stacy b-log

We ran... We biked... We swam... and we lived to tell the tale!

With two new members, Team Limoncello finished the Anthem Sprint Triathlon on Sunday, September 10 in rousing fashion, claiming one second-place trophy (Kristi "Duct Tape" Olson), avoiding humiliation at the hands of a girl (Mike "Crone Dog" Cronin), achieving a personal-best time (Terri "Carrot Eater" Karl) and managing not to finish last (me). Sadly two of our Team Limoncello training buddies, Kellee (knee) and Pat (calf), were on the disabled list and did not make the event.

Though your adulation is deserved (and Pat and Kellee are wimps), you might temper your praise when you learn the actual distances involved: A 5K run (3.1 miles) followed by a 14-mile bike (two 7-mile loops) capped with a 400-meter swim (16 laps in an Olympic-sized pool). For you purists (who probably have single-percentage body fat), the vast majority of triathlons start with the swim, followed by the bike, finishing with the run. Being held in the desert during the summer, the kind folks at the Anthem Sprint Triathlon decided to reward us with a cool 400-meter dip in the pool at the end of the race - overlooking the fact that they were finishing said event with the part that would be MOST LIKELY TO KILL US.

So, with our bikes and gear loaded in the transition area and our ages marked on our shoulders, calves and hands (so as to identify the bodies) and Terri returning from her 12th trip to the loo, we took our marks on the starting line. Actually Mike, Terri and Kristi took their marks, I just stood there complaining about how much I hate to run and how all these nice hard-bodies had to feel real proud about kicking my lame 34-year-old butt. (In truth, I think the 64-year-old felt really good about kicking my 34-year-old butt, as did the 11-year-old, the 13-year-old and 46 other people ages 40 and up that gave me a real drubbing). But I wasn't competing against them: I competed not in a measly age group but in a meaty weight class.

I, along with Kristi, entered the Athena Division, which is for girls who weigh more than 150 pounds... no, I'm not telling you how more than that I weigh, and no, they didn't write it on my leg... My rationale was that all my beer-drinking and bacon-eating should count for something. I finished fourth in my group... out of five. Kristi finished second - but before you discount her effort, consider that her finishing time of 1 hour, 27 minutes, 54 seconds put her at 35th overall among the women and within 90 seconds of Crone Dog (1:26:25) who put his body on the line in a valiant effort not to get beaten by that girl.

Please check out this fabulous photo of Kristi closing on Mike during the grueling run -
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In this moment, our brave Team Limoncello members are about to turn for the transition area, and as Mike is thinking he is home free, Kristi says, "Hi Mike!"

With the sound effects from the Bionic Woman cha-cha-cha-cha-ing in the background, Kristi proceeds to pass him, leap on her bike and take off. At which point, Mike utters a string of profanities that would make me proud and proceeds to sacrifice his left lung in a vain attempt to catch her. He trails her heading into the swimming pool, when he screams "Nooooooooo!" in a really deep, slo-mo voice that has clearly been disguised to protect his identity (just like in the movies). He churns through the water, passing her at the very last minute, and staggers from the pool triumphant (you must be so proud, Mike, you beat a girl - but were beaten by 32 others!) at which point a race volunteer offers him "Gatorade?" His heartbeat pounding in his ears, Mike replies, panicked, "First aid? You think I need first aid?"

What he needed was an ass-kicking, which Kristi provided, handily. So as Kristi and Mike continued their bickering, our Terri - in her FIRST EVER triathlon - clobbered the run in a cool thirty minutes, spanked the bike and glided through the pool for a most respectable 1:39:23 - good enough for 45th overall. Her sweet husband (and official team photographer) Ted captured her triumph for posterity... and then promptly put his camera in the microwave, wiping all records of our victory, including our post-race team photo where we all posed with Kristi's cigarettes. Still, the race organizers were kind enough to supply photographers (who managed to capture all of us at our grueling, grunting worst) Here's Terri!

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Meanwhile, out on the course, the Moronic Woman (me) continued my slog, er, jog through the so-called run. Having watched the waves of fit bodies surge past me as though I were a pear-shaped rock in an on-rushing stream, I knew of at least one girl behind me - and I knew she was in my weight class. So I quickened my pace (as you can see in this graphic photo)...

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... and she still caught me, passing me on the last turn, where I entered the transition area, triumphant in the knowledge that I was in LAST PLACE. Ted claims there was another person out on the course, but I saw only one bike in the transition area... mine. And it was BROKEN!

Yeah, that's a fun surprise: I couldn't shift out of the hardest gear, which made the long, sweeping hill on the 7-mile loop QUITE A CHALLENGE. So after a few choice words (if you read this blog, you know my vocabulary is limited), I started mashing the pedals - so well in fact that I re-passed that girl, along with six or eight others, until I got to the hill where I tried to fix my chain and watched them re-re-pass me. And the chain still wasn't fixed... so I remounted my bike, stood up and re-re-re-passed them, returning to the transition area triumphant in overcoming my adversity... only to find my teammates soaking wet and FINISHED and earnestly encouraging me. Bastards.

After trying four times to put my damn bike back on the stand, I stumbled in slow motion to the swimming pool - remembering to take off my socks when I was halfway there. Terri, Kristi and Mike cheered and cheered, reminding me of how cool the pool was going to feel after my long bike ride. All I could think about was Dave Munsey on Fox News at Nine, reminding you to watch your kids around water, and deciding he probably had me in mind.

With my legs dragging like rocks, I crawled through the water. Apparently, if a fellow competitor touches you on the foot, you're supposed to move over and let them pass. I did... twice. At each lap, I could hear Mike, Kristi and Terri encouraging me onward - "Just a few more laps! You're almost there! You're doing great!" - until I came upon an old man doing the breast stroke - THE BREAST STROKE!?! - though I wanted to curse, I figured I'd swallow too much water in the effort and drown, so I just put my head down and passed his slow ass.

I'd like to say it was heroic, but watching from the side of the pool, I'm sure I looked like a turtle dragging a parachute through oatmeal while overtaking a salted slug on a hot sidewalk. Nonetheless, I made it to the end of the pool without becoming a statistic, finishing the race in 1:45:54... and all I can say is, I wasn't last.

Now, where's that bacon?

Posted by stacy at 07:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)

Since I don't yet have the photos of my latest Team Limoncello Triumph (thanks, Ted), you're getting my Post-Race Carbo Re-Load re-cap rather than the actual recap of the post-race itself.

But believe me when I say, you'd rather eat bacon than do a triathlon. Especially if it's THE BACON OF VICTORY. Read on - and feast on - my friends...

The Bacon Platter at the Star-Spangled Tavern on Market Street at DC Ranch. Best $6 you'll ever spend, kids. Unless you're Muslim, vegetarian or Jewish, but I digress.

As you will soon learn (sans photos, right Ted?), I completed my first triathlon in 10 years last Sunday - but that wasn't the highlight of my past decade. The highlight was the Bacon Platter along with The Big Kids' Mac-N-Cheese at the Star-Spangled Tavern. And since we're speaking of MY NEW FAVORITE RESTAURANT IN ALL OF SCOTTSDALE (pardons to its sister joints, COWBOY CIAO, KAZIMIERZ WORLD WINE BAR and SEA SAW), I am also ga-ga over Star-Spangled Tavern's Fried Chicken (which comes with a side of said Mac and Cheese) as well as their most Star-Spangled SPECTACULAR Bacon Cheeseburger (caps mine) - which is SO GOOD, it would be an insult to smear it with any lowly form of ketchup, mustard or mayo. The juice of the Bacon Cheeseburger is its OWN condiment. Need I say more.

So today, we finished the triathlon and left the parking lot around 9 AM (it started at 6:30!?!?!), and headed to a LOCALLY OWNED breakfast emporium to partake in the morning rituals that do not involve indoor plumbing (Big Earl's Burgers - Good Stuff). Quite frankly, I'd asked if we could go to the Bacon-Fried Bacon / Pie Palace in Black Canyon City off I-17 (good pecan pie) whose name I can't recall, but Ted mentioned he didn't know if it was open, and reminded us that his beloved and our teammate, the ROCK STAR / TRIATHLON STUDDETTE Terri, probably couldn't eat there, as she is a "mostly vegan" (she eats fish... and vegetables... and carrots, lots of carrots). So we went to Big Earl's - a gas station cum Big Breakfast / Burger Emporium in Cave Creek. Terri ate toast. Mike, Kristi and I had beef.

I personally had a breakfast burrito, with sausage and cheese interred, and bacon on the side. ... The fellowship was good. The hot sauce, divine (both the green and the outta-the-bottle, locally-made Suzanne's Chipotle and Garlic red). The burrito was a filling well-made brick of nutrition. The bacon was good... but it wasn't what I wanted. I wanted... BACON WORTHY OF VICTORY. I wanted a pig that died for my suffering... Like I said, you might want to donate to the Humane Society if you continue reading further.

Not that I'd beaten anyone, as you'll soon read (next post, I promise). Rather, I longed for the "ideal bacon" -- that of standing amidst 150 hard-bodies with me, wanting to scream, "DRINK A BEER, YOU WHEAT-JUICING HARD BODIES. ENJOY THE PLEASURE OF ANIMAL FAT, YOU MODEL-PERFECT, CRANK-TURNING MANNEQUINS! HAVE A FREAKIN' POTATO-CHIP, YOU ... YOU... people who kicked my fat ass."

That said, they went home to their juicers. I went home (after the burrito), visited the bathroom, showered, laid on my couch, watched the Saints beat the Browns, watched the first half of the Cardinals spank the Forty-Niners (like I said, FIRST HALF) and waited for my sweet husband to come home from his day at the motorcycle track.

Neither of us wanted to cook. And yet... neither wanted to get dressed to eat (yes, I realize we're in Arizona), and so we decided that both of us had a craving for a "carbo reload" (very obscure practice for exercise aficionados) and so we traveled for take-away to the newly opened Star-Spangled Tavern at DC Ranch...

WHERE WE WILL TRY TO SPEND PART OF EVERY SUNDAY HENCEFORTH, DRINKING FROM THE FOUNT OF THE INDOMINATABLE BILL AND EATING CHEF ROB'S WHOLESOME GOODNESS (and relishing in the fact that some hard-bodied hard body is swimming in a pool... swimming)

Bastards.

Having been up since 4:15 AM (and having completed said triathlon and said motorcycle training session), we just wanted to enter into a carb-coma. I hadn't taken a nap yet, and so when we went to Star-Spangled Tavern, we had immediate thoughts of "take-away" Big Kids' Mac-N-Cheese (its given-name), for re-heat from the post-naptial bed, but the mixological talents of the inestimable BILL and the temptations of the above-mentioned BACON PLATTER spoke our names.

We took our seats at the bar.... for the duration.

Bill is THE GREATEST BARTENDER WE HAVE EVER KNOWN. We will attempt to return to his church every Sunday henceforth... he starts mixing at 10 AM and the restaurant starts serving food at 11. And allow us to tell you our next order: THE DUCK HASH WITH POACHED EGGS. Apparently, one of Bill's barflies tried it at one end of the bar, and by the end of the first quarter (of the morning game), every person down the length of the bar had tried it.

Having arrived during halftime of the second game (the Cards' game), we ordered the Big Kids Mac-N-Cheese, which we'd sampled one week earlier on our sixth anniversary (we like these guys, what can we say). We had the bacon platter. We had the Dogfish IPA Pale Ale and BILL'S SIGNATURE BLOODY MARY and $68 dollars later (sans tip), we stumbled out... sated... and well, sated... my GOD, it was the best damn bacon and bloody Mary (not together...) Bill is the greatest barkeep ever born... Triathlon or no, let me just say this...

I look for a place to call home... A bar where the keep reminds me of places I've been... where my glass goes not empty... where they ask why I've been so long in coming... where they rail because I root for the Saints and they know it's not so smart... and they say that it's late because we've made it to the second quarter of the afternooon game, and we're still not too late to buy the chef a drink...

I look for home... and here I've found it... with bacon.

All I have to say, kids, is if you're gonna do a triathon... or for that matter, if you plan to drink like a professional and eat like someone who's done it before.. go visit Bill on Sunday at the Star-Spangled Tavern at DC Ranch. Your drink will not go empty, your ego will not be massaged and your belly will not be empty.

And if you show up when we're there... we'll buy you a drink... one of Bill's bloody Mary's. It's on our tab. Suffice it to say, with that stupid triathlon, we earned it.

ahhhh.

Posted by stacy at 06:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)