How Alcatraz Went Down...

4 AM the alarm goes off and I realize what's coming - have my moment of growth, ask myself what the hell I've gotten myself into before proceeding.

5 AM I leave with a plastic bag in each hand, a duffel slung over my shoulder, riding for Marina Green to board the busses to take me to the boat to Alcatraz. 515 I'm blowing down one of San Francisco's blazing hills when I decide to take a sharp turn, when the wetsuit in my plastic bag gets caught in the spoke of my front wheel, flipping my bike and sending me over the front handlebars and smashing me onto the pavement. Somehow, I caught myself, because I'm agile like a damn cat or just damn lucky, and nothing was too broken or badly damaged. Two guys stopped to make sure I was alright, helped me to pry my wetsuit from my wheel and I continued on.

The next thing I know and because I'm tired and in Cambria and wanting to go to sleep, I'm on the boat and my wetsuit is on and the professionals are getting ready to jump and the national anthem is playing. Next, I jumped into the water and no matter how much fire you've got...and I've got plenty, swimming though San Francisco Bay is daunting, daunting. The first 5 minutes, all I could think was I'm going to drown I have no idea where I'm going, the current is going to carry me out to the Golden Gate Bridge where the real sharks will be waiting and all these people are around me and thrashing and we're all going in different directions and this is fucking anarchy! Then my heart rate picked up and my beautiful body adjusted and I found my stroke and made it to the shore in 31 minutes - 1.5 miles. I don't have all the exact times, so you can bet if there's rounding to occur, it's going to be down.

When I hit the beach, I couldn't walk, completely discombobulated, like I'd been on an uber-hyper Tilt A Whirl set on repeat and repeat and repeat. I couldn't see straight and couldn't walk straight and couldn't think straight but knew there was a line of people on the beach cheering us on and that I was trying to look strong and in control before I fell into them, literally like a damn lush, before I apologized before I got my wits and actually got strong again before I hit my bike and began my 18 miles of brutally beautiful ups and downs.

On a road bike, at least at first, I was all guts and lacking nerves. When the bike race started, because I was held back for so long when jumping off the boat, I was riding in packs of people I had no business riding with. When the hills came and I could climb, I was passing by the dozens. Then we'd get to the top of the hill and fly down and it took me a few to be able to handle bombing down with faith. Even if you'd been on a road bike all your life, these hills were fast as hell. Last year a guy wiped out and they had to wipe him of the pavement and med-evac him out. People were whispering about that everywhere. I'd be lying if I said it wasn't somewhere in my head. I finished right around 59 minutes.

The first and last 2 miles of the run are pretty flat. I used the first 2 to get my legs before the hills started, before the stairs started, before the off road running through tunnels and passageways started, before the run on the beach started, before the climb up the sand ladder. We doubled back and hit hill after hill before heading back down, before I sprinted the last 2 home, probably close to 6's by then. I crossed in 2:43, 222 out of a strong field of 2000. It was beautiful. The people, the sights, the experience. Beautiful.

There's something I tell people who ask me why I do what I do, or when I try to explain motivation for something like this: In the morning, when the alarm clock goes off, no matter how trained you are, there's always a faint second where you contemplate turning off the lights and going back to bed...because you know how much fight and sweat and blood is going to be waiting for you that day. Then you don't. Then you go out there and compete, and compete well...and I can say this with full assurance, that I am going to bed absolutely a better man right now than I was this morning. And these merits don't wear off. These fights like the one I picked this morning will stay with me for the rest of my life, and until you do one, you can never know. Not for everyone and everyone's got to find their own thing...but this is mine.

And I'm just getting started. Trust that.

Fran Sancisco...

The moment I stepped into my hotel room on Van Ness, I judged its merit by asking myself a simple question...does this seem like the sort of room where someone committed a violent crime circa 1930? I thought yes, yes someone did. It's not a lousy place. At all...it's just got that kind of feel. Free Internet though.

I've been on a pancake diet since this morning. Okay, I had pancakes this morning. During the afternoon, I went down to the harbor so that someone could write 283 on my hand and shoulder and tell me how to run the Escape From Alcatraz Triathalon in the early Sunday AM. Boats and bikes and shoes and rules. I hate rules. Even guidelines. Anyway...

I wanted a plate of pasta because it's what I always eat at 6 PM the night before a race, and there were two options - a posh joint adjacent to Union Square and a place called Little Henry's Italian Food that popped up from Google and was within walking distance. I read about a line of the review that said something like, "no, really, the entire joint is run by Vietnamese but pretty good." I went to Henry's, and sure enough, Henry was back behind the grill, Vietnamese Henry and his Vietnamese staff. The place was pretty crowded with regulars - everyone hanging out and watching World's Deadliest Police Chases as I ate my pasta with salad and bread for 7.25. I think I left about a 75 percent tip for the privilege to dine with talkative meth-heads who were trying and trying and trying to strike up conversations with me. I didn't have the energy, not tonight, and finally answered back in something that "sounded" French and that was that. That was that.