INSIDE THIS ISSUE
NOVEMBER 2009
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TRIATHLON CLUB OF SAN DIEGO
NOVEMBER CLUB MEETING Date, Guest and Location still pending Check TCSD’s website for updates.
CONGRATULATIONS TCSD! 25 years and growing stronger & faster then ever. The largest and best triathlon club in the world.
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Member Profile New Members TCSD Conversation Race Discounts Friends Offering Discounts
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Race Reports Cooking with KASHI Coaches Corner Product Review Know Your Rights!
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TriNews
I am a rock
By Barbara Javor
No, I’m not an island, though lately it feels that way. For the last quarter century, roads and structures, and I was unceremonihome has been a small plot of earth between the sidewalk and the curb next to a large parking lot located two blocks from the beach in San Diego County. In preparation for the fifth annual community triathlon today, the city spiffed up our little square of ground with some small plants encircled with carefully placed, matching sandstone rocks. We don’t really match—the sandstone and me—but I don’t mind that. It’s just that we have little in common except we’re all rocks. My present incarnation began in the Triassic period some 200 million years ago in volcanic mountains a few hundred miles from here. Most of that time I was locked up with my basalt-mates in my home on the range, where dinosaurs trod on us and giant insects burrowed in our cracks…but you don’t want to hear my stories of the good ol’ glory days, or do you? About a million years ago, erosion and uplift exposed my section of the old mountains, and I rocked and rolled down to the valley on my odyssey to the sea. I started the trek as a boulder, but now I’m a fist-size cobble with rough edges. Funny thing, I never made it all the way to the sea. I was on the coastal flood plain when humans built these
ously bulldozed and dropped where I am now. The ceaseless parade of cars, surfers, runners, and bicyclists are my sources of entertainment most of the time. But there’s nothing like the annual triathlon for real excitement. Being just a few feet from the driveway to the parking lot that serves as the transition area, I get to watch the bike and the run portions of the races from ankle level, noticing untied shoelaces, mismatched socks, uneven strides, and scofflaws who jump the curb. Rocks have very good memories—you might say they’re chiseled in stone—so we remember participants from year to year and check to see if they make the same mistakes or break the same rules. We couldn’t hear the gun go off to start the race on the beach—gosh, I’d love to see that someday—but shortly the chaos began in the transition area. The sandstone cobbles in our plot didn’t react to the hubbub of bicycles streaming out the driveway until a mountain bike took a shortcut and ran over some of the rocks and one of the little plants in our plot. “Hey!” the sandstone cobbles cried in unison in a subsonic tone only another rock or a super-sensitive seismograph might detect. continued on page 3