Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | August 12, 2010

13 Ways of Looking at a Swim Race

This past weekend was eventful for me. Of my own volition, with no one holding a gun to my head, I showed up at – and competed in – an open water swim race: the WaterDaze 1-mile point-to-point swim. It was a remarkable feat considering I have a cat-like aversion to water (see previous post). Although I can’t say I enjoyed the swim itself, I will concede that I enjoyed the pre- and post-swim parts of the event. Much of that enjoyment came from the fact that my daughter did the race with me. Well, that and the free food.

The WaterDaze event is held in Polson, Montana, in lovely Flathead Lake. Although many, if not all, races declare that their swims are in “crystal clear water,” rarely is that true. Usually the water is murky, filled with goose poop, and smells funky. Flathead Lake, however, is truly crystal clear. It is the largest freshwater lake west of the Mississippi and is generally recognized as one of the cleanest lakes in the world.1 At its southern end sits Polson, a small town of about 4000, nestled between the lake and the nearby mountains.

Polson is surrounded by farmland, but the town itself is populated with small bungalows stacked up a hill overlooking the lake, side by side, as if they are huddled together for warmth. And they might very well need to, for while summer is glorious in Polson, winter is long. There are many recreational activities in town, but one thing there is not: an indoor pool. The nearest indoor pool is a solid 45-minute drive away. A group called Mission Valley Aquatics, however, is working to change that. They are raising money to build an indoor pool in Polson, and WaterDaze is their annual fundraiser. So, not only was this swim race a new challenge for me, it was also for a good cause. Because even though I hate swimming, I want others to have access to a pool so they can learn to hate swimming for themselves.

So why did I sign up for a swim race if I don’t like swimming? I think the only explanation is a new phenomenon which I have decided to call Athletic-Event-Related-PsychosisTM, the inexplicable desire to sign up for athletic events that I don’t actually want to do.  Even though I don’t enjoy swimming and I had absolutely no desire to participate in a swim race, I signed up for it anyway, a tell-tale symptom of Athletic-Event-Related-PsychosisTM. My daughter, however, genuinely likes swimming – lately, she has been joining me for some of my swim workouts – so she decided to do the race, too. It was her first open water swim race, and while I had done triathlons before, this was my first swim-only event. A new milestone for both of us. I was immensely proud of her for stepping out of her comfort zone and trying something new. Most of all, however, I was just happy to have someone with me.

I have gotten used to doing these types of events solo. But this time, I had someone to sit with on the shuttle bus. Someone to chat with at the start. Someone to stay with on the course. Until, that is, we got separated and she took off. I tried catching up with her, panicked that she might need me and I wouldn’t be there to help her. As we reached the halfway point and I started to get a cramp, I laughed at myself for being worried about her. She is a great swimmer. The person in our family who was a cause for concern was yours truly.

However, I managed to plug along and I kept her in my sight until the end. I saw her get out of the water and pass under the finish arch. And she was there, along with the rest of my family, waving at me when I came in a minute later. Seeing her big smile at the finish was certainly the best part of the race.

A close second, however, came several minutes later. We milled about watching the next few swimmers come in, then we grabbed a bite to eat at the food tent. A few moments later, the announcer came on the loudspeaker to inform us that the last swimmer was coming in: a 70-ish woman who has been a life-long swimmer. In fact, the announcer informed us, she had been a lifeguard at that very beach back in her day. We all gathered around to cheer her as she came in. She reached the shallows, stood up (wearing her bathing suit with a little skirt, no less) and raised her arms in victory. Everyone applauded. I cried. Then I went to get more potato salad.

Although I did not particularly like the swim itself, it will always stand out as a memorable event because my daughter was at my side. Well, not actually at my side, more like 25 meters ahead of me, but close enough. As it turns out, there were dozens of young swimmers there, and they all beat me. Every single one. But guess what, kids? You may be fast swimmers but summer is progressing even faster than your front crawl. Soon you will be sitting in classrooms, longing for the days when you could hop in the lake and swim a mile. So, in honor of all those kids who beat me, but who have to go back to school in a couple of weeks, I have decided to do a poetic (somewhat) race review (of sorts).

Millions of reluctant and bored schoolchildren across the country will be studying Wallace Stevens this year and will be forced to read “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” Then those poor students will be required to write their own lame poem called “13 Ways of Looking at a ____”. So, in that vein, here is “13 Ways of Looking at a Swim Race.” Apologies to Wallace Stevens for butchering the format, and to Mr. Cook, my 9th grade English teacher, who would be horrified and would probably give me a C for this sophomoric effort. But perhaps literary race reports will become the new standard? I may be starting a trend here….

13 Ways of Looking at a Swim Race

I

Among twenty snow clad mountains, the only moving things were 80 neoprene-clad penguins waddling into the water

II

I was of two minds: the one that said “It’s just a mile swim” and the one that said “Have you gone mad? Run away!”

III

The starting horn blew. Yellow and green swim caps whirled in the water. The kayaks circled like oddly protective sharks.

IV

80 swimmers are one. 80 swimmers and a dozen kayakers and at least a few motorboats are one.

V

A young girl on shore, cheering from her wheelchair, a poignant reminder of Fate’s capricious hand.

VI

Waves fill the horizon, large and intimidating. The finish line far away. Far and away. Far and away the stupidest idea I have ever had. This swim race.

VII
Oh, Angel of Death, why is your hand on my back? Or is that just water seeping into my wetsuit?

VIII

I know what it means to be a little outside my comfort zone. I know the swim race is involved in what I know.

IX

When my daughter swam out of sight, it marked the lonely edge of where being a mom ended and being just another swimmer began.

X

80 swimmers. A one mile course. 200 square miles of water. And one idiot swimming just inches behind, grabbing my foot.

XI

The kayakers are paddling, the participants must be swimming. Still. Are we there yet?

XII

I do not know which to prefer: the excitement of getting to the finish line or the immense relief just after.

XIII

It was morning all afternoon, as if the day would never end. Finally, I stepped onto dry land. And it was over.

Flathead Lake

Flathead Lake

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | August 7, 2010

Over My Head

I woke up this morning to the sound of birds singing outside the window. Wishing that the birds had a snooze button, I rolled over, wrapping myself in the smooth coolness of the sheets. I pulled a pillow over my head, but I could still hear one particular bird, calling insistently. It sounded like he was saying “Don’t. Don’t. Don’t do it. Skip it. Skip it. Don’t swim.”

My sign-up-aholic tendencies have taken me strange places before, but this time I have really done it. I have signed up for something that even six month ago would have been not only unthinkable, but possibly a death sentence. I have signed up for a one-mile open water swim race. Let me just highlight those components for emphasis: One-mile. Open Water. SWIM.

Just to be clear, I hate swimming. I don’t even like water that much. My feeling about bodies of water, of any size, is that they are best appreciated from dry land, preferably in a beach chair, ideally with a cocktail.  No, I was not the mom who would play with her kids for hours in the shallow end of the pool, or playfully toss them in the waves at the beach. I was the mom who would sit comfortably in the shade reading a book while they swam, and when my kids would come to check in with me I would say “Can you please stop dripping on me?”

My water aversion is challenging, though, because I love water sports. For windsurfing, I manage to overcome the cold-water obstacle by doing a beach start and then praying – hard – that I don’t fall until I coast back onto the beach again. Water skiing, however, is more difficult. I am too chicken to try a dock start. My dislike of large painful splinters in my backside is greater than my dislike of cold water. So, I water start, whining and complaining the entire time. And, again, I pray hard that I don’t fall until I coast back as close to the beach and/or dock as I can get without risking great bodily harm. Although I love water skiing, I will gladly skip it altogether if the water is too chilly or if I simply don’t feel like getting my hair wet. Yes, I am that much of a baby.

So, how in the world did I sign up for a swim race? What invasion-of-the-body-snatchers kind of force took control of my mind and made me pick up the race flyer and say “Hey, I should do this….” Perhaps it is some undocumented form of psychosis, or perhaps a kind of miracle. In any case, I filled out the registration form and sent in my money, so I am committed. Now I just need someone to shoot that bird outside the window before he talks me out of it. “Don’t do it. Skip it. Skip it.”

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | July 27, 2010

Second? I’ll take it.

St Ignatius, Montana, is not known for many things. It is a small town, roughly 800 people, nestled up against the Mission Mountains on the eastern edge of the Flathead Valley in Northwest Montana. It lies in the heart of the Flathead Reservation, surrounded by pine-covered mountains on one side and miles of open farmland on the other. Tourists come to St. Ignatius to admire the historic St. Ignatius Mission.  Locals, however, come for Good Old Days, an annual summer celebration punctuated by a pancake breakfast, parade, quilt show, fireworks, and the Buffalo Run Road Race. Good Old Days also offers dog races.  In fact, there are more dogs racing during Good Old Days than there are people. That, however, can work to the slow runner’s advantage. And I, of course, am a slow runner.

Last year, I ran the Buffalo Run Half Marathon for the first time, and it was quite an experience. The flyer said the race started promptly at 7AM.  I had not registered in advance, so I figured I would need to leave some extra time. I pulled into St Ignatius around 6:15AM only to find that the race organizers hadn’t even set up tables yet. In fact, no one was there. Clearly, this ain’t the Chicago Marathon. To kill time, I drove over to the St. Ignatius Mission, sitting serenely in the early morning light. I admired its peaceful simplicity for a while. Then I checked email on my phone.

At 6:40 I headed back to the start, and I was still the first person there. I filled out my registration form and got my race number.  Slowly, a few other people showed up. As the announcer counted down to the start, I counted my fellow runners. There were 16 of us, plus one dog, a black border collie running with her owner. Needless to say, they were all faster than me, including the dog. All except Bob, that is, a septuagenarian who had just run the Missoula Marathon the previous weekend. Bob and I hung in the back the whole way, with the local ambulance driving ominously behind us. I told myself that the ambulance was there for Bob, but really, I was struggling more than he was. At mile 10, I faded and Bob passed me. I was left to run all by myself (cue the music) and I was Absolute Dead Last. But then Bob missed the turn back to the finish! Ha! I sprinted ahead, filled with the dream of Not Being Last. I crossed the line in the wonderfully slow time of 2:19, with Bob (having realized and corrected his mistake) just behind me. And yet, miracle of miracles, I was first in my Age Group!  The fact that I was the only one in my age group was a minor technicality. The dog who ran the race (with her owner) was the overall female winner. I thought about complaining that the dog should be disqualified for urinating on the course, but I let it go.

So this year, I returned to St Ignatius to defend my Age Group Championship Title. Like Uta Pippig or Bill Rodgers returning to Boston year after year to defend their titles, I knew I had to return and carry on my legacy. This time, I had experience on my side. I knew not to arrive until 10 minutes before the race start.  Still, it required getting up rather early, and I wondered if it was worth it when my alarm went off at 5:15. As I drove to St Ignatius, the sun was still on the far side of the mountains to the east. As I progressed, it started to illuminate the tops of the peaks, making the lingering snow patches glow brightly. The mountains looked like towering steep-gabled purple houses with the lights in the attic left on by accident. I thought to myself “I should really get up at dawn more often.” Yeah, right.

I arrived at the race a comfortable 15 minutes before the start, got my bib number and scanned the crowd of 18 people. I assessed the competition. Bob was there again, although the dog who won last year was not. As I looked around, my eyes fixated on a woman who appeared to be – gasp – my age.  I got closer and looked at her bib. Sure enough, she had a blue circle sticker too – she was in my age group. Dammit!  She was thin, she was fit, and much to my dismay, she was very nice. We chatted at the start line while in my head I imagined ways to eliminate her. Trip her? Send her the wrong way on the course? Lock her in the Port-o-Potty? Alas, before I could formulate a plan, the race started and she left me in the dust. She smoked me before we even got to the first turn. My hopes of defending my title evaporated. So my new goal was not to be Absolute Dead Last. I figured this year, Bob The Septuagenarian would be more familiar with the course and wouldn’t miss the final turn. That meant I had to pick it up a little. Game on, Bob, game on.

Fortunately, Coach Nina has had me doing speedwork. Now, I had tried doing speedwork on my own while marathon training last year, but mostly it consisted of me running slightly faster for, oh, about 10 seconds, and then going right back to lumbering along. Nina, however, has me doing real Fartlek workouts. Hard ones. I hate them, but honestly, I think they might be working. The Buffalo Run was sure to be the test.

There was a chill in the air as we started out, 48 degrees on the way to 90. The heat was destined to come with the sun which had not quite made it over the Mission Mountains yet. As we ran along, the sun slowly moved higher in the sky, streaming between the mountain peaks and casting large swaths of light and shadow on the road. We turned northward and the slower runners, a fair number of us, coalesced into a group at the back. The Contenders drifted out of view in front.

We ran along through open farmland, where spectators were few and far between. There was one couple, near the start, sitting in lawn chairs watching and clapping. There were two children in need of a good scrubbing standing at the end of a dairy farm driveway. They stared at us as if we were insane. Although those unkempt kids did not even crack a smile, we all picked up our pace, not because of the spectator enthusiasm, but because the scent of cow manure hung heavy in the air. We passed lots of cows, most eating voraciously, some glancing up to look at us with their vacuous dark eyes. There were also several horses grazing along the route. The horses were a tough crowd, roasting us with withering stares as if to say “You call that running? With your two stubby legs? We scoff at your running.”

Our Back of the Pack group plodded along, energized by the bovine crowds lining the course. There was a girl in a red shirt in front of me, and another gal with a gray shirt off to my side. The girl in gray dropped back. It was just me and Red Shirt Gal, alone in the front of our little pack. Clearly I have been watching too much Tour de France coverage because I couldn’t help but think she was Andy Schleck and I was Alberto Contador. Suddenly I became aware of a woman wearing a running skirt tucked in behind me. Who is she? She must be Denny Menchov, the Silent Assassin. As we hit a small rolling hill, Red Shirt Gal slowed. Ha, I thought, she was not Andy Schleck, she was Carlos Barredo and she was fading fast. That meant I was Andy Schleck!  OK, so then Running Skirt Gal behind me was actually Alberto Contador, or was I still Alberto? I was starting to confuse myself.

Realizing that my pace had slowed, I decided to shake off Andy and Carlos and Alberto and concentrate on running. Then, as I knew it would, the course turned eastward onto a washboard gravel road with a long steady elevation gain. The glare of the sun, now gazing at us from just above the mountains ahead, was impossible to avoid. It was a long few miles uphill to the base of the mountains. Fortunately, I knew the course and I knew our road conditions would change: when we turned south, we would have pavement and a downhill. I just had to get there. I needed a fast tempo song to help me along. In a fit of good timing, Paul Westerberg’s voice screamed through my headphones and thought, “Ah, Punk Rock Runner would be pleased.” Finally, when I was almost ready to give up and walk, I made the turn, just in front of the Back of the Pack group. The worst was over.

I plodded along, admired the scenery and flipped through songs on my iPod to keep myself moving forward. I made steady progress, and quickly realized I only had a few more miles to go.  My mind, however, once again started to mess with me as more Tour de France thoughts popped into my head. It was Phil Liggett and Paul Sherwen commentating on my run.

“Well, it looks like she is really putting the hammer down here, Paul. The question is, can she sustain it?”

“With 5 kilometers left to go she may very well be able to make it, Phil. Unfortunately, we have just heard over race radio that she has a blister the size of Texas on her left foot and that will certainly come into play.”

“Yes, indeed it will. Speaking of Texas, we haven’t heard from a certain competitor named Lance Armstrong this morning, have we?”

Gah! No more TdF! I love Phil and Paul but I needed to put them out of my head. The time had come to break out HellaSound on the iPod to keep my cadence steady for the last several miles. I made the second to last turn back toward the town of St Ignatius and Red Shirt Gal was still with me. Running Skirt Gal had dropped back. I glanced over my shoulder and the Back of the Pack group was stretched out in a long thin line behind me. I headed towards the finish with Red Shirt Gal and crossed at 2:10, not particularly fast, but 9 minutes faster than a year ago. And I was not even last! Several people crossed behind me. Running Skirt Gal came in at 2:14. Bob The Septuagenarian came in a few minutes after that. Truth be told, Bob is an amazing runner and I would be honored to be beaten by him. I just didn’t want to be Absolute Dead Last.

So as it turns out, last year I was second to last overall but first in my age group. This year, I come in closer to the middle of the pack but I was second in my age group. Second? I’ll gladly take it. At least I didn’t get beaten by a dog.

Mission Mountains at Sunrise

Mission Mountains presiding over The Buffalo Run

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | July 17, 2010

In Which I Discover the Fountain of Youth, Sing Bad Songs, and Blame My Problems on an Old Deaf Dog

Yes, I survived my first Olympic Distance triathlon, the Spring Meadow Triathlon in Helena, Montana. If you read my previous post, you know my usual pre-race regret kicked in. I even thought about chickening out. But, in the end, Sunday morning found me at the start line, as expected.

The event was at Spring Meadow State Park in lovely Helena, Montana. Helena is a small city of slightly under 30,000 people sitting just east of the Continental Divide, hard by the Rockies. It is a gold rush town, now morphed into the state capital. There is a lingering Wild West feel, hard to escape when the main drag is named Last Chance Gulch Drive. But Last Chance Gulch Drive is littered with latte-pushing coffee shops. Welcome to the New West. Among Helena’s interesting claims to fame, designer Liz Claiborne is buried there. And I thought I might die there, so Liz and I have something in common.

I picked the Spring Meadow Triathlon because I had read it was a small but well organized race in scenic Montana. It offered the Olympic Distance and the shorter Sprint Distance. I had already done a Sprint and was ready for a new challenge, so I registered for the Olympic. For the uninitiated, that’s a 1500 meter swim, a 25-mile bike, and a 6.2-mile run. Challenging, but manageable. To borrow a phrase from my friend Andie, I might be slow and sloppy, but I could get it done.

Unfortunately, two nights before the race, I logged onto the race website and looked at the Olympic-distance results from last year. Yes, it was a small race; only about 60 people. But they all smoked it. Most finish times were in the 2:00-2:40 range. I figured I was looking at more like 3:30. I realized I was going to be last. Absolute Dead Last. I had visions of race officials waiting for me to arrive so they could take down the “Finish” banner. Kind of like the 2009 S2S Relay in Florida, where we had to beg them to keep the banner up until our team arrived. Also similar to last year’s Buffalo Run Half Marathon where I was saved from being last only because someone else missed a turn and got lost.

“Please don’t let me be Absolute Dead Last,” I implored into the dark as I tried to sleep that night. It felt like I had been asleep only 15 minutes when I was awakened by a familiar noise: our Old Dog pacing the room and whining.

Old Dog is 17 years old and deaf as a stone. She is in good health for her age, but she has bad spells. We make fun of her, saying that she is like a crabby old lady, pacing back and forth and complaining: “Where is my food? What is taking you people so long? What time is Wheel of Fortune on? I think someone stole my Social Security check.” Tonight she was having one of her bad spells, pacing the room as I lay staring at the ceiling worried about being Absolute Dead Last.

Now, if we were home in Chicago, it would not have been a problem. She would have been pacing in the kitchen and I would have been snoozing away upstairs. But the house we stay at in Montana is a tiny cabin. The walls are not particularly solid, so even when I closed the door, I could still hear her. And at her advanced age, I couldn’t simply ignore her. What if I callously slammed the bedroom door (which I did), covered my head with a pillow (which I did) and tried to ignore her (which I tried to do) only to discover that this was it – The Big One, her final swan song? I couldn’t live with that kind of guilt. So I kept getting up to check on her and let her out. But she just kept pacing. It was going to be a long night.

The next morning, I awoke bleary eyed. I had barely slept. I felt like death, but at least Old Dog was still alive. With a sigh, I started to pack for Helena. I organized my stuff and checked over my bike. I fretted about being Absolute Dead Last. Finally, we loaded up the car. My husband drove so I could nap, but my adrenaline and the scenery kept me awake. Old Dog, it should be noted, slept soundly.

We arrived in Helena, picked up my race packet, and checked out the course. We grabbed pizza for the kids and left them in the hotel with the dogs while my husband and I went for a nice, calm dinner. We returned to the hotel to find the Old Dog pacing again.  Needless to say, an Old Dog and a new environment don’t mix. She was like a cranky old lady: “Where the hell are we? It smells funny here. What time is Wheel of Fortune on?” I am not sure Old Dog ever settled down that night, but exhaustion got the best of me and I eventually fell into a fitful sleep, catching a few hours at best.

The next morning, I was at the race by 6:30 to set up my stuff. I did my pre-race swim (yes, Coach Nina, I did!). Before I knew it, there was the countdown, 3…2…1…, and we were off. I ran into the water and dove in. I started swimming, spacing myself a little bit away from the other competitors. I tried to get in the groove. However, every time I raised an arm over my head, I felt fatigue. Every cell in my body was exhausted. But it wasn’t a classic muscle-fatigue like after a hard workout. No, this was different, a vague all-over tiredness. Then I remembered: I have felt this before. Walking up the stairs from the laundry room when I had newborns. Walking up to campus after pulling an all-nighter in college. Walking through customs at Charles de Gaulle airport after being awake all night thanks to that wacky French guy sitting in front of me on the plane. It was exhaustion caused by lack of sleep. That damn dog. I was going to be last and it was all her fault.

I thought about quitting. There was no way I could make it. I was too tired. As I approached the first buoy, I fell in behind a guy who was swimming water-polo-style (with his head of the water the whole time). I figured if I just followed him I wouldn’t need to bother sighting, so that would save a little energy. I continued to think about dropping out, but before I knew it, I was around the second buoy. I kept up with water-polo-style-guy and soon enough we passed some other swimmers. Ha, I am not last! There are at least two if not three people behind me! I can’t quit now. I kept up with water-polo-style guy right to the end, and followed him up the beach.  My husband was there and told me I finished the swim in 36 minutes. Better than expected.

Helena Tri, swim portion

Thankful to be out of the water, I grabbed my bike and headed out. I spotted two riders in front of me. No problem, I’ll catch those guys. Except, as I pedaled along, they got farther and farther away. I wanted to yell “Hey guys, wait up!” Instead I watched them slowly drift away from me. I knew there had been at least two swimmers behind me in the water, but they were nowhere to be seen. No one in front of me. No one behind me. I was all alone on an empty country road. All By Myself. Suddenly, involuntarily, the chorus to the song of the same name started echoing in my head. “All by myself, don’t wanna be, all by myyyyyyy-self anymore…” I pedaled through the empty landscape with that darn song stuck in my head.

Empty Road, Helena Tri

I tried to block it, but I couldn’t. I tried pedaling faster, thinking that somehow I would leave the song behind, but no luck. I tried to up the ante, dredging up songs by Leo Sayer, Christopher Cross, and other horrible, whiny songs from the 70’s, but nothing could release my brain from the stranglehold that All By Myself had established. (On the plus side, the next time my friend John Frenette challenges me to a bad-song contest, I will have some good ammo. Ride Like the Wind, my friend.) Then, as the All By Myself chorus was echoing through my mind one more time, someone passed me! I was no longer alone!  He zoomed by with a friendly greeting and a big smile. Suddenly, I had a goal: keep this guy in my sight because, as the song says, “I don’t wanna be all by myself anymore.” I hung behind him as best I could. Eventually, another rider appeared on the horizon in front of us. Friendly Guy in front of me passed said rider, and a few minutes later I did too.  According to the marking on his leg, it was a 64-year-old man. (Racers have their distance, Sprint or Olympic, and their age written on the back of their calves.) Can I really be pleased with myself for passing a 64-year-old guy? Hell yes, I can.

As we headed back into town, the Sprint-distance cyclists merged in with us. Suddenly I was surrounded by people. Slow people. People I could pass. It was exactly the ego boost I needed. Nothing could stop me now. Except the run, of course.

I rode into transition finally having shaken my earlier exhaustion, but still cursing the old, deaf dog. I ditched the bike, pulled on my running shoes and headed out. I was right in the thick of the Sprint Distance athletes at that point, so I was surrounded by people. Naturally, I checked every runner’s calf for an S or O (Sprint or Olympic) and each person’s age.  A woman passed me and I glanced down at her calf. It said she was 52. I was surprised, since she looked much younger. Another woman passed me. Her calf said she was 56, but the only clue to her age was the gray hair peaking out from under her baseball cap. About a mile later, I was running with a woman I guessed to be in her 30s. She was fit, she was toned, her skin was luminous and had not a single wrinkle. As she passed me, I checked her calf. 54! Are you kidding me? And so it went, me being passed by people a decade-plus older than me who looked about half my age. These darn Montanans: active, fit, healthy, with the most beautiful skin you have ever seen. Apparently the Fountain of Youth does exist, and it is in the mountains around Helena, Montana. So go book your flight to Helena right now, and you, too, can find the Fountain of Youth. Maybe it will help my crabby insomniac Old Dog.

Finally, I crossed the finish line, and I wasn’t even Absolute Dead Last. A few people came in behind me, including a cheerful woman who was in her 70s. She didn’t look a day over 55.  I hope when I am that age, I will be out there doing an Olympic Triathlon. Sure is better than pacing back and forth all night long saying “Where are we? It smells funny here. What time is Wheel of Fortune on?”

Helena Tri finish line

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Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | July 9, 2010

Back to the Tri-ing Game

Well, I have probably milked the France trip enough, although I still have some stories tucked away, especially the one about the cute young couple who met on the plane on the way home. He was in seat 35B, an American student traveling home to Minneapolis. She was in 35A, a lovely young French lady on her way to visit relatives in Michigan. She spoke some English, while he obviously had never earned more than a “C” in his high school French class. It began with him trying to ask her if she would switch seats with his friend across the aisle. The conversation immediately went nowhere, and they both laughed at their inability to speak the other’s language. Finally, they communicated by drawing pictures and looking up words in her French/English dictionary. (He, in the meantime, happily gave up trying to get her to switch seats; she was far more alluring than his friend across the aisle.) By the end of the flight, their tray tables were littered with scraps of paper decorated with words and drawings, and they both were smitten. It would make an excellent movie script. However, when our flight landed in Chicago, instead of making plans to meet at the top of the Sears [Willis] Tower for a romantic rendez-vous, they simply exchanged Facebook info. Guess that wouldn’t translate very well to the big screen. Love in the age of high-tech doesn’t seem quite as magical.

But I don’t have time to drone on about modern-day transatlantic romance. Now I must turn my thoughts back to triathlon training. On Sunday I am going to be swimming pretty darn close to a mile in open water. Wish me luck. It will be my first Olympic Distance triathlon. Unfortunately I feel more Olympia Dukakis than Olympic Distance. And it is the swim, of course, that is plaguing me.

I have the familiar feeling, the feeling I have had so many times before. It is the feeling I had the night before the S2S relay across Florida, the feeling I had before Chicago Marathon, the feeling I had before Galena Triathlon, the feeling I have before any race that requires I get up at some ridiculously early hour. It is a potent mixture of dread, remorse, and self-doubt, bound together with a little anxiety. One thought keeps going through my head: “Why do I do this to myself?” And that thought is followed quickly by “And I do this for fun? What exactly is fun about this? Why don’t I just go to the movies instead and live vicariously through fictional characters?”

My dread/remorse/anxiety before Galena triathlon was possibly the worst, because it was my first triathlon, and to top it off, the lake temperature for the swim had been hovering below 60 degrees. (For my non-US readers, that translates into “Flipping Freezing for Swimming” on the Celsius scale.) Yes, I had a wetsuit, but a wetsuit only helps so much. It doesn’t eliminate the I-Think-I-Am-Having-A-Heart-Attack feeling when you get in the water. I was afraid the shock, combined with race-day jitters, might actually kill me. Fortunately, my fantastic triathlon coach, Nina, had drilled into me the importance of a pre-race swim.

I have to confess, I almost skipped the pre-race swim. Bad enough I had to get into that water once, she wanted me to do it twice? Was she crazy? But, if there is one thing I am good at, it is following directions. So, I found myself on the morning of the triathlon, off to the side of the start zone, standing on the beach, looking at the water in front of me. I stuck in a toe and thought “Please, someone, shoot me now so I don’t have to get in that water. A non-lethal gunshot, please. I just need an excuse to go to the hospital instead of getting in this lake.”

Off to my right, the race had started, and people in earlier “waves” were running down the beach and into the surf.  None of them appeared to be suffering massive heart failure the moment they hit water, so perhaps it wasn’t that bad. I stuck my toe in again. No way I was getting in that unless absolutely required. But, I heard Nina in my head preaching about how important the pre-race swim was. So, I reluctantly ventured in. As soon as I was in the water, I truly thought I was going to die. Every little molecule of liquid that squeezed in through the zipper, around the neck, or at the wrists of my wetsuit inflicted pain upon my skin. And, as a friend who is an open water swimmer had warned, I could not breathe. The cold compressed me, my throat closed up. I gasped, I sputtered, I gulped in air. I muttered swear words. I wanted to cry. What’s more, when I put my face in the water, I couldn’t see more than an inch in front of my goggles. So not only did I feel like I was suffocating, but visually it was like being buried alive. I had discovered a new form of torture, and I was subjecting myself to it voluntarily.

Not being able to see in the water was very disconcerting. Fortunately, my wonderful swim coach, AJ, had me practice swimming with my eyes closed to prepare for this very situation. So, I took a painful breath, put my head in the water, and went. It sucked. Really, that is the best way to describe it. Actually, throwing an expletive in there would be a better way to describe it, but I try hard to keep this blog family-friendly. So there I was, with freezing cold water worming its way into my wetsuit, unable to breathe, unable to see. Nina wanted me to stay in the water for some ridiculous amount of time, like 10 minutes. I lasted about three and got the heck out of there as fast as I could. As far a torture tactics go, I would argue this combination of freezing/drowning/visually being buried alive is certain to be quite effective.

However, as I made my way over to the start line, I knew that the worst was over. The second time in was bound to be less horrible. I’d already faced the worst of the cold, and now I knew I wouldn’t be able to see or breathe. I knew getting in that water a second time would feel like death, but this time I was mentally prepared for it. When my wave started and I finally began the swim for real, it wasn’t nearly as bad as my first pre-race dunking. Don’t get me wrong; it still sucked. Sucked enormously. It was terrible; it was horrible. The water was murky and freezing. My feet cramped up so badly that I couldn’t kick. And somebody kept moving the buoys so that every time I looked up they were farther and farther away. (OK, maybe I am exaggerating a little bit there. But they certainly weren’t getting any closer.)

Anyway, I know I have already posted some of this in my previous Galena write-up, but my point (and I do have one) is that all the dread and anxiety that I had the night before the triathlon was all COMPLETELY JUSTIFIED. Yes, it turned out fine in the end, and the bike was great and the run was great, and I had a wonderful time overall, but the swim sucked JUST AS MUCH as I thought it would. My negative emotions the night before were all totally warranted. So, here I am, looking at another triathlon on the horizon right in front of me. And guess what? This swim is over twice as long! The likelihood of drowning is increased exponentially.  And now I know that feeling – the dread, remorse, anxiety combo – is completely appropriate.  It is, in fact, a biological self-preservation warning system. It is my brain’s way of telling me to abandon ship. And yet I still have not learned from my mistakes. Experience would suggest that I skip the triathlon and go see a movie instead. But here I am, packing my tri bag, apparently too stupid to learn from experience.

Unfortunately, I am too stubborn to quit. However, perhaps there is a more elegant solution. A friend of mine recently had to abandon a planned 200k bike ride (for my US readers, that is Ridiculously Long in miles) because he “forgot” his helmet. He claims it was an accidental oversight, but I am not so sure. I think it might have been a stroke of brilliance. In fact, I am thinking of trying that tactic myself. Still, it sounds kind of risky, because what if someone has a spare helmet?  Maybe I will “forget” my bike. Or “forget” my running shoes. Or better yet, “forget” to show up at the start line. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Maybe it is not too late for me to learn from experience after all. I wonder what movies are playing this weekend.

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