I was pretty sure the triathlon would be canceled, but the director posted early Saturday morning: "it's on!"
The radar made it look like there would be thunderstorms in the area between 7 and 8am, which seemed certain to delay the start if not cancel the race. But we headed out anyway.
Many, many people had decided otherwise, it transpired. Of the 250 people who registered, fewer than 150 showed up. "You can just line up and get in the pool," said one of the volunteers. "I want to watch some swimmers first," said Amy, who agrees with me that humans are not meant to be aquatic. So we watched some swimmers, we got set up in the transition zone, and we put on our goggles and swim caps.
"Swimmer!" shouted the volunteer, and Amy jumped in. "Swimmer!" he shouted a minute later when the next person climbed out, and it was my turn.
Some of you will remember that I expended many pixels, many many pixels, describing my swim angst in my previous two triathlons. Part of the problem was that I couldn't see through the water or to the turnaround at the other triathlon site, part of the problem was people pushing around me and kicking near my head, and part of the problem was that I'm not a very good swimmer. I had been trying to prepare mentally in my swims this year, but I wasn't sure how it would go.
"The first hundred yards are going to feel kind of crummy," I told myself as I pushed off. I was moving slowly, but I felt surprisingly relaxed about the whole thing. It was a pool! Kraken-free! I had my very own half-lane! No problem! "It gets a lot better after 300 yards," I told myself. And sure enough, 300 yards in I was able to think more about technique and less about just reaching the other end. It's unfortunate that it takes me 300 yards to focus on technique given that I was in a race with a swim leg only 400 yards long, but hey -- the last 100 yards felt good. I grabbed my glasses and ran down to the transition zone. Easiest swim leg ever.
Look, I made a swim anxiety pie chart:
In transition, Amy was almost ready to head out, but I thought I'd probably catch up to her. In our previous triathlons I finished the bike leg a little faster than Amy, and I thought we'd be evenly matched this time since she was riding her speedy new bike. The bike leg has been the most fun for me in the past, and I was glad to have the swim behind me. Whee, the easy part!
Except-- not so much. I got the pedals spinning and shifted into high gear, ready to crank out some miles-- and the pedals locked up. Oh dear, I thought to myself, that's a little worrying. I coasted, downshifted, and they stayed locked. I coasted, downshifted, and no dice. I was beginning to wonder if I'd have to concede defeat after 200 yards, but finally things started moving again. "I bet it will get better if we just keep moving," said Optimistic Jamie. "Or...maybe we'll get stuck in a cornfield miles from anywhere," muttered Skeptical Jamie. Optimistic Jamie prevailed, but for the first 3 miles I never knew if I would be able to shift gears smoothly or if my pedals would seize up again.
It's hard to go fast with seized-up pedals, but I kept plugging.
About 5 miles in, the hills started. Now you guys, I had heard that this was a hilly bike course, but I had always rolled my eyes. "Oh, yes," the person from West Virginia [me] would say, "I'm sure it's 'hilly.' I've seen what passes for 'hills' in these parts." But I'm telling you, they must have imported some hills from West Virginia just for this race. I saw the first one coming and I was about as flummoxed as if I'd seen a seam of coal in a cut on the interstate. (That sentence will make perfect sense to anyone from WV and might sound like gobbledy-gook to anyone from the Midwest.)
I have a little mantra I repeat to myself when I am running or biking up a hill: "you can take the girl out of West Virginia, but you can't take the West Virginia out of the girl." By the end of the hilly section, though, I was saying to myself, "...maybe, actually, you can take the West Virginia out of the girl." Those were some actual hills! Ouch!
I did absolutely zero hill training, and I am a little abashed to admit that my longest outdoor bike ride was only 10 miles. So the last 5 miles of this 15.5-mile course were always going to hurt, but I compounded the problem with poor planning: I brought no water and no fuel. I had assumed there would be a water stop somewhere along the bike course; there was not. My mouth got drier, my pace got slower, the wind felt stronger. My glutes were on fire and I was increasingly saddle-sore. But you know, if you keep pedaling for long enough, eventually you get to the end of the bike course even if it is your slowest-ever bike leg.
Back in transition it took me longer than usual to unfasten my helmet and peel off my gloves. I racked my bike and drank some water and ate some Sport Beans. "5K," I said to myself. "Let's go."
I attempted to run out of transition, but you might not have recognized the movement as running. Is there a word for a hybrid shuffle and limp? Shufflimping? "We would like to speak to the manager," said my glutes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever," I told them. "NO," said my glutes, "WE WOULD LIKE TO SPEAK TO THE MANAGER." I wound up walking a chunk of the 5K -- not brisk-walking, but p-l-o-d-d-i-n-g -- because you can't run with dead glutes. Or maybe you can, but I cannot. I also find that I have trouble catching up if I let myself get dehydrated. No matter how much I drank, my fingers kept tingling the whole way.
One unexpected gift from the stormy forecast was cool temperatures and cloud cover. I would have been truly miserable on that bike leg if the sun had been out, a fact I only realized when the sun began peeking out from behind the clouds on the shadeless run course. It was humid as all get-out, but at least it wasn't hot and sunny to boot. (In another bad planning moment, I forgot sunscreen. I also wore my goggles around my neck for the entire race. Maybe that's what slowed me down, you think?) I ran some, and walked some, and ran some, and walked some, and finally I could hear the music and the crowd. I ran the last bit, waving at Elwood and Stella and Amy and her husband as I rounded the last corner.
"Jamie Gladly of Gladlyville!" boomed the announcer as I crossed the finish line. I collected my medal and stuffed some finish-line snacks in my pockets, and off we went. We made it to my FIL's party with a little time to spare.
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