The race that almost wasn't, was, then was again

I'm not big on writing race reports, as the discussions of finished races are called in the world of athletics. I'm pretty sure none of my readers care about whether or not I use caffeinated or non-caffeinated gels during the bike portion, and that you all can also live without tales of painful chafing and how to get out of a tri-top. I keep a race journal I keep where I write about things like that, so I'll remember to wear lube, bring extra socks, and not wear my white, leaky goggles. But I keep race tales to a minimum on this blog. 

As a result of that, I completely forgot to tell you all about my last triathlon of the 2012 season. It was what you might call an unintentional race in that I had no intention of doing it. I had done the race twice before, in 2009 and 2010, and since I wasn't overtly impressed I didn't feel the need to do it again. I had also just come back from a five-week study abroad program in China, one you might remember as being particularly challenging (read bug-filled), and so doing a race was the last thing on my mind. But then husband-dear signed up to support a friend who was doing his first tri, and since I couldn't imagine just standing by the sidelines doing nothing (heaven forbid), I signed up too. 

Race morning started early (normal), dark (also normal), and with flashes of lightning and peals of thunder (not normal). But since none of the race officials said anything, and us athletes sure as heck weren't going to suggest shortening or, heaven forbid, canceling our race, we continued setting up. Keeping an eye on the flashes on the other side of the lake and using ample plastic bags as rain was threatening to join the party. We were all assembled on the beach, eyeing the wavy lake in fear, when the sherrif himself suddenly made an apprarance. The smokey-the-bear-hat-wearing, vastly overweight middle-aged man looked extremely uncomfortable walking in between the scantily clad triathletes, and I would have laughed had I not feared what was bound to come. And indeed, a few minutes later the race official announced that the sheriff's department had ordered the race delayed for thirty minutes due to the thunderstorm. And with that announcement came the rains. 

So there you are, dressed in a skimpy tri top, tri pants, and a swim cap while the thundering is roaring on the other side of the lake, the rain is beating down and there is no place to go but wait on that little beach. And wait. And get really cold. And grumble at the sheriff's department, as the thunder is obviously miles away and all they're accomplishing with the delay is to ensure everyone is really wet, cold, and at this point suffering from a seriously derailed race nutrition plan. 

But the thirty minutes passed, and although the thunder was still rumbling on the other side of the lake, and the rain was still beating down, the race was given the go ahead. And so off we went. Into the choppiest, wildest water I have ever had the pleasure of racing, only to be followed by the scariest bike portion ever. And that is not a hyperbole, people. The hairpin turns are enough to give you pause on a dry and sunny day, add a boatload of water to the mix and the resulting slick pavement and you have one hell of a ride, as evidenced by the numerous crashes I witnessed along the way. (And may the record state that all the crashees were young guys without shirts on, which leads me to conclude that exposing one's nipples to fresh morning air is a prelude to all kinds of craziness, as well as a less than thoughtful attitude as I don't think I need to describe the painful, bloody chafing that was clearly visible even when traveling at 19mph). 

So by the time I got to the run, I wasn't expecting much as far as time went. You can imagine my surprise when I realized I was minutes ahead of plan. Thanks to the rain, the run, usually a beast as it leads through open fields without a hint of shade, was truly exemplary, and I finished seven minutes faster than my previous finish at this race. And to top it all off, this was enough to land me first place in my age category. To say I was amazed was an understatement. And elated. And slightly smug: three races, two second places, one first. Who would have expected that from the clumsy girl who was always picked last in PE. 

Fast forward a year later, and humble pie had replaced the smugness. A strained adductor and a broken toe had brought my half iron training to a screeching halt, and when husband-dear signed up for this race to support another friend, I signed up because I knew that standing on the sidelines would send my eternally precarious mental equilibrium over the edge, even though I also knew I would have to steel myself for the fact that I was going to suck. At least compared to my 2012 result. But anything was better than not racing, or at least so I told myself. And kept telling myself over the next few weeks. As a perfectionist whose motto 'do it right or don't do it at all', this attitude flew directly into the face of everything I had always told myself. I have always wanted to do better, to be better, since as far as I'm concerned, standing still is the same as going backwards. Improvement is the only way forward- go team DC! (insert sarcastic remark here). But with physical therapy still in full swing, and a toe still in recovery, I knew that this time around I was just going to have to give myself participation credit. There was no way I was going to improve on last year's amazing time, and that had to be good enough. It's what I told myself on my runs, my long bike rides, my swims. It's what I told everyone who asked. Whatever I did was going to be good enough, and I didn't like it, but that's how it was going to be. 

The morning of the race, the hottest dat of the summer to date, I looked out at the smooth-as-glass lake and felt something I had not associated with triathlons for years: nerves. Nerves because I was going to do something I hadn't done in years: just race. Not for a time or a place, but just to finish. And it was a scary prospect. So I prayed that I would at least be an inspiration to those around me, many of whom were novices, and that I would just have fun. 

Now I don't know about the inspiration, but I sure had fun. I joked with the other ladies about the swim before the start, yelled encouragement at people on the bike, apologized for being a doofus in taking those hairpin turns, and giggled when one man told me 'aw, that's alright sugar.' I went into the run refusing to do the math on my pace in order to finish at a certain time, and instead called out to a girl I recognized from last year, and chatted with a man who knew both my dean and the university president. And finished. 

Ten seconds slower than last year. 

For the longest time I refused to check the results board. As I told husband- dear, I had given my all, and that was good enough. Finally, finally, after catching up with all the women I had spoken with during the race, and exchanging many sweaty, salty hugs, I made my way over to the board, and apparently whatever I did was also good enough for another first place. 

Sometimes life is not just good, but really good.