I’m done! At 3:28 and change, I made my goal to beat the 4 hour cut-off.
At my first tri in a LONG time, I learned (or re-learned) a bunch. Here's what happened leg-by-leg.
We all gathered, then headed into the water like we were boarding a plane, 2 by 2 by 2. I got off to a good start. And by “good” I mean that I didn’t have a full-on panic attack requiring that I flip over to avoid sucking down water. I didn’t get kicked in the stomach or get water in my goggles or have to cling to the side of a kayak. I was able to relax enough to wonder if I’d remembered to brush my teeth. That ended when I touched something very weird which I can only assume was the hair of a dead woman whose body was lodged on the bottom (maybe lost during last year’s race?) Or it was seagrass. We’ll never know.
Then came the bike. The Bike.
I’d like to go on record and take back something I wrote last night on Instagram. It was something gushy, written under the influence of M&Ms and the peaceful solitude in my hotel room. It was something about the bike being the unexpected joy of this triathlon training experience.
SCRATCH THAT.
In fact, I hate bike riding. I just remembered.
Until this year, I hadn’t ridden in forever. Forever ago was when my old bike flew off the top of our car at 80 MPH on the Jersey Turnpike. Thankfully, no one was injured that crazy day but I conveniently took that as a sign that biking wasn’t for me.
Fast forward 17 years amidst a global pandemic. Brian surprised me with a new bike. I was so excited. And, in fact, that bike was a big part of what sparked this whole triathlon training idea anyway.
It turns out that as much as I love the actual bike. I don’t really like riding it.
I don’t like hunching over. I don’t like my palms getting scratching from the bouncing. I don’t like pedaling. I don’t like shifting… unless it’s down (or up)- whichever way makes it easier. I don’t like wearing my helmet. I don’t like seeing other people wearing their helmets. I don’t like the smell of roadkill or the sight of litter.
And I don’t like being passed over and over again.
The truth is that today I got SMOKED on the bike leg. I don’t know how else to put it.
I came out of the water with about 1/3 of the bikes remaining in the transition area. Every single one of those ended up passing me over the next 25 miles. I got passed on uphills and downhills. I got passed on curves and straightaways. I got passed by a guy not even holding on to the handlebars as he took a squirt from his water bottle.
Getting passed repeatedly is not awesome.
First, triathletes are such a friendly, collegial people that every single one says something like, “You got this! Way to go!” To each I’d smile and manage a “you too” while telling them in my head to SHUT THE F UP.
Second, everyone’s age is written on their calf. So first, Mr. 23 years old passed me. Fine. He was quickly followed by a 37, 41, 53, 61… and, then, Mr. 68! You’ve got to be kidding me.
If you don’t already, you should know that I’m a proud back-of-the-pack-er. But like everyone else out there “just to finish,” I don’t want to be last.
On this day, on this course, on this bike, I was seriously LAST. Or last-ish. Either way, it was close.
Whatever you call the feeling of relief, irritation, and optimism mixed together, I was that starting the run.
You won’t be surprised to hear that I’m no speedster in sneakers either but at least running is familiar. After figuring out the funky turnarounds, I regained some ground and returned the “You got this!” favor to a dozen or so people before finally finishing.
As I crossed the line, a volunteer handed me my medal and an icy cold wet washcloth. It reminded me of the moment my Aunt Loretta gave me a Pepsi after the San Diego marathon. It was this delightful surprise that I didn’t know how much I desperately needed and wanted. With those cold washcloths, they just hand them out and, like, don’t even want them back. They’re yours to keep!
AMAZING.
So with that, I’m now all in for the next one- even with the bike.