So I competed in a triathlon last week. To be specific, it was the 2006 Geneva International Triathlon, held in and by the lake in Geneva. And to be even more specific, I was a competitor that never actually entered the race.
The sprint distance (called "promotion") involved a 500m swim, 20K bike, and 5K run. For the US equivalents, it was a .3 mile swim, 12 mile bike, and 3 mile run. Now individually I could perform the distances asked, but the real challenge was linking them together in serial, surviving the transitions, and not puking (outside of the water). Growing curiousity in the sport over the past few years coupled with my general averseness to physical harm culminated in a do-it-or-don't online registration that had me sweating over my keyboard for a good 15 minutes.
For the days leading up to the race, I trained with a fellow co-worker by running the loop along the lake, swimming the approximate distances in open water, and even borrowing his more road-worthy bike. We weren't completely prepared, but were anxious to challenge ourselves and at least finish. We received our numbers (yours truly was registered as #1203) and rooted through our competitor goodie bags to find if they had given us any good swag for the 80 CHF we had paid as entry. The night before, we carbo-loaded on gigantor amounts of spaghetti and bread, went to bed early, and mentally steeled ourselves for the gruelling day ahead.
When I woke, it was raining and somewhere around 63 degrees F (17 C). I sighed, got my swimsuit on, slipped on street clothes, and rode my bike in the rain down to the triathlon start. The rain relented for a bit and ceased its downpour enough for us to hear the really annoying French announcers repeat "wetsuits are highly recommended". Knowing that neither of us had a wetsuit (nor any of our coworkers - thanks to a company-wide email plea for wetsuits the Friday before the race) my buddy and I knew we were in for some tough few minutes ahead of us.
We had jumped in 10-12 C water the weeks previous (see this post) but really had not prepared to swim in 15.5 C (60 F) water for an extended period of time. Watching my buddy get ready for the first heat (I was in the second), I was crushed but somewhat relieved to hear "wetsuits are now mandatory". We stepped away from the start line and spent the rest of the day watching people emerge out of the water with chattering teeth. Although it would probably be a super-small market, I think that vans filled with rental wetsuits that drive around to sporting events like this would make a pretty good profit. To add insult to injury, the skies opened up later in the day, creating perfect conditions for the bike-run portions. The water, however, never got above 18 C.
Officially, I have no idea what my finish was categorized as. The dreaded DNF (Did Not Finish) doesn't even apply in my case - I was a full-on DNS. The lessons learned have encouraged us to buy some Orca tri wetsuits off eBay and find new opportunities in the spring. Unfortunately, I will be back in the states by then and will have to hone my tri skills by ruthlessly dominating geriatric athletes and small children.
Revenge will be mine. 2007 Geneva International Triathlon, you are marked!
Flickr pics from the elite women and men races at TIG 2006 are here.
"Practicing" Italian (a.k.a. just saying "grazi" a lot).
Sitting on train back to Geneva with German train photographer who was trying his hardest to speak English.
Questionable:
Taking the last train from Geneva to Milan and into the Milan Centrale station around midnight.
The Senegalese bracelet scam at the Duomo train stop. For those that don't know about this - the Duomo is crowded with a handful of west African (usually Senegalese) men who walk around with a handful of homemade cloth bracelets. They attempt to sell you one and when you refuse, they offer one for free. When you still resist, they hold it out in front of you and drop it. Out of kindness, 75% of people will reach down, pick up the bracelet and hand it back. At which point, with your wrist exposed, the men will tie the bracelet to your wrist. Guilt about having the bracelet will set in, and you relent to giving away a few Euros.
Milan prostitutes hangin' around the hotel (harmless).
What you talkin' 'bout Alphonse?
Navigating the Milano Centrale station. El sucko.
Figuring out the Milan subway ticket system. Super confusing.
Getting scammed by crackhead who sits by the subway ticket machine waiting for confused tourists.
Staff at the Hotel Berna. Uber-hardcore rude. Heads and shoulders more rude than anyone we even saw in France! Handle with care!
Close your eyes and imagine a gigantic state fair, held along the edge of a lake with a view of the mountains. Replace the corndogs with crepes and double the size of the cotton candy. Do away with the Budweiser in favor of Heineken and mix in Thai, Spanish, Italian, South American, Swiss, German, Chinese, Malaysian, African, and other multinational food for good measure. Have multiple dance floors with various kinds of music. Leave the carnival rides, but have the carnies speak French (keep the scariness of the carnies, though). Keep the garbage output the same, but magically clean the city by the morning. Combine all of these things together, and you have the Fêtes de Genève.
The "Festival of Geneva" is a 10-day party (August 3-13) that has free nightly concerts, amazing food, carnival rides, a regatta, an annual waiter and waitress footrace, an airshow, and fireworks. The fireworks show at the end of the fête draws enough people down to the lakefront so that the floating bridges have to be buffered to handle the extra weight.
For three nights in a row, I managed to wander around from booth to booth, eating things like curry and dönner kebabs, cotton candy and homemade nougat (yes, all at the same time). I even stood politely and bounced my head (as is the proper Genevois-approved way of dancing) to a handful of the bands that played the Jardin Anglais.
Getting ready for our regular weekly swim last week, my buddies and I donned our Euro-swimsuits (something halfway between a speedo and swim-versions of tighty-whities) and edged our way into the water until our toenails made contact with the oddly chilly August lakewater. Machismo and testosterone edging us on, we dove into the water and experienced an involuntary cold-water gasp.
The water was somewhere around 10 celsius (50 fahrenheit). After a few days of rain and cloudy weather, the lake had dropped nearly 10 degrees over the course of a week. Nuts the size of pistachios, we exited the water like pirhanas at the shores of a nudist tanning colony.
Hypothermia in water happens much faster because of the larger surface area that the water is exposed to (and water's excellent ability to pull heat away from the body). We were planning on going for about a 750m - which in water that cold would have been torture equivalent to watching Numa Numa and Angry German Kid for 18 hours straight. Our cold, pale bodies would have been washed ashore somewhere in Nyon - poked incessantly by the business-end of a sharp stick held by curious children.
Fast "50" Facts:
An average adult person has a 50/50 chance of surviving a 50 yard swim in 50 degree (F) water.
A 50 year old person in 50 degree (F) water has a 50/50 chance of surviving for 50 minutes
We retreated to the comfort of our clothes and watched as a Russian woman (who undoubtedly was part polar bear), entered the water and swam for nearly a half hour. Desperately looking to reestablish our masculinity, we struck up conversation with a cross-dressing bicyclist who was wearing a tennis dress.
After a recent trip to France, I realized that my American friends were paying way too much for meals. As Americans, we generally become accustomed to including 15-20% tip on top of the meal as a customary tip. Not in Europe.
Of course, the philosophy on tipping depends on your own personal situation and beliefs. In general, the principles around Western Europe are:
Typically, the cost of paying the restaurant staff is built into the cost of your meal (which, anecdotally, is the reason why many waitstaff work at a restaurant "for life" and a salad costs 20 CHF).
A small tip is generally expected.
The tip should typically be no more than 10% of the meal (unless you personally believe that the waiter did a knock-out job).
Round up to the nearest whole dollar value of the meal to estimate tip.
Don't feel bad about not leaving an el-giganto tip.
Note to self: when travelling to Switzerland, don't take magic mushrooms, run naked through town, light historic bibles on fire, and jump into the lake. Except if you're Patrick Kennedy and wearing a Johnny Damon jersey.
French sales of wine have steadily been losing market share to international competition. Sales suck so bad that some French wineries are resorting to ruthless American and Austrlian tactics of giving your wine a catchy name (think: Fat Bastard) and a catchy picture (think: Yellowtail).
Trying to be progressive but not offensive to French oenophiles, one wine's name is "Arrogant Frog". The response from some wineries was that the name was "shocking". The Marketing Director for "Cheese-Eating Surrender Monkey" wine was not available for comment.
Bellagio. One word conjures up such great images of dice, free booze, sleazy strip bars, water fountain shows, and erupting faux volcanoes. But the REAL Bellagio is much more sedate.
The REAL Bellagio is a town situated on a peninsula on Lake Como in Italy. Think of the lake as an upside-down "Y". There's no terribly direct trains to the location, so we took the train to Como and poured ourselves into a taxi where the driver was the stunt double for "Crazy Driver 2" on the Dreamcast. After gnawing off 3 fingernails, we unpacked at the Hotel Belvedere (pronounce all of the letters) and spent the better part of a week soaking up the lakeside views, eating fresh fish, working on our tans, listening to British accents, getting hammered on limoncello, and subjecting ourselves to really bad European synth renditions of the Captain and Tennille.
Although Lake Como is home to reclusive Swiss billionaires and their flashy Italian mistresses, Bellagio doesn't give it away. It's mediocre shopping is more gelato- and pasta-based rather than Gucci. If you go, try haggling with the vendors across the lake in Tremezzo, eat at the terrasse at La Pergola (take the long way around), and be waited on poolside at the Grand Hotel Villa Serbelloni.
No trip to Lake Como would be complete without seeing the two attractions that every Hollywood-crazed American is looking to take pictures of: the Star Wars Naboo house and George Clooney's Italian bachelor pad. For some, the imagery of catching George dockside with his junk hanging out is enough of an enticement to hire private "boat taxis" that stealthily cruise the shore with hopes of grabbing that $1M photo that gets sold to Star magazine. This is a shot of his house.
Then there's the Naboo house.For those of you that don't know about this thing called "Google", the lakeside Naboo house in Episode II of the Star Wars saga is actually Villa Balbianello, a majestic mansion that was once a monastery. Sold to a number of owners throughout the years, including an American General, the villa was left to the Italian National Trust. It's served as the set on Star Wars, to the remake of the 007 Casino Royale, to the iffy chick flick "A Month on the Lake" (IMDB description conjures of images of "Under the Tuscan Sun" with potential for a MILF-hottie threeway, then possible catfight afterwards).
A few friends from work and I went swimming in Lake Geneva after work last week. Placing our wallets, watches, and other belongings in a backpack, threw a towel over them, and prayed to the patron saint of beat-downs to give us strength if we found someone rummaging through our stuff. As we ventured into the water, we were surrounded by a fleet of homemade boats flying flags protesting the international trade meetings that were going on a few hundred meters behind us at the World Trade Organization (OTC en Francais).
Once we navigated our way through the Korean fisherman naval blockade, we made for the open water and swam uncontested in the crystal-clear water. We made our way down to the Perle du Lac and turned around, making the complete excursion from entry to exit about two hours in total. As we neared the shore, a refreshing light rain started to come down. We emerged from the water to see a pack of Swiss hoods standing around our bikes and packs - they were identifiable by the coifs (cross between a semi-shaved head and a mohawk), shirtlessness, and smell of beer. Fear crawled up my spine. You can't exactly look tough emerging from the water wearing pink-lensed swim goggles and having your backup posse wearing speedos. We approached cautiously. As we edged our way through the gaggle of teens, we noticed that our bags were untouched. I let out a sigh of relief as I opened my bag and saw my bank card staring back at me. What was even more surprising was that the gaggle of rough and pierced hoods struck up a conversation with us. "Where did all the protestors go?" "Are they partying with the guys in the WTO?" We joked, smiled, and exchanged witty one-liner jokes about the protestors with them. "What are you guys doing for dinner?" one of the Mad Maxx crowd asked. "Do you want to come to my house for spaghetti?"
At this point in time, several hundred neurons in the far reaches of Ben's medulla oblongata exploded. The fact that I had completely overestimated Geneva youth's willingness to engage in mischief made me want to find a small cave and pull the blanket over my head. We politely declined the offer of spaghetti and quickly dried off. The boys freaked me out by telling me ghost stories of "duck fleas" in Lake Geneva - more commonly known as swimmer's itch. I nervously laughed and feigned being unconcerned but went home and performed a Silkwood scrubdown.
Stick the earbuds in or turn up the computer speakers, peep the pics of Lake Geneva at sunset (top) and sunrise (bottom), and listen to the retro- lounge-cool soundtrack of the day, brought to you by Luxuria Music (should auto stream through MySpace).
So I was awoken by the sound of a woman screaming. I at first thought that it was one of those outbursts (albeit politely short) that drunken Swiss teens are prone to in the wee hours of the morning. But realizing that it was 7:30am and the screaming continued for something like 5 minutes, I thought it best to roll out of bed and take a gander. What I saw was a cluster of cars, pedestrians, and bicyclists all standing in the intersection. Apparently, a pedestrian had been hit by a car. And from the best that other bystanders could tell me, it was a child.
Standing in shorts and bleary-eyed, I had flashbacks to my own man vs. car incident. A few months ago, I was hit by a car and the only thing that seemed to save me was 1) my skull and 2) the skin on the back of my skull. It was really eerie witnessing something that I had experienced. It's sort of like seeing yourself on TV: you remember being filmed, but seeing yourself on TV gives you all sorts of awkward feelings that you didn't necessarily feel when you were being filmed.
There were people redirecting traffic and others trying to help console the unconsolable woman. People were on cell phones calling 117 (911 Swiss equivalent) and people down the street redirecting traffic so that ambulances could pass. For as much flak as the rest of the international community give the Swiss for being a seemingly uncaring and vanilla-flavored peoples, THESE Swiss folks were actually DOING something. I've been known to give the Swiss a fair share of rib-jabbing for mindlessly coloring within the lines like Oprah bookclub zombie-groupies, but this incident gave me a sense of relief that if the shit goes down, the Swiss got yo back. Not to say that it wouldn't happen in the US, but I'm willing to bet that the entire neighborhood wouldn't get out of their building to help.
Standing there watching Swiss businessmen and stay-at-home mothers taking on their new roles of traffic cops and triage nurses reminded me of a quote by an Irish political philosopher, Edmund Burke: "The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing." It makes one think of how many opportunities you have been in a position to do something and chosen not to: either out of sheer laziness, unwillingness, or the thought that someone else would do it.
