D.N.F means Did. Not. Finish

(Note: if you see a big, grey box in the middle of this post, I don't know how to get rid of it. Try opening this page with a different browser.)
Until today, I had never dropped out of a race. Once I had not made a cutoff, and I had several Did Not Starts to my credit, but I had never quit in a race. Until today. But let's start at the beginning.

It all begins on my couch where I have spent every free minute of the past 9 days. I come home from my new job which I loathe every day, plop down on the couch, and turn on the Olympics. When something lame like volleyball is on, I watch the events that I TeVoed. When mom finally goes to bed, I turn out the lights and go to sleep on the couch, because my insomnia has been so bad lately that I haven't been able to sleep in my own bed. I wake up late, leave the couch to go to work, and can't wait to come back home 11 hours later to sit on the couch again.

Can you think of any worse programming to watch when you're burned out and supposed to be resting than the Olympics?

It's hard enough for me to sit still and take some time off when the biggest sporting event in 4 years ISN'T happening. It makes me want to drink. See, burnout and inspiration are a pretty fucked up mix. You want to get out there and tear it up and train like an animal, but at the same time you can't even seem to scrape yourself off the couch for long enough to change into pajamas, let alone go for a run, or wake up at 4:30 to go swimming.

So even though you're SUPPOSED to be resting, and this is what you've PLANNED to do, you feel guilty about it, because Dara Torres is 15 years older than you, and she still looks SO much better than you do.

... And sooner or later you are going to come to the conclusion that you are a total loser.

In fact, it feels a lot like being hung over: there are all these things that need to get done, but instead you're sitting on your couch watching TV all day eating pizza and feeling depressed. You SWEAR that this is the last time, tomorrow will be different. But tomorrow is NEVER different. So if you're going to feel this shitty anyway, why not drink?

Don't worry, I haven't. I feel shitty enough as it is, I don't need booze fucking up my life even further. And anyways, I used to feel like this before I really started hitting the bottle hard anyway. Back before I drank, I used to slash my wrists up when I felt like this. Because, yes, I really am crazy. Just, when I'm training, I tend to hide it better. And training makes me feel much more comfortable in a tank top than the alternative. Training is the only thing that makes the Crazy Claire go away.

But I can't seem to drag my ass off the couch.

So I was able to assuage my guilt a little bit, knowing that on Sunday, August 17 (today), I would go back to training. I could be as lazy and fat a blob as I wanted before then, because on August 17, IT'S ON!

Last night I watched the women's marathon. For each event Mom and I decide which athlete we are so that we have someone to rout for. I called Dina Castor. I dropped out of the marathon after only about 2 miles. Mom was Paula Radcliffe (her second choice, it turns out that Frank Shorter wasn't running the women's marathon this year). At least she finished, in what was arguably the most inspiring finish of the race: sticking it out through what was obviously a painful injury, just to prove to the British press that she wasn't a quitter. I watched Constantina Tomescu-Dita run almost twice as fast as I run a marathon, then I watched Dara Torres swim across a 50 meter pool faster than I can swim across a 25 yard pool. Then I went to bed (not the couch), and tossed and turned for hours. I got less than 4 hours' sleep before I got up at 4:00 to drive to the upper left-hand corner of Massachusetts to run a 20 mile trail race. Hopefully this would snap me out of my funk. I was tired.


... This had better work...

I saw Gadfly Thom before the race and he explained that it was a new course. They were doing 2 10-mile loops this year, rather than 1 20-mile out and back to cut down on the need for volunteers. Oh yeah, and on top of the course being very hilly and covered in roots, he'd heard that today it was muddy.

... And something about river crossings?...

We started running and the first mile went well. Before the second mile was halfway done, though, my shoes were soaked. I'd managed to prance around the outside of the giant mud pits for the first mile, but eventually I aimed for a solid-looking spot, landed, and was ankle deep in shoe-sucking mud.

Crappy cameraphone. Trust me, that's all shoe-sucking mud.

And it happened again, and again, and again. I was slipping all over the course. Everyone was. With mud caked all over our shoes, and some of the rockiest, rootiest, most technical trails I have ever run on, we were taking the slippery mud to places that were not covered in slippery mud before.

And that was when you could FIND the trail. A dozen of us went off course in the second mile. Around the 6th mile we went off course again and climbed a mountain that did not need climbing. The single-track trail was extremely overgrown in many places (the few places not covered in shoe-sucking mud pits), and even if you could distinguish the trail from the rest of the underbrush, you couldn't always see what kind of terrain was under it. I would be surprised if there was a whole minute that went by where I didn't trip or slip. The winner of the race said that he fell down a total of 7 times. We must have had to climb over 100 fallen trees in the 10-mile loop. I knew it was just a matter of time before my toe caught on one of them and I bit it.

There was a 4-mile race going on at the same time, and when we reached the turn-off sometime in the third mile and I considered taking a left rather than a right, I knew that I was not going to finish this race. I did eventually take the left to follow the long course, but I already knew my heart wasn't in it.

"Godforsaken" was a word that one man used to describe the course. But it wasn't really anything too, too bad. It's not like it was impossible. Very hard, but finishable. My heart just wasn't in it. I knew I could finish, if I wanted to. I just really, really, really didn't want to.

Luckily, since everyone kept getting lost, the field never had a chance to spread out much. I always had people around me. I mentioned that I planned to drop out to a couple of the guys slipping through a mud pit with me, and they tried to convince me otherwise. "No, really, you don't understand," I said. "I just really, really DON'T WANT to finish."

Have you ever felt a nagging injury and known that this time, if you push through it, you'll be out for the season? That's how my brain felt. It was time to call it quits. Problem was, I still had about 7 miles to go.

At about mile 7 an invisible trail lead up a mountain. At first it was steep, then it became a wall. There were a couple of times when I stood next to a course marker tied to a branch looking in all directions trying to figure out where in this vertical rock face they really expected me to go?! There was a point near the top when I was scrambling up the rock on all fours that I actually started to get dizzy. I hadn't eaten anything since I got out of the car, and hadn't really paid much attention to my hydration. For whatever reason, I felt bad and for a moment I thought of just sitting down where I was. Someone else could figure out how to get me off this damned mountain, but I wasn't moving another step.

But I kept going, and the view was worth it.

I just didn't feel like I had to see it again on a second loop.

As I was running down the hill (once I COULD run again, still swinging around tree trunks to steady myself whenever possible), I heard someone crashing through the woods behind me. "Just let me know when you want to come around," I yelled.
"Alright," he said in an Indian accent. I knew exactly who it was. It's not like there were dozens of Indian guys lined up at the start. When he came around, I don't know what possessed me to follow him and start up a conversation. He was running much faster than I was, and up until now I hadn't much felt like talking to anyone.

I'm a bit hard of hearing, and with him in front of me and speaking with an accent, I only caught about half of what was said, but I ran after him anyways. Fast. The truth is, I felt okay and was probably running better than I had at any other point in the race. I just really, REALLY didn't want to do a second loop of this bullshit. I told him as much. He said that he was quitting after the first loop too. Maybe that's why I decided to talk to him, because he wasn't trying to urge me on. Some people need to mind their own business.

Somehow we got to talking about cycling. I told him about the time I rode in the Adirondacks and it was so hilly I wound up crying by the time I got back to my car. "Your endurance must be really good to ride over 100 miles," he said.
"It's a heck of a lot easier than running a marathon," I said. Then we talked about running, about how I hate running, about how he loves running.
"So what kind of distances do you run?" he asked. "Do you run trail or road more?"
I didn't know how to answer him. "I guess I usually run on road," I said. "But I'm trying to become an ultrarunner this fall... and learn how to run fast at the same time." Then a lightbulb went off. "I don't know why I do it," I said. "I hate running. I really do. And I'm no good at it at all. I just can't seem to get any better. But cycling I like. And I'm good at it."
"Well, you can always become a better runner if you really work at it," he said. I've heard that one before, I thought.
At that moment it dawned on me that maybe I really didn't care enough to work at it. Why bother, if I hate it so much? I mean, really, who did I think I was fooling?

We pulled up on another group of runners. Sri (which was his name) dashed on ahead, but I was too lazy to keep up the effort to keep up with him. We were in another muddy patch, and I preferred to pick my footing more carefully.
"How you doing?" asked a woman who had heard me talk about pulling out before.
"You know... running," I said.
"How you feeling?"
"Fine, I guess," I said.
"Why don't you come along for the second loop?"
"Not a chance," I said.
"Aw, come on, you can do it!" said a chick that I had long ago decided was the hottest chick on the trail.
"I know I can. Just because you CAN do something, doesn't always mean you should."
"You can walk it. Come on, don't quit. Keep going with us!" I have done much stranger things to talk to a girl than simply running an extra 10 miles through the mud. But not today.
"You know, I really don't feel bad about it. I know I could keep going, I just really, really don't want to. I'd rather quit this race today than keep going and burn out so badly I quit running altogether." I didn't know if that last sentence was true or not.

When I got to the end I went up to the men with the bulletin board full of numbers and I said, "I'm done."
"You're not going to run anymore?"
"Nope."
"Why don't you just sit here for a little while and have a snack and see if in a little while..."
"Nope, I'm done. I don't want to run anymore. I'm not going to change my mind."
"Is everything okay?" They looked concerned. I have a feeling a lot of runners had been complaining about the course.
"Yeah. I'm fine. I just am not really in the mood to run today. If the course were just difficult, or if it were just the mud, I'd be all in. Today's just not the day."
"Okay then," they said. And they let me be.

My shoes looked much worse than this before, but we ran through a knee-deep river shortly before the finish, so they were cleaned off a bit.
Not the greatest picture my shitty camera phone has ever taken. Apparently the back of my shirt looked pretty bad too, but I didn't want to see what my butt ACTUALLY looks like in a pair of skin-tight shorts, so I asked him to just take a picture of my legs.

I still got to eat the food, though, and as I sat there eating my orzo salad and corn on the cob (trail races DO have the best food and the best hospitality), I noticed that I was in good company. There were 2 Western States veterans who had also gone for the "10-mile option". If it was good enough for them, it was good enough for me. Before I left, the winner came in in about 3 hours and 20 minutes. I finished Eastern States (road) 20 miler in 3 hours and 13 minutes! I am many things, but a fast runner I am not. Even the winners seemed pretty miffed at the difficulty of the course. I didn't regret my decision.

In the car on the way home I had 3 hours to think. To say that I regretted my decision would be false, but I did beat up on myself quite a bit for quitting ANYTHING that I set out to do, even if it turns out that I didn't want to do it. The thought of doing about ten more long trail races this fall made me even more upset. What was I thinking?

Why am I even TRYING to run 50 miles? I hate running, and I suck at it. Riding my bike, on the other hand, I LOVE doing that. And after nearly 10 straight days of watching the best athletes in the world, all I could think about was, Why am I wasting time doing something that I hate, that I'm no good at, when I've found something that I love, and I AM good at? I can be a shitty runner when I'm older, why don't I just concentrate on what I'm good at now?

When I thought about it really hard, I decided that I was NOT in the best cycling shape I felt like I could be in, because I'd been concentrating so hard on trying to not be such a shitty runner. Then a thought that had been cooking in the back of my mind for awhile bubbled to the surface:

Why don't you quit this triathlon bullshit already, and just do what you love?

The jury's still out on the answer to that question.

I have disallowed comments because within 12 hours of posting I already had 2 comments that fit into the categories below. I don't want to hear the following:
A) Don't be so hard on yourself. You need time to recover. Take more time off than just 2 weeks. (Screw you, I need this).
B) Noooooo! This is your dream. Don't get discouraged! You can do it! (If you say this, maybe you need to check yourself. Is it MY dream or YOURS? When exactly have you heard me say it was my dream?)
C) Don't worry. We all have bad days. (While you're REALLY thinking, Weakling! I TOTALLY would have finished that race!)
D) You are NOT a shitty runner! And something else to the tune of "Group hugs all around!"
E) No suggestions that I will someday beat Karen Smyers at the time trial. YOU people made that up, not me!

Do I really LOOK like that?!

I almost called this post "The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly", but the way I see it, you're only allowed to use that title once in your life (and even once is pushing the corn-o-meter), so I'll refrain. One thing I'll say is the only thing more humbling than the marathon at the end of an ironman, is seeing what you LOOKED like that whole time. Why didn't anyone TELL me?!

What is that? A bumble bee?! No, it's Claire primping herself for the cameras.
Alternate caption: "Take me to your leader!"
This chick is not me. This chick doesn't even look like me, but her picture is in with mine. Her wetsuit: Zoot. Mine: Orca. Hers: long-sleeved. Mine: Sleeveless. Her eyes: Creapy blue. Mine: Brown. Although, looking at the goggles in her hand, I remember swimming next to her, until I sprinted away from her at the end. Haha!

Is that a face I make?! Really?! It looks like I'm saying, "ROAR, I'm coming to eat your babies!"

I was having helmet issues. The braids stuck out too much at the bottom forcing my helmet down on my forehead. I didn't know I looked like THAT much of a dork though! That's it. Next year I'm getting a "pointy helmet"!

Finally! A crosswise picture of me on the bike! I was hoping my arms would look WAY more ripped than that! And why do they always, ALWAYS get you with the leg closest to the camera bent?! You ALWAYS look fatter that way! (And yes, I know my bike looks silly with such large wheels, but I used to have more proportionate wheels and went MUCH slower).

Camera side bent leg AGAIN! Helmet issues AGAIN! I have yet to see a picture of me on the bike that I like!

No wonder my shoulders get sore! How can I even see out from under that thing?! Note: Camera side leg bent AGAIN!

And of course the most pictures were taken on the run. What kind of sadists are these people?!

Proof that my feet do, in fact, leave the ground sometimes when I run. My shadow is short, so this must have been really early in the run. This picture also shows that I can get "cold runner syndrome" even when it's nearly 100* out! This one is my favorite because I have a smudge of something on my leg that makes it look like I have a muscle.

First loop. I think I'm such hot shit. I can still pick my feet up... a little.

Would you look at how much air I was getting in that stride?! Whew! I could be in a running shoe ad, I'm tellin' ya! Must be later on: long shadows.

Is that... an Adam's apple?!

What is going through my head at this moment: 'I hate my life, I hate my life!'

The awful Lap 2. My legs felt heavier than at any other point in the race. Funny how they look fatter in this picture than any other picture too. Look at that face: THAT is the face of suffering.

Low speed chase. The secret to my superhuman speed is the superior length of my stride. I strode a full 3 centimeters on every step of that final loop!

Digging deep to keep up my blistering 12-and-a-half-minute-mile pace.

Well I sure taught HIM a lesson! I don't think HE'll be back!
Note: Look at all the salt on my ass! Also, not how it looks like my upper body is running, but my legs appear to be even, indicating I MUST be standing still.

I finish an ironman and THAT's the face I make?! (Note: my time is 10 minutes behind the clock time.) I find it ironic that this is the ONE picture where I have both feet off the ground.

I swear the arms in the air thing was not out of triumph at the time. It was because I thought I was going to get caught in the tape. I look like I'm about to fall over in this picture.

What's Next?

I have not done a scrap of physical activity all week. Nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Rien. Res. Niente. Nichts. Othing-nay. My bike and running shoes are still packed. I haven't read any blogs, and I haven't picked up any books (right now I'm reading Lance Armstrong's book, and Jack Daniels' Running formula). I have watched about 15 hours of reruns, stayed up till 11 o'clock every night, and woken up at 6:30 every morning. I have had coffee every day, often several times a day. I have been eating crap food: cookies, burritos, pizza, white pasta in cheesy sauce, white bread, Twizzlers, Cheeze-Its... I have been getting fat.

And it feels like crap.

I know everyone needs to take a break after a big A race, and I'm taking mine. But it's a slippery slope. If I'm staying up late and eating like crap, it's only a matter of time before the idea occurs to me: Why don't I just have a drink? I don't have to be in bed early. I don't have to work out in the morning. If I feel like crap I can just get coffee... Just this once... But with me it never IS "Just this once..." It drives me nuts when people say, "You can't be an alcoholic! You're so young!"

Just trust me on this one...

I've been urged to go to AA several times by several different people, but I just don't want to, and you can't make me. All that stuff about sitting around in a room with a bunch of addicts talking about our addictions just seems like it would make me want a drink. And anyway, all that stuff about finding a higher power... it's just not me. Shane's friend, Jenny, decided that her higher power would be Jessica Beil, because she's hot. That seemed like as good a reason as any for Jenny, but I don't think I trust Jessica Beal enough with a responsibility like that, hot or not.

This athletic thing seems to work for me. If I've always got some big race on the horizon, something that I HAVE TO stick to my training for, then I'm okay. But it's gotta be something hard. It's gotta be something that, unless I do the training, I won't finish. If I'm scared enough, I'll behave myself.

So I'll be shifting gears, but I won't be parking the car this fall. From next week until January, I'll be focusing on running. I am going to learn to run fast! I decided about a month ago that I was going to train to qualify for Boston at Disney World in January, not from an irresistible drive to run Boston again, but because it is an established goal set by somebody else. You are not a true distance runner until you have qualified for Boston, period. This is not a goal that is fast "for me", this is someone else's definition of "fast", and I am going to spend the next 5 months trying to achieve it. I am going to learn to run 26.2 consecutive 8:24-minute miles. From what I can gather, learning to run fast is about learning to suffer. I can live with that, why didn't anyone ever tell me that before?!

I have spoken to Iron Matron, Mindy, and Cranky, some of the best marathon runners I know, to try and get their advice on what elements I'll need to run faster. I'm even willing to listen to them. I'm reading the books that Iron Matron recommended to me, and am basing main points of the training program around that.

But first I have some OTHER unfinished business. I told myself last October that I was going to run a 50 mile race this fall, so until November, my weekends are going to be focused on that. During the week will be all about running faster, and on the weekend I'll be doing the back-to-back long runs that I will need to do to train for Goofy, but I will be doing them on trails (and they'll be just a smidgen longer). You can see my training plan here. (The only thing I would like to point out on the training plan is that: A. runs will probably be a bit shorter the day before long trail races, B. Long runs on trail will involve walking, and slow running, so it's not as much distance as it looks like, and C. days off are on an as-needed basis, not scheduled).

No advice, please. If I haven't asked you already, I probably don't want your opinion on the matter. Sorry. So if you've run a couple of marathons, and happen to be gifted enough to run faster than me, (or worse, if you've just read a book and think you know all about the matter) keep your trap shut and save it for someone who cares. (Experienced ultrarunners' advice welcome!)

So without further adu, here is a list of my scheduled appearances for the fall/winter 2008-2009 season:
August 17, Savoy Mountain 20 Miler in Savoy, MA (Berkshires)
August 24 Green Lakes 50K, in Fayetteville, NY (Near Syracuse)
September 7, Curly's Marathon in Pittsfield, MA (Berkshires) OR Three Notch Century in Lincoln, NH (White Mountains)
September 13, Lobsterman Olympic Triathlon in Freeport, ME
September 14, Pisgah Mountain 50K or 23K in Chesterfield, NH (Southwestern NH)
September 28, Vermont 50K in Brownsville, VT with Maine Runner
October 11, Finger Lakes 50K in Finger Lakes National Forest, NY
October 26, Hairy Gorilla Half Marathon in Albany, NY
November 1, Busa Bushwhack 15K in Framingham, MA (nearby), site of my first showdown with Grandpa.
November 9, Stonecat 50 Miler in Ipswitch, MA (North Shore, MA)
January 10 and 11, Goofy Challenge in Orlando, FL (Half marathon on Saturday, full on Sunday) with Angry and Leana.

So I've got a lot of driving to do.

Beyond that, ideas are hazy. I'm going to try to sign up for Ironman Kentucky whenever that is (November? October?), and give a shot to a Hawaii slot, just to say I did it. After my run-specific block I'm going to hang up the running shoes again and focus on riding, maybe even getting a cycling license and getting into some real bike racing. Next year will really tell if I continue with this triathlon business or just pursue cycling. AIDS LifeCycle is out for next year, since I have a wedding to go to in England Memorial Day weekend, but I had a better idea. Shane might come with me to the wedding, and then we would cross the channel into France and ride our bikes down to Barcelona, doing our own Tour de France.

So, as you can see, I've still got a trick or two up my sleeve. Please be patient while I try to get my mind back into blogging. Thanks for all your support in Vineman, and I'll see you at the races (or at the very least, the race reports).

Murphy's Law: If something can go wrong, it will.

First of all, thanks to all my friends who sent me well wishes and encouragement before the race. I felt like a celebrity every time I got an e-mail, text message, or comment and your words definitely helped; especially the mean ones that made me laugh. I realize that I have a tendency to be a bit long-winded, and while I did my best to only tell you about the important stuff, it still wound up being a V E R Y long RR. For those of you who are busy beavers and don't have all the time in the world to read, I'll try to put the most interesting parts in blue.

Pre-Race

I got to San Francisco around 11:30 on Thursday. Shane had to give a presentation at work, so I spent an hour in his office reading e-mails from you guys and working my stomach into a giant knot reading about the race. We spent a few hours shopping at Trader Joe's, Walgreens, and the organic grocery store for last-minute essentials, then we then went back to his apartment. When I opened my bike box (now covered in a layer of duct tape that it was not wearing when I left it in Boston) I discovered that my rear axle had fallen out of the box somewhere between Boston and San Francisco! When I found a TSA slip in the box I started throwing a hissy fit, accusing the fuckers of ruining my entire race, and thus year, and thus life. I swore like a truck driver until Shane pointed out that it had probably fallen out one of the handles of my fancy, schmancy cardboard bike box. He then pointed out that it was an easy thing to replace, and we would have plenty of time to go get a new one tomorrow.

"Well, if this is the worst thing that goes wrong, that's not half bad," I said, calmer now. Jinx!

Friday morning we woke up early and I packed my run stuff and some stuff for the run special needs bag before we took off for Sonoma. I bought a new axle for $5 on the way out of San Francisco, and Shane was right, it was no big deal. When we left SF it was a cool 60 degrees and cloudy, but no sooner had we ridden over the Golden Gate bridge, we were both peeling layers and rolling down the windows. The famous San Francisco fog is restricted to San Francisco only, and although Sonoma is only about an hour and a half away, it is hot and dry like a desert.

We arrived at the expo an hour early for registration, so we went and had some burritos for lunch. I was sick of eating yucky, healthy stuff. I figured that a nice, high-calorie meal was just what I needed at that very moment. With any luck I would get food poisoning and be off the hook. Standing in line for registration I saw that there was a scale in front of the table. "Oh shit! They are going to make us weigh in?!" I said, trying to calculate the approximate weight of my shoes, belt, clothes, hair, burrito... "I wish I'd known that BEFORE I ate the giant burrito!" The woman behind me in line shared my alarm, but luckily the weigh-in wasn't necessary. I got my goody bag (full of nothing but fliers) and t-shirt, and Shane and I went to set up T2 before it got crowded.

We went over to set up my run stuff in T2. It was still nearly empty, and we stood right in front of the second spot on the second rack to survey the layout. Transition was set up in a blacktop parking lot, and I regretted leaving my towel at home. The temperature was already in the 90's, and you could fry eggs on this pavement. My stuff would be lying out here all day today, and most of the day tomorrow, cooking in the sun. As Shane and I stood there, not 18 inches from the rack getting our bearings, some bitch swooped in and plopped her stuff right at our feet! We looked at each other as if to say, Ummmm, oooookaaaay, and moved farther on down the rack. It was clear I was about to set up there, but obviously you had to be quick around here. As we walked back towards the expo and the shade we joked about how satisfying it would be to take a shit right in the middle of her transition setup. "Can you imagine?!" Shane giggled. "She would get here and there would be a giant pile of crap sitting on top of her running shoes that had been sitting there cooking in the sun for 24 hours..." he busted out laughing, "AND THEN SHE'D HAVE TO RUN IN THEM!" We agreed that we should have said something, but fantasizing about defecating in her run cap was much more satisfying. Everyone knows Claire's Number 1 Rule of Public Pooping: Don't, but no less important is Claire's Number 2 Rule of Public Pooping: It is okay to do so on a competitor's stuff if she deserves it.

While we were waiting we sat around in the shade trying to spot the gay people. "That whole group's a gaggle of lesbians, I think," I whispered to Shane.
"I don't think so, I think they're just over 40. I can't tell the difference between soccer moms and lesbians," he whispered back.
We took a closer look at the ears and fingernails. "Oh no, never mind," I said when I saw sparkly earrings and manicured finger nails and wedding rings. But still, they LOOKED like lesbians in their tight, sporty ponytails, athletic sunglasses, non-sexy functional t-shirts, clothes that accentuated muscle tone rather than cleavage, and sensible shoes. Yes, triathletes look like lesbians. You, reader, look like a lesbian.
Then we turned our attention to the guys. "He's GOTTA be gay," Shane said. We looked at a man in a skin-tight tech tee and shorts tight enough to accentuate his well-sculpted booty. Then he turned around to say something to his wife.
"Nope," I said. "Just a tri-geek."
We looked over at a couple of guys standing at the information booth looking at the course map. They each had the kind of beautifully tanned and sculpted bodies, with shaved body hair and neat haircuts that gay guys have. Two guys together that looked like that HAD to be gay. But nope, they walked like straight guys. Yes, triathletes look like gay guys. You, reader, look like a gay guy.

Meanwhile there were 2 horses' asses with microphones in the middle of it all blabbering away incessantly. Nearly everything they said was offensive. "And where are YOU guys from?" they asked a couple of guys walking by on the way to registration. Shane and I could only hear the one side of the conversation. "You look like you're in the Marines... Oh the Army? Sorry, wouldn't want to offend anyone there... You came together?... Don't they have a don't ask don't tell policy in the army, hahaha..." They went on like that for several minutes calling these men (who were trained killers) homos until another victim came along for them to harass. They made fun of everyone, especially the newbies, and all of it was annoying, if not offensive. They taunted seasoned competitors and laughed at newbies. It was embarrassing.

Finally it was time for the pre-race meeting. There was a powerpoint presentation, and the opportunity to ask questions. There's always at least one nut in every group who has to ask the stupidest question ever. One gentleman raised his hand and asked if men were allowed to run shirtless. This jogged Moron of the Hour's brain. He raised his hand. "It says in the rule book that there's no nudity allowed on the course..." He had everyone's attention now. "Does that include the changing tents?" All the heads in the room turned in disbelief. "Um, you may be as naked as you need to be in the changing tents," the race director said. "That's what they're there for. You can hang out in there in your birthday suit for as long as you want, just as long as you come out dressed." Moron of the Hour needed clarification. "So I can strip down to ABSOLUTELY NOTHING in the changing tents?" "Yes, you can be as naked as you need to be, as long as it is INSIDE the changing tent." Then he re-thought his answer. "...As long as it is inside the CORRECT GENDER's changing tent." This gave Moron of the Hour a whole new set of problems. "How will I know which changing tent's which?" "They will be clearly marked," the race director said. To preempt a follow-up question from the Iron Streaker, he quickly looked to the other end of the room and added, "Any more questions?"

The meeting did serve for one thing: I realized that I hadn't been given my chip. Once I picked it up, I was sure that this would be the weekend's final problem. Jinx!

We went home and I put my wheel on the bike, did a quick loop around the neighborhood to make sure everything was in its right place, and came back to do final preparations, make dinner, and get ready for bed. I had a tasteless concoction with orzo, broccoli, and spinach for dinner and fell asleep in the middle of an Eddie Izzard DVD thanks in no small part to Tylenol PM: a racer's best friend.

The Morning Of

My alarm went off at 3:00. I took a shower, braided my hair, made breakfast and coffee, and did one final check of my gear. It took Shane and me 5 minutes to get the straw in my aero bottle together, but finally I did. Putting my sunglasses on my head they dropped on the ground, but I was still holding one of the earpieces in my hand. I stared at it, then stared at the glasses on the ground. "FUCK!" I said. Shane, ever the practical one, stepped in before I even had a chance to hit full freak-out mode. "I'll go get some electrical tape!" I taped the earpiece back on and said, "Well, thank god that happened before we left the house and not after! Disaster averted." Jinx! We packed the car and were out the door by 4:00 a.m. When we got in the car, Shane's "Check Engine" light came on. Luckily the car held out. Another disaster averted. Jinx!

By the time we got to the start in Guerneville (which I decided to call Guano-ville), I was a nervous wreck. As usual, my first stop was the porta-potties where I broke Claire's Number 1 Rule of You-Know-What and my digestive tract confirmed that I was nervous as hell, then Shane and I moseyed on down to transition. As I set up my bike, I scoped out the competition. A couple of spots down the rack I saw a face that looked familiar. I looked closer. I stared. "Excuse me, where are you from?" I asked.
She looked up. "Massachusetts."
I looked closer. I squinted. "Are you Kat?" I asked. Kat was my bike buddy from the Patriot Half last month.
She looked surprised. She squinted. She stared. "Are you... Claire?!" After a few Oh my gods! and squeals she asked, "Is this your first one?"
"Yeah. I'm so nervous I think I might drop dead."
"Me too," she said.
"I can't tell you how glad I am you're here! It's so nice to see a familiar face!" I gushed, and hugged her. I hardly knew her, but I didn't care. I was no longer alone.

I took my bike out to ride it up the first rise out of transition and make sure I had it in the right gear. I was so spaced out I didn't realize I'd forgotten my helmet until some bitch snapped after me, "Wear a helmet!" in a snide voice. Bitch. Once I'd ridden the 500 feet up to the top of the hill and picked a good gear, I turned back. I safely arrived at the bottom of the hill WITHOUT my helmet. Had I known who she was I would have pooped in her swim cap.

I found Shane again and begged him to talk me out of this one more time before I got in the water for a warmup. When they cleared the water for the first wave to start I went back out and hugged him. I stood there whimpering for a the first wave's start while he told me to man up already. I sat there pointing out who looked fast while he assured me that I would kick ass. Then, he gave me one last long hug before he pushed me towards the water. He called something like, "Bite their heads off!" after me, and then I jumped in the river and lined up for the start.

The Swim

The swim was in the Russian River, a murky, muddy thing that is never more than 7 feet deep, and never clear enough to see your hand in front of your face. The course was 2 loops (out and back, of course), going upstream on the way out and downstream on the way back. Since it was the dry season, there was hardly any current at all, and the race web site estimated it would take roughly one more minute to swim out than back.

It was a deep water start, and I lined up towards the front and on the inside to try to avoid some of the violence. Then I had to tread water for 5 minutes, waiting for the horn. I think I could have lined up 100 yards ahead of those girls and still gotten beat up! I tried to be aggressive and swim my way to a comfortable spot, but all these bitches kept getting in my way. Finally I found a spot that felt comfortable, couldn't find any toes, but found a girl to pace off of, keeping her in sight over my shoulder, and settled in to a comfortable rhythm. Then we hit the wave in front of us. For the whole, entire swim, every time I would find a rhythm, I found myself coming up on some slow dude's toes. It was sure making it hard to concentrate on keeping my head down. A couple of times I caught myself swimming slightly off course just to get around them. Those other ladies were getting away!

No more Mr. Nice Guy!, I thought. I stopped swimming around people. When I started seeing the bubbles of someone else's toes, I just kept going. When their feet came into view, flailing all over the place, I just started stroking harder. BAM! I would bring my hand back down into the water, BAM! BAM! A couple of smacks from me, and most guys would be out of my way in a matter of seconds. I came up on one guy too close to even get my arm back in the water. I came down on his calf. Rather than moving my arm out of the way and trying again, I grabbed his leg and shoved it behind me with all my might, just like I would with the water. BAM! One more smack on his butt and he was gone.

By the back half of the second loop I was getting pretty tired. My lungs still felt fine, but my shoulders and back were burning. Still, I couldn't believe how quickly it was going by. I'd swum 500's in Masters that felt more tedious than this. I went under the second bridge, a sign that the finish line was drawing near, and suddenly a line of about 4 women went steaming by on my left. They were about 10 feet away, but they must have been swimming 10 seconds per 100 faster than I was. I swam over there as fast as I could and tried to hop on the last pair of toes. There they are! Where'd they go?! There they are! NOW where is she? Thank god for Alison, the best swim buddy ever who always makes me finish strong, because the end came before they were able to drop me completely, and they towed me in the final 100 yards to the finish line. When the toes in front of me stood up I did a couple more strokes, a duck dive, and then stood up and started running. I looked down at my watch as I went under the arch: 1:03!!! That was faster than I expected to go! Maybe the course was short, but I prefer to think I'm a badass.

Swim time: 1:03:26.9 Swim pace: 1:30/100 yd, 1:39/100m Swim rank: 4/19 AG (21%), 14/109 women (13%), 60/379 (16%) coed overall

T1

Ran out of the water, found my bike, stripped off the wetsuit (no strippers here), followed Nitsirk's advice and put on my socks BEFORE my shoes. I smacked my helmet on my head, slipped my almost-good-as-new sunglasses on my face, and took a look around for the exit. Just then I saw Kat sprint by headed... back towards the river?! I had no idea what was going on with her, but I ran out towards the road, dropped my nutrition, had to go back for it, and eventually found the exit. As I was mounting my bike I heard Shane yell, "GOOD SWIM, CLAIRE!" I was surprised to see him there and just shook my head at him as I rode away.

T1 time: 3:05.2 T1 rank: 2/19 AG (10%), 6/109 woman (5%) , 34/382 coed overall (9%)

The Bike

Yes! This was the part I was looking forward to! I passed a few men right in the first mile and my legs felt good. Once I felt like I had a rhythm I leaned down to take a drink from my straw. I had to shove it down really far into the bottle to get a drink. Something wasn't right here. I tapped the top of the straw. It fell into the bottle. FUCK! The straw had fallen apart, and without the straw, the aero bottle was useless. Now, not only was I carrying around an extra 2 lb on the front of my bike, but I would also be short of one drink receptacle and there would be no way to get my nuun tabs into the water bottles they'd be giving on the course. I decided to throw the bottle out at the first drop point, but first I would have to undo the velcro strap that held it in place. I reached forward, and... the strap was open! Now I was going to have to ride the first 20 miles holding the bottle in place! Crap! Well, I thought, there are worse things that could happen. JINX!

I started eating almost right away. I was hungry. I forgot I hadn't eaten in 4 and a half hours, plus I'd just swum for an hour. I dumped my aero bottle and my first regular bottle at the first aid station and picked up a bottle of Gatorade. I twisted the top open and sucked. Nothing happened. I sucked harder. Nothing. I hunkered down in my aero bars and pulled the cap off. They'd left the goddamned tab on the bottle! The RD had PROMISED they wouldn't do that! What the hell?! I almost crashed into another rider trying to get the tab off the bottle and ride at the same time.

I rode exactly 20 miles in the first hour. I only passed a few of women as well (and all in the first 10 minutes), and I didn't know what to make of it. Where was everybody? I had been surrounded by the same guys for quite awhile and was coming up to pass a guy in a black and white jersey for the umpteenth time when I saw some cars up ahead. There was a white pickup facing the other direction waiting to make a left turn onto a small street. At the stop sign on the small street, there was a car waiting to turn right onto the street we were on. We cyclists were just riding straight through, so we had right of way, race or no race. As we drew closer to the intersection (which can hardly be called an intersection, the intersecting street was so small), I drew in for the kill to pass the guy in front of me. Just as he got to the cross street, the white pickup started to turn, and not slowly either. "HEY!" he yelled as loud as he could, and the pickup seemed to hesitate. Not like he braked, just like he'd taken his foot off the gas, which gave the guy ahead of me time to get away. I was about 15 feet back going upwards of 20 mph in my aero bars, and too close to brake even if I had been in the hoods. I had faith that the pickup would stop. Then the pickup gunned it. Was he REALLY trying to make it in this gap?! Time slowed down. I looked up to see if I could swerve right and out of his way. I couldn't without crashing head on with the car stopped at the stop sign. He was still coming at me. He was going to hit me. The stopped car honked. I knew now for sure that I was going to be hit by a car. I thought about all the time and training I'd put into this. I thought about how important my body was to me. I thought about how much money my bike had cost me. I thought about how badly I wanted to finish this race. I screamed. It was the ugliest noise I have ever heard in my life and it came out of my mouth. It was a combination of surprise, rage, panic, and trying to get the guy's attention. It went through about 7 different pitches. I felt the bumper hit my left foot and something come loose. I felt the ass end of my bike skid sideways a couple of inches. Somehow I accelerated and swooped into the closing gap between the front of the pickup and the front of the stopped car and flew out the other side, still upright. My first thought: I've been hit by a car! Then I realized, I'm still upright! Then I looked down at my body. My left foot had been knocked out of my pedal. I clipped back in and it worked. It didn't even occur to me to check for pain. I pedaled a few strokes, trying to feel and see if my bike was working properly. I didn't feel any rubbing from a bent wheel. I listened. It was hard to tell. Then I got angry. I was FURIOUS! All I could hear in my head for the next hour was the sound of my ugly-ass scream. I was so shaken, I couldn't tell you if I rode that next hour fast or slow, I just listened to that ugly-ass scream over and over in my head and got angrier and angrier! So much had gone wrong already and I wasn't even half way through the bike!

I came up behind a woman with pink handlebar tape. "Good morning!" she said. I was not in the mood to talk to anyone, much less a bitch with pink handlebar tape.
"Hi," I grumbled.
But then she hung on, and passed me back a few minutes later. "Are you doing the whole thing?" she asked as she rode by.
"Yeah, how about you?" I asked. I was vaguely aware that there was an aquabike and a half ironman going on at the same time.
"No, I'm just doing the aquabike," she said. Phew. I relaxed a bit, since it didn't matter if this pink bike passed me or not.
"Can you do me a favor?" I asked. I explained about the car hitting me and asked her to take a look at my rear wheel to see if it was bent at all. "Sure," she said. "Let me just ride behind you for a second." And she did. She came back around a minute later. "It looks like it might be a tad bent, but I don't think the brakes are rubbing or anything..." "Thanks," I said. Then I wished her luck and urged her on ahead. Now that I had had a conversation I could get my scream out of my head, but now I was worried that my wheel was rubbing. I mean, how much could she really see from back there? I would see her and her pink handlebar tape a few more times during the ride, but she was so sympathetic that I couldn't hold it against her that she pulled away from me in the last 20 miles.

At the next aid station I needed more Gatorade. I wanted to make sure that I wouldn't have to tear the tab off of this one like I did the last one, so as I pulled into the aid station I yelled, "GATORADE, WITHOUT THE TAB!"
The first volunteer pulled the bottle away as I reached for it, trying to unscrew the top. "GATORADE WITHOUT THE TOP!" she yelled to the volunteers farther down the line.
"WITHOUT THE TAB, NO TAB!" I yelled as I approached the next lady.
"GATORADE WITHOUT THE TOP!" she yelled as she held it out for me. I drew my hand back, I didn't want that shit!
I came up to the next one, "GATORADE WITH THE TOP, WITH THE TOP!" I yelled.
She handed me the bottle, and as I caught ahold of it I heard her say, "GATORADE, NO TOP!" as it sloshed all over my hand. I threw it on the ground. I had one more chance.
This time I just yelled, "GATORADE! GATORADE!!!"
"GATORADE!" the guy repeated, as he finally handed me a closed bottle. I took a suck. It was open, but it was warm. I have to admit, still reeling from the car, and with the frustration of not getting the drink I wanted, I was not at my kindest to the volunteers at that aid station.
Over the next couple of miles, I started to hear a kind of creaking or rattling. Oh shit! I thought. What if my frame is cracked?! That gave me another thing to stew about for another hour, until I finally convinced myself that maybe it was the gatorade bottles rubbing in my cages.

I wasn't even in the same time zone as my "happy place", but the fun wasn't over yet. The course stayed on fairly low-trafficked roads, but they weren't closed to traffic. Family and friends were discouraged from driving the course, but not prohibited. Around mile 35 a blue wagon was trailing one of the riders, doing whatever it is that spectators do when they follow their friends. Eventually, they decided to turn around. They found a nice driveway, and began to turn, I can only assume without checking their mirrors. Again, in 1 more second they would have been directly in front of me, and I would have no time to stop before I crashed head-on into their passenger-side door. "HEY!" I yelled out as loud as I possibly could and swerved through a gravel patch to miss them. Thank god they still had the window open from chatting away to their buddy, or they wouldn't have heard me, and it would have been the end of my race. When I passed them pulled over on the side of the road about a mile later I gave him the finger. Maybe I could get disqualified for it, but I figured that I could make a case for emotional distress. It took me a good, long time, maybe until around mile 75, to totally shake the panic that a third car was going to come along and do me in for good.

I passed the 56-mile mark in roughly 2:50:13 and soon after the course took me past Windsor High School, home of T2 and dozens of screaming spectators. I looked for Shane in the crowd. I wanted to tell him what had happened. I wanted to know that SOMEONE felt sorry for me other than myself, but I didn't see him. I headed out for the second loop. Fuck special needs. I didn't need special needs. I could hardly eat anyway from the heat.

Pace per 5 mi on the bike. As you can see, I slowed down a lot on the second loop when the temperature rose and the wind picked up.

It was starting to get really hot out. The course is rolling and rural, and there are a few oak trees along the rout, but mostly it's just vineyards, vineyards, vineyards, and sun, sun, sun. I was starting to get nauseous, my hamstrings and glutes were sore from not enough fluids or sugars, and my feet were aching horribly. The feet were the worst, it was a throbbing, burning pain that started in the soles of my feet and radiated all the way up to the back of my rib cage. I loosened my shoes, but it only helped a little. At one point I ran out of water, and couldn't get more for another 6 or 7 miles. I was nauseous, and it was getting harder and harder to force food down. The wind had picked up to a 15 mph headwind, but it was just blowing hot air in my face.

There are two significant hills on the course: the second and most severe comes for the second time around mile 100. I knew that one was going to be horrible, because the hill would block the wind and I would just be cranking away in my climbing gear going no miles per hour and sweating like crazy. My feet were hurting so badly, that I let out an audible moan. Just as I did, a chick passed me! Crap! And horror of horrors, she was wearing an Mdot jersey. Aw HELL no! I thought, and took off after her. I passed her, but could see her close behind me when I looked over my shoulder. Then we hit the hill. I clicked it into a high gear and powered up the first slope as fast as I could. I was breathing like an asthmatic, but at least she was gone. I never saw her on the bike course again. On the hill there were people walking their bikes. One woman had stopped altogether and was sitting in the shade of a tree. I felt bad, but not like them, at least. Too bad they were from a different race, or perhaps were still working on completing their second lap.

The last 10 miles into town I took it easy. It took all my willpower not to sit up, since doing so brought so much relief to my lower back and feet, but I was racing, dammit! I would finish this thing LOOKING cool, even if it was only at 15 mph! I thought I had finished in about 5:50, but it turns out, I went a bit longer than that.

Accumulated average speed. Watch it drop as time went on and temperatures went up!

Bike time: 5:57:55.5 Bike pace: 18.8 mph Bike rank: 2/18 AG (11%) (1 dropped out), 3/102 women (3%) (7 dropped out), 56/366 (15%) coed overall (13 dropped out) Time ahead of Bobby's bike split: 21:21

T2

I took off my shoes coming in to transition, but didn't do a sexy flying dismount. My feet hurt so bad, and my legs were so stiff from the cramping that I was afraid that I would fall over, or hurt my feet if I tried to do a running dismount. I came to a full stop on the dismount line and stiffly swung my leg over and ran away.

I was dismayed to see about 6 or 7 bikes in the women's racks. I don't know how I managed to pull off 3rd woman on the bike, because it sure looked to me like there were twice that number on the rack right now. (All women had started in the same swim wave.)

The blacktop was boiling under my feet. It took me a minute to find my stuff, and then I quickly plopped down on the ground to put on my shoes and also to quickly twist and crack my back. The black top was even hotter under my butt. I switched out my helmet for my visor, grabbed my run bottle and food bag, and dashed out of transition. Well, "dashed" is a relative term. I didn't know how I could walk with my legs feeling the way they did, and I wondered if I would ever run again.

T1 time: 2:57.2
T1 rank: 3/18 AG (17%), 7/103 woman (7%), 22/356 coed overall (6%) (10 dropped out)

The Run... Excuse me, The DEATH MARCH

Straight out of transition there was an aid station, and I stopped there to get water for my Accelerade powder already in the bottle. We had been promised ice, but they were out. I chucked my snack bag under the nearest bush and waddled off. I thought for sure I was going to start walking as soon as I was out of sight of people.

Shane popped out of the crowd. "What HAPPENED?! Where have you been?!" he asked. "Fuck you!" I screamed. "I rode 112 miles in the heat, you ass hole!" I yelled. I almost threw my water bottle at his head. I had asked him to make me mad to make me run faster, but this was not what I meant. Later I realized that there were a lot of kids around that point, and I'd probably committed a big no-no. But I think anyone who had heard the conversation would have understood if I'd torn him into pieces in front of all those innocent children. "If you keep up this pace, you can still beat Bobby by 5 minutes!" he urged. This was another thing that I had told him to say, but since I had only run about the length of a football field and already stopped for a snack, I didn't really appreciate it. "Go away! I never want to see you again for as long as I live!" I yelled, and waddled off down the path.

I managed to keep a sub-9-minute pace going for about a nanosecond, and then held sub-10 for another mile or so, but that didn't last long. I couldn't believe it, the clock still hadn't passed 7 1/2 hours and half of the people on the course were already walking. It took me awhile to figure out that a lot of them were doing a half ironman distance, but many walkers had white numbers on too, indicating they were doing the full distance. These guys weren't the lightstick crowd, these were supposed to be the guns! The run was a triple out and back, so in the next 4.25 miles, I would see every single person who was ahead of me. I couldn't concentrate well enough to keep track of how many women there were, though. Four? Five? Who cared? I could tell that I wasn't going to be running this whole marathon.

There was an aid station roughly every mile, and right from the first one I started walking the aid stations. I even stopped to pee in the porta-john. Despite waiting till I started running to add water, it tasted like my Accelerade had curdled in the sun anyway, so at every aid station I would pour a cup of water on my head, a cup of Gatorade down my throat, and shove a pretzel in my mouth as I started running. At the Mile 2 aid station they seemed to have every middle schooler in Sonoma County working. They were all enthusiasm, but the efficiency was a bit lacking. I came into the aid station saying, "Water? Water?" A boy handed me a cup and I poured it over my head. "May I please have some more?" I asked. He grabbed a pitcher and poured the whole thing over my head. "Thanks," I said, "but I meant some to drink."

Course profile. The battery got low on the second loop and my GPS went a bit loopy, but you get the idea.

Based on absolutely no evidence whatsoever, I had decided that the run would be flat, and was quite dismayed to find that the back half was VERY hilly. I had tried to run aid station to aid station until that point, but when I got to the bottom of the first of 2 steep hills (after several rollers), I knew I was going to have to take this like the ultrarunners do it: walking the uphills, running the downhills. Just as long as I kept moving... During one of my running spells I passed one woman who was walking and a Team In Training member coming the other way said to her, "Keep it up! Constant forward motion; you're doing great!"
He wasn't talking to me, but I almost said, "That's a great way to get yourself smacked, you know!"

I came in from the first loop in about an hour and a half. I just wanted this to be over! It was SO HOT out here, my legs wouldn't obey me, and I didn't give a flying fuck WHAT happened anymore. And I'd only gone 8.5 miles! I got my first armband and as I was running up the driveway out onto the street, Shane turned up again. "How you holding up?" It was obvious that I wasn't going to run a 4:30 marathon, so now he was ready to be more kind towards me. I'd been preparing what I wanted to say to him for the whole first loop. If I had something I had to be back for (getting a message to Shane), I felt like I had a purpose, and it made the running easier. Now was my chance. "Shane, I was hit by a car on the bike!" (That'll teach him to insult my bike time! I thought. Now he HAS to be nice to me!) "Can you find out if anyone reported it?"
"Shit! Are you kidding me?"
"No, it was a white pickup!" I said, and ran away trying to look strong. All these people listening in would sure be impressed if they saw me running strong now that they know I was hit by a car.

But loop 2 was worse than any of the 7 rings of hell. It was hot as fuck, and I found myself extending my walking breaks more and more. My new message that I would relay to Shane when I got back was that I thought I was going to have to walk it in. Just having that in my head made me feel lower than at any other point in the race. I just wanted it to be over. Not only did I stop to pee, I actually waited in line for the porta potty, who cared if I lost 4 or 5 minutes? It even hurt to lean over, so I did something I never, ever do: I sat on the seat. Who even cared anymore?

People with runner's bodies were running with some of the most horrible form I had ever seen. They looked like the clips you see of athletes who collapse within sight of the finish line. One guy turned to me, "It's like running on the sun out here!"
"Worse," I said.


On the way back in loop 2, I finally saw Kat. Where had she been all this time?

I ran past the finish line to get my second wrist band. This was cruel! I saw Shane again on the way back out. We walked together and he filled me in on the information he had been able to gather. No one had reported an accident, and "they" wanted to talk to me after the race. They at least seemed really concerned about it, and wanted to make sure I was okay. "How you holding up?" he asked again. "The pounding is killing me," I said. "This is going to be messy. I may have to walk it in." "Yeah, but you only have like 8 and a half more miles, right?" I groaned. "It's SO HOT out there!" I said. "Yeah, I didn't want to tell you this until it cooled down. It got up to 97 degrees today," he told me. "It's still about 92 now." It was about 6:00 p.m. "Oh, and one more thing..." he said. "... they lost your suit." "WHAT?! Like my wetsuit?!" "Yeah. It's not there. I've already checked twice. You have to 'come by and identify it when you're done.'" "You have GOT to be kidding me!" I said. I just couldn't seem to get anything right in this race! Right before I said goodbye to Shane, the lead woman passed me on her way into the finish line. "Oh well, there goes my gold medal," I said sarcastically. "At least I know that I'm not going to get lapped."

The news about the wetsuit was enough to spoil my final lap. One thing it DID do, though, was make me run more (if not faster). I even choked down some more candy, just so that I could get back faster to ream them out. It seemed to help. On the last loop I saw two men who looked like they were having trouble making their next step, they were so out of it. I saw one guy yacking in the bushes, and another one collapse in a chair at an aid station and ask for medical to be called. I couldn't even see how many wrist bands people had on, let alone keep track of whether I was passing people or being passed. I saw people who had been running beautifully on past loops running with strides that looked worse than I felt, and was surprised when I found they were behind me.

At eleven hours and 13 minutes, I was still at mile 20.5. I never really expected to beat Bobby's time anyway. Three miles from the finish I poured the last cup of Gatorade that I planned to drink in my entire life into my bottle, poured one last cup of water over my head, and gritted my teeth. I was going to run the rest of the way, and I was going to get this over with. With 2 miles to go, a girl passed me. She was flying, maybe at a 10 minute mile. I tried squeezing every last inch of willpower that I had out of my legs, but I couldn't seem to break my 13-minute mile pace.

Run splits. Second loop was by far the worst.

Past the last aid station, around the corner, and into the home stretch where spectators were set up with their lawn chairs I knew people would cheer for me. But they seemed tired. I managed to get a few groups excited for me, but most had lost interest. I tried to focus on the things that I had planned to think about at this moment, how I'd finally managed to quit drinking, getting out of the world's shittiest relationship and building my life up from scratch, following through on something that I'd been trying to train for for 3 years. Instead, all I could think about was whether my bike and wetsuit were okay.

Before the race I got an email from Gretchen, who really hit the nail on the head. She said:

When I started reading it you were in Spain, and you said you hadn't been competing, and I sort of thought you were one of those athletes that didn't compete much. And you always talked about how slow you were, whether it was true or not I don't know. But Now you're like the opposite end of the spectrum from who I used to think you were. You are like THE badass triathlete/bike chick. You train like a monster. Your motivation is stunning. You race ALL THE TIME!! Who are you, anyway??
Sooooooo........it seems only appropriate that you are finally doing this thing. The day is here. I know you will kick some ass, but just don't forget to enjoy it. Of course it will be full of pain and suffering, but you know, that's kind of the point. You can still enjoy it. You will never again do your first Ironman, so even enjoy the shitty parts.

When I was in Spain, I didn't compete much because I couldn't. I didn't have the money for the entry fees, I missed several races because I couldn't seem to get to the starting line, and worst of all, my girlfriend wouldn't let me leave the house to train, let alone race. So I drank. And the more I drank, the more I felt like a failure, and the more I felt like a failure, the more I drank. I came home so sick of myself, that I swore that I was going to quit for a year. I was going to spend a whole year NOT drinking and doing whatever the hell I wanted to do, when I wanted to do it. I was going to train as hard as I could, and then I was going to do an ironman. And for once everything seemed to be going right. I raced all the time, and all over the place. This was my fourth marathon in a calendar year. I even started winning some stuff, taking a handful of age group wins and even a course record. But all year I had had my eye on this ironman, and try as I might, I just couldn't make myself enjoy these last few minutes. Finally, FINALLY I came around the corner into the home stretch and this guy sprinted past me! Jerk! If he had all that energy all this time, what was he saving it for?! I still beat him anyway, since his wave must have started 5-10 minutes ahead of mine. The people at the finish scrambled and got the tape up in time for me to run through it. I felt nothing but relief.
Run time: 5:17:08.6
Time actually spent running: 5:04:03
Real average running pace: 11:46
Run pace: 12:06 min/mi (including stops)
Run rank: 7/17 AG (41%) (1 dropped out since T2), 27/87 women (31%) (15 dropped out since T2), 127/310 (41%) coed overall (56 dropped out since T2)

Not my actual finishing photo.

Post Race

A race official swooped in and put his arm around me right after I crossed the line. "How are you doing? You doing okay? How you doing?"
"Okay," I said. Why was he touching me? As they handed me a water bottle and took my chip off my ankle I started hyperventilating. I was going to cry, but I wanted this jackass off of me when I did it. "You sure you're okay? You want to go to medical? You doing alright? It'll only take a moment..." he was saying. "No... wheeze... I'm cool... wheeze... really... wheeze..." Where the hell was Shane? There he was. The bad man was still touching me as Shane tried to step in. I walked over and hugged him, and immediately started sobbing. Shane finally convinced him to go away, promising he'd take me to the med tent if I needed it. I cried for another minute or so and he hugged me tight, even though I was wet and slimy and covered in grime. Shane gets these things. I'm actually still getting a lump in my throat right now thinking about it. When I could talk again I said, "That was awful!" Shane laughed. "No, really, Shane, it was horrible! Did they find my wetsuit???" Yes. They'd finally let Shane in to the gear area, and he'd found my bag. It had gotten wet and the sticker with my number on it had fallen off, that was all. And it looked like my bike was okay too. "Shane, I never want to do that again for as long as I live!" "Yeah, right."

He lead me ever-so-slowly to the food tent where I piled my plate high with food that I was unable to eat. Not long after, Kat showed up looking fresh as a daisy. "Where were you all day?!" I asked.
"I got three flat tires on the bike," she explained. "And I only had 1 tube and 1 cartridge, so I had to wait around until someone came by and could give me one," she said. She hardly even seemed angry about it. She had lost around an hour on the bike, and had still come in only 13 minutes behind me. AND she had done a full costume change in both T1 and T2. That's why I'd seen her running in the wrong direction in her bikini this morning! What a rock star! We agreed to be BFFs, since she lives only 1 town away and since we seem to swim and bike at exactly the same speed.

Before leaving we checked the results. I'd finished 9th overall, but 4th in my age group, since the overall first and second place women were in my age group (bitches!). Oh well. At least that meant we wouldn't have to make the drive AGAIN tomorrow to go to the awards ceremony.

Total time: 12:24:33.4 Overall rank: 4/17 AG (21%) (plus 2 DNFs), 9/87 women (8%) (and 22 DNF), 69/310 (18%) coed overall (69 DNF)

On the way out to the car we saw two medics dragging a guy in. He was limp as a rag doll and ashen, and I never got to see his face because his head was hanging listlessly from his shoulders. After a few steps they had to stop to let him dry heave for several minutes. I thought he might have been about 50, but looked like he was about 100 years old. I turned around and looked again when we'd passed him. On the back of his thigh it still said "24". I couldn't believe it.

When I finally got to my phone after the race, I texted some friends my time and placing and said that it had been a "bad day". So many things had gone wrong that I really hadn't felt like I was able to enjoy the day. I didn't mean that I was unhappy with my result or my time. I had hoped to go faster, but I had also hoped the high temperature would be 82* as forecast. I did what I came to do, which was to finish, but I felt like I couldn't enjoy that achievement while it was happening. I didn't get that thrill I usually got after a long race. I was so worried about being hit by a car, whether my bike was ruined, and whether my wetsuit was lost, that I couldn't enjoy the culmination of all my hard work. I was just glad it was over.

When I woke up the next morning, though, I realized that I'd been one of the lucky ones. I'd been tapped by a car, but in the end it hadn't cost me any time. Poor Kat must have been desperate standing at the side of the road waiting for someone to toss her a spare tube, and I can't even imagine her desperation when it happened again. And at least I'd been able to finish, unlike the 69 people who DNFed. There were people who had collapsed on the run course, there were people who had been pulled off in medical cars, and people who had simply sat down and given up. I wondered what they were thinking about today.

So to answer the question you're all itching to ask: yeah, I guess I'll have to do another one someday, just so I can actually enjoy the experience. But don't anyone talk about a "next time" right now. Right now I'm doubting whether I ever want to get up off my couch again.