"If it were easy, they'd call it FOOTBALL: Try a tri" I laugh as I read the caption on the t-shirt and wonder if it would be all right to purchase it even though I am only participating in 1/3 of a triathlon. I can imagine someone commenting on my cute, sassy shirt and then picture my response: "It is cute, but I've never actually done an entire triathlon, just the running portion. How far?! Oh," I'd say sheepishly, "3.1 miles." I decide not to buy the shirt and go grab my husband, who is currently ogling a $3,500 tri-bike.
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
It is the day before our anniversary, and to celebrate, we have decided to participate as a relay team in a triathlon. My husband, who is a very good, very competitive athlete, will bike and swim. I am a pretty good (ha ha, I couldn't even write it with a straight face), I can run, love to run, slowly, but with spirit, so I agree to do the 3.1 miles at the end of the race, reminding my husband of my 10 minute-per-mile pace. In other words, dear, don't expect any first place trophies. We pick up our race numbers and head home to put A to bed for our 5 a.m. wake-up call.
The morning of the run, my husband and I hurriedly wish each other a happy anniversary as we make our way to the lake for the start of the race. I have dragged my younger brother, who has been promised that female triathletes are young and cute, from the bed at 5 a.m. on his day off to help me watch A while T swims and bikes. A, donning a t-shirt that reads "my mom and dad tri harder than yours," claps for her daddy as he enters the lake. T emerges from the water about 12 minutes after he starts, and I rush to the transition area to wait for him to finish the biking portion.
My race number is 44, which means that I'll finish the run before the temperature soars from hot to blistering, but it also means that the organizers sandwiched the 30 relay teams in between the collegiate teams and the elite athletes. (The 800 participants, who aren't on teams, are lined-up based on projected swim time.) It is finally my turn to hit the trail, where I quickly discover that I do not belong on the track at this particular time in the race. This fact becomes even more evident as elite racer number 175 sprints by at a 5 minute-per-mile pace, yelling as he passes, "You're doing great; keep it up." I begin to wonder if he thinks that I am perhaps special or a practical joke, like I lost a bet and the penalty was to register as an elite runner. Where are the other slower runners, the Athenas and Clydesdales? (Apparently categories for those of us who like to both compete and eat.) My confidence plummets as runners continue to fly by me. I look down just to make sure that my legs are in fact moving.
I decide to stop my internal whining and begin to use the sprinters as motivation. Each time I am passed, I try to keep up with the runner as long as possible before pulling back a bit. It's just three miles; it's not like it is going to kill me to push myself. I settle into a decent stride and find myself enjoying the race. For a brief moment, I even pause, mentally, looking up to see the sun shining on the lake as it laps gently against the mountains. I've never understood why races are scheduled in such beautiful locations. Sure, it is a good draw, but so few of us participants ever take a moment to notice the surrounding beauty, always focused on breathing and pacing. I quickly thank God for the beauty, my husband, daughter, and the fact that I can finally see the finish line.
With a few hundred yards to go, I pick up my pace to an all-out sprint. My legs are aching, my lungs burning, but I even manage to out-run the guy behind me, granted his race number is 223. I have even run a personal best, 26:29 5-K. Yes, I realize the top female ran hers in 18 minutes, but for me, an 8:30 mile is almost two minutes faster than my usual pace. My husband and I find each other, offer our congratulations, and get kisses from our daughter. I share with my husband the lesson that today's race has offered, a lesson he's already learned, that when you really push, you don't collapse or die. No, you discover how capable you really are and begin to wonder just what you could do if you really trained hard...Beijing, 2008? Now where is that t-shirt vendor??
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