The Nautica Malibu Triathlon Circus

Where can you watch giggling girls gush over Chris McCormack when he joins their heat to race, then see the Ironman world champ cross the finish line the next day to a crowd of puzzled faces asking, “Chris Macca Who?”

Or where does a race participant have a bodyguard for the swim, and all of her family members allowed in transition?

Where can you get mowed over by paparazzi taking pictures of one shirtless man, singled out in a crowd of many equally handsome, if not more chiseled dudes?

And where can you jump into an ocean-side changing room with nobody around one day, then go to the same room to be surrounded by women doing their make-up and adjusting their push-up bras the next?

Only in Malibu at the Nautica Malibu Triathlons!

This year was the first to have an Olympic distance tri on Saturday, in addition to the star-studded sweatfest that is Sunday’s weird-sprint-distance tri phenomenon.

It seemed to break down like this: athletes looking to actually race a real triathlon signed up for Saturday’s event, while athletes looking to get a glimpse of their favorite stars stuffed into Xterra wetsuits raced on Sunday.

And athletes like me found a way to be involved in both days, equally intrigued by the prospect of brushing arms with Macca and Hunter Kemper as by blowing past J. Lo on the swim, or giving Matthew McConaughey a run for his money.

Saturday’s race started with a long walk down the beach to the race start, where co-ed relays and girls 29-and-under lined up, and were soon joined by none other than Chris McCormack. He was quickly recognized, then fawned over. The photo ops never seemed to end, as girls threw their arms over his shoulders, and dudes shook his hand. Then the cannon went off, and we all got down to business.

I should've counted the buoys before starting the swim, because every time I got to one, I convinced myself the next one was the end, only to be sorely mistaken. As much as I love swimming, my right hambutt had enough after the third buoy, and told me I'd better hurry up and start biking because the evil muscle would only give me a 2.5 hour time limit before it would secede from my body.

On the bike, hambutt and I felt much better. We beat other girls on our rack out of transition, giving us a feeling of untouchable glory. We had ridden the out-and-back stretch of PCH that is the Malibu Tri bike course numerous times, and were ready to have it to ourselves without traffic for the first time.

We flew out to the turn-around, then noticed a line of people and parked bikes by Encinal Canyon, one of our favorite climbs. A closer look revealed a triathlete lying on the road with what looked like a blood-soaked towel under his head, and another athlete a few feet away being sat upright by people holding her neck. Not good.

We continued on, watching ambulances and firetrucks drive the other way. We had passed other girls who had kicked hambutt in the swim and we were feeling fierce. We beat a Michellie Jones look-alike (she was wearing the full pink-and-blue Michellie kit) out of transition. We ran for our lives.

Michellie joined us for the first two miles, after another young girl leapt ahead of us like a gazelle. Hambutt would not think of catching her. Then, Michellie made her move. Hambutt warned me that if I tried to stay with her, he would take me down. At least, that's what he implied when he started to hurt. He still wasn't keeping me from running as fast as I could. Michellie, unfortunately, was faster.

Hambutt and I triumphantly crossed the finish line in a new Olympic-distance PR. He was promptly treated to a free post-race massage and promised he'd end his tyranny of my right side if I promised not to make him run another 10K for a very long time. We had a deal. We couldn't compromise on the swimming, however. He wanted none of it, and I was set to return the next day as a part of a Paramount tri team relay.

The Nautica Malibu Triathlon, Part Two: "Classic" Distance and Mind over Hambutt

Where pros are usually racked, pro actors and actresses were instead, along with a throng of camera-toting foreigners clamoring for the shots I'm using for free here.

J. Lo's paparazzi mowed down anyone who stepped in their way as they walked backwards toward J. Lo's swim wave start, following her and hubby Marc Antony. On another section of beach, Matthew McConaughey stood in his traditional pose: no top on. He was half-dressed in a wetsuit, and coachubby remarked that he has quite a toosh on him. A man-J. Lo, if you will.

The celebrities went off in their own wave, with the blow of an ear-drum popping cannon. My wave was 10 minutes back. I wanted to accidentally swim over Matthew McConaughey. It didn't happen. As a consolation, I swam right by Jennifer Lopez, who is the only triathlete I've ever seen to bring a bodyguard / trainer (was it Gunnar Peterson who was in the water with her?) along on the swim...probably to guard her from men who had the same idea about swimming on top of her as I did about Matthew McConaughey. (Smart move, J. Lo.) She was easy to spot, with giant aqua-sphere-like goggles on.

I ran into transition, slapped the timing chip on my teammate, and watched him run out with his bike to compete in his first triathlon. I was like a proud mom.

In the meantime, coachubby and I made our way to the finish line to watch stars like Matthew McConaughey, Jennifer Lopez, Eliza Dushku, Anna Kournikova, Zach Morris and Kelly Kapowski from "Saved by the Bell", Felicity Huffman, Jon Cryer, and Scott Foley come through. In three years of living in LA, I hadn't seen a celebrity yet, but this race made up for it. It was like a dream--besides all the "celebrity" celebrities, tri celebrities Hunter Kemper, Chris McCormack, Katya Meyers, and a ridiculously tall Jasmine Oeinck also participated in one way or another.

Coachubby then frantically led me to the awards stage for the celebrity ceremony--Cindy Crawford was giving out the medals.

All in all, it was the ultimate triathlon-in-LA experience. If you come for the Nautica Malibu triathlon, you might as well do them both, even in the event of a protest from a broken hambutt. Race the first day, then stay for the media frenzy of the "Classic" distance race. You'll get your shot at Olympic-distance glory and get to hobnob with tri-stars, then rub shoulders with (or swim over) your favorite TV stars without ever having to leave gorgeous Zuma beach!

Gotta love America, where Jennifer Lopez can get more media coverage for triathlon by participating in her first than Hunter Kemper ever did for being an Olympian in the sport!

Greg Bennett and Andy Potts Pose

with coachubby and me! Maybe the endorphins, or the thrill of winning mucho moolah at the Los Angeles Triathlon last Sunday had something to do with it, but these two seem to be genuinely big sweethearts who aren't afraid to pose with the little people.

Greg Bennett, the winner of the 2008 Los Angeles Triathlon. He did the 40K bike in 53:54! And it wasn't flat!

Andy Potts. He finished just 43 seconds behind Greg Bennett, and had the fastest run split of the day at 31:18. Geeeez.

The Los Angeles Triathlon--It's Not Flat

The Los Angeles Triathlon, as a part of the Life Time Fitness tri series, makes an interesting proposition to some athletes: forgo age-group medal glory to be treated like a pro and have your ass kicked royally, or stick with your age group and enjoy your time on the podium.

In order to go route #1, you must present the race directors with proof you can break a 2:30 in an Olympic distance race. Or, if you never have, as was my case, somehow convince them that you believe you can go that fast by race day.

Thus begin the adventures of the "Elite" age-group athlete. Once you are accepted you can (a) plan out your winning strategy, or top-5 finish, which will get you an all-expenses-paid trip to the championship race in Dallas, or (b) pray that you brake 2:30 so you don't look like a total weenus coming across the finish line long after everyone in your original age group.

I went with plan B, figuring on a flat course I should be safely under that mark. Don't ask me how I expected anywhere in LA to be flat. My wishful misconception was set straight at an "Elite" meeting the afternoon before the race. If you ever want to feel like the fattest, most unfit person on earth, when in reality, you're usually the fittest person amongst all of your friends, go sit in on an "Elite" age-group meeting. I swear most of the people there probably turned pro after this race.

Coachubby woke me at 4 am yesterday morning. He wanted good rack space and wasn't afraid to sacrifice sleep--mine or his--to get it. A friend arrived at 4:45 to drive us 10 miles north to the race start in Venice Beach.

Perk #1 of being an Elite athlete popped up immediately: we had freaking awesome rack space. Rack space that was equally as awesome as the pros', right next to the "bike out" exit. I would say Perk #2 came shortly thereafter, when The Bachelor's Andy Baldwin racked next to me, but I never saw the show, and therefore had no idea who he was until a friend informed me after the race.

Perk #3: starting just after the pros. The pro men went splashing off into the ocean, followed by only 7 pro women, 5 of whom were surprisingly tiny. Then came the "Elite" wave. The men and women start all together--all 44 of us. (32 men, 12 women.) After having cameras flashed in our faces for 5 minutes, the horn blew, and we were off.

The group immediately divided itself in two: those who have swum in the ocean before, and those who were uncertain what to do about the waves. The first group dove in, the second stood and stared for a moment. I saw it all happen, because I arrived last-ish to the surf from the run down the beach.

It was impossible to see buoys, so following other people seemed like a good idea. But after rounding the first buoy, there were no other people in sight. We all had black caps, and were virtually undetectable in the early morning murky, scummy waters of Venice Beach. My fear of being the slowest and therefore looking like the best shark bait quickly became a reality--everybody else was long gone ahead of me. At least, I thought, the lifeguards were sitting on long boards all alone, too. They might look equally as tasty.

My greatest achievement in this ocean-swelly swim was catching a wave on the way out.

I ran into T1, hearing an announcer yell, "There are still elite people coming up! Get out of the way!" I was relieved to see my bike was not all alone--close to it--but not all alone. After an embarrassing mishap with the rubber band attached to my bike shoe attached to my bike (it didn't snap, and I didn't get my feet into my shoes), I was off.

One woman passed me within the first seven miles. One man played yo-yo with me for a while. Then it was just me. All alone. Riding down the wide-open, poorly maintained, cloudy streets of LA. It was exhilarating and massively creepy all at the same time. I got nervous that the random, enthusiastic homeless people cheering for me were planning the abduction of my bike. Nobody would've seen it happen. (Perk negative-1 of being in the Elite group.)

Finally, on a 5-mile out-and-back on Sunset Boulevard, I saw people going the other way. They were still far enough ahead that I'd come bombing down a hill toward cross-traffic only to have cops hold it up at the last moment so I could cruise through an intersection. Scary? Yes. Even more scary? The clueless pedestrians who decided crossing at the bottom of a hill right in front of me was the best idea ever. I screamed an incomprehensible war cry that got one little old lady running a race of her own.

The final descent down Grand Avenue is exhilarating and nerve wracking. Some boastful people claimed to have topped 50mph on it. They must have really good brakes, as the hill ends in a sharp, right-hand turn into T2. There was water-bottle and watter-bottle-holder carnage strewn across the road from people hitting bumps at high speed.

After noting that it took way less time to bike to downtown LA than it ever took to drive there, I ran out of T2, ready to destroy my hambutt (the non-technical term for where the hamstring meets the butt, which I injured a few weeks before) in the hopes of breaking 2:30. My bike time was 6 minutes slower than I had hoped. I was ready for idiotic pain.

After about two minutes of running, Becky Lavelle bounded by. And Julie Swail, and Rebecca Wassner. I looked at their pro number belts and read their last names in awe. Then I realized I had forgotten my number belt. Oops.

After a mile of flat roads, Grand Avenue loomed forth. One step up the incline and my quad became a cramped mess. I kept running. Water bottles were ejected from bikes whizzing by on the right. I kept running. My hambutt let me know it was unhappy with my decision, but that it wouldn't vindictively try to slow me down, since its friend, Quad, was doing a nice job of that already. I kept running.

Back up Grand for the second time. I noticed a woman with a blue bib number running out while I was going back. I wasn't last! Hooray! I kept running in an effort to make sure my placement stayed that way.

When I crossed the finish line, which is magnificent, nestled between the Staples Center and the NOKIA Theatre, my quad, hambutt and I were happy to be done. But there was no clock at the finish line. Had I justified my presence in the Elite group? My rack space next to The Bachelor? My opportunity to fly solo down the major streets of LA?

Results finally went up. I had just made it.

To top off such an epic day, coachubby and I got pictures with Greg Bennett and Andy Potts, two newly-rich (by tri standards) pros who hung around the finish, giving drooling fans like me a chance to meet them. Pictures coming soon!

So was it worth giving up a potential podium age group finish to be the caboose on the Elite train? You betcha. The program gave me and 43 other people a chance some of us would never otherwise have to pretend to be pros for the day. It was an opportunity to meet some of tomorrow's pros, have an open ocean and road to race through, get killer rack positions, and start before the weather warmed up too much.

So if you think you can break 2:30, or are a sandbagging age-grouper, step it up and do one of the Life Time Fitness series races as an Elite amateur. The rewards are far greater than age-group glory.

Triathlon Vocabulary for the Erudite Triathlete

Every sport has its own set of vocab words. It just so happens, however, that by choosing to be a triathlete, you get the largest ratio of fun vocab words to single sport there is. That’s what happens when your sport is actually three.

So, in the interest of turning yourself into a triathlon pedant, here are a few words to add to your lexicon:

porn (adj.) – totally hot, smokin’, rad. Usually referring to a piece of equipment.

“Man, you got Campy Record shifters on that bike! That’s so porn!”

(Courtesy of Peter Brantley)

chicked (v.) – to be smoked by a woman.

“Dude, I saw you get chicked on the bike. That lady come out of transition five minutes ahead of you!”

“I totally got chicked.” (Usually followed by a longing look toward the hot, fast woman.)

“Tina just chicked you, man.”

aggro (adj.) –extremely aggressive tactics (Nothing to do with farming—note the two g’s.)

“You were totally aggro going out on that first swim loop so fast!"

“This guy came flying by me in aero totally aggro, then died by T2.”

"If you're not aggro in a sprint from start to finish, you won't win!"

Make flashcards. Write them on your hands. Do whatever you must to memorize these words, then bust ‘em out at your next group event. Your less-scholarly tri-buddies will envy you.

XOXO

Triathlete Diva

Emma Snowsill Rocks

Rockstar Emma Snowsill with her gold.

I had to put a picture up to bump down that creepy Canadian bike hoarder.

Happy Monday!