify for an overall age group title. 

As I mentioned earlier, I have 3 medals in 8 races and consistently 
finish near the top 3. In comparing my points to my fellow age-groupers I 
started to notice a trend......no not that I was always getting run 
over. It was not always the same 3 people above me on the podium. In some 
cases they only raced in 3 or 4 races. In other cases I was on the 
podium and they weren't. The more I followed the point system the more I 
realized that even though I wasn't the fastest, I still had a chance to 
snag a podium spot for the overall title in my age-group. 


We have triatletes that have the ability to dominate an age-group but 
they don't complete the minimum number of races to qualify for an 
overall title. We have pure runners that on any day and under any conditions 
can't be beat, but they have to be able to swim and hop on a bike at 
some point as well. So just when you thought you were only doing this for 
your health, the truth becomes clear. It doesn't matter what age-group 
you are in, the story is the same. If you are a consistent performer, 
and race in enough races...it doesn't matter how fast you are. 

We are all winners....but maybe this season you'll add some medal to 
your portfolio.  



Joshua P. Sanders

Editors note; This story was one of the first we published when the site went live in December. It is reprinted here for those who missed it........and for those who need a reminder of what this coming weekend holds in store.

YOU CAN'T ROLLER SKATE IN A BUFFALO HERD, BUT YOU CAN SWIM IN A BUFFALO SPRING

   It happens every time. The 4 a.m. hotel wake-up call comes after a fitful night of non-sleep and I ask myself, as I do before every pre-dawn call to marathon or triathlon: Why am I doing this?

   This, in this instance, is the Buffalo Springs Lake Half Ironman, the 1.2 mi swim/ 56 mile bike and 13.1 mile run put on in Lubbock, Texas. As a recent transplant from the "June Gloom" world of Southern California, I naively assumed that June was a temperate month in most parts of the world. I also had heard that Texas was flat. Great, I thought, a flat course in cool weather, what could be better?

    As a race strategy, racing in Texas in June had all the cunning of a George Custer battle plan. So here I am, sweat already dripping off me as I perform, in the dark, my pre-race ablutions --petroleum jelly under the arms, non-stick cooking aerosol on my legs and neck-- standard lubricating strategies used to spring the swimmer from her skin tight wetsuit as she runs out of the water to the bicycle transition.

   I'm a runner who has no business jumping into a lake-my legs are muscled and my upper body is puny. In water, my body immediately assumes the dead manís float: legs down, head up: fine for drowning, not so fine for fluid, aqueous propulsion. I am the only person I know whom Eric the Eel, the hapless African swimmer at the Sydney Olympics, could have beaten.

   My wave, all of us in possession of AARP cards, is the first to go after the pros. This means that, in a matter of minutes, we, the slow and infirm, will not merely be passed by the younger, sleek, and able-bodied, we will be pummeled, our goggles kicked, our bodies unceremoniously swum over by wave after wave of broad-shouldered, wake-pounding athletes, until we arrive, sputtering, to shore, like traumatized tunas, eyes glazed, gasping for breath.

   As I run up the shore to the bicycle transition, I ask an official, doubtfully, "am I done?" She assures me that, not counting a 56-mile bike ride and a half marathon, I am indeed done. I scramble across the soggy carpets that lead to the bikes. I'm out of my wetsuit in seconds, owing to its neck-to-ankle zippers. I bought this wetsuit, my third, out of frustration with more conventional swimming wetsuits, which I could never exit without an embarrassing, time-consuming struggle.

    Apparently another competitor is quite taken with my easy-off wetsuit. While strapping on my bike helmet, I feel a sandy tap on my shoulder. "Excuse me, I know you're in a rush, but can you tell me where you got your wetsuit?" The query seems so bizarre given the intense mid-race atmosphere, that my mind, so focused on shoving my wobbly legs into my bike shoes, simply goes blank. "UhhS*back of the magazineS*web siteS*" I sputter as I grab my bike, my cleats clack-clacking up to the bike mount line, and I’m off.

 A FISH WITH A BICYCLE

   A sharp, short rise connects the beach to the street that leads out to the main road. I have learned from that dear school, experience, to put the bike in an easy gear for just such an exit. One only has to tumble to the ground once while choking on large chain ring out of T1 to remember to check your gears before racking your bike.

    I was smart enough to drive the course the day before, so I could anticipate the terrain. What being in the car failed to inform me was the phenomenon that, while in defiance of most physical laws, is nevertheless a truism of bicycle racing, that there would be a dispiriting headwind for the entire distance of the race, no matter what direction you were heading.

   As I stretch out on my elongated handlebars and settle into a comfortable pace, I watch the pros and younger men whisk by, already on their way back to T2: lean, hairless bodies, Greek gods in Speedos atop carbon or titanium chariots, aggressively outfitted bicycles, themselves works of aerodynamic art, each one approaching the cost of a nice Hyundai. This is hard-core. And even though I have been doing half a dozen short course triathlons every year for the past 5 years, stepping up to this distance feels audacious, brazen, half-assed.

    There are aid stations every 10 miles or so, with volunteers handing out bottles filled with ice water, fluid replacement drinks, and energy bars. Ordinarily an energy bar tastes like a tootsie roll and sawdust lovechild, but after hours of continuous exertion, it tastes like manna, the gift of heaven. I notice that other riders have chosen more conventional bills of fare. One girl has unwrapped a sandwich she had stashed in her fanny pack, munching as she rides. Decades of marathoning have taught me that while my body may benefit from some kind of nutrition during a multi-hour event, my stomach is in no mood for anything more complicated than a series of c's h's and o's in a chemical formula. Water and sugar, that's about it: easy to absorb, easily converted to energy.

   The miles disappear, I am as happy as I can remember being, an engine absorbing sunshine and sugar, rolling down the road, body and bicycle inextricable.

   This race is going far better than I could have imagined. I have trained more on the bike this year than I ever have, and I manage to get over the Spiral Staircase, a sadistic corkscrew of a climb, made even more treacherous by being lined by barbed wire, without much whimpering. At T2, I slip out of my race shoes while still on the bike (a little pro trick I've been working on for much longer than I care to admit), dismount, fling my handlebars over the top bar of my assigned spot, toss my helmet, throw on my racing flats, doff a baseball-type cap, and I'm off.

RUNNING ON EMPTY

   I wasn't worried about the run. That's my strongest event. And here I was, arriving at last to the one portion of triathlon where I shine. Here is where I typically pass all the fishes who die on dry land. Bring it on.

   Rolling my bike into T2, however, the thought of running 13 miles after 4 hours of continuous exertion had no appeal. It was hot, somewhere in the 90's. How was I going to do it? My first mile was brisk, somewhere in the 7:40 range. By then, I REALLY knew I couldn't keep up that pace. I had pretty much kept my head down for that first mile, trying to grind out what I thought was an acceptable pace. Then I looked up, and noticed that virtually everyone in sight was WALKING.

   This seemed sensible to me. It didn't seem like cheating, it seemed like a simple survival strategy. And so I began walking. I began making deals with myself: walk to the shade, run through the shade. Walk to the mile marker, run through the water stop. It was slow going, but even with this adjustment, I was passing people and rarely getting passed myself.

   About mile 3 into the run portion, I saw Missy LeStrange finishing up. She's won my age group for the last 12 or 13 years at Hawaii. She had me by at least an hour. Well, O.K, I thought, I guess Iím not going to win my age group. But I had also passed two women in my age group, so at least I wasn't going to be last.

   By the time I made it to the halfway turnaround, during a pitiless stretch drolly named "Energy Lab II" after the sizzling lava bed section of the run in Kona, I knew I would finish. This sensation gave me an extra boost, and the walk portions became shorter and less frequent. By the last mile, I was running again, close to an 8 minute pace. By the time I spied the finish line, I sucked up whatever pain I was feeling and finished with a brisk sprint.

   When I finished Vineman last year, my first words,after crossing the finish, minus the expletives, were "I am never going to do anything like this again." And unlike Vineman, this year at Buffalo Springs, I never suffered. I felt strong the entire way. And though I finished 12 minutes slower than last year (almost all of that yielded on the windy bike portion) I am still pleased with my time (6:14), considering I am also in the last month of my age group. I finished plumb in the middle, 6th out of 13.