Last But Not Least

I did it! I completed the Batavia Triathlon in 2 hours and 49 minutes and was DEAD LAST. Yep, bringing up the rear, the anchor, the caboose. That was me and I’m damn proud of it. Here’s how it happened.

I started the weekend of the Triathlon on Friday frantically searching for a race shirt. I realized that I didn’t have anything to wear over my triathlon bathing suit, which is a fancy way of saying a bathing suit that has built in shorts. I wanted something bright enough so everyone could pick me out of the crowd (as if I wouldn’t stand out enough amongst the skinnys) and would cover my butt. So I went to a different super-mega sports store (I didn’t want to patronize the one where the sales associate was mean to me about the Bodyglide, see March Blog, The Smell of Accomplishment) and found nothing but tiny little shorts and baby t-shirts that would (maybe) fit my left arm. So I went to the men’s section and found a neon yellow running shirt that was perfect. I lied to the sales clerk that it was for my husband (“He just loves yellow!” I chirped) and challenge one was down. Except that I kept spontaneously bursting in to tears every time I thought about the race. Not sure if it was from excitement or terror. Probably a little from column A and a little from column B but it was

Whew, look at the bright yellow shirt!

really inconvenient to keep unexpectedly sobbing.

Then my husband got sick. Real sick. Like, in bed coughing, stuffed up, sinus infection sick. My two girlfriends who were also doing the race were coming Saturday evening to spend the night since the race started so early and they live in the city. So my plans for my biggest supporter to take care of me and clean the house and cook us a nice carb filled dinner so I could rest and hydrate all day went right out the window. Not that he could help it, of course, but I then had my pre-race day filled with cleaning, washing towels, getting my oil changed, grocery shopping and cooking dinner, all while organizing and packing my gear for the race and trying to remember to drink water. It was actually better that I had so much to do because it was keeping my mind off of freaking out about the race but in the moment, I was stressed. And I didn’t want to be stressed. And stress makes me overeat, which I did. Spectacularly. Not a good way to go in to the last 12 hours before the race. Oh well. My girls came and we had a great dinner of corn on the cob, burgers on the grill, roasted potatoes, a beautiful tomato and cucumber salad that Meg made, chips and salsa from Liz and a cookie pizza that Meg also made. Yep, Cookie Pizza. Mmmm. We gorged, removed nail polish, took a drive of the race route, organized our stuff and had a great time.

So Sunday morning (race morning!) came and I woke up at 3:45 a.m. so I could drink a cup of coffee and give it time to kick in and help me, um…what’s the most delicate way to put this? Help me…uhhh…errrrr… poop. Yes, poop, okay? Not a lovely topic but the thought of having to go during the race was horrifying to me and I wanted to be empty so I didn’t have any issues. Also, the thought of stripping off my bathing suit and going in a port-o-potty was just too much for me to handle. I can barely go in the toilets at work. You think I’d be able to go, naked, on a port-o-john? That’s the stuff my nightmares are made of so I was determined to go before we left for the race. Success! That’s the last I’ll speak of poop (for now!). We ate a little breakfast, gathered our gear and headed to the race, which was a five minute bike ride from my house. We got there, got set up, got our bodies marked with our race numbers and ages and waited.

The swim went pretty great. Liz and I were in the last wave of swimmers so ended up starting about half an hour into the race. Meg did the duathon so she ran two miles while we swam. The water was freezing though and it was a cold morning so the shock took the breath out of me and I struggled a little. I also got hit in the face with either a foot or a hand, I wasn’t sure, and my goggles got smushed onto my face but I quickly rectified that and swam the 400 meters in 10 minutes and 18 seconds. Half the time I thought it would take! Yay! I ran to the transition area, which was in a gravelly parking lot (not so nice on the bottom of bare feet), got my shoes and socks on, my neon yellow shirt, helmet, and gloves and took off with my bike. Meg made us these great, bright yellow ducks that she personalized for us to tape to the bike rack where our bikes were so we could find them easily. It was so thoughtful and so brilliant and as I was running to my bike with no problem because I spotted my little duck I was thanking my sweet Meg.

Meg, me and Liz with our ducks.

You have to run your bike out and can only get on it once you are out of the transition area, which is smart, so that people don’t crash. I was off and one of the last people out of the transition area. As I headed out, I grabbed a Gu Chomp to eat and promptly dropped the bag of them on the road. Nice. There went my energy replacement. That’s okay, I still had a big water bottle filled with Gatorade. That would get me through. At mile one I saw my husband which gave me a nice boost of energy. At mile three I took a big swig of my Gatorade and (thought) I put it back in its holder until I heard it hit the pavement and roll away. Great. There went my hydration. And only 11.7 miles to go. Crap. I was passed by a couple of people and finally realized that I was dead last as the police car with his lights on pulled up behind me and stayed behind me for the entire rest of the bike leg. As we passed volunteers and other police officers I kept hearing, “Yep, this is the last one!” which was super motivating! Really. But I kept reminding myself to just ignore him and peddle away. It was easy to ignore him until I saw his lights reflected in street signs but, whatever. I decided that I had to laugh at it so every time we passed a volunteer or other police officer I pointed back at him with my thumb and yelled, “I’m so important that I need a personal escort.” Ah, what would I do without my best defense mechanism, humor? Better to be funny than pathetic, right? The bike was a tough, hilly 14.7 miles but I screeched into the transition area and managed a time of 1 hour and 19 minutes. Not too shabby. My legs were jelly and my arms were shaking like a detoxing heroin addict. I had another water bottle in the transition area so I tried to drink out of it but was shaking so badly that I poured it up my nose. So spluttering, and shooting water and snot out of my nose, I de-helmeted, grabbed a pair of shorts to throw on over my bathing suit and headed out for the run. If you think you can be demur or dainty at all while doing a triathlon, think again. I literally blew a snot rocket out of my nose on to the pavement. As my husband would say whenever I do something gross and guy-like, “My blushing bride.” I was disgusting. But kept going!

Here came the hardest part. As I started out on the 4.1 mile run, all of these people were done with the race and were coming back to get their bikes. They were done and I was just starting the hardest part and my mind went haywire. My inner monologue sounded something like this: “People are done. Done. Oh my God. I can’t do this. I have my phone. I can call Mike. He’ll come get me. All of these people are done? Oh my God, I’m last. Everyone is staring at me. I can’t do this, I can’t do this, I can’t do this.” I couldn’t stop the horrible thoughts. My legs felt like lead. Was I moving forward or just standing there? I couldn’t tell. I kept walking. I wasn’t about to try and run yet. What’s running? Am I moving? People were cheering me on, yelling, “You can do it.” I wanted to flip them off, or throw a hammer at their heads, but they were just being nice so I smiled and said thanks. One foot in front of the other. That’s what I kept saying to myself. I finally got the right words going through my head. One foot in front of the other. Then I saw them. My husband, my father-in-law, my mother-in-law and Meg, who just finished her race with a personal record. Shit. Here come the tears. “I’m struggling!” I shouted as I passed their sweet, cheering faces. Meg asked if I wanted her to come with me. “No,” I squeaked out and kept walking. And crying. Then I heard her run up to me. “I’m coming with you”, she said. Okay. She just finished this race and started the last 3 miles of it all over again with me. Thank God she did. She saved me. She got me to stop crying and hyperventilating. My shorts were driving me crazy so she carried them for me. She got an extra cup of water for me at each water stop and carried it for me. She saved me. We walked the whole thing and came around a corner that was about 150 yards from the finish line and saw Liz waiting for us. She finished strong and came back to find us. She was flying high and her happiness and endorphin buzz filled me with energy. 100 yards left. “Run it in!” Meg yelled and gave me a push.

I started running and then all I could see was a sea of people yelling and clapping for me. Me. They were chanting my name and there it was. The Finish Line. The beautiful, glorious finish line. So I ran and sobbed and ran and sobbed and crossed

Finish strong!

the finish line, falling into the arms of my dear, sweet husband, my two best friends who came out to see us race, and my mother-in-law and father-in-law and we all laughed and cried and cheered. All of these strangers were clapping me on the back, hugging me, congratulating me, bringing me water and Gatorade. Telling me I was an inspiration. It was at once one of the most touching, exciting, slightly humiliating, overwhelming and fulfilling moments of my life. I finished. I finished strong. Liz told me she saw people bailing after the bike. I didn’t bail. I finished. Last, but certainly not least.