Heidelberg Triathlon, Fall 1992
Welcome to triathlon, European style. Sheeze, what a goatscrew.
Me and Tom Rylander on a bridge over the Necker River. In the background is the Heidelberg castle, where the fun-NAZIs lie in wait. Fall, 1992.
The race was a fiasco. I'd been planning on
doing the Heidelberg triathlon for a while. It was going to be my triumphant
return to triathlon since joining the Army in the fall 1988.
I was a triathlon early adopter. In college I ran or cycled for the school for
three years. A year later, a buddy told me about the school's triathlon team.
Struggling to pay for school, it took me a long time to graduate. As a result
there was opportunity pursue multiple obsessions and this triathlon team thing
sounded interesting. The school's triathlon team became very important to me. I
was an engineering student, and as such focused almost solely on being one of
the 10% of my class that survived. So for years all I did was school, work, and
run/ride. The triathlon team made me more social. For example, the team would
traditionally go to a dance club, before or after a race, or both, and dance all
night. Each Friday we'd go to the San Diego beach and go for long swims in the
ocean, and then have a barbeque on the beach. It was all really fun.
The early Army years of training environments and deployments were hard on
training and competing, so I was really raring to
go to finally get to do another triathlon, especially a race in Europe. Racing
in Europe! That just seemed so cool!
Reality check. I had no idea how to enter race in Germany. What I was
used to is that you either mailed in your registration or just showed up early
race morning and registered. There was certainly no registering on the Web in
1992. So I figured that I'd just show up early race-morning, find the
registration table and sign up.
What I didn't understand is that in my years out of triathlon, they're really
caught on. This meant far more people trying to sign up for the races, and it
meant that race registration often closed up prior to the event.
The day before the race, roommate Tom Rylander and I drove across Germany to Heidelberg. We found a Gasthaus and spent the afternoon throwing frisbee on the Heidelberg castle grounds until we were chased off by the uniformed fun-NAZI's telling us "no games of sport." Getting kicked out of the Heidelberg castle was kind of a bummer because we were pretty good and it appeared that frisbee "wasn't a thing" in Europe. A large crowd of spectators gathered, which, of course, brought out our very best long throws and wild leaping showy catches.
After getting kicked out of the Heidelberg castle
because fun wasn't allowed, we wandered around the old-town a bit looking for
amusement. It was a beautiful afternoon. A pretty blond walked up to us and said
"can I hang out with you guys?" This was so unexpected that we just stood there,
mouths agape. She explained, "I'm an American tourist in town for a couple days
and I'm on my own. I overheard you guys talking and you sound fun. So can I hang
out with you guys?"
With mock seriousness, I responded deliberately, "well, I think that would be
ok. Tom, ok with you?"
Out of nowhere this blond walks up to us and says "Can I hang out with you guys?" Note that Tom is carrying our frisbee.
The three of us spent the night drinking beer and dancing. The blond, of course,
took a shine to Tom-him being irritatingly handsome and all.
In the morning I went to the race site nice and early so I could sign up. But there wasn't any "sign-up." In my experience, there was always race-day registration. But there I was, in my broken German, having no idea how endurance races of any kind are organized in Europe, trying to get people to explain to me why I couldn't sign up to race. Holy shit. We'd drove halfway across Germany for this race, I'd been looking forward to it for months, and now they were saying I couldn't do it? Aargh!
I took a moment and wargamed ideas to salvage the
situation. I could tell Tom "Sorry, lets drive home now." Or I could adapt,
improvise, and overcome. I could do the race as a "bandit," an unregistered
participant. There was always a bit of this in 5 and 10k races in the states,
and it seemed to work ok. I'd not run a race as a bandit before, but how
difficult could it be to just lose yourself in the middle of all the other
competitors. Or course, this was a triathlon so I'd have to figure out how to
stage my gear in the transition zone, and I'd have to sneak into the water
without a numbers written on my arm and leg, and no color-coded swim cap with a
race #. That all seemed do-able though. I'd just have to behave
matter-of-factly, and if need be, act stupid in broken German.
What I did not account for is that the Germans are, culturally, a rule-abiding
people. In the US, we tend to obey rules only when convenient.
It was an hour before race-start. I reconned the transition area and found that they wouldn't let me in without a race number. So I moved about 50 meters away, leaned my bike up against a fence, and put my gear down on the grass. Then, with all the other racers, I made my way to the bridge over the Necker river. Up on the bridge, each of us climbed over the masonry wall and dropped the 12' into the water below. I got some looks from the other guys because I didn't have a color-coded swim caps, but I just acted oblivious to the occasional attention.
The swim went fine. Swimming is like
ballet, it's mostly technique. I have no competitive swimming background, so I
always lose time to the strong swimmers. It can't be helped though. My cycling
and running are strong though, so I usually catch back up to most everyone that
beat me in the swim.
I stumbled out of the water with everyone else, but then I crossed under the
rope and away from the transition area. I ran through the crowd of spectators to
where I'd stashed my gear. Then I wriggled out of my wetsuit, put my cycling
shoes, helmet, and glasses on, mounted my bike and started to ride through the
grass in order to merge on to the race course. But within a few seconds I was
grabbed by three angry German officials.
I was in "race mode" so I was kind of maniacal and, as usual the Germans were little
skinny soccer types. It took quite an effort to stay calm, but I forced a meek
and
confused face on, and walked my gear out of the area.
As soon as I was around the corner, I jumped on my bike, zipped down a sidestreet and re-entered the race.
The ride was hell. We went thru the old town city
center. There were sections of medieval cobblestones that were positively
brutal. It was everything I could do to keep from crashing. They were almost
impossible to ride over. Then went up this steep hill up towards the castle that
was so hellishly steep that a lot of people were walking their bikes. I was in
1st gear standing up in the pedals, and I still had to zig-zag to reduce the
slope. It was like trying to ride up a cliff. The miles out in the country-side
were fine and I rode hard. It was raining, but not hard and no wind to speak of.
Eventually were were headed back towards Heidelberg.
While out in the hinterland I had motorcycle mounted officials come up to
me from behind twice. From the back of the motorcycle, they hollered at me, "Wo
is Ihre Nummer?" (where is your number?). I would spend a moment of two feigning
not hearing, not understanding, then I'd reach back to feel the number that
should have been on my back, not find it, and then I would go into some drama
exclaiming in alarm "Ich Weiss Nicht! (I don't know!). Both times my
confusion outlasted the officials patience and they decided that there was no
good way to fix the irresponsible American, so they moved along. Each time I
spent the next 60 seconds chuckling with a broad grin on my face.
Old-town Heidelberg. A section of road with mild cobblestones. We're almost at the end of the ride. Note the big grin, having defeated course officials twice. Pic by roommate Tom Rylander.
Before we got to the town we had to descend down some
switchbacks. The rain made these sharp, downhill turns treacherous. You had to
make guesses about how sharp the blind turns were, and then hope there wasn't
gravel or cobblestones that would add trouble. Guys started crashing. It was
really a bastard. Between problem turns and riders doing unexpected things in
front of me, I had some really close calls. It was scary as shit.
When we were almost to the transition area, I darted away from the course,
though the crowd, and headed for the fence where I'd stashed my gear. I leaped
off of my bike, leaned it back against the fence, discarded helmet and glasses,
and put on my running shoes. Then I ran, though the crowd, towards the general
area of the runners leaving the transition area.
The run was out and back on a path along Necker River. It was a very pretty area. The sun had come out, and the groomed grass along the river was a popular place to catch some sun. Heidelberg is a college town and the full of coeds laying on towels sunning themselves. Many of them topless.
With about two miles to go, I was getting pretty hot so I pulled my tank-top up over my head and off. I'd been in running races for almost twenty years, and unless your shirt was part of a team uniform, it was normal to run shirtless. To my surprise, however, a couple of the Germans that were running near to me seemed to object to me taking my shirt off, and that made no sense at all to me. It was hot, so I took my shirt off. "What's the big deal?" I thought. Besides, it wasn't like I had a race # pinned to my shirt, eh?
Then, for chrissakes, another race official comes along on
the back of a motorcycle. He clearly insists that I put my shirt back on. I did what I
could to play the dumb American but he was simply not to be denied. So,
full-knowing that putting my shirt on would just start more troubles, I did as he
asked. Then he saw that I had no race number and his queries and my dumb
helpless American act started anew.
He finally gave up on me and moved on. The race number business, I understood.
But the requirement that, two hours into this race and under the blazing sun, I
have to keep my shirt on just seemed crazy to me.
I'd spent the last 25 minutes on a path not 15 meters away from hundreds of
topless chicks, but I had to keep my shirt on. Sheeze.