The shoes were still in transition.
I had driven away from the West Point Triathlon without them.
Great race, other than that.
I emailed the organizers with my bib number, a description of the shoes and cleats, and an offer to pay for shipping if somebody found them.
The race itself was messy but useful. My back was still stiff. I had been traveling and training in Colorado, which I described as “damned mountainy.” One tempo run went through rain and rough terrain. Swimming had mostly disappeared from the vacation.
I arrived tired as shit.
Still, I finished two minutes faster than the last time I raced the course. Every split improved. The swim was the biggest change, more than two minutes faster and noticeably more confident.
The bike felt flat. The run was okay. The hilly sprint course did not match my strengths, but it was a good training day before the larger race in DC.
That was an honest way to score it. Faster overall, better in the water, and plenty left to fix.
My back made it through without pain. That mattered more than the final time. I had recently needed real pain medication and was finally off it. The next long bike ride would tell me whether the problem was actually behind me.
I ended the weekly report with gear plans, missed swims, mountain runs, and the new tricks I had learned on my watch.
Then I asked the race if they could mail back the shoes I forgot.
Progress is not always tidy.