Camp, in its masochistic glory, is the BEST:
Surrounding yourself with fellow masochists (aka like-minded souls)
Six glorious days of swimming/bike/running with zero guilt about neglecting 'real life' chores
Doing just enough work not to get fired, because, apparently, life doesn’t pause for training camp
Recap of the Torture Fest:
MONDAY: We kicked it off with a 48-mile bike ride that made me spew a cliff bar. Nothing says "Welcome to camp" like revisiting your breakfast. The swim got zapped by thunder, and we capped the day with a 45-minute run that was an easy shake-out run. But on
day 1 of camp, everyone is ON FIRE!TUESDAY: A 117-mile bike that I thought 67 miles. Surprise, motherfucker! Double that with a climb to Kitt Peak because why not torture ourselves? Surprisingly, the post-ride run was not a death march, albeit only for 15 minutes.
WEDNESDAY: Swam 3200 yards and replaced our track workout with hill repeats because the universe loves to watch us suffer. 12x1 min - send it!
THURSDAY: Conquered Mt Lemmon on a bike for 4:30. It was a buffet of pain and caloric desperation.
FRIDAY: The swim involved some spicy 100s ending with a 100FT, and we did a double-run day because, apparently, we hate ourselves. The 30-minute AM shake-out run was okay; the PM Saguaro Canyon 9-mile adventure was devastating, but the—popsicles. Popsicles make everything better.
SATURDAY: Last day of camp a 50-mile bike ride featuring sprints that had us all cursing each other’s ancestry. Then, we had a 40-minute progressive run OTB with an ambitious start that ended in a world of pain, promptly healed by an iced latte and a vegan cinnamon roll the size of a small child.
This camp blended euphoria, agony, and many f-bombs! . We pushed our limits, laughed until it hurt, and embraced the suck. The camaraderie was the glue that kept us together, helping us carry each other's spirits (and gear) through each day. And let’s not forget the logistical wonders of SAG—carrying our crap, filling our bottles, and being the unsung heroes who luckily didn’t need to fix a single flat for me (bless tubeless tires).
Aftermath: a unique blend of stink in my laundry room, a newfound aversion to Swedish Fish and Nutter Butters, and a profound respect for chamois cream. Every night ended with a romantic date with my Normatecs, dreaming of the day my legs wouldn’t feel like lead.
Two weeks on, and the bike is feeling great! Though the run still has a ways to go. But damn, the post-camp fitness surge is real. I left Tucson with my heart full of triathlon love, grateful for the old faces, stoked about the new ones, and secretly plotting my return.
For those on the fence about training camp: leap over that damn fence. It’s a rollercoaster of pain, gain, and insane memories. Plus, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen a grown man cry over a popsicle. Tucson, you were a magnificent bastard, and I can’t wait to do it all over again.
