The
sound of heavy rain beats against the window and wakes me up. I’m in a warm bed, under fluffy covers, my
head nestled amongst the pillows. I look
at the clock; it’s 3:30 in the morning.
Most people would enjoy the sound of the rain and the comfort of the
environment. They might stretch, roll
over, snuggle up against a loved one if they have one lying next to them, and
allow the lullaby of the rain against the window to soothe them back to
sleep. Not me. I stare straight up at the ceiling and start
to panic.
Don’t
worry, I have no fear of rain (which ends up being a very good thing that I’ll
explain as we go along here). I’m not
falling back asleep because in 15 minutes both of the alarms I have set are
about to go off and tell me to get ready for my triathlon I have in a few
hours.
Today
I am doing the Rev3 Quassy Olympic Distance Triathlon in Middlebury,
Connecticut. For those who don’t speak
“triathlon”, Olympic distance is the second shortest length of triathlon (1
mile swim, 26 mile bike ride, 10K run), which is one level crazier than what I
usually do. And for those who aren’t
geographically aware of the Northeast, Middlebury Connecticut is too far for me
to get to easily at 5AM when we need to be there, so at 3:45 I’m waking up in a
hotel in Danbury, CT.
I
get up and look outside the window. It’s
not raining. It’s pouring. I look skyward, half wondering if cats and
dogs are going to start falling from the sky.
I get dressed and get my stuff ready to meet my triathlon partner
Jeff. This triathlon is a lot more
professional than our usual “mom and pop” triathlons we do, so they’ve given us
temporary tattoos with our numbers that we have to put on each arm. So, Jeff and I meet at 4:15 AM for a little
tattoo party. We were also given two
individual numbers for our age that we have to put on the back of our right
calf. As I hold my “4” and “3”, I wonder
if anyone would notice if I put them on in the opposite order, and then decide
that I’m slow enough for my age; shaving 9 years off of it and no minutes off
my time would likely make my impending results even more pathetic.
Jeff
and I get to Quassy Amusement Park where the race is being set up at about
5:15. The rain has let up just enough
that now it’s only teeming. Ugh. We get
out of Jeff’s car and are dry for the last time for the next seven or so hours
and head to the transition area.
The
race is really very professionally done.
Instead of saw-horse racks that you usually hang your bike seat from,
there are racks on the ground with slots just big enough to fit your back tire
into, and each person’s spot has their name and race number at it. I’m racked between two other women named –
Allison and Allyson, and we briefly joke that maybe they gave us our numbers
alphabetically by first name. As I try
to figure out how to keep my sneakers dry until I’ll need them for the bike and
run, I listen to a group of women talking about how slippery the bike course is
going to be. One woman explains that the
best way to fall is with your hands way up like you’re making a “touchdown”
sign, as that way you’ll be less likely to jam your collarbone and break
it. Others are chiming in with their opinions
on it, and I throw in my own 2 cents with, “Wow, you know it’s going to be a
tough race when you’re trying to figure out HOW to fall.” Everyone gives a nervous laugh, and someone
changes the topic.
I
wiggle into my wetsuit, half hoping it still fits from last year, and half
wondering if it makes sense to keep it on for the entire race. It’s really raining that hard. Finally, it’s time to go down to the water’s
edge and get this party started.
Jeff
and I go to the water. Jeff decides to
get in and warm up a bit; I for some reason think I will get more wet by doing
so (what’s more wet than “drenched”?), so I wait for him on the beach. He comes out and tells me that it’s so cold
outside that the water is pleasantly warm in comparison. I’m not sure if that’s good or not.
The
race is delayed a bit because the winds are so strong that the buoys that mark
the course have blown too far off and need to be corrected. Finally things get underway, and Jeff and I
patiently wait for our own swim waves.
Being as ridiculously old as we are, his is the third to last wave, and
mine is after his. Since there are 5
minutes between waves, the race has been going on for 25 minutes before all the
old ladies get to start. The horn blows
for us and in we go.
Since
this is my first triathlon of the season, I haven’t practiced open water
swimming at all. And, it shows. My strokes are slow, my breathing doesn’t
have a rhythm. People are passing me
like they’re swimming in water and I’m swimming through caramel. I want to stop, turn around, just give
in. I can’t even make it to the first
turn. But, then I tell myself, “Ok, Ali,
get out if you want to. But if you do,
it’s your last triathlon ever. That’s
it, you’re done.” I decide that though I want to be finished with today’s race,
I don’t want to retire just yet, so I keep going. By now, the wave behind me
has caught up, and even they are passing me.
I finally make the turn and head towards the second turn buoy. The wind is blowing so hard that it’s
creating waves in the lake we’re in, and they’re crashing right into me. This is not fun. I realize I’m getting further with breast
stroke than the crawl, so I do that for the second stage of the swim. I hit the second turn and try to aim back
towards the shore – but I don’t see it.
It’s been raining so hard that my goggles have completely fogged up. Fortunately, there are so few of us left in
the water that we’re outnumbered by all the lifeguards on their kayaks. One guard can see that I have no clue where
to go, and he yells out “Follow me.” I say thanks, and start to move, turning
my head at every stroke to get a glimpse of his bright red kayak. At one point I stop for a second and he says,
“You’re doing great! I had to start
paddling faster!” He was lying or not,
but either way for a brief second I absolutely love this complete stranger. Finally, my hand hits mud, and I know that
I’m almost at the shore. I stand up and run out of the water and run up to the
transition area.
My
bike is easy to find. Of the 700 or so
of us who started, there are maybe a dozen bikes still in transition. I pull my sneakers out of the garbage bag I
hid them in, and want to hug them for being so nice and dry. I pull socks onto my wet feet (there is
really no point at all in drying them), tie on my shoes, snap on my helmet. I
suck down a Gu and chug some water. Then
I take a deep breath and head out on the bike course.
This
is the part of the race I am absolutely terrified of. Two weeks prior, Jeff and I had come out here
for a training ride on the bike course, and found out that it was a
killer. Throughout the 26 mile ride, there
is no part you would describe as “flat”, and very little you would describe as
“easy”. There is one long downhill and a
few short ones. The rest of the hills
are up, Up, and UP. One hill is steep
enough to be nicknamed “The Wall”, and the last 7 miles are straight up with no
breaks. Last week the ride took me 2
hours and 12 minutes, and that was on a warm, sunny day. The
course has cut off times, so I have 3 hours and 5 minutes from when I started
my swim to finish the bike. The swim
ended up taking me 51 minutes (I told you, it was like swimming through
caramel), and my transition took about 5.
To do the math for you, if I manage to ride through this deluge in the
same amount of time as it took me last time, I will miss the cut off by 3
minutes. So, I get on my bike and just
start moving.
About
two minutes into the bike, I realize I have a problem. The torrential downpour is turning into more
of a hurricane, so the winds have picked up considerably. Now, please remember that I’ve just gotten out
of a lake, and I’m biking in the rain, meaning that I’m seriously cold. Oh, good, I needed another obstacle to
overcome.
As
the bike ride continues, the rain actually gets heavier. So does the wind. This bike ride is through some of the most
beautiful farm country I have ever seen, and at one point I look to see if the cows
and horses are lining up two by two.
Really, it’s raining that hard. I
hit the big downhill and know this is a great opportunity to pick up some
time. But, it’s so cold that I’m
shivering now in my soaking wet thin layer of lycra bike shorts and tank
top. Also, I think that my family needs
me to come home in one piece more than I need to dive bomb down this hill and
crash in an effort to make the cut off time.
So, I tap the brakes a little.
I
get to “The Wall” and am actually thankful for the tough climb, as I know it
will warm me up. That’s how I think
about the last 7 mile uphill, and I actually don’t mind it as much as I did a
few weeks ago. As I work my way up, I
think about everyone who has gotten me to this very place: friends who have
cheered me on, my cardio sculpt instructor at the gym who constantly pushes me
to work just a bit harder, my husband Wil who has been coach, bike mechanic,
and my biggest fan. If they can do all
that for me, then I can get up this hill for myself.
As
I round the last corner of the bike course, I am momentarily elated that I have
only one little straightaway left before I get to dismount my bike. That’s when I notice, though, that my feet
are soaked and completely numb, and I have no clue how I will get off my
bike. There is a race official at the
end of the straightaway, telling me to stop and dismount at line on the ground. I yell back, “I can’t feel my feet. I can’t get off!” Fortunately, this guy can think fast, so he
yells back, “Hit the brake hard when you’re right next to me!” I do what he says, and just as I picture
myself going ass over handlebars, he grabs my bike with one hand and my arm
with another, and stops me softer than I would have had I crashed into the
Pillsbury Dough Boy. I immediately
forget about my love for the lifeguard in the kayak, and decide my new favorite
person is this man with the quick instincts.
I quickly look at my watch, and see I’ve missed the cutoff time by about
2 minutes. But, I either distracted the
official enough by having him save me, or he frankly was soaking wet and just
didn’t care, because he didn’t say a word and I didn’t point it out to him. Cool.
I
have barely enough sensation in my feet to jog into transition. Now, it’s much harder to find my spot since
all the bikes are back, and I have to look for that small opening as big as my
tire in a sea of racked bicycles. I find
my spot, and see that one of my neighbors – either Allison or Allyson -- has
racked her bike there. Umm, hello, our
names are on it!!! Can’t you figure out
which Alison you are?! Of course, she’s
likely ¾ of the way done with the run by now so I have nobody to yell at. Instead, I act like the New Yorker that I am and
lean my bike against hers. Harrumph. I
suck down another Gu, take off my helmet, and head out on the run.
Normally,
a run after a bike ride like that is a killer and makes your legs feel like
cement. But today I feel great. I think it was because the swim and bike were
so incredibly difficult that the run feels like a gift I have given myself for
getting through the first two parts. The
run is very hilly, but by this point I am practically alone on the course, so I
am just enjoying the scenery of rural Connecticut. I laugh when I realized that the rain has
finally let up, just when I’m on the only part of the course where rain
completely doesn’t matter. At one point
I think I hear someone coming up behind me and then realize it’s just the
squishing sound of my own waterlogged sneakers.
I
trudge along mile after mile, loving how the volunteers at the aid stations at
each mile marker are cheering me on like I’m in first place. With about ½ mile left, I see another
competitor up ahead of me, and realize that if I pass her I definitely won’t be
last so I find my emergency reserve of energy and take off. I pass her and smile, partly because I could
get ahead of her, and partly because I realize that little sprint has gotten me
just that much closer to the finish line.
I
take a turn, and a volunteer yells “turn left at the cone, and be careful on
the mud!” “Mud?”, I think. What mud?
Then I take the turn and have my answer.
The last 200 yards or so of the race was set up to be on grass, but over
4 hours and 700 or so finishers later, the ground looks like something a woman
would pay hundreds of dollars at a fancy spa to soak in. I try to sprint but almost wipe out, and
think how funny it would be to finish a 1 mile swim, a 26 mile bike ride, and
6.1 miles of a 6.2 mile run before breaking a leg by slipping on mud. So, I squelch through the mud and cross the
finish line, with an official time of 4 hours, 18 minutes and 20 seconds, in 6th
to last place of all finishers. It’s
lousy, but all I think is that I finished 6th to last. Years ago I wouldn’t even have bothered
trying. The volunteers cheer and hand me
a medal, my finisher’s t-shirt, and then apologize as they hand me a soaking
wet towel. The woman says, “Sorry, they
got wet,” and I smile and reply with: “That’s OK. So did I.”
I
look around for Jeff and then think that he likely finished an hour before me
(he did), so he was probably smart and waiting in the nice warm car (he
was). I am soaked down to my soul, so as
I get in the car and wonder if I will ever feel warm and dry again, I also
realize that I just spent over 4 hours on a cold wet morning searching hard for
my own limits and realizing that on a day like today, I just didn’t have any.
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