What It Was Like

Pre-race: I couldn't sleep past five a.m. for the four days before the race, so on race day, I got up at quarter to five and took a shower. Wasn't planning on taking one, but though I was up, I wasn't awake, and I needed the hot water. Fed the dogs. Made a smoothie, drank it, even though my stomach was jumping with nerves. Took my vitamins. Contemplated coffee. Made some, but didn't drink it. Thought through my race gear. Finally woke up Mike and Grandpa at 5:30 and we were out the door by 5:50.

Grandpa and I made it to the gates by 6:36, and the parking lot was already 3/4 full. As we drove in slowly past the "LOT FULL" signs, racers pushed their bikes like pilgrims through the rain to the check-in, lining both sides of the road. No smiles yet. I had to leave him at the car to wait for Mike while I made the long, long walk with my bike and gear to the transition set-up area. On the way, I heard someone say, "Are we crazy? Yes, we are."

Set up as best I could in the transition area, considering it was raining and nothing could be laid out neatly as planned. Checked in. Shared my extra safety pins and with a fellow racer. Chatted with the nice competitors next to me, male and female. Everyone was in a good mood in spite of the weather. Everyone except for the late arrival who shouted, "This SUCKS!" and ran, presumably, the two miles back to his car for the cursed missing piece of gear. And the woman who was sure that she could hang just one more bike on the teetering rack next to us and it would be just fine. (It wasn't.)

Wetsuit went on fairly easy. Wearing socks helps it over the feet, and having shorts and a rash guard on underneath allowed it to slide up much easier than that first naked, sweaty try-on at home when I was sure it was too tight and the wrong size. Cap, goggles, chip. Ready!

The Swim: 58 degrees. I still feel just a tiny bit sick to my stomach when I think about the start of the swim. Gray sky, drizzling rain, hundreds of yellow-capped penguins all standing barefoot on cold, squishy mud, hopping from foot to freezing foot. Thinking about stretching but shivering instead, chanting, Start, Start, Start inside our heads. Then, according to the rules at this particular race, we ambled forward in rigid and reluctant groups toward the shore and walked in, starting in "waves".

I was in the third wave, having waited just long enough to see which buoy to swim to first (and watch one freezing, Speedo-clad contestant back-stroking back to the shore). All I could think of for the first four minutes was "WHAT the hell am I doing? WHY did I get myself into this? This is NO FUN. This is STUPID. I am STUPID. This is f**&%%ing COLD." But I kept telling myself that it was a fifteen minute swim and no matter what, it would be over in fifteen minutes. As I neared the first buoy, I started to get out of the crowd and into a rhythm. It still felt like it was really far from one marker to the next. Time was slowed way down. It was reassuring to hear my watch go off at the first five-minute interval and realize that I was swimming the first leg of the triangle steadily and hadn't frozen or hyperventilated. I passed people, and people also passed me. I felt strong for the rest of the swim.

A tri-curious friend asked if I got "beat up" on the swim. I did not, and I don't think anyone else did either. Because of the wave starts, the more aggressive, time-driven people have a chance to go out first. Everyone in the wave gets the same start time, so everyone starts when they start, rather than feeling that they are losing time by not leaving the shore immediately. So yes, people touched each other, ran into each other a little, but it was good-natured and thinned out by about midway. It clustered up a little around each buoy and at the end, but no one got hurt as far as I know. A couple of people got too cold and had to be towed or escorted back in. Did I mention that the water temperature was 58 degrees? When I was out, I was just glad to be out and headed for the bike. My feet were so cold as I trotted up the ramp (wasn't really a run, but faster than a walk) that I didn't notice the rocks, the bruises from which a massage therapist found on the bottoms of my feet on Monday.

Later that day, I wondered if I could have gone harder or faster, but it was hard to tell exactly how hard I was working, between the water temperature, the people, and the adrenaline. My muscles told me the next day that I worked plenty hard.

Bike: In retrospect, this was the most fun part. Probably because I feared it the most, and I took it easier because of the wet pavement. Took me a little longer to get my wetsuit off and get geared up than I'd hoped. I missed the neatly laid-out towel o' gear that I had planned for, due to the still-drizzling rain, and I had to fish a couple of things out of my bag. But all went well for the most part, and off I went, loaded up with enough snacks and fluids for an ironman.

I got a tip prior to the race that I should wear a nylon swim cap under my helmet to prevent the cold wind from whistling through the holes. I popped it on as soon as I took off my yellow race cap, but forgot to readjust my ponytail from "goggle-holder" position. This is the reason I look like a total loony toon in all of the pictures of me on the bike.

I had a really good time riding, knowing that the dreaded cold-water portion of my day was over, and there was nothing but dryness and a shower in my future, so first of all, I am smiling in all of the pictures. But the black cap is creeping forward over my face, and the helmet, which never quite settled over the button of my wet ponytail, is following it. So I look a little like a kid who takes the short bus, minus the elbow pads, plus the fancy bike and neon yellow windbreaker. I was one of, I think, three people in the race in a neon yellow wind-breaker. (I love that damn windbreaker. It's light as a feather, rain-proof, and keeps cars from hitting me.) Mike photographed all of them approaching, just in case it was me.

About halfway out, I saw the leaders zooming back down the hill to race central. They all looked like lean, powerful, biking machines. I beamed encouragingly at their blurs as they passed and tried to keep my cadence up.

There were a couple of women who made little circles with me, falling back or moving ahead of each other according to our strengths. A big girl in red zoomed by me on the flats, then fell back on the hills. Another woman in a black one-piece tri-suit huffed and puffed and dropped and ascended, eventually leaving me behind. At one point, I was overtaken by a jingling, squeaking, clanking apparition of a man on a very old bike-- in a tri-suit so worn and threadbare that it could have been painted on. From the back at least. Thank goodness I didn't see the front.

Except for the helmet slowly slipping over my eyes, and the constant debate about whether or not to disobey Mike's specific request NOT to take my windbreaker sleeves off without stopping the bike, I had a great, steady ride, not falling down (goal number 2) and coming in, in the end, in just about the time I'd estimated. There were a couple of times I started thinking that I actually liked triathloning, and wondering what I'd do differently in the next one, and I had to remind myself to BE HERE NOW, doing this one.

The Run: This was my shortest transition, as it only required the removal of the helmet and windbreaker, and the change from biking to running shoes. Got a little stuck getting the windbreaker off, since in my indecisiveness I had partially unzipped it and disconnected the sleeves from the body. Note to self: do not do this in the future. Much easier to get sleeves off if attached. I was momentarily trapped in just the sleeves, which would have meant running in a fluorescent yellow shrug. Stylish, but not necessarily practical. Eventually I got it off.

I should mention that Mike had (amazingly and skillfully) successfully located and transported Grandpa to a spectating spot less than ten feet from where all this is taking place. The two of them coached me brightly through the transitions from the sidelines under their umbrellas, through rain and shine. Mike reminded me of the items in my checklist (Got your water? Gloves? Want a Coke? Did you eat something?) and Grandpa just beamed and said, "Good job, Tamara!" (About the time I came in for the run, the event winners were being announced over the loudspeakers. Such is sprinting.)

It felt good to be near the end, but time was still going slowly and fast at the same time. I had done a few bike to run transitions to practice, so I expected my quads to feel numb and stump-like. But I had taken the uphills in such low gears, with such high cadence, (and so very, very slowly) that they felt ok. It was my calves that started to complain and wimp out on the first long hill. I stopped briefly and stretched. People were conking out around me. I soon discovered that the energy gummies I had stashed in my back pocket were slapping around and annoying me, so I tried to give them to anyone who even hinted that their pace might slow. I gave a few to an older woman who seemed to have a half-walk, half-fun strategy, and finally handed them off to a nice man who told me I was a lifesaver. Each time I stretched, I could not get my calves to fully un-knot themselves. (This is not an excuse.)

As we approached the last hill before the turn-around, I fought the urge to stop or to walk. Until I saw everyone else (at this point, it's everyone else who is in the middle of the pack) slow down and some walk. My goals at the start were: 1) finish, 2) don't fall down, and 3) have fun, so although I had thrown some last-minute sub-goals on there, like 3a) no walking, I decided that I had a better chance of making the first three if I threw that one back out. The battle really is in the head more than in the body. So I walked, very fast, mind you, and while attempting to stretch my calves, the last ten yards to the water station, took a cup of water, drank half and dumped the rest on my head, and turned to run all the way back to the finish line. How thoughtful of the race organizers for making sure the last portion of the run was downhill.

The Finish: Rather than encouraging zooming all the way in to the weirdly off-kilter finish line via the smooth and downwardly sloping pavement, the organizers also thoughtfully eliminate potential speed-related accidents by adding in a section of up and down, twisting, soft-soiled pathways en route. So in the pictures, you can see me running picturesquely through the dusky countryside, sort of unevenly thumping and bumping. I was wishing I had the juice to finish spectacularly and sprint in with big strides eating up the distance, but it wasn't going to happen. I kept running, though. As I approached the line, I DID IT! I DID IT! started to ring in my mind, and I saw Mike behind the line, behind the camera, and I couldn't stop smiling. I was so proud of myself for doing something that I've always wanted to do, but never believed that I would, or could.

I can start belittling myself, for the short distance, or the fact that I took the hills easy or walked a little, or any number of things, but the fact is, I did it. I never thought I could, and I did. It wasn't easy, it was hard. The training up to that point took commitment, and faith that if I just did a little bit, every day, I could do it. And I did. And that is something to be proud of.