Sunday, June 14th 2010 dawned kinda cloudy. I know because I watched the whole thing happen from the darkness I woke up in. My alarm clock was set for 4:55am, but I was wide awake 55 minutes early and was too excited and wiggly to lay around in bed, thinking about my first triathlon. I got out of bed and repacked the stuff I packed up the night before, adding extra Clif Bloks and lip balm.
6:15am found 2T and I ripping down I-75 to Belle Isle, car packed full of gear and bikes mounted on the rack on the back. 2T is my step-sister, who has done amazing things like many marathons, and a half-Ironman. Yikes! Plus she's super fun, very bright and makes things happen. She has been encouraging me to follow my triathlon dreams for a long time. On New Year's Eve she gave me the encouragement (and $10 coupon) I needed to sign up for my first-ever triathlon. She came into town to do the triathlon with me, but she did the full distance. See? She's a bad ass.
We got there plenty early, all part of the master plan because I knew I would be freaking in (I tend to keep my freaking on the inside) and being late would send me over the edge. Before I was out of the car, I was running into people I knew from past 5k runs and classes. Nothing but words of encouragement form all of them, which I totally needed. 2T and I set up our transition areas (where you change from your swim gear to your bike gear and then from your bike gear to your running gear), picked up our timing chips and headed off to get our body marking. I was #644, which was perfect as I've had a thing with the number 4 my whole life.
I was calm, not too worried about the swim, concerned about the run and still questioning whether I'd even finish. The sound of the bullhorn beckoning us to the pre-race meeting changed all that and my calmness surrendered to hot waves of panic, shooting randomly through my limbs and my stomach. I was a good swimmer, had been on swim teams for years and quite comfortable with swim competitions, so a warm up wouldn't be necessary. Plus, I was so worried I'd run out of energy, I decided to conserve mine by not getting into the water before my heat raced. Now, by water, I mean the Detroit River, rumored to be filthy with industrial waste, hidden bodies and whatever tricks generations of hoodoo priestesses have thrown in. Fortunately, the current was fairly lax for the course, but as I looked out over the buoys, I was sure that the distance was twice what they promised I'd have to swim.
As the heats began, my freaking began to leak out. I stretched, warmed up on the beach, picked up random bits of broken glass and nervously chatted with strangers. My heat got corralled into the starting gate and I stayed in the back of the pack of ladies aged 35+. The gun cracked and I was off. Kind of. It was a weird beach start where we waded into the water about 100 feet, hooked a right and started swimming. The water was cold. I dove in to start swimming and my chest tightened. The water was pitch black with river muck that had been churned up from the five previous swim heats before me. I couldn't see the foot that kicked me in the face or the lower half of the woman I swam right over. 90 seconds into the swim, I was completely unnerved, I couldn't breathe and I was worried I would drown.
Too scared to put my face into the water, I invented a kind of breast stoke never to be seen in an Olympic competition. It kept me moving, allowed me to pant and keep my head above water. Rounding the first buoy, I was out of breath, out of energy and not sure I'd make it. I kept swimming and halfway through my 500 meters, I unzipped my wetsuit about 6 inches, allowing my chest a little more freedom to suck in more air. I focused on one stroke at a time, hearing my friend singing "just keep swimming, just keep swimming" in my head. Gloriously, I rounded the last buoy and headed for the beach. I was completely out of breath, dizzy from the adrenaline and wobbly, I found strength to run into the first transition pulling off my cap and goggles and wiggling out of the top half of my wet suit as I went. I saw my mom and husband, yelling and taking pictures (charming) and I had enough of my wits about me to high five them as I ran past.
I got into transition one, miraculously found my bike and stopped to calm down and breathe in through my nose and out my mouth. The swim had scared the hell out of me and rocked my confidence in a bad, bad way. I focused on getting out of my wetsuit, on with my bike gear. I sucked down a Clif Shot, packed up my swim gear into my bag and took off on my bike. Later I would learn my transition time and realize that better triathletes could have gotten a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the amount of time it took me to get in and out of that transition.
Taking note to carefully count my laps, I took off on my bike. Belle Isle is round and flat and no matter where the wind is coming from, it's a huge hindering headwind on one side of the island and a helpful prodding tailwind on the other side. The key is to not waste too much energy battling the headwind and to put the hammer down and haul ass with the tailwind. I got passed by what seemed like everyone, but I was having such a good time, I didn't even care. I was doing my first triathlon, it was a beautiful day and the scenery was stellar. At one point, an overly friendly spectator (also on a bike) decided to pedal along side me and start a bit of a chat with me about the race. Not wanting to be rude, I answered a few questions, but after about the fourth, I realized how distracting talking really was. I ended the interview and continued on. I finished my 20k bike averaging about 16 miles an hour, which is really good for me.
The second transition was much easier with a lot less clothes to change. Just hang up your bike, shed your helmet and bike shoes, suck down a few Clif Bloks, stamp into your running shoes and off you go. It was much shorter that my first transition, but it still took me way longer than it needed to. At least I didn't have to go to the bathroom during my transitions. Still, you're all loopy form the various hormones surging through your body, so it's more of an out-of-body experience.
Next I was off and running. Now, if I hadn't nerded out the way I'm prone to and hadn't read so many articles and books about triathlons, I would have quit in the first half mile of my run. There is something that happens when you transition from biking any distance to running. You simply feel like you're going to die, and you're pretty sure your legs are already in the grave. First, you are going so much slower running than biking, you tend to feel like you're going backwards. Second, the movement of cycling is so different from the movement of running, it takes a while to get your system crossed over and in a good groove. The first three-quarters of mile one were with my cement legs, but then my real legs remembered what they were doing and took over.
The course was awesome, partially on the nature trail on the island, so lots of trees and, according to some, lots of mosquitoes. Apparently, I ran around all of them as I didn't have one encounter. At mile 1.5 I hit an awesome stride, I was really comfortable and I was rockin' a perfect pace for me. I started humming tunes I don't remember and enjoying the shade of the trees. Around mile 2.5, my stomach threatened to give back the Clif Blok and Gu I sucked down at transition 2, but after some Gatorade and a lengthy raucous belch, all was well.
The last mile was a grind. I though I'd never find that damn finish line. I just kept following everyone else, thanking volunteers along the way and cheering on anyone who looked like they were suffering too. Finally I was in the chute and bolting toward the finish line. I ran as fast as I could, which wasn't all that fast, but I finished strong. I looked around and as the woman pulled my time chip off I thought "how in the hell did I just do that?!". Then I promptly burst into tears and sobbed for about two minutes. Mom came running over to hug soggy, puffy me and cried with me. She was so proud. My husband gathered me up in a big hug and kiss and congratulated me. I just kept asking everyone "how did I do that?" as caught my breath and stuffed a few banana halves and cookies in my mouth.
I spent the rest of my time at the race yelling and screaming for everyone else, celebrating with my family and basking. I came home, ate a burrito the size of my forearm and crashed for a few hours. I got up and hobbled to the couch, turned on the TV and watched (much to my delight) a Half-Ironman triathlon in Miami. That night I slept long and deep, more satisfied than I have felt in a good, long while.
I worked so hard to get over that finish line. I trained my ass off and I was physically capable, but my head wasn't necessarily on board. I totally pulled it together, cleared my head, remembered who's side I'm on and kicked out the darkness. This was a huge day for me.
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