Race Day

I jogged in place trying to stay warm, shifting my weight from side to side, gently stretching to keep my body moving without exerting too much energy. 

After a warm up run and some stretching, I squeezed into a wetsuit, pulled the tight swim cap over my head, topped the cap with goggles for later and joined the masses of participants gathering by the water, waiting for their wave to start the race. 

Training had not gone as planned. After a great start to the season, I had fallen off training in the last couple months before the race. Life had become hectic, my dog had gotten sick and had to be put down right before I flew out of state for orientation to my distance internship program that I would complete back in San Francisco. I was now a month into the internship, just long enough to feel buried by the pressure and expectations. 

A buzzer rang out and another wave of triathletes hit the water. The front of the pack barely visible through the water splashing high above the swimmers trying to overtake each other for the lead. 

Triathletes could be extremely competitive, but that wasn’t why I was doing this. My first triathlon had been just a year before, after recovering from a serious injury. The cross-training nature of triathlons was appealing since the last thing I wanted to do was reinjure my back. I was in the worst shape of my life, determined not to let the injury set me back any further. I strived to get my life back on track and that included physical fitness. Three years earlier, I couldn’t have made the walk to the starting line, let alone participate in the race. 

My wave was next. Nerves building, I made my way to the back corner of the pack. I felt no need to be first. In fact, I preferred to start in the back where no one would overtake me until the next wave of swimmers started passing me. At least they would be spread out by then and less likely to swim over me. 

This was going to be my longest swim to date. 1.3 miles to start the race. I tried not to think about the distance. I focused on the first buoy. Pick a marker, get to the marker, pick the next marker. I could tap out of the race at any time. Kayaks and jet skis surrounded the swim course. If I got into trouble, someone would be right there to help. 

The buzzer sounded and the front of my wave took off in a frenzy as I waited at the back of the pack. Walking into the water with my fellow slow pokes, I dove in to start the race. 

Though I was at the back of the pack, the water was still crowded. It was a slow start trying to navigate through people without the confidence to simply swim through people like the pros. Each time I turned to breath, splashes from strokes and kicks churned the water and splashed my face making it difficult to get a full breath without inhaling water. 

I wondered again what I was thinking. It was too late to change my mind now, the race had started. I could always take a DNF (Did Not Finish), but I couldn’t tap out in the first 100 yards of a 72.5 mile race. I wasn’t as conditioned as I had hoped for and luckily determination to at least finish the swim set in just ahead of panic. 

Trusting the buoyancy of the wetsuit, I paused. Breathing deep, I tried to get my wits about me. I knew if I could stay calm, I could finish the swim. One breath at a time. 

I did my best to minimize my water intake as I continued the swim. As the pack grew thinner, I eased into a steady stroke, finally utilizing the breathing technique I had been practicing all season. 

Before triathlons, before the injury, I had never been a swimmer. I could swim, but I was more of a, won’t drown in the pool, kind of swimmer. Distance or endurance swimming was new and the most challenging of the three sports. 

While injured, swimming was recommended for physical therapy but labral tears in both hips quickly informed me that using my legs in the pool was not an option. Swimming with a pull buoy so I could just drag my legs along for the ride was the only exercise that didn’t come with excruciating pain. Learning lap swimming without using legs was a challenge, but so is life. The injury wasn’t the first hardship I had experienced and I had a suspicion it wouldn’t be my last. 

Lives are made up of a string of choices. I chose to push myself, determined to make up for what felt like lost time and get my life back on track. The injury had delayed my college graduation, delayed the internship to qualify for the credentials needed to make more money and pay off the student loans. I managed to avoid loans before the injury but working full time between two jobs while also going to school full time ended with the injury. In addition to student loans, I had maxed out my credit just trying to survive. 

Living in San Francisco was not cheap and my injury prevented cooking or grocery shopping without experiencing blinding pain. Having food delivered was expensive. Meals had previously been mostly covered by work. Food service was hard work that came with a perk, free meals. 

When the workers compensation case had finally closed a year and a half earlier, I was awarded just enough money to cover the accumulated debt, not including the student loans. 

The swim was not the hardest thing I had taken on. I could do this. Forward momentum. I knew how to get things done. With a new focus on the exit from the water, I found a steady stroke. 

Finally reaching the waters edge, I struggled on wobbly legs to lift myself out of the water. After a moment to steady myself, I stood and walked towards transition exhausted. The first leg was done. I pulled my swim cap and goggles off with one hand and pulled the hand out the sleeve of the wetsuit, leaving the swim cap and goggles secured in the sleeve. By the time I reached my bike in transition, my wetsuit was down to my hips with my upper body free. 

The morning had been cold but the temperature had risen significantly since entering the water and it was expected to keep rising. On the drive up, the radio kept reporting a heat advisory, telling people to stay indoors and avoid strenuous activities. Just what I needed, another challenge added to the race I already didn’t feel ready for. 

Pulling my wetsuit the rest of the way off, I flung it over the bike rack, now mostly empty with a majority of bikes out on the course. During training, we practiced transitions. Transition could eat up a lot of time if you weren’t careful and a quick transition can give advantage over competitors. 

I wasn’t worried about transition time. Finishing was the only metric I cared about. Not wanting to waste time either, I quickly dried off and began applying sunscreen. 

Bike was next, 58 miles around Mount Bachelor. Cycling was my strongest sport and this would be my longest ride to date. 

I put on socks, shoes, hat, helmet, gloves and sunglasses while eating a banana. My bike was already fully stocked with two hydration bottles, one water and one sports drink, a bento box packed with a variety of sports nutrition supplements, a saddle pack with spare tube and bike tools. In a few minutes, I was ready to head out on the bike. I walked my bike to the mount line, straddled the bike and clipped in. My legs had recovered from the swim and were feeling strong again. 

I was setting out for my longest ride, at elevation, with significant climbing in 100F heat. I continued forward, starting the second leg of the race. This race didn’t enforce cut off times and pacing myself would be key. Just keep moving forward, closer to the finish line with each pedal stroke. The first 40 miles, a steady incline leading up to a 17 mile descent and a final flat mile to the second transition site. 

Focusing on keeping my legs moving, I did my best to utilize gears to minimize the impact on my legs. As long as I kept peddling enough not to fall over, I didn’t worry about speed. It was a long climb with very few descents to give my legs recovery time. Keeping a steady pace, my feet began to ache and tingle. 

While injured, my muscles atrophied significantly. All the little ligaments, muscles and stabilizers in the ankles and feet that are easy to forget about when healthy, had been the hardest to recover. It was these areas I felt most susceptible to pain or injury. About half way through the ride, my feet began to burn to near intolerable levels. What had started as tingling and soreness in the balls of my feet had risen to an intense pain that I didn’t know how long I could tolerate. It was hot and steadily getting hotter. The road was dark, absorbing the heat and radiating it back. Very little shade could be found on the course. 

The heat was unusual. At high elevation and early in summer, the mountain tops were still capped in snow. Along the course, as the elevation climbed, snow packs were still present where the ground didn’t receive direct sunlight. The year prior, the course had been cut short due to heavy snow closing the roads. 

Feet throbbing, I was desperate and debating tapping out of the race. I stopped on the side of the course. Unclipping from the bike, I dismounted and laid my bike on the side of the road. Sitting next to my bike, I took off my shoes and walked to the snowpack under the trees.

The relief was almost immediate. Standing on packed snow in the shade, I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. 

I made it this far. If I could finish the bike, I could start walking the last leg of the race and see how far I can go. Without cutoff times, there was still a chance I could finish. 

I stood on the snow for a long time, appreciating the natural beauty that surrounded me. The scenery on the ride was incredible. Vistas of mountain ranges, rivers and sky. Crystal clear lakes of blue green water, perfectly timed for a wave of gratitude to be on the ride. 

Two years previously, there was no way I could have embarked on this journey, my body would not allow it. The pain of muscles being overused is nothing compared to the pain of not being able to use them at all. 

Once my feet were sufficiently cold, the pain lifted and I was able to put my shoes back on and get back on the bike to finish the ride. I had renewed energy. The snow pack had come at just the right time, my feet felt better and I had cooled down and recovered. I was close to the long descent and at the high elevation, the views were incredible.

With breaths synced to pedal strokes, I inhaled the beauty and wonder around and in me. 

I had gotten through it. There were times during the injury, gripped in depression, that I had thought about what I would do if I had to live with that pain the rest of my life. I felt confident that if the pain were permanent, life would be short. I couldn’t live in that broken body and wasn’t going to be trapped by it either. If I couldn’t take care of myself without debilitating pain, I didn’t want to live. 

I didn’t have to do this race. I got to do this race. 

As I approached the summit, tears filled my eyes. I could see the road dropping ahead of me. A 17 mile descent, and the descent is my favorite part. As the road flattened after the last of the hill, I stood on my bike and stretched as I rolled forward. As I began the descent, I moved my hands to the drops of the handle bars, bent at the waist, head low and standing on the pedals, seat snug between my thighs, speed increasing as I headed back down the mountain. 

Tears streamed back towards my ears as the wind whipped across my face. Sobs shook through me as I braced the bike and let my emotions take off like the bike beneath me. The release was amazing, I felt as if I were soaring. 

I had finished my incompletes and finally had my degree. I was in my dietetic internship. Now I am participating in a long course triathlon. Almost 3 years of setbacks seemed to be catching up within one year's time. 

My first triathlon had been just over a year before, a sprint distance. I had considered changing to the olympic distance. Training had gotten me further than I could have imagined and I knew I could complete the longer race, but it would wipe me out. Having a good race felt more important than pushing the distance. It had been a long road and the race was a celebration. One year after the sprint, I went back to the same race and completed the olympic distance, two months ago. 

1.3 mile swim, done. 58 mile bike, no doubt now that I will finish. Half-marathon to go. 

As the descent came to an end, the flat to transition felt like a hill. I have never wanted to get off my bike so badly which coupled oddly with the immense sense of accomplishment and relief. I twisted my shoes out of the clips as I approached the dismount line and came to a stop. Getting off my bike, I walked to the next transition site to get ready for the run. My legs felt heavy and tight. Feet throbbing, I pulled off my cycling shoes, helmet and gloves. After another heavy round of sunscreen, I replaced my hat and sunglasses, clipped my race belt around my waist and laced up my running shoes. 

With the sun high in the sky, the heat was peaking for the afternoon. The race had started early that morning and I didn’t want to know what time it was or more specifically, I didn’t want to know how long I had been on the course. 

As I started onto the run course, my legs were stiff and my feet felt like bricks. Leaning my weight forward, I gently went between walking and jogging trying to shake my legs out. My body hurt but somehow jogging felt better than walking. It was too hot and I was too tired to maintain a jog and steadied into a walk run pace that felt sustainable. 

At every aid station, I filled my shorts and tri top with as much ice as I could then topped it off with a hat full of ice. My pace was slow and consistent. 

The run course was through a resort area in SunRiver, OR. The path weaved between condos and over creeks, thankfully lined with trees to provide some shade. People staying at the resort and watching the race had hoses to spray down runners battling the heat. 

As I made my way along the 13.1 mile course, I couldn’t help thinking that I could do a full Ironman someday. All it took was continuing to move forward, one step at a time. And lots of training, of course. 

As the sun started to descend in the sky towards dusk, I saw someone walking towards me. It was one of the coaches. They had come to check and make sure I was okay. The coach sighed in relief when he approached and saw a smile on my face. 

“You okay?” he asked. 

“I’m great. One foot in front of the other, I am going to finish.”

We walked the last mile together. As we approached the shoot, music and cheering could be heard as someone in front of me crossed the finished line out of sight. Late in the day, finishers were few and far between. 

“Can you run the shoot?” asked Coach. 

After a deep breath of determination, “Yes. I think I can.” I leaned forward into a slow jog and tried to increase speed as I entered the shoot. Eye of the Tiger blared through the speakers. Legs screaming, heart pounding and coated in a thick layer of salt and sunscreen, with every last ounce of energy, I ran down the shoot. 

It was 7:30pm. 10 and a half hours after entering the water that morning, I crossed the finish line.