I've got my first triathlon of the season coming up. This one. It's a sprint distance, which means short. Called sprint because I think they're meant to be done fast, at high speeds rather than at endurance, make yourself last speeds. I'm not sure I have more than one speed, but I'm not sweating it. At least not since I rented a wetsuit, which feels more like a fatsuit or a sweat-your-ass-off suit. When I tried it on then peeled it off, it was too damp to hand to the clerk. "You don't want to touch that," I said and carried it to the register myself.
Despite my turbulent relationship with running, still not being sure of what I should wear under the wetsuit, my lack of race day supplies (I ordered sunglasses and had them shipped USPS, duh), and the fact that I'll have to haul my ass out to New Jersey the same afternoon for Father's day, I feel pretty nonchalant and ready. Just yesterday I rode 17 miles at a good pace and followed it by a quick two-mile run, and I was still went out, socialized, drank a beer. Good sign.
What I was not prepared for was the registration line at Asphalt Green. Earlier this evening, I had to pick up my race day packet, complete with racing chip, swimcap and bib number, on the Upper East Side. Except it was extra upper (90th) and extra east, nearly in the river. To get to Asphalt Green, you take the 4/5/6 train to 86, then walk and walk and keep walking east, through long streets of towering chalk gray buildings, parking garages, brownstones. Everything drab and mild, or at least you realize how drab and mild it is when you arrive at the corner of York and 90th and glaring at you is an expanse of fake grass green, a football field and a half of it, and from far away, it looks just like painted asphalt. All of a sudden I love this name. Asphalt Green. It makes so much sense. When you get closer, it's a thin mat of astroturf. There are people running around it, people playing soccer on it, bright tennis balls bouncing across it, though you can't locate any courts or anyone holding a tennis raquet, and in the corners there are kids hitting baseballs across it. It's lovely, another New York Thing to like.
Inside the building called Asphalt Green is not nearly as enchanting. On the second floor of a large municipal building, there are bunches of irritated people, sweating people all trying to get on line to pick up race packets, except there are no clear ends of any given line and no rhyme or reason or instruction as to which line you should be on. I consider a shorter line because I am a card holding USAT member, but a woman towards the front of the longest line instructs me that I'll need to get on the end of her line (which happens to wrap around the entire room) and wait 45 minutes, just like she did, card or no card. And I do. Because I'm not a cutter. I hate cutting.
With the exception of the few guys who clack around in cycling shoes wearing painted on spandex in the classic flourescent blues and yellows of cycling gear, most people look surprisingly normal. They're not all that thin of fit looking. And now I'm not sure if this should be reassuring or disappointing. I forget about it and listen to the pre-race banter. The secret to properly priming a wetsuit for quick removal of the suit. Is this my timing chip? I just got over that knee surgery, only been running a month. Remember that first open water swim when everyone started screaming for help and clinging to the boats? Good times.
I escape with my packet, an XL t-shirt that could be a Father's Day gift, and bright yellow swim cap. The ordeal took almost an hour. Outside, the real Asphalt Green is brilliant in the setting sun, greener than green and enchanting, but I'm too tired and hungry to enjoy it anymore and I don't want to walk back. I catch the crosstown bus on 86th Street, ride through the park, and when I get home, eat some tacos. The day is done, race to come.
