INSIDE THIS ISSUE
NOVEMBER 2010
TCSD Contacts Board Members Volunteer Members Weekly Workout Calendar
TRIATHLON CLUB OF SAN DIEGO
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Member Profile TCSD Conversation New Members Coach’s Corner
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Race Reports Hit the Road Made with Kashi
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TriNews By Barbara Javor
Racing Against the Mob A Tale of Fiction
NOVEMBER TCSD TRIATHLON Powered by Kashi® Saturday, November 6th 6:00 pm check-in begins 7:00 am race start Location: Fiesta Island
NOVEMBER CLUB MEETING TBD Check for updates on the Club’s website.
I was sitting in a café Friday evening eating a pasta dish with an unpronounceable Italian name when three men entered. I was groggy and jet-lagged from my overseas flight to Europe, and hardly paid any attention to them until they walked over to my table and stood towering above me. “Jonah Fairburn,” the one closest to me said in a thick Italian accent. I looked up in surprise. I had just arrived in the Italian town the previous day and I didn’t know a soul here. “Are you Jonah Fairburn?” he asked. I nodded. Without an invitation, he sat down across from me and leaned so close I could smell garlic on his breath. “Luigi Pastore is competing in the triathlon Sunday and he’s going to win.” “I don’t know about that. Is he any good?” I was a second-year pro and had my sights on winning this Olympic-distance race, a tune-up for a half-Ironman in the same region in two weeks. I didn’t know anyone named Luigi. “You’re not listening. I said Luigi is going to win. If you cherish those two knees of yours, you’re going to make sure he wins.”
The other two men sidled closer to the table and opened their coats for me to see their shoulder holsters and pistols. I gulped and felt the urge to throw up my dinner. I swallowed to keep it down and took a drink of water. A wave of panic washed over me, and I wanted to run out of the café. Is this the Mob? Are they fixing triathlons now? “You’re going to make sure he wins. You’re going to tell the other pros to let Luigi win this race. Do you understand? We know where to find you and the others.” I nodded. I didn’t know what else to do. As they walked out of the café, I ran through my options. I could disappear from town and not race—no, I came here for both races. I couldn’t go to the police—what would I say? I didn’t know who those guys were, and I didn’t speak Italian. I cursed. I had lost my appetite, so I left the café and returned to my room trying to figure out what to do. Instead of sleeping off the jet lag, I tossed and turned all night. On Saturday, I walked to the race registration area a few blocks from my hotel and learned which other pros were competing. Because the purse was so paltry and this wasn’t a World Cup race, few pros had entered. I recognized the continued on page 3