Drinking It All In: My First Open Water Swim Competition

“Um, I’m pretty sure I’m the only one here without a wet suit,” I squeaked nervously.

“Nah, look at them, they don’t have wet suits on, you’ll be fine!” My friend Tatania said as she pulled on her wet suit. There were a few who weren’t wearing wet suits but the majority of the rather large group of people standing on a dock by the Potomac River on this particularly cool Saturday morning were clad in neoprene. I stood there cold and sleepy, feeling out of place wondering what the hell I had gotten myself into. 

The day before, Tatania had posted a request for people to join her on a long run on Sunday. She was training for the Louisville Iron Man and planned to do a long bike ride on Sunday followed by a long run. I told her I was in. I mean, if she had already ridden her bike for hours, and I was fresh, I thought I had a chance to be able to keep up on the run. At least for a little while. 

But then Tatania had another idea. “Listen, instead, there’s a swim competition on Saturday that we could do.” I told her I had not been swimming in nearly a year and besides, I really needed to do a long run. “How far?” she asked. “11 miles.”

“OK, great. I know you're a swimmer. We’ll go do the swim and then run. Bring your stuff. We’ll change and go. It'll be fun.”

She made it sound so…possible. We would change and go. And it would be fun. But I was not prepared. I hadn’t been swimming in forever. “There are lots of distances. You can choose the 500 meter race if you want. Whatever – we’ll just go and have fun!”

So, with less than 24 hours notice, I was convinced to join an open water swim competition and then “just go run” 11 miles. And we would have fun. Day drinking is my idea of fun. But I said OK.

“Oh, and don’t sign up ahead of time. We’ll sign up tomorrow after they test the river. A lot of times these races get cancelled because the river is so polluted.” What? Day drinking was sounding more fun by the moment.

But instead I found myself standing on a dock at sunrise looking at the Potomac River, wondering if I would get giardia or just drown, wishing desperately for a wet suit.  

This is me thinking, I'm going to drown but I'll just smile anyway. 

The race director declared the river to be clean enough and before I knew it, the race went off in manual waves: 10k, 5k (which Tatania was swimming), 3k and 500 meter splash. I had chosen the 3k. Listen, I wanted to swim the 500 meters but they called it a “splash” and while I’d like to think I didn’t care, it took me one second to decide I wasn't getting up early to do a “splash” and that the respectable thing to swim would be the 3k. Which made no sense. 

As the 10k and 5k swimmers were jumping (a long way down) off the dock into the river, I was wishing I had signed up for the 500 meter Splash. Why did I think I needed to prove that I could swim the 3k? There was really no more time to worry though because the whistle went off and it was time for me to swim.

5k swimmers headed for the first buoy

So, the first open water swim competition that you ever do that happens to begin by jumping from a dock high above the water with a ton of other people who then start to kick you very hard in the head and body, is really disturbing. I was so freaked out that before I knew it, my entire race field was way out in front of me and I was still treading by the dock trying to figure out if I had all my teeth.

Here's Tatania in her warm wet suit intelligently waiting a bit before jumping in so she would not get kicked in the head. I could learn a thing or two from this girl. In fact, I have. 

Fucking hell I thought, now I’m in last place and have to get going! Three times around a 1,000 meter loop. Get going! I headed toward the first buoy. My thought process was something like this: Do not drown. Where is the buoy? I cannot see anything. How the fuck do people do this? Do not drown. Where is the buoy? At least there are no sharks in this water. Do not drown. At least there are no sea lions in this water. What about germs? The river is so polluted. Do not take in water. Do not drown. Where is the buoy? 

Everyone was shooting for the buoys in order to keep from swimming out (or in) too far, and each time we would come around a corner at one of them, there would be a jam of swimmers kicking the shit out of each other. I was both kicker and kickee. I apologize to whomever I gave broken cheek bones to or jammed fingers or black eyes from my kicks. And I forgive all of the kickers who got me in the face, jaw, hands, feet, legs. 

It’s as if being in a sport where you have to hold your breath and you can drown isn’t nearly tough enough so in open water swims, there’s an added element of brutality. If synchronized swimming is the ballet of the sport, then open water swimming is MMA.

As I came around the 3^rd turn on the first loop (of 3-but-felt-like-30 loops) the chop went right in my face. I drank the river. I mean, it was a big gulp. A super big gulp. It was a beer bong of river water.  I wondered for a moment if I was going to die and then…continued on. That’s the thing about open water swimming. You can’t really DNF unless you’re near a boat or shoreline. Cause you’ll die. And I had an 11 mile run to do, and we were supposed to have fun, so dying wasn’t really an option. 

I hit the second and third loops with a bit more clarity. I calmed down. I tried to think less about germs and more about my form. I would work my heart and soul out and pass people and then others who seemed to be floating by in slow motion with no effort at all would pass by me. And so on.

Each 3^rd turn was met by The Chop. The wind was blowing toward my left, which I favor for breathing, especially when I’m tired. Hey, I’m really tired, and I’m trying to keep my body afloat and holding my breath and avoiding being kicked in the face by these other people swimming near me and when I turn to the left to suck in what I think will be air instead, it’s a large wave of river water, yay! This happened more than once. I think I was too tired to remember to breathe just to my right on that portion of the course.

It occurred to me at some point that I would not likely survive a shipwreck. And I think I felt fine about that. But I did survive the race. In the end, I won my age group (and so did Tatania), I received a fancy medal, a gorgeous long sleeved t-shirt and a face full of river gunk. And ears filled with river gunk. And creases of skin filled with river gunk. So. much. gunk.

 Behold! A face full of river gunk. I was so happy to be alive that I didn't even know I had so much gross dirt on my face. 

3k and 5k AG Winners! 

Before we could change our minds, we toweled off and began to cross the river again, this time on foot, on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, for 11 miles on the Mount Vernon Trail. We talked about Tatania’s upcoming Iron Man (to be her 3^rd) and her previous athletic achievements like running the Blue Ridge Marathon 2x. In one day.  

I don’t know who’s idea it was but at the end of our 11 mile run we came upon an outdoor boot camp that had various tires for flipping, monkey bars to cross, and...hula hoops, so we laughed and flipped tires and hula hooped and then ran the rest of the way to a bar with outdoor seating (perfect for river swimming runners) and cold beer and celebrated our feats with some day drinking.

Give Me a Hand

One fine day at the beginning of summer, I broke fingers on both of my hands. 

And I know I look happy in the pictures, but that’s the tequila. The tequila was used as a painkiller after the accident, I swear. I became Edward Scissorhands Junior while completely sober. Flying off of the back of a jet ski. But that’s another story.  

After the tequila wore off I remembered I had a race in three days. Lawyers Have Heart 10k in my home city, Washington DC. Plus I had a friend coming to town to race as well.

I went to the Doctor. “You’ll need to see a hand specialist,” he said. “Surgery will likely be the best option.”

Surgery for broken fingers? I laughed and ignored him. How bad could they be? Don't they say you can’t really do anything besides wrap up broken toes and fingers? (Turns out they really just say that about toes but I was hopped up on a lot of painkillers and recalled the saying incorrectly).  Plus, I had a race. “I would advise against racing,” he said.

What? Who needs fingers to run? (Turns out you really do need to be able to curl your fingers to run comfortably, but I was hopped up on a lot of painkillers and really wasn’t thinking too well). 

Luckily lawyers really do have heart, because everyone at the race took good care of me and didn’t make fun of me in front of my face when I attempted to run, in pain and on drugs. And I did finish! I wouldn’t call it a race for me. It was more like a walk in the park, a sort-of-run-and-walk 6.2 miles with throbbing fingers while on massive drugs. But I think I needed to do it. I was a lot more worried about my fingers than I wanted to believe (“Surgery will likely be the best option.”) and I wanted to just not think about my hands. To try to be normal for a couple more days. As if I seemed normal with big braces on my fingers hopped up on massive drugs. But mentally, I needed it. I think I knew I wasn't going to be running much over the summer. That surgery probably really was the best option. I needed one last race. My finishing time was awful (Or a PR for First 10k on Vicodin depending on how you look at it) but I was glad to be with my friends, and to finish the race so I could then get to the business of figuring out how to fix my hands.  

The surgery was scheduled for two days after my birthday. During the prep, the nurse said to me, “Luckily the worst one is your left hand,” and then she looked at me for confirmation and when she didn’t receive it, she said, “Uh, unless you're left handed.” I am.

The week after the surgery, when I mentioned to my surgeon that I was going to Cambodia in a month, he was not super psyched. “I can get the plaster cast off of you by then, but keeping your hands clean is going to be really important. You'll still have pins in your fingers. You’ll have to keep your hands completely clean. You do not want to get sick in Cambodia.”

“Um. Is it ok to ride my bike? I’m going on a cycling trip in Cambodia.”   

“I would advise against that.”

"But I ran a race when they were still broken!"

"Clythie, I really don't want you riding a bike around Cambodia while you're injured."

Who needs ring fingers to ride a bike?

As the trip got closer I convinced (begged) my surgeon to change his mind. In the end we made a plan together. He would take the cast off and give me a removable splint and I would promise to wash my hands 1,000X per day, changing the gauze and applying Neosporin every. single. time.  “Be careful. You do not want to get sick in Cambodia,” he reminded me. 

The summer flew by in a haze of healing and as the end approached, I flew to Cambodia. When you arrive in Cambodia you receive a pamphlet that says, “When you become ill in Cambodia, only go to the following health clinics…” I tucked the paper into my bag and hopped a cab to a beautiful hotel in Phnom Penh and forgot all about it.

Cambodia is clean and dirty and smells wonderful and terrible, and it’s filled with lovely people who have lived through unimaginable atrocities who welcome Americans with kindness and love. It’s a place that overloads all of your senses with sights that you cannot believe exist outside of pictures. There are foods that make your tongue melt with joy and ones that make you scream with horror. But that's another story. 

Cambodia is all the things, and all the feelings and all the noises and all the sights and sounds and emotions all of the time.  It’s beautiful and ugly and happy and rip your heart out sad and there is laughter and kindness everywhere.

I felt so fortunate to find myself in this dream land, on a bicycle, headed out into city streets in traffic that can only be described as psychotic slow motion chaos, making my way with the bike from the city into the country onto and off of countless ferries and riding trails through farms and onto islands, stopping for amazing meals and to visit beautiful temples. 

At one point I was coming off of a ferry, climbing up the hill from the river, trying to make the bike work for me and I realized that I needed my fingers to get myself and the bike up the hill. I had to get off the bike and walk it over the crest of the hill.  I realized it was the first time that I had even thought of my fingers while on the bike.  I knew that it was ok, that I was going to be fine, that my hands were going to continue to heal. That sometimes having to walk when you're running is ok. Sometimes having to hop off the bike is ok. That the life experiences that surround these moments are what's really important. 

When I came home, I spent a few more weeks in the little finger brace, remembering the accident, and the fog of Lawyers Have Heart, the life changing experience of all that is Cambodia, and I knew my fingers weren't really ever going to be the same, but that was ok because I wasn't ever going to be the same either. 

Shark Bait

Last night my friend Tatania and I were discussing doing a long run together this coming weekend when she casually threw out the idea,“ I’m swimming a 5k in the Potomac River on Saturday. Why don’t you join me for the swim and we can do the long run after?”

Wha? I immediately thought of sharks.

Last August my brother Mike and I had a similar “casual” conversation about swimming at La Jolla Cove in San Diego. “I swim it all the time, and the La Jolla Swim Club is there every day, there are buoys to mark the distance, it’s great!” he said all in one breath in the very convincing, excited and determined way he speaks when he wants you to do something you’re not quite sure about. 

I can swim. I grew up swimming competitively and vacationing at the beach with plenty of time spent in the ocean. And I was training for my first triathlon so I had been in the pool recently. But my triathlon only had a 1/4 mile swim and my training had been pretty specific to that distance. 

La Jolla Cove is famous for the sea lion colony that lives in the cove. And sea lions have the word “lion” in their name. And lions are scary. Lions may eat you. While I have swimming experience in pools, my ocean experience was limited to “jump or dive” games in about 3-5 feet of water, in the Atlantic Ocean, not the colder, more intimidating Pacific Ocean. Not amongst sea lions. Or sharks.

“Eh, it’s a COVE for crying out loud. It’s warm and calm and there are swimmers everywhere and the Garibaldi are AMAZING! You’ll love it! Come on! It’s triathlon training!” My brother is a convincing guy. And I was kind of intrigued. But also really a bit scared. “I’ll stay with you and we’ll do it together,” he said.  

And so I found myself standing on the edge of La Jolla Cove before sunrise one August morning, nervously adjusting my goggles, practically hyperventilating, listening to my brother and his friends make a plan for us.

“We’re going all the way across and back. Two miles,” my brother said, referring to himself, his friend Aaron and me.

The other two in our group, Jack and Sarah, said they would be going to the first buoy and back, ½ mile total.

“Maybe I should just stick with Jack and Sarah. I’m not sure I can swim two miles.” I said as I watched my brother begin to swim away. “WAIT FOR ME!” I shouted after him, remembering his words, “I’ll stay with you and we’ll do it together.” 

He did wait, and I swam in his wake, as close to him as I could without getting my teeth kicked in. From the left came the swell of the Pacific, sloshing over my face every time I took a breath. “Take breaths on both sides!” he was yelling back at me. “I. cannot. breathe. on. the. left.” I choked. I was breathing right, swallowing salt water left and when I looked down, my field of vision was filled with schools of orange Garibaldi.

My brother loves the beautiful bright orange fish that fill the waters of La Jolla Cove. They are absolutely gorgeous. But they are also part of a food chain. If the Garibaldi love it so much here, then the things that eat Garibaldi are probably here and those things also probably want to eat me.

Plus, the Sea Lions were everywhere. I had read extensively about them. They are usually not aggressive toward humans but they are territorial and sometimes nip – WHAT? I swam on, as hard as I could. Stroke, breathe, swallow water, hyperventilate, etc. My heart rate was so high, not from the effort of swimming, which was a challenge for sure, but from pure terror of Creatures of the Sea. I made it across the cove using a combination of free style and pure adrenaline rush.   

By the time we were approaching the beach on the other side of the cove, the halfway point, I was thrilled to stand up in the shallow water and sand.

“DO THE STINGRAY SHUFFLE!” My brother was shouting back to me again. Something about a stingray shuffle. I looked at him in confusion and then when he said, “You know, stingray, like the thing that killed the Crocodile Hunter,” my expression turned to horror. “Shuffle your feet in the sand so you don’t get stabbed.” Are you effing kidding me? I just survived a mile long open water swim chugging salt water and dodging Sea Lions and now I’m about to die from a Sting Ray? I immediately shuffled as best I could onto the beach.

“Maybe Jack and Sarah can come pick us up over here?” I begged. “Nah, all we have to do now is go back,” he said and made his way back into the water.

I had calmed down quite a bit. I knew if I didn’t get my heart rate down that the second mile was going to be a mess. I took a big deep breath and started swimming. And then I immediately looked up at my brother, who had also looked up at me and we locked eyes and he said, “That’s a big fish. But you know, they usually aren’t aggressive toward humans.” And he swam on.

And I was left there in his wake, looking down at a 4 foot shark that was about 2 feet below me in about 10 feet of water.  Should I swim back to shore, which was RIGHT THERE? In my terror, I couldn’t even figure out how to turn around, so I just started swimming forward after my brother, as fast as my legs could kick and arms could pull.

And I thought to myself, “Why cry when the ocean will just swallow your tears? Just swim.”  I’m not going to say I broke the 2-mile record at La Jolla Cove that day, but my second mile was incredibly fast as I tried desperately to keep up with my brother who also seemed to be swimming quite a bit faster. Every Garibaldi represented shark bait, every Sea Lion was out to get me. I tried to make myself go faster, faster, faster and finally we were climbing over the rocks and out of the water, finished.

“You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever done the entire 2 miles,” my brother said with a satisfied and somewhat surprised look on his face. “What? You’ve never gone 2 miles and you took me out there and also shark!” I said. Then Aaron, who had been swimming calmly and silently with us the whole morning, said, “Yeah, that was a big shark. And I got nipped a bunch of times by Sea Lions too.”

“You people are crazy.” I said. And then my brother broke it down for me. “I know you would not have gone for the 2 miles if you knew I hadn’t done it before and I knew you could do it. And I wanted to do it with you. And we did it, and we should both be really stoked.”

He can say stoked because he’s been surfing and open water swimming in California for eons whereas even when I write it I feel awkward. But goddamn, I have to tell you, I was really fucking stoked.

For the record, it was a leopard shark and they really are not typically aggressive toward humans, but if you ever swim alongside or right above one, you will likely immediately become quite unstoked.   

So I guess I'm going back into open water again this weekend. I'm not going to do the 5k. Even without a swell, 3 miles of river swimming followed by a run sounds like a long morning. But the event offers shorter distances as well, so I'm putting my goggles back on. At least there aren't any Sea Lions in the Potomac.      

Old Dog New Tricks

A running partner I can keep up with, I laughed to myself as I ran along with him in the quiet darkness. The irony did not escape me. My current partner, steadily holding pace, was Max the Lion Hunter. I dreamt of this. I wrote of this dream. And now it was a gorgeous reality. 

He doubled as a security guard, though there is nearly zero crime in my town, but having a strong guy beside me certainly made the darkness feel safer. 

Once much faster than me, Max now had been limited by a halti, and an autoimmune illness, both of which take just enough out of his speed to create the perfect running partner for me. It might be the first bright spot we've found during his illness, which has caused weight loss, pain and rashes, and obviously slowed him down quite a bit.

I've slowed down a bit too though. Since the Stump Jump 11 Miler in October, runs have been sporadic, and though I've been lifting and doing other cardio, it only takes a couple of weeks of inconsistent running to take a toll on my form and speed. Settling into a winter running routine has been more in my mind than a reality. I needed a warm breezy night and someone to run alongside me to get going this evening. 

Tonight I forgot that I had not been running nearly enough, forgot that winter is here, forgot about Max's lupus and just settled in for a run. We dodged tourists in town, waved to shop keepers closing up for the night, glanced longingly at bar patrons enjoying a beer on the patio on this unseasonably warm November evening, and kept running. 

At no point did Max pull, he instead was a dutiful pacer quietly keeping me company while we wound along our route on the brick sidewalks of our town. There may be lions to hunt in the future, but for this evening, we'll just run. 

We Came, We Saw, We Swam, We Biked, We Ran, We Kicked Its Ass: Tri4Love Triathlon

I was about to be body marked for my first triathlon. Which would have been fine if I hadn’t just realized I couldn’t find my bike helmet. I quickly let the official mark my arm and calf with my race number, 252, and then started running back toward my car. Which would have been fine if I wasn’t stumbling through the cold pitch darkness in knee high fur boots. A quarter mile later, I arrived at the car – no helmet. WHERE was my helmet? I now had 30 minutes until the Transition Area was going to close, and 45 minutes to the start of the race. I hauled back toward Transition, still negotiating the darkness and breathlessly begged the DJ/Announcer to ask if anyone had found a silver bike helmet, marked 252.

And so began my Adventure in Triathlon. There’s a lot of gear involved in Triathlon. First you swim, so you start out in a tri-suit or swimsuit, some type of foot wear to get you to the start (fur boots in my case, perfect for a cold autumn 4AM wake up), a headlamp so you can see and a sweatshirt or something to keep you warm. A swim cap and goggles round out your gear for the first discipline. 

Next comes the cycling. First: you need a bike. Then, the previously mentioned missing helmet, sunglasses, bike shoes, socks if necessary, and a belt that holds your bib number (252, remember?). If you’re not wearing a tri-suit, you’re likely going to supplement your swimsuit with bike shorts and a t-shirt and if it's cold, a jacket to wear while cycling. Then you run. Helmet is replaced with a cap or headband, bike shoes changed for running shoes.

In addition to all of this stuff, you likely have a towel to dry off with, a bottle of some kind of liquid nutrition and a bottle of water, maybe a gel or two depending on the length of time you’ll be racing and for me, definitely a chap stick. You can imagine that trying to get all of this gear to the Transition Area is slightly complicated in the early morning darkness. But losing the helmet? Really? Unless you were to lose the bike, it couldn’t get much worse.  I was in a panic. 

Dawn was arriving, my adrenaline was pumping, and my muscles were all warmed up from my unexpected search. The DJ made my plea and someone shouted out that there was a helmet lying on the ground “right over there” and I sheepishly picked it up and made my way back to the Transition Area with 25 minutes to spare.

I knew how to set up my spot in the TA from having obsessively read Your First Triathlon by Joe Friel, and having watched approximately 7,000 you tube videos. The transitions of triathlon are nuanced moments in time. You want to be as organized as possible so you can change gear as quickly as possible and get right out to the next discipline. In fact, Transition is known as the 4^th discipline of Triathlon. That's why the Towel & Bucket System seems to be universally used by first timers right up to the pros. It involves laying a towel on the ground and placing your stuff on it in an organized fashion. Then as you finish with each piece of gear, you throw it into a bucket. OK, it’s not really the most technical system but everyone uses it. The TA looks like a sea of bikes with tiny festival blankets laid out beside each, topped with supplies for the day.

I nervously rearranged my chap stick to a new place on the towel for the 6^th time and began to chat with the guy and girl next to me. “I’m going for the heaviest bike award today," I stated, horrified at my amazing but reeeeeally heavy mountain bike complete with knobby tires. They laughed and asked me a few questions. I admitted I had no idea what I was doing and that my friend who I was supposed to be racing with had become injured so I was all alone and really nervous but that I was going to try really hard, and in a moment the girl said, “Are you in the on-line running group, My Running Girlfriends?” “YES! ARE YOU!?” I shouted. Was this a virtual friend from my women’s running group on Facebook? “I’m Kim,” she said, “You’re Clythie. I thought that was you!” I was instantly relieved. 

 I had my Love hoodie on for the occasion: Tri4Love, with Kim

I started My Running Girlfriends a few years ago as a virtual running group for women and it’s grown to include friends of friends of friends so there are lots of “girlfriends” in the group who I don’t actually know even though I know all about their running habits and what music they like to listen to when they run and how their races go. Kim had responded to a post I set up when I first signed up for the triathlon. She had done the same one last year as her first tri as well, and she had given great words of wisdom and now, here were both were, having randomly racked our bikes next to each other in the dark on race morning. “This is PJ,” she said, referring to the guy next to her, “And this was his first tri some years ago as well. It’s a really great race and you’re going to be just fine.” PJ chimed in with genuine words of encouragement and all of a sudden the Debacle of the Missing Helmet seemed to fade into the background and I had a feeling that everything was going to be alright.  

My Running Girlfriends played a big part in getting me to the starting line of the triathlon. When my partner in crime, Lauren, became injured, all of a sudden I was doing a race that I was quite intimidated by, alone. Three disciplines in one fell swoop. Three sports that I am alright at but by no means a star. Plus the fourth: Transition. The girls in my running group gave me incredible encouragement and advice. My friend Emily gave me a tri-suit. Annie and Kim had both previously raced the tri I was about to attempt, so they told me all about it, solving the mystery of triathlon logistics. Anne had done other tris and gave lots of advice. Lauretta had finished her first only a few weeks ago and sent me a race report with every question I could have ever thought to ask, answered in perfect detail. I am always thankful to this group of women from around the world, who are always there for each other, even if it’s typically just virtually.

We lined up in the warm pool area in number order. I was 52^nd according to my predicted ¼ mile swim time. A respectable mid-pack swimmer.  The RD said to line up and ask the people in front and behind you if they were faster/slower and rearrange yourself accordingly. There was no pretension. Everyone humbly stated swim times, most in my section (8:00 min) that they weren’t sure if they were going to be faster or slower today, and that we should all feel free to tap and pass. I nervously watched the first couple dozen swimmers jump into the pool and swim, 15 seconds apart. Before I knew it, I was jumping in and off for my first snake swim ever, and first competitive swim since my senior year of high school. 

 Pretending like I know what I'm doing in my fancy blue tri-suit, with Kim

A snake swim is basically a long line of swimmers snaking up and down each lane, ducking under the lane line at the end of each lap till you reach the end of the pool and complete a ¼ mile swim.  Unlike an open water swim where everyone is competing at the same time for water space, therefore kicking the crap out of each others heads, arms and legs, you have a half length (+/-) in between each swimmer so unless someone is in the wrong placement order, it’s quite calm. If you consider crushing a quarter mile swim to be a calm affair, that is.

My strategy for the entire race was to take my time and just finish. I know that’s not really the most competitive spirit, but according to Joe Friel, it’s what you’re supposed to do for your first tri, and I'm pretty good at following instructions. So, once I finished the first lap, I slowed down a bit, and relaxed, taking my time cruising along, saving energy for the bike and run. In a flash, I was climbing out of the pool waving to my mom, my husband Jeff, and my best friend and running partner, Matthew. I was on my way to T1, the transition from swim to bike. 

 Making my way out of the pool toward T1

So, T1 was located a bit of a hike on pavement and grass from the pool. I wasn’t sure about running barefoot on pavement, so I tried to walk as fast as possible and then ran once I made it to the grass. Running on pavement and grass was absolutely not part of my training and in fact, I never ever go barefoot. Add that to the list for next time. Practice being barefoot and running on pavement. Wha?? Noted.

I took my time in T1. I was in T1 for 4 minutes. I know! 4 minutes does not seem like a long time to put on sunglasses, take them off because they're fogged up, put them back on, take them off again, hook them into your tri-suit, put helmet on, dry off your feet, shove socks on, shove shoes on, attach your bib belt, chug water and Gatorade, apply chap stick, un rack bike and get out of the transition area, but apparently people do it in one minute.  Whatever. 

All of a sudden, 4 minutes later, I was out on the bike. My bike strategy was to let the bike do as much work as it could for me, push as much as I could and to keep in mind that I had one of the heaviest bikes in the race. The bike was nearly perfect. I finished without a hitch until mile 12ish (of 15) when I could feel my feet going numb. I wondered what I would do when it came time to run. Well, I thought, I’ll walk the bike into T2, and hopefully by then I’ll be able to feel them.  A nice guy passed me on a proper road bike and shouted, “WE’RE ALMOST THERE!” I said, “GREAT!” and he said, “YEAH!! NEXT COMES THE REALLY SHITTY PART!”

The run. I had been looking forward to the run. Of the 4 disciplines, it’s really the only one I feel comfortable doing. I figured I could make up time on the run. Maybe I could pass some people who happened to have fast bikes but weren't really runners.  I shouted back to the guy who was now fading off in front of me, “YEAH, I’M NOT SURE WHAT I’M GOING TO DO BECAUSE I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET.” And I rode in the last 3 miles to T2.

I saw Jeff as I hopped off the bike and then my friend Tora, who to my delight, surprised me by showing up, and when I said to them, “Um, I can’t feel my feet!” Tora said, “Well, you’ll feel them soon enough because it’s time to run!” Good point, I thought. 

 Headed toward T2 with numb feet

I halved my time in T2. I was in and out in just about 2 minutes. I hopped toward the trail. Running would have to wait a bit, because I was concerned that I would break my toes, or completely fall over. Nice, a runner signs up for a triathlon and when it comes to the run, she walks out of the transition area.

About halfway through the run, I began to run. That’s an improvement, I thought. The rest was uneventful in a good way. The trail was easy, and the crowd was roaring as I came into the finish. I passed under the arch, stepped onto the timing mat and immediately saw my friends and family cheering for me. I had finished my first triathlon. I was a snake swimmer on a heavy mountain bike with numb toes and very slow transition times. Fabulous! 

 Success!

 A triathlete!