Event: Sprint Triathlon
  Swim: .5 mile
  Bike: 12.4 mile (20K)
  Run: 3.1 mile (5K)
Date: 7/09/06
Location: Pleasant Prairie, WI

After last year’s Danskin fiasco I swore I’d never do this race again, but I signed up because a friend was planning to. Even as a newbie last summer I was disappointed and debated telling the race director; when I learned from women who’d raced the Danskin elsewhere the things I experienced were unheard of for this high-profile national series, I did send a letter. To their credit, the organizers addressed the majority of the issues I cited (including: confusing packet-pickup, no signage, not enough bike racks, running out of water post-race, no food post-race, not enough water stops on run) and with the exception of a nightmarish parking situation, which is not under their control, the race experience was noticeably improved.

The season’s derailment-by-injury changed my initial reluctance to do this event into determination to race it come hell or high water. I have to spend the rest of the season in recovery mode and it was the only race left on my schedule. Not doing it meant not doing a triathlon at all this year. Besides, the money was already spent.

My doctor hadn’t allowed me to race in Naperville two weeks prior and cautioned I should probably let this one go too – it would likely be weeks, even months, before my injured calves heal enough to run again. My sports massage therapist told me I should only consider doing it if I could walk the distance without pain (I couldn’t), that I should refrain from running altogether and that I should accept a DNF if the pain kicked in. She also timed targeted treatments in the weeks prior to the race, which I’m convinced is what made it all happen. I’m usually quite accepting of my physical limitations and generally defer to a doctor’s advice, but this time there was no stopping me. However, I was able to let go of my performance goals and was just looking to finish.

After dispatching with packet pick-up and mandatory Saturday bike racking I paid a visit to the lake. The first lake I’d ever swum across, a lifetime ago on this exact weekend last summer. I remember living last spring in real fear, the desperation of trying to train for something I didn’t think I could make myself do. I remember the overwhelming support of my friends, patiently coaxing me into the water at a local lake. The weeks of tentative sorties into open water, breathless and scared, in preparation for swimming this lake. I remember disappointment that I let them down because I did get scared. I remember breathing so hard I couldn’t put my face in the water, and resorting to backstroke most of the way. Passed by wave after wave until I lost count. Humiliation that I was such a poor swimmer the lifeguards and Swim Angels were compelled to question me periodically. With circumstances having stripped all other goals from me this year, I was left with only this: conquer the lake. Swim across it – really, truly swim across it – with some semblance of dignity. And as I stood on the shore, looking across the water I had so feared, that just a year ago had seemed an insurmountable challenge, I felt… empty. It just didn’t seem that big anymore.

I went to the water because I needed photographic evidence my fears were founded, to obtain proof of what I had survived. To steel myself for the psychological battle ahead. I went to the water, but I didn’t find what I was looking for. Like an adult returning to a placed beloved in childhood, it was diminished in my sight; the hungry waters that haunted my dreams no longer had power over me. I had moved on, and in doing so was able to see the lake for its average self, to reduce its fearful depths to pixels on a screen. This battle was over before it began; the spell was broken and I had emerged victorious.

After my lakeside epiphany I visited to the swim exit to confirm how to find my bike, and marveled at the difference. I vividly remember last year, after the longest 27 minutes of my life came to a merciful end, landing on a narrow, gravelly ledge and being faced with such a steep uphill climb to T1 that volunteers were stationed along it to give us a hand up. The organizers changed something dramatic – maybe had the bank bulldozed – this exit was a moderate grade that had been so thoroughly sanded even the rocky, knee-bruising underwater ledge was well covered.

Race morning I woke shortly before my 4:30 wake-up call, convinced my eyes to accept my contacts, slathered on the SPF 50 and got on the road, where I set to the task of choking down a bagel. My pre-race nutrition was one of several things I did different this year – thanks to all the great things I’ve learned from the Tri Blogger Community – and something I credit with helping give me my best race experience to date.

Since the designated parking was new this year I was worried about getting lost, but I found the exit with no trouble – it was the one backed up bumper to bumper right out onto I-94, about a mile from the lots at Dairyland Greyhound Park. As we crawled along, windows open to let in the early morning air, I noted the near-silence. I’d expected stereos blaring pulse-pounding mood music but I guess, to a woman, we were feeling introspective.

In that silent, endless mile I finally started to feel anxiety. It was nearly 6 o’clock. I had to get through the traffic, deal with parking, stand in line for a shuttle then take a 15 minute ride before reaching the venue, let alone transition, which closed at 6:45. My only consolation was that every single person there had the same problem.

I got to transition at 6:25. I paused briefly before going in - savoring the energy and capturing the glorious madness on film. Another racer stood beside me, doing the same. We shared a laugh, wished each other a good race and dove into the sunscreen-scented sea of bikes and balloons and gear and athletes absorbed in private pre-race rituals.

This time I’d memorized my bike location in reference to Port-a-Potty row, so I was spared a repeat of the panicked search for my “missing” bike among shifting overflow racks. My OCD served me well, making my rehearsed transition set up so quick and easy I had time to think everything through more than once, remember to take Imodium, touch up my sunscreen and ask a neighbor to take my picture.

This year I eschewed the laid-back Recreational wave, signed up as an age-grouper and was happy to get a relatively early start of 8:13. With more than 40 minutes to go I got in line for the Port-a-Potties, and even with that I was only halfway through the line and ended up having to accept the kindness of my fellow athletes and cut to the front. I ran to the start and lined up with less than a minute to spare before my wave was called down.

Just before we started I was calm and happy. It was hot – sunny, cloudless, almost 90 but not too humid. Around here you won’t find a more perfect summer day.

I seeded myself to the back – just because I wasn’t scared didn’t mean I was going to swim any faster – and actually remembered to start my watch. Not that I was going to look at it; today was just about finishing. It placated my OCD to know I could look at it if I wanted to. As expected I was at the back of the pack when the swim commenced, but for the first time I pulled ahead of the dog-paddlers and side-strokers and hung with the pack for a while.

Monumental in my world, my goal had been merely to swim across the lake without stopping, because even having crushed the fear I’m still far from relaxed in open water. Surprising myself (and mentally thanking my swim coach) even as I did it, I swam with relative confidence, pausing only twice: to relieve my aching stomach of gulped air and to recover when one routine attempt to take a breath got me a face full of another swimmer's wake.

I was drowning in a sea of new emotions. This was my third triathlon; in Danskin terms I was a veteran. But this swim showed me I’ve been sitting on the sidelines when I race. Held so far back by my ridiculous weight and even more ridiculous times, I didn’t know what I’d been missing. But on this day it changed - I changed - forever. I was right there in it, getting kicked and elbowed by other swimmers, coming up on feet and feeling people come up on mine. I relished the bumps and adjustments, even hung in there when two swimmers converged on me in a Death-Star-garbage-compactor kind of way, squeezing me between them until I reluctantly cried uncle and dropped behind to let them fight it out. I felt so alive. For the first time, I was racing.

It wasn’t until the next wave caught me about halfway across that I realized how well I was doing – only one wave passed me! ONE! As I neared the far shore the leaders of the next wave did catch up, but I didn’t mind because I’d made them come so far to do it. Another milestone for this ground-breaking swim: I passed a straggler from the previous wave.

It wouldn’t be an open water swim if I didn’t go off course, and true to form I swam wide in the last quarter. It happened when I was battling it out the with squeezy-twins; once I cleared them and had a chance to sight again I thought “huh, how did that lifeguard station get on my left? And where did all the buoys… oh.”

The remainder of the swim passed uneventfully, and I felt so great I managed to jog up the exit and into T1. I remembered too late I wasn’t supposed to look at my watch, but was so happy about what I saw there I forgave the slip and ran with renewed vigor to my bike.

My transition spot was close to swim in and run out but quite far from the bike out. I was concerned about this because I have trouble walking across my driveway in cycling shoes, let alone 75 yards across a jam-packed transition area. Still, my body was pushing me to move, to run, to race. I savored the strange sensation of jogging in cleats, the thrill of feeling my body embrace the behavior of a real triathlete, the normalcy of running my bike to the mount line. I resisted checking my watch as I left T1.

I remembered to leave the bike in an easy gear, but this smooth launch into the bike leg was quickly compromised by almost painfully tight quads, something I haven’t experienced since my earliest attempts at cycling more than two years ago. Not something I’m used to dealing with, my mind was racing as I debated how to handle the situation.

I decided to spin easy and let the muscles come along at their own pace, but I didn’t have long to relax because the course goes almost immediately up a highway overpass. I geared down to grannies and made it over the hill uneventfully, even passing a few people in the process. Thankfully, by the time I’d gone the first mile the discomfort faded and I returned to riding bigger rings.

I noticed the wind the moment I got on the bike, but it wasn’t until I got into the course a bit - and the euphoria I feel at the start of a new leg waned - that I realized how hard it was blowing. Even the days I’d accidentally trained in 20 mph winds hadn’t prepared me for this. It seemed to be coming from every direction, teasing us, changing its heading as we did. Turning corner after corner on the course loop brooked no relief and we never did find the tail of it.

As we rounded one bend there was a volunteer hollering what I swear was “around the curve is halfway.” I got really excited and started imaginging what my bike split would be – I was working hard but felt amazingly fresh and couldn’t believe I was already halfway through the course. I didn’t know how long I’d been out there, but it didn’t seem more than 15 minutes. I glanced at the bike computer to confirm the distance and found I’d forgotten to reset it; I resisted looking at my watch. I rounded the bend and passed… mile marker 4. I’ll never know if the volunteer was stupid, misinformed or the wind distorted her words, but I was really irritated. It was hard enough to fight the damn wind without fighting false hopes.

As the cyclists played tag, passing and being passed, we traded wry commentary on the weather. Hearing the others lament it confirmed my suspicion that it wasn’t my injury-shorted training holding me back; I felt remarkably good and I’d love to see my split on that course sans wind. As it was, I couldn’t get any momentum on the flats, even the mild uphills were pure torture and though I did finish my bike bottle it was a struggle to maintain my balance to do so. I later learned the wind was 20 mph, gusting to 30 mph.

Around mile 8 my right knee spoke up and asked, rather politely I thought, when exactly we might be finished with this nonsense. I was surprised to hear from it – usually the left is the one to start whining, and neither had complained since my bike fitting. I was already working the easier middles and the grannies, grinding along the latter third of a course that feels like a false flat when it’s not rolling. I kept pushing, head low, gearing down and down, passed by many I’d left decisively on the one fast section around mile 5, but too focused on fighting the wind to care. By mile 10 I just wanted it to be over; the outrageous wind had temporarily dampened my racing spirit.

The highlight of the bike was that, wind notwithstanding, it was uneventful. Last year I raced in the Recreational wave and the bike had been a terrible experience, with novice participants creating a lot of brake-slamming and near-misses. Add the sweltering heat, undrinkably warm bike bottle and malfunctioning gears and you get an experience I never wanted to repeat. At the time I had assumed the Danskin in general was full of newbies so clueless they are a danger to themselves and others; now I know that racing as an age-grouper makes a far more pleasant Danskin experience.

As I arrived at the dismount line I could actually feel my right leg disengage itself from the orders my brain was sending. I did not, could not, lift it high enough to clear the seat, and barely, barely hung on, teetering on the edge of balance, left foot on the ground, wobbling on the precarious fulcrum created by the cleat, right leg hung up on my seat, my giddy laughter at the predicament turning the gasps of the spectators witnessing my near-fall into relieved laughter of their own as my recalcitrant leg finally landed safely.

My calves tightened immediately after dismounting, but my head was back in the race and my priority was to get across the timing mat. I gritted my teeth and jogged my bike across, then veered over to clear the way, not wanting to cause a pile-up in my desperate need to stop moving. Suspecting the upward toe-point created by the cleats wasn’t helping since it’s the opposite of what my ravaged calf muscles require, I yanked off my cycling shoes and stuck them onto my aero bars, too flustered from my rough dismount and current pain to carry them and push the bike. The tightness eased up enough for a slow, limping barefoot walk to T2.

I plopped down to put on my socks and running shoes and got up with no trouble. Popped on my visor, fastened my race belt and grabbed a bottle of water. I was feeling great and wasn’t sure I needed it, but I’m used to sipping fluids frequently when I run, and figured I shouldn’t make my first attempt at relying only on 1-mile aid stations on a 90 degree race day.

Once again my OCD overruled my plan of blissful ignorance just long enough for me to check my watch, and once again I forgave myself the blunder because I was just so darn happy with what I saw. Even though I’d resigned myself to a “just finish” day, I was still hoping to come in under last year’s time. So I was thrilled to see that I had an hour an ten minutes to make that happen – more than enough time, even walking injured.

I jogged the 10 yards to the run start and didn’t even make it across the timing mat before my calves seized terribly. The pain wasn’t as intense as the original injury, but it was loud and clear. My first thought was “this is going to be a loooooong 3.1 miles” and my second was that I needed to get off the running path to stretch them. Dropping out wasn't even on my radar.

The first part of the run is lined heavily with spectators, so I jogged along weakly for about a hundred yards until the course opened up. For some reason I just couldn’t bring myself to stop in front of these strangers who were calling out our numbers and clapping, screaming, offering generous encouragement to people they didn’t know. I had to move beyond their sight before my brand new triathlete ego would allow me to heed the painful call of my calves.

I paused and stretched, walked a bit, jogged a cautious bit, paused and stretched some more. Did this three or four times. The urge to run was so strong I could hardly hold myself back, but the pain kept me in check. And then, miraculously, less than a half mile into the run, my calves just… felt better. The tension released, the pain dissipated and I was free to run. And run I did. Not just more than I’d ever run in a triathlon, which isn’t saying much, but more and easier – that’s not to say faster – than I can often run in training. For the third time that day, I felt a wave of emotion wrapped in the knowledge I was performing like a real triathlete. With only a few short recovery walks, I found I was able to run the majority of the first mile and a quarter. I passed other racers – me! Passing people! (mind you, they were almost all walking, but passing of any kind was a first for me) – and thoroughly enjoyed the new sensation of being a Danskin runner cheered by the walkers instead of the other way around.

Mindful of the icy cold water and my delicate stomach, I was careful to take teeny, tiny sips along the run. My stomach was fine, but it was at this point my gut defied the heavy dose of Imodium I’d piled on pre-race and started to grumble. I stopped running until the rumbling subsided and then resumed a cautious jog. Thus passed the second mile, an endless pattern of jog-jog-jog-grumble-walk-walk.

The best part of the run wasn’t that I was actually running – although I'll never forget that feeling. It was the attention I got for my Tri-Geek Dreams jersey! I know there was at least one other Tri-Blogger in the race, but I’m almost certain I was the only one sporting the jersey. I lost count of the number of racers I either overheard commenting on it (invariably something like “I love that jersey, I wonder where she go it?”) or asking me about it directly. It was really great – the Tri-Blogger love is infectious and it certainly spread like wildfire that day, carrying me through the rough spots to my best finish yet.

My gut quieted by mile marker 2 and I was ready to bring it home. But my tank felt close to empty; being forced to walk for so long drained my urge to run. I alternated walking and jogging to the last aid station, about a half mile from the finish.

I was resolved to finish strong and unencumbered; with only minor internal debate I tossed my water bottle in a garbage can and worked on turning my feet over as quick as I could. I was fading fast and couldn’t keep it up, had to walk again. Shortly after I rounded the last corner I heard a familiar voice call my name – my husband! I was sad he caught me walking on his very first visit to a race, even though I knew he expected me to be walking anyway because of the injury. He walked beside me for a minute, let me know there was a photographer just over the rise (What can I say? He gets me.), gave me a high-five and headed off to join the line for the torturous 90 minute process of retrieving our van.

The run course is almost perfectly flat, which was part of the reason I’d allowed myself to do it; the one thing that aggravates my calves above all others is an incline and the doctor had been quite clear about avoiding them for a while. About a quarter mile from the finish there’s a tiny little rise in the path, and even its insignificance nearly did me in. Just a few steps into it the pain flared and slowed me considerably; I couldn’t muster even a half-hearted jog in time to look good for the photographer. He must have sensed my distress because he didn't bother to take my picture.

Having such an amazing race and strong early run I wanted desperately to finish it the same way, but my hope of running the last half mile became to a compromise to run the last quarter mile dwindled to a plan to run the chute. A hundred yards or so from the chute the path was lined with cheering spectators and medaled finishers, and their energy renewed my tired legs, the pain faded once again and I willed myself to move.

From a walk to a stumbling jog to a run, it felt like someone else was in charge, making me move faster and faster until I sprinting all-out, breathing comfortably even then, a high-five from Sally Edwards and then the beep, the blessed, shrieking beep that means you can stop.

So I stopped.

Looked at my watch.

Looked at it again.

Finally remembered to push the button, then looked a third time.

As insignificant as this race was, as I am, in the realm of Iron men and women who have longer workouts than this before breakfast, for me this was a dream come true.

I didn’t just finish the race. I didn’t just finish within last year’s time. In spite of illness – the fitness lost to months of bronchitis early in the year. In spite of injuries – the shoulder sprain that held back my swim, the damaged knee cartilage that hampered my cycling, the torn calves that devastated my run. In spite of it all, I didn’t just finish. I finished strong. I finished happy. And I finished nearly 15 minutes faster than last year.

Fifteen. Minutes. Talk about a PR.

Once this soaked in, once I realized the training had worked, that my performance under the worst possible circumstances had earned me the goal I’d hoped for under the best, once I grasped that it's possible to finish a sprint in the promised land – for me, under 2 hours – my next thought was this: I’m gonna do an Oly in 2007!

Post-Script: While packing up my gear I was chatting with another racer racked just a few feet away. She was a real sweetie and I asked her to take my picture. Right before she pressed the button, she asked me this: "Are you Ironman bound?" I was speechless. Somebody looked at me and saw a potential Ironman. It was all I could do to answer her, and I only got out one word: Yes.

Swim: 22:07 (Improvement: 4:59)
T1: 4:32
Bike: 51:16 (Improvement: 53 sec)
Bike Pace: 14.5 mph
T2: 4:21
Run: 52:57 (Improvement: 7:00)
Run Pace: 17:04 min/mile
Total time: 2:15:15 (Improvement: 14:20)
Age Group: 359 of 379
Overall Place: 3118 of 3620 finishers

Note: All improvements are compared to my 2005 results for this event.

Michelle Wood
July 2006