Two-Thirds Triathlon, One-Third Merde*

Shit.

My coworker has forwarded me an email about the Nations Triathlon, my second triathlon.  The race organizers and city officials have decided to cancel the swimming portion of the race due to flooding.  I had been so excited to compete in a triathlon again, and now I couldn't.  I began to seriously consider skipping the race and staying home instead of making the trip to DC.

The problem, though, is that the race is scheduled for September 11th.  Ground Zero is a block away from my apartment, and the last place I want to be for the 10th anniversary of the event is anywhere near where I live. The media is reporting that there have been threats from terrorists, and all of the streets surrounding my apartment would be closed for the majority of the weekend.  I want to leave.

Faced with two mediocre choices, I decide to stick to the original plan and head to Washington DC to compete in the Nation's Triathlon, or as I told my coworkers, the Nation's Duathlon.  I tell my friends that I might not compete once I arrive in DC.  My spirits are pretty low, and I'm feeling sad (which is a little bit silly I guess.  There are better things to get sad about).  The thing is, I have spent my entire summer waking up at 5:30 AM to train, and I have made a lot of sacrifices to be ready for this event.  Some days I would even make the long trek to 145th street in Harlem to swim at the crack of dawn.  Swimming is my strength, and I believe its absence will make me completely noncompetitive with the rest of the field (and I'm a competitive person). 

Early September 10th, Erik and I head to the Path Train to take us to New Jersey.  We are  picking up the rental car in Jersey City.

Shit.

I forgot my bike cleats.  If I don't have them, I can't compete (This isn't such a bad thing).  However, if I do decide to compete, it's going to cost me a lot of money to buy another pair. It takes me an hour to return to my apartment. I weave through the exponentially growing 9/11 crowd to retrieve them.  It is pretty clear that my ambivalence about racing has translated in to a lack of preparedness for the trip.

 I end up not eating all day because of the traveling.  I realize half way through the drive that I'd better go to the race registration rather than the hotel because I probably won't be able to register in time otherwise.  By six o'clock that evening, I'm registered for the event and checked into the hotel, and completely exhausted. I can't find the energy to go place my bike in the transition area, so I take a nap instead.  I wake up thirty minutes later and rack my bike just before the transition area begins to close for the evening.

That night, Erik and I go out to eat with my friend Christine.  Thinking of my race, Christine suggests we eat Italian food for carbo-loading purposes. I'm ready to eat just about anything, and am not thinking too much about how I will fuel my body, so I agree and ask that we go as soon as possible.  I get back to the hotel at 10:00 PM. Unlike my first triathlon, I'm not nervous, I'm just exhausted, and I am able to fall asleep immediately.

5:45 AM, the alarm goes off.  I put on my tri-suit and get ready to go. 

Shit.

I don't have any food.  I forgot to bring energy bars and sports drinks with me.  I have to be in and out of the transition area and ready to race within the next hour.  The transition area is a half an hour walk away.  Washington DC is a big city though, and I should be able to find somewhere to buy food on the way.

But we don't.  The city is silent.  We discover that nothing is open early on Sunday mornings in DC, or at least not this Sunday morning.  I'm spoiled by New York City.  Everything is open all the time.  Once we realize our dilemma, Erik sets off in a different direction in search of food, and I rush to the race start.  By the time I arrive, I only have 10 minutes to set up my stuff and get out of the transition area.  This proves to be very difficult--5000 athletes are walking in the opposite direction of me, out of the transition area and into their starting corrals. I'm filled with anxiety.  Maybe I should have stayed in New York after all.

By 7:00 AM I'm out of the transition area, and the race has started.  My age group is not starting until after 8:00 AM, so I hope that Erik will arrive with food, and will be able to hold my phone so I don't have to carry it while he competes.  He calls me and reports that he has had no luck, and has walked nearly three miles. I'm starving.

Around 7:20 AM I notice that a food cart has opened and is selling danishes, muffins and coffee.  Luckily, I had stuffed some extra cash in my spi belt and so I buy a humongous muffin and a coffee.  This is NOT the ideal pre-race meal, but I'm out of options. I call Erik to let him know that I have found food.  He begins to rush back.

I wait, and wait, and wait for Erik to arrive. At 7:45 he calls to tell me he is at the starting line, and wants to know where I am.

Shit.

The roads have been blocked off, and he can't get around to where I'm waiting.  Still with a muffin for him and my phone, I begin to worry that I'll miss the competition all together.  I can't compete carrying this stuff.

Somehow, Erik finds a way to get to me by 8:00. I hand him my phone and the muffin and he hurries away. Up until this point, competing is the last thing on my mind.  For the next five minutes I can finally focus on the race.  My race wave is started, and all of the other woman sprint ahead of me to their bikes.  I wonder why they are going so fast.  Maybe it's just because I feel sluggish from my muffin. I run at a slow jog through

Shit.

The ground is so wet and muddy that most people have difficulty getting their bikes out of the transition area.  I have to run carrying my bike over my head through tons of mud before I can get to the road.

What happens next is totally unexpected: I absolutely kill the biking portion of the race, becoming one of the top cyclists in my age group (and for women in general, for that matter).  After that, I run a 10k in 49 minutes (the equivalent of running 6.2 miles at an 8 minute pace).  I'm completely confused with my time at the end of the race, but also euphoric.  I can't stop smiling.  I wait in line to receive my splits, and I discover that I have improved my time by 18 minutes in the biking portion, and by 6 minutes in the running portion.  I think to myself:

Shit.

 I have what it takes to be a triathlete, and not just a one sport athlete, after all.  Time to get serious.

*Pardon my French