Hopp, Hopp!

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I am the spitting image of the Michelin man.
Tights, three cycling tops of non-matching colors and ski gloves cover up any part of my anatomy that might inadvertently be exposed to the elements. I have just finished the 8K stagger, the first event of the Powerman “short course” duathlon in Switzerland. “Short” in this case means around three hours.

After the hilly 8K run comes a 50K mountainous bike ride and a hilly 5K run. The real athletes, of course, are going much longer. They started out with a 13K run, then a 150K bike consisting of three loops of the 50K course, and a trifling 30K EKG-style run course at the end. Oh, it’s in the low 50s and raining. Did I mention that?

Now I know why the Swiss are always neutral whenever a war breaks out. They are too damn worn out to fight.

I’m about five kilometers into the bike ride. The run was primarily off road and beautiful. The bike ride is incredibly green and twice as spectacular. I am in my fast aerodynamic fetal position, looking for cyclists to trounce. After my pathetic first run, there are plenty of power dots up ahead for me to devour. Early on in any race, there is a point when you wonder if brunch and the paper wouldn’t be more appropriate. A sip, a dunk, a turn of the page, a swallow. But then, somewhere along the way, a sensation takes over that’s hard to put your finger on. With all the demands on your time, with all the new technology in the workplace, racing is a calm reprieve. I know that sounds silly but, to me, it’s therapy. I can ride, run or swim along in my own little world and simply tune into me. I don’t even have to think about eating or drinking. This therapy session is always catered. Every few miles someone will hand me a gel or an energy bar or something to drink. Then I can put my head down and think or keep my head up and take in the surroundings. In Switzerland, I am doing a bit of both.

As I come upon a group of riders, there is one athlete who happens to be riding about my pace. He looks to be around 18 and I am wearing a bike jersey that is definitely older than he is. I smile at him, he smiles at me. I speak English to him on a long climb and he speaks Swiss back.

Language matters little here, because sport is a universal language all its own. Mark (like most everyone else in the world) drops me on the long 4K climb up to the 24K marker. The “mass of the ass” theory still works, however, and I catch him on the descent a few minutes later. We exchange names, and I find out that he lives within 20 miles of downtown Zofingen.

The downhill in the rain brings my nerve endings to full attention. Falling down has never been one of the reasons I race. Keeping the rubber side down is my number-one priority. I have learned that the word “hopp” means “go” in Swiss. Even though our race started at 6:55 in the morning, spectators line the toughest parts of both the run and bike course just to point and laugh and yell “Hopp, hopp, hopp” at us. Suffering is obviously a huge spectator sport in Switzerland, because all the hopp-ers gather at the steepest hills to take in the carnage.

The 50K bike loop includes three hard climbs. On the last section of the last climb, Mark again joins me. He smiles, I smile. He says, “Hi, Bob,” I say, “Hi Mark.” We both climb in the saddle, in perfect sync as we traverse the switchbacks. Towards the end of the climb, as he starts to pull away, he looks over his shoulder and goes, “Hopp, hopp, Bob.” I clench my teeth and say, “Hopp, hopp yourself, Mark.” He can wait no longer. It’s time for him to drop the old man and get ready for the run. Off the bike, I hold out false hope that maybe I can catch the kid. A few steps later, I realize there is no way I’m going to run anyone down with ice cubes attached to my ankles.

On the way up the hill to the turnaround, I pass Mark going in the opposite direction. We slap hands and continue on our separate ways. At the finish, he is waiting with a cup of water and a pastry of some sort. Mark is my newest friend. We don’t speak the same language, there are over 30 years difference in our ages and we live thousands of miles apart. But we are indeed blood brothers.

Cycling, running, mountain biking and triathlon are endurance sports. As competitors, we all have a common bond. We endure. Participating allows us to go through a multitude of highs and lows, to share common goals and, hopefully, to share the high of completion. Endurance sports are simply the best therapy there is. Do a race, get a shirt, make a friend, climb a mountain and breathe in the beauty of a place you’ve never been before. What can be better than that?

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