Skip to main content

Coeur d' Fundo 2014

A little over a month ago, I remember cruising over Lake CDA in a similar ferry so I could swim back across the lake in the CDA Crossing 2.4 mile swim. That day presented us with beautiful clear, sunny skies, but water that roughened us up a bit. Yesterday, the lake looked unmistakably angry: whitecaps as far as the eye could see. Yet I had no intention of swimming across the lake. Instead, I found out the minute I stepped off the ferry in Harrison that I'd be swimming around the lake--on my bike. Bryan and I had originally intended to ride the Gran fondo of 108 miles, contending for a medal that signified we'd completed more than a ride, but a race against the clock. However, the fact that we'd just come off a long triathlon season, Bryan had just returned from a business trip to Boston with a cold, and the weather was striving to chase everyone back home, we opted to ride the Centro route instead. We figured 47 miles would provide us with enough of a workout to make our time worthwhile.

Off the ferry, we started out on the Trail of the Coeur d' Alenes for Plummer and then turned north toward CDA. Riding the highway back felt fantastic. If the falling rain hadn't already soaked us to the skin, then commuters did a heck of a job splashing us with standing water from the roadway. It felt comical, really. To think I paid 90 bucks to drive all the way to CDA and ride in such conditions for shits and giggles: I must be stupid.

We rode back into CDA, embellished with road grime, snot, and spit all over our faces and clothes. The finisher announcer seemed more excited about our entrance than we did. Bryan and I rode side-by-side down the finisher's chute, and the announcer--despite his attempt to encourage us to make a competition out of our finish--could not convince us to sprint any more. We'd already ridden our butts off to make a longish ride "short."

Soaked to the skin, we headed into the Plaza shops to eat our post-race brat, potatoes, and pastry. We began to shiver and waited...and waited...and waited for our dry clothes we'd dropped off in Harrison to arrive. After about an hour, we shuffled to the truck and took advantage of Bryan's heater to warm up. Another hour had passed with us sitting in the truck, finally recovered in warmth. Bryan stepped out into the drizzle and wind to retrieve our bikes. Figuring our clothes had likely arrived by 2 hours, Bryan dropped me off at the entrance to the Plaza shops. I raced by three security guards in a sports bra and bare feet, weaved through others enjoying beer and food at Oktoberfest, grabbed our bags, and met Bryan again as he circled around with the truck. Done!

We missed out on the beer and the conversation afterward, yet we had done our best to enjoy a day filled with extenuating circumstances. I hope to have the chance to race either the Medio or Gran distances next year. May the day supply sunshine and warmer temperatures!


Comments

Popular posts from this blog

My opinion...For what it's worth

My first Half Ironman 70.3 turned into Boise 29.3. I may be the only one to say that I respect the officials' judgment call on this one, because apparently, a few of my triathlete comrades lack sufficient brains themselves. The comments I'm reading on Facebook leave me pretty disturbed. Let me just put this out there: I entered this sport because it looked tough and challenging. It pushes anyone who enters these races to their ultimate limits and requires a demanding amount of time to complete the training necessary to succeed. I entered this sport because of the people. Healthy, smart, fit, inspiring, motivating. I can't think of a single person who has questioned my ability to participate in this sport. I entered this sport because anyone can do it. I passed people younger and older than me, some as old as 74. I watched one woman hobble along the run course, surely just on her first lap. She looked like her knees were going to cave in. Yet she was running. I did not ent

Pain loves misery. Misery loves company.

I remember running through complete darkness along the paved trail between Moscow and Pullman during my years studying at University of Idaho. Five years ago, my training consisted entirely of running. Cycling served as something to do on the weekends, and swimming didn’t even exist until my sophomore year. What I remember most, however, revolves around the early morning runs. I awoke at 4:30, donned my warmest clothes, started my GPS, and turned my headlamp on in preparation for eight to ten miles of farmland along a lonely stretch of highway. Running served as my outlet. I buried myself in 20+ credits of biology, chemistry, physics, and human anatomy courses to fill my time. And fill my time it did. So running every morning was my recourse to stay sane. Every. Lonely. Morning. It wasn’t until the thrill of riding my bike overtook me did I realize riding alone—training alone—hardly compared to the enjoyment of working out with other people. My dad always stressed the importance of r

Noosa Triathlon - The Grand Finale

I looked out into the surf and watched the waves churn and roll, crash, then churn and roll again. Supposedly, I signed up for this, along with the 7000 other athletes who stood on the shore with me, questioning their own sanity. These Aussies grew up swimming in this insanity on the daily, and their numbers far exceeded that of my fellow Americans. Nevertheless, I puckered up my American ass and tried to stand tall and confident to the waves. I watched Natalie Van Coevorden scheme and plan her strategy, pointing out toward the buoys. Not until the gun went off did I realize that plan involved running at least 100 meters down the shoreline before we jumped into the water. Interesting. I never would have thought to do that, considering my open water swimming experience in ocean rip and waves is virtually non-existent. When confronted with a situation such as this, I have learned to fake it. Pretend I know what I'm doing. I can do it. I can swim with the best of them. Then I jump