I Had A Dream...

I had kind of a weird dream last night. Maybe you can figure it out for me...

I was at a park which looked curiously like the park in Long Beach that hosts the CSULB Backwards Triathlon (one of the first triathlons I ever raced). In my dream I was competing in some half-Ironman distance national championship race. But it wasn't the 70.3 championships with all it's fanfare - it seemed more like a smaller, more modest regional national championship race.

I know, I know, Regional National Championship doesn't even make sense. I told you this was weird.

By the time the dream registered in my brain, I was completing my race registration and was told that there are "7 or 8" people in my age group and that I'm expected to come in "7th or 8th". That seemed fairly reasonable to me, understanding that all the people racing 1/2 IM at this level are much faster than me.

Next thing I know, I had apparently finished the race and was back at the registration area (curiously in the same clothes I started with and with not a drop of sweat or an ounce of tiredness in my body). I was at the same registration table checking on my finishing slot. "You came in 1st or 2nd," the race volunteer said as he started writing down my time. I looked at the paper as he wrote "6:5 " I don't know if I finished in 6:50, 6:59, or somewhere in between. I was curious, but it didn't seem to matter to much. It didn't even seem to register that this was more than an hour slower than my usual 1/2 IM time.

"What?" I repeated in a way that indicated one part disbelief and one part bad hearing.

"You came in 1st or 2nd," he said again as he handed the results to the Race Director.

And here's where it starts to get weird...

The Race Director was Arnold Schwarzenegger. So I'm walking through the park with Arnie and I keep saying "Does this mean I qualified?" followed by "Did I qualify?" All the while thinking that I've qualified for the Ironman World Championships in Kona due to this 1st or 2nd place finish.

"I don't know," Arnold replied. And when he spoke, he didn't have his regular, crazed German accent. He talked just like a regular Californian would, as if that's how we've always known him to speak. "We have to go ask Chris McCormack," he said.

"Does this mean I qualified? Did I qualify?" I repeated. "We need to find Maca," I threw in for good measure in a way that didn't seem as Rainman-like as it appears right here.

There we were, Schwarzenegger and I strolling down the park post-race, looking for Chris McCormack. As we walked I wondered if I finally got myself into Kona, by accident nonetheless.

Before I could even get excited about qualifying, I yelled... "Where's Maca!?!"

That's when I woke up.