Posts Tagged ‘triathlon’
XTERRA West- Las Vegas video
Yes, that is me crashing (only a small one) at 3.00.
Earlier in the race I was quite rattled after losing the chain and bending it. I thought my race was over, but I bent it back (about 90 degrees!) and it worked perfectly. I could see Josiah charging from behind, and with my mind all over the place, I wasnt cornering that well along the “single track” along the lake side. Braked too much and at the corner in question- the last one- in front of some spectators, I was determined not to brake. The soil (no, “dust”) was loose and ridden out and the Fast Trak tire just didnt have enough bite. The Captain would have railed it.
Anyway, hardly lost time, but it throws one off, and creates interesting video…
My dad is a beast! My friends dont call him “Tarzan” for no reason…
For those who dont read Afrikaans so well- shame on you! Just kidding. It says here: Gert Stoltz won the Grand Masters (60+) agegroup at the recent 40km Sabie Classic mountain bike race. He beat the 2nd placed guy by 6 minutes!
Obviously he rides the fastest bike out there, (one of my old S works Specialized Epics) but mostly his amazing performance comes from some serious genes. I think I got the diluted version, because my dad only trains on Saturdays, and I have to train a full 6 days a week to win.
If I could just get him to do an XTERRA, but he says swimming is for frogs and running is for criminals…
A short story about my training…
This I wrote for the 2002 Lifetime Fitness Triathlon brochure. They asked us to “talk trash”- a new experience to me, so I let loose and talked trash!
In my 15 years in triathlon I’ve learnt a few lessons:
One is: THE MORE GEAR YOU HAVE, THE FASTER YOU GO. Ok, I have TONS of gear. The newest, fastest, lightest, flashiest gear on the market. Hell, some of the stuff I ride can’t be found on the market. It is so high tech and secretive, I had to kill the engineers just to keep the secret.
Life on the road…
Life on the road. By Conrad Stoltz
France, 1996.
Triathlon heaven, those years. I was the youngest of a handful of South Africans racing for a village called Cahors in the Sud Ouest of France. Every weekend we’d travel to races, chasing money, glory and adventure.
Getting to races was tricky, and usually we’d hitch rides with French fellow club members. If races were far away we had to take the train, and depended on race organizers to meet us at the station.
I was on a hot streak and decided to travel the 6 hours by train to Narbonne for “le Triathlon Internationale de Narbonne”. I traveled solo, and as it was a relatively big race, the organizer agreed to meet me at the train station and provide accommodation for a night. Once at Narbonne station, the story took a twist:
