Today’s Rest day was spent walking the streets of Santa Cruz, but not in a weird way.  CMB competed in The Big Kahuna Half-Ironman Triathlon, so the kids and I tagged along to spectate and hit the beach boardwalk.

We slept through his 1.2 mile swim and .33 mile barefoot run on pavement to the bike transition, but made it from our hotel to the boardwalk in enough time for a quick game of bowling before his expected reappearance.  People move slowly in Santa Cruz so trying to walk somewhere at a fast pace can be very annoying.  We were like a pack of three New Yorkers, briskly dodging amblers and beach cruisers.  Making it to the transition zone with time to spare, we bore witness to many athletes making the technically tricky dismount from their bikes at the bottom of a steep hill.  A couple people ate it (but weren’t seriously injured) and one girl even coasted through the group of volunteers honking their whistles, oblivious to the fact that she was supposed to get off her bike.  It was very entertaining.  But then he appeared, a zephyr in the overcast mid-morning haze, obeying all rules of the event.  I was able to snap this picture of our very own Ironman at the end of his 56 mile ride, before he completely blew by.

He gallantly jogged by, high-fiving the hands that weren’t occupied taking photos, and appeared again within minutes, decked in running shoes and a visor.

My phone fumbling fingers missed the skin to skin contact, but my son got a good one in there for us both, as you can see by his (front and center) hand.

After seeing CMB off on his 13.1 mile run, the three of us decided to kill time by embracing all the fine culture which Santa Cruz has to offer.  We walked, much more slowly, along the strip of surf shops and restaurants, until we reached the beach and boardwalk where the race would finish.   The boardwalk boasts exciting rides for all ages, carnival and arcade games, crap food stands and spectacular people watching.  Folks from all walks of life come here to eat and play, and sometimes dress strangely- so when in Rome, except for the shady clothing choices, of course.  The kids went on rides, we all shared a tater twist on a stick and I treated myself to a giant can of beer.

We meandered down to the sandy finish line, my hands busier than ever with the never ending brew.  After finding a good spot to keep watch, I settled in to the job of cheering and crying for various athletes as they came through the chute.  Some sprinted, others plodded and one guy fell to the sand after every few steps he crawled until he reached the finish.  Remarkably, this stranger is not the one who brought tears to my eyes, because this burst of emotion I always experience at races has nothing to do with sadness.  My children are equally as embarrassed by this re-occurance as they are by my hearty cheers, especially for their father.  But I can’t help it so on I carry until I catch a glimpse of CMB heading towards us.  Big beer at feet, iPhone strategically positioned in hand, vocal chords bellowing, tears stinging my sun-dried lips-I cheered as though I, myself, had just completed 70.3 miles.  Too bad I messed up our picture.