Just when I have sworn off racing triathlon, and in particular this corporate monstrosity we call Ironman, I arrive in Lake Tahoe California to check out this weekend's race course. I hope my ex post report is as sunny; for now, two laps over passes in the Sierras, with a spin along the shore of Lake Tahoe and a few turns into the heart of California ski country, has my glands watering. The lake is as clear and blue as its reputation holds; the run will take place on a shaded bike path along the river running through massive mountain pines from Squaw Valley to the lake, and back, and out and back again. Temperatures predicted to top out at 65 degrees.
So my 40th will either be a suffer-fest or a spine-tingling end to a good year of racing. Perhaps both.