“50 yards. All you have to do is swim 50 yards.”
This is the only thought going through my head. No, I haven’t started doing short little sprint races that take about a minute and half. In fact, I’m on the beach at Lake Sebago in Harriman State Park, lined up for my longest race to date. It’s an Olympic distance triathlon, consisting of a 1 mile swim, a 28 mile bike ride and a 6.2 mile run. But all I’m thinking about is swimming 50 yards.
I have been training for and stressing over this triathlon pretty much since I signed up for it back in March. Back then I kept thinking about my “big triathlon” in August, without fully realizing that time was going to continue per usual and August and my “big triathlon” would eventually happen. And here it is.
By yesterday I had the triathlon built up to be so large in my own head that there was no way that any human being would be able to finish it. I admit that I wanted to walk away from it and go out for pizza – and ice cream – and nachos – and, etc. But, “Fit Girl” has been training for months, and she was determined to do this triathlon. So, I decided to use one of my favorite Peter K tricks: break up big tasks into small manageable pieces, and then only think about and tackle one piece at a time. This is what got me to the water’s edge this morning, thinking “All you have to do is swim 50 yards.”
This triathlon is small, maybe 80 people or so, so we all go off together for the swim. I immediately let most people go first. I sized up my competition in the transition area before the race, and quickly realized that I was the wrong size. The field is mostly men, and they are all look they came straight out of the Firefighters’ Calendar: totally cut, muscular, not a pound of fat between all of them. They are going to smoke me in this race, so why start off by getting trampled by them.
The swim course is pure evil. It was set up to be a ½ mile triangle – that they explained just before the start that we had to do two loops of. I start swimming and just focus on that first buoy about 50 yards away. I get there pretty easily, look up, focus on the next buoy and then that’s all that I think of as I swim there. When I’m done with the first loop I am momentarily elated – until I remember that I have to do the darned thing all over again. But I keep my head down, my strokes steady. I know this is going to be a long race, by far the longest workout I have ever done. I need to stay calm, focused.
I finally finish the second loop and exit the lake. I hear one random person clapping for me and realize that pretty much everyone else is done with the swim and all the spectators have left the beach. I run up to the transition area and it’s a cinch to find my bike: it’s one of only two that are still there. I think to myself, “At least I’m not last”, clip my helmet on and take off. I look down at my watch: 44 minutes.
This bike course is even more evil than the swim. It’s also two loops, each 14 miles long, but it has that torturous hill I’ve written about in previous blogs: 2 miles straight down, hair pin turn, 2 miles right back up. And that’s only one of about 4 MAJOR hills on this course. And I have to do them twice.
Breaking up the swim into parts worked great, so I approach the bike portion the same way. First I think that all I need to do is get to the hill. Then I just need to get down it. Then, I need to get back up, etc. Of course, that racer who was behind me on the swim sailed past me on the downhill. Part of it was that I was terrified and living on my brake. But, I also started thinking back to high school physics, and trying to remember if he flew past me because of force, gravity, or energy. Then I tried to remember the equation for density, and other bizarre thoughts that might run through a tired person’s head while climbing a grueling hill about 2 miles per hour over an hour into a very difficult race.
I eventually get up the hill (and stop contemplating high school physics), and complete the rest of the loop. In that time, I get lapped by the leaders, and even the “not-leaders-but-think-they’re-very-competitive-and-spent-a-ton-of-money-on-high-end-triathlon-gear-that-they-don’t-really-need-because-they’ll-never-win” racers. I again feel true elation after the first loop that comes crashing down when a race organizer sees me head towards the second loop and yells out to me, “Oh! You’ve only done one loop so far?” Yeah. And thanks for that.
By now I am ridiculously behind the rest of the racers. I’m a little upset about it, but then I think to myself that 3 years ago I wouldn’t have even driven on these hills, and now I’m conquering them with my own pedal power on one of the world’s smallest adult road bikes. I’m going to finish last (by a lot), but I decide that finishing dead last is a whole lot better than not even trying.
As I climb the BIG hill for the second time, something amazing happens. I see a racer in front of me. I talk to my legs, and see if they are as interested in passing this guy as I am. They are, so we go. I pump, push, maybe even cry a little (or sweat a lot. I’m still not sure). But I pass him, and can’t help but smile at this minor accomplishment.
As the rest of the bike course continues, it dawns on me that I am still going to need to run. Far. Again I think to myself that I can’t do it, and again I think of Peter’s strategy to break the task up into pieces. When I pull my bike into transition (that is now about 1/3 empty since people have not only finished but have packed up and gone home), I look at my watch again: 3 hours, 30 minutes, and the only thing I think is “[Expletive]. That was a long ride.”
I start to run, and at one point have to look down, convinced that I somehow left my legs in the transition area. Nope, they’re attached, but they’re totally dead. My legs and brain have another quick conversation:
Brain: “Come on, legs. Move!
Legs: “Look, you wanted to catch the guy on the bike. You didn’t say anything about running a 10K afterwards.”
Brain: “But, aren’t you training for a marathon?”
Legs: “Fine. But boy are we going to be sore later and make your life miserable.”
Brain: “It’s a deal. Just go!”
As I run, I tell myself to just think about 1 mile at a time. This works for a bit, until it dawns on me that I’m shuffling like a 90 year old lady on her first venture out of her wheelchair in about 4 years. But, then I see another racer in front of me. He’s walking. All I think is “I got this,” and pass him. He yells out, “Nice job”, though he’s probably swearing at me in his head.
All I think is “one mile at a time. Stay in front of him.” And I do. I turn around at 3.1 miles, and it’s a good 10 minutes before I see that guy coming towards me. I yell out, “almost at the turn”, and his smile back tells me that he’s swearing at me in his brain again.
Finally, I hit the 6 mile mark. Just 0.2 to go. My legs must also know how to read, because suddenly they are running with energy that I don’t have on my rest days. I think to myself, “I started with 50 yards. I’m finishing with 0.2 miles,” and off I go.
As I approach the finish line, I laugh a little. They are packing up. The crowds are gone, the music is off. A race worker sees me and yells, “Runner coming in!”, and they all line up at the finish line to greet me like I was the winner. It was super cheesy, but I loved every second of it.
I cross the finish line and look at my watch for the last time: 4 hours, 43 minutes, 48 seconds, almost twice as long as any other workout I’ve ever done. And I wasn’t even dead last like I was convinced I would be.
I pack up my stuff (again, easy to find with only mine and the guy I passed on the run’s stuff left in the transition area) and walk gingerly to my car (hey, you work out for almost 5 hours straight and see how well you walk). As I summon every ounce of strength I have left (which is about an ounce) to put my bike on my car, I think about my day. 3 years ago I spent my life in my comfort zone, afraid to test my limits, mostly because I was convinced I would fail. Today I spent the entire morning testing my limits only to find out that I don’t have any :-). And I did it all by knocking out an almost 5 hour triathlon one small piece at a time.
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