I drove home from Dr. Flemming’s office in a haze. He had, against all odds, just given me the green light to do the NJ State triathlon. Diane asked me how the appointment went and I told her he’d said I was okay to try it. Instead of looking upset, she smiled and gave me a big thumbs up. I got on Facebook and announced I was going to attempt to complete the race. After weeks of sympathy wishes and encouragement to “take it slow” suddenly it seemed like all of my friends and family were rooting for me. My spirits began to lift like a Macy’s parade balloon.
As my friends began to arrive from out of town the July temperatures in New Jersey climbed sky high. The day before the race, the directors sent out an email to let us know that the temperature of the water in Mercer Lake had risen to nearly 90 degrees. They were adding extra water stations on the course to try to combat heat stroke among participants.
So this was going to be my race. It wasn’t enough to face the injury, I was not going to race through a hot, hellacious gauntlet.
Still, there was no turning back now.
On the morning of July 25, 2013, I got up early, picked up my friend Kathy’s husband, Dave, from their hotel near my house (he, too, was doing the sprint distance; the olympic distance would be held the following day), and we drove to the event together and unloaded our bikes. I found my transition station, set up my stuff in it’s tiny rectangle of space. pulled on my favorite blue 2XU tri suit and my color coded swim cap for my race starting wave, and licked the sweat off my upper lip.
I don’t remember too much about the pre-race participants’ meeting on the shore of the lake, where the race directors went over course instructions and USAT rules, it all went by me. I was thinking about the swim, could I make it? And if I did, would my shoulder be too shot to hold myself up through the bike course riding my old clunker?
One got one lucky break: the 15 mile bike course had been shortened to just over 10 miles due to some unexpected, large-scale construction that the town initiated without warning just before the race. I overheard other participants complaining, but I took it as a good sign, support from the powers beyond. I wouldn’t have to make it as far on the bike.
On the other hand, the air temperature was already close to 85 degrees as people began lining up in the water. I knew it would be close to 90 degrees by the time I got to the run portion of the race. If I got there, which was still an if. I had promised Diane I’d quit if I felt I was closing in on my limits of endurance. I’d never let myself consider being a DNF (did not finish) person before, but for this race, I kept that option open. No one would think less of me if this was one I couldn’t do. No one had even expected me to get this far.
As my wave --the 35-39 year old women-- was called into the water, I could feel sweat pouring down the back of my neck and and the steaming bath water providing not an ounce of relief. The group I was in was very large, certainly the largest I’ve ever started with in a tri, and that was a bit intimidating. But I took up my usual favorite spot, tight to the buoy on the inside. Of course it didn’t make sense to start at the front of the pack given my injury, but habit is habit.
Then my wave was called and I headed off. I told myself to think of just one thing at a time. One stroke, then another stroke. I looked ahead to sight the buoys, tried to avoid getting kicked in the face, thought about making clear clean strokes with good form, which was nearly impossible with my right arm failing to push evenly through the water. But I tried. And then, as in every race, when I hit the middle buoy, my instincts kicked in, the pain faded from my mind, and I picked up the pace. I’m not sure how I did it; I just remember telling myself that my pre-injury strength was still in there somewhere. I just had to be able to access it for 500 meters.
I found a rhythm and pushed. I wanted to show myself I could do it. It felt like a way to prove the whole year had been a success, that I was not the person I had once been, so heavy, so ashamed, so afraid. It was a ratification of the entire voyage to health that I had undertaken.
I was not my best swim, of course, but as I rose out of the water and saw the time clock, I realized I’d made decent time. I later learned I was the sixth woman out of the water in my age group, coming in ahead of more than 30 other swimmers.
I fumbled it into transition, and even a tiny breeze of warm air against my wet skin felt nice. I wasn’t sure if I’d gone too hard in the water. Probably. I thought, by that point, I could make it through the bike, but I might have to quit before the run. The heat was mounting and even the strongest racers were looking like it was a fight to keep hydrated. I put on my socks, shoes, gloves and helmet and made my way to the bike mount area.
I took the bike easy. That was all I could do. The sun just kept climbing. There were no clouds. I noticed the trees were perfectly still. If there had been a slight breeze before, it was gone now. I was going so slow that it seemed everyone was passing me. It was possible, I thought, that I would actually be last to finish the bike course. What did that matter? I asked myself. Many people were not out doing this, and if I was last I was still faster than everyone who was home asleep.
Finally I saw the crowds of cheerers thickening and the transition area came into view. I thought I heard Diane cheering for me and that gave me a lift, and there were race volunteers who were cheering too. They didn’t know about the long pink scar along my shoulder just under my suit, but they cheered anyway, and it made a difference.
I racked my bike, gulped some water, took off my gloves and helmet and wobbled along on jelly legs out to the run course. It wasn’t pretty. The course is a lot hillier than the race coordinators would have you believe. By the first mile marker I was going so slowly you couldn’t really call it a run. I kept telling myself not to walk, just to keep going. Mile two was a death march. I had to take walk breaks, but I told myself anything that wasn’t stopping was still moving forward. Starting mile three I had nothing left. I plunked down one foot, stared at it, noticed my shoe laces, thought about ice water. Saw my other foot land, thought about that one. Waved at a spectator who was asking if I was alright. Did I just give that lady a thumbs up? Seriously?
As the cheers of the crowd grew louder, that old horse heading for the barn feeling began to rise in my chest and I quickened my pace to a trot. There was a bend, a slight decline, a painful incline, Diane’s beautiful face at the top of the rise, and then the long red carpet to the finishing arch emerged into view. I gave every last scrap of strength I had to kick into a proper run across the finish line.
Someone put a medal around my neck. Diane was there with a bottle of water. I stumbled into a cold shower tent and stayed there until I could almost breathe again. Here’s a picture of me having just emerged from the shower:
I’m still kind of amazed that I pulled it off.
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