The Partner

Fly fishing and long-distance road biking have this in common: they're individual sports that are best enjoyable with partners. During those long hours on the water or the bike, no one will cast the line or push on the pedals for you. It's a solitary effort. Yet it's better to share the experience with a partner who, besides keeping you company, can back you up when the tide rises or when you have a flat or a fall. The fear of a flat is especially acute among female cyclists.

On Oct. 7, after few days of a bad cold and few days of bad weather, I finally embarked on my first bike ride of the year on Cape Cod. My goal was to make my way to the beach where my husband -- without a partner that week -- planned to go fly fishing and meet him there. The temperature was in the low-50s (11 degrees Celsius), with strong northwest winds. I had forgotten my rain jacket at home so I bundled up with three layers of shirts. Most of the first 12 miles (20 km) were in the shade, on a straight and fairly flat bike trail going north -- an otherwise pleasant route when you're not fighting the cold, headwinds and a runny nose.

There were very few other riders to venture out that day. It was a fight between me and the machine: I tried to push myself as hard as I could. My main enemy, that day and in my subsequent rides on the bike trail: squirrels. When I first visited New York in 1990, I remember taking many pictures of those little creatures in Central Park. We don't have them in France and I didn't know, back then, how lucky we are. The squirrels typically waited the last minute to jump away from my wheels or, in several instances, into my wheels. They're very fast, very nervous and prone to make very wrong decisions. I had two near-misses in three rides.
At the end of the trail, I took a bike route, shared with cars, that took me along the beaches in east Wellfleet. The sun warmed my back. My muscles slowly warmed up too.

About 23 miles (37 km) later, I found our car on a parking lot near Pamet Harbor, changed shoes, wrapped myself into a warm jacket and started the long walk on the beach to seek my life's partner.

On Oct. 8, I met my husband, fishing south of Chatham. The weather conditions were better than the previous day, with temperatures in the mid 60s (18 degrees Celsius) and no wind. I took the bike trail south, down to Harwich, and came across a cranberry field.

My final honeymoon bike ride, on Oct. 10, was a five-hour, 70-mile (112 km), solitary exercise that took me close to Provincetown, at the northern tip of the cape, and back. The weather was ideal, with temperatures in the low 70s (over 20 degrees Celsius). I took the road, which has more hills and fewer suicidal squirrels than the bike trail, so I could push the bike a little harder. I'm used to cycling in the French Alps, where a ride consists in climbing up a pass, and then coming down. Here I had to pace myself to last the distance and to avoid leg fatigue from constantly going and down. There was no fishing for my husband that day, so I was truly without a partner. I encountered ghosts, cadavers and gory creatures on Route 6 -- the Halloween decoration of a garden. But I didn't have a flat, so it's a happy ending.

Shoe-Lace Challenge: My First Duathlon

Last Sunday was my first duathlon (run-bike-run).
I love running. I love cycling. I hate swimming. The duathlon seemed like a dream discipline to me. Except I failed to train in shoe-lace tying. Of the top 40 women who finished the race, only three of us took more than 2 minutes -- 2:02 in my case -- to make the transition between the bike ride and the second run. Of the top 10 (I finished 9th), I was the slowest in both transition periods. The fastest competitor in both transitions was the overall winner of the duathlon.
Is there a message here?

I'm a long-distance runner. My favorite bike ride is climbing a pass in my native Alps mountains. The duathlon, which was part of Philadelphia Women's Triathlon, consisted of a short run (2 miles, or 3.2 km), a flat bike ride (17-mile, or 27.4k) and another short run (3.1 miles, or 5k). I was clearly looking for trouble.
About 200 women lined up at the start of the duathlon at 8 a.m. My number was 73, which happens to be the year I was born and the number of my ``departement'' in France (similar to U.S. counties, with a number attached). The sky was sunny, the temperature was 74 degrees Fahrenheit (23 degrees Celsius) and the crowd of supporters was disproportionately composed of men with strollers, children and dogs. My friend H. and the 700 other participants in the triathlon -- the real thing -- were getting ready to plunge into a 77.5 degree F water. I admired H. for her courage to swim upstream the Schuylkill river and felt like a sissy for skipping the wet part of the race. But I was glad to stay dry.

Not for long. The first mile was painful. In half-marathons and marathons, I have time to ramp up my speed to reach a cruising pace. In a 2-miler race, there's no ramping up. By the time I found some form of stabilization -- a pace that wasn't killing my legs and allowed me to breathe -- I was almost done, running through the transition zone to my bike's rack. I was dizzy and sweating as I struggled to put on my biking shoes and helmet. I got the bike off the rack and ran to the road where I could mount it. That, I thought, will give my legs a break.

Not really. The first mile on the bike was painful. In fact, the first 8.5 mile loop felt like a sprint. My muscles were not responding the way I ordered. My thighs were burning. I kept motivated by remembering running the 2007 Philadelphia half-marathon on the same course. I also spent most of the ride racing with another duathlete. We passed each other again and again. About two-thirds into the ride, we were passed by a triathlete. She was wearing a swimming suit and was so fast she might as well have been riding a motorbike. Her speed and power were sensational. Another followed. Same style. Same speed. When a group of women passed at a relatively slower pace (one of them was 50: our age was written with markers on the back of our calves), I tried to stick with them. When I dismounted my bike, I felt like I had no legs. They were gone.

The first mile of the second run was the most painful. My legs felt as stiff as two wooden sticks. At mile 1, I took from the race staff what I thought was a paper cup of water. It was a drink that reminded me of Red Bull, which I hate, and strawberry chewing-gum. It didn't help. I finished the 3.1-mile run in 21:53, at a pace of 7:04. That's just 31 seconds a mile less than my pace in the 2008 Boston marathon. I've always had a lot of respect for triathletes. Now I worship them.

My first duathlon statistics:
9th overall, out of 206.
2nd in my age category.
2-mile run: 13:15 at a pace of 6:38 (15.1 km/h)
Transition: 1:46
17-mile bike ride: 51:47 at 19.7 miles/h
Transition 2: 2:02
3.1-mile run: 21:53 at a pace of 7:04 (13.7 km/h)