A comedy in four parts

by Amy White
August 8, 2001
(www.slowtwitch.com)

Yes, it’s true. I did one of the most embarrassing things you can ever do in a triathlon. I fell off in the transition area after just half-mounting my bike. If only it had been a half-dismount instead of a full-on topple. Thankfully—while the rest of the damn world was indeed watching, or so it seemed—I landed fairly softly on my neighbor's towel. Of course, I still brought the bike down between my knees, and we all know how good THAT feels.

That's my confession for the day. A truly mortifying thing happened, and it was OK. I got up and continued my ride, as another woman racked near me screamed: "RIDE LIKE HELL!"

I could explain what happened, but what would be the point? I tried to get out of somebody else's way, somebody who was not looking at all where he was going, and went down. Not hard, not with any speed. I'd barely gotten a leg over the top tube when it happened. Boing, bounce right back up and try again.

So now, with the benefit of adrenaline, I proceeded to indeed ride like hell. It had already been a morning of mishaps, of a little bit of pain, a little bit of annoyance—really, more than I usually encounter at a race.

See, there was the falling-off thing, which was preceded by a washing-machine roll-'round in the surf during the warmup (!) in which I, sadly, lost my goggles again. The lifeguards had a few spares—Imagine! Some other poor souls had lost theirs, too, and only that morning!—so I suited up and was on my way. Good thing, too, because I race in contacts. Going without just isn't much of an option, if sight is important.

Then there was the fact that I, again and typically, seeded myself badly at the start. Got into a huge traffic jam. Couldn't get out, got pounded. Really, not too atypical. But then, in clear water hundreds of yards later, I came upon a man swimming breaststroke. How do I know he was swimming breaststroke? He kicked me square in the ribs. So hard that, as the air got pushed out of me, I screeched under water. Not from pain (lucky me) but from shock.

So that was another thing.

But back to the bike ride. There I was, riding like hell. Only now I can tell that I have had, shall we say, some impact damage to my right lower leg and foot. But thanks to the glories of adrenaline, which can’t be a banned substance when you come by it as naturally as I did, I am really numb to it. I hammer along. I am pissed, because I am not sure if my foot will actually consent to run when I'm done. So I just figure, ride hard. Then ask myself: Can you ride harder? If the answer is yes, by all means, ride harder.

In my head the entire time is this wonderful song, "Spoonman," by Soundgarden. Chris Cornell is screeching in my head. I am breathing like a freight train, probably frightening the other competitors. They don't know I'm under the influence: adrenaline and anger are mighty fuels.

Of course, I'm not mad at anybody but myself. (Well, OK, the guy on the green Bianchi riding down the middle of the road did burn my toast a little bit.)

Soon enough it was time to (uneventfully) get off the bike and start to run. Observe that I can in fact run. Wonder if the adrenaline is still with me as the explanation for why I feel no pain.

It’s around then that I notice the tide is continuing to come in. This is not good news, as most of the 4.2-mile run is on the beach. Last year, the tide was slack and the run was almost entirely on hard, packed, level sand. It was fun, it was gorgeous. This year, I swear it looks like the beach is at a 45-degree angle. After a mile or so of this, the leg that is closest to the ground is really starting to complain. A lot. Funny thing is, this is the left side of me. So now I’ve got the bruises gathering their strength on the right and the scorching of lactic acid on the left. I comfort myself with the thought that, after the turnaround, I’ll be able to torture the right side equally. No limping the next day that way, right? If both sides are equally banged up?

Problem is, by the time we reach the turnaround after our little jaunt up into the state park above us, the tide has continued its march up the beach. Now there is very little hard sand to run on at all, at any angle. So I’m stumbling along trying to find footing—up on the dry sand, down on the wet, running into the surf. I’m trying to go as hard as I can, but I’m having a hard time just finding a place to put my feet. This is not conducive to great running. I keep pressing and fight frustration. Eventually it turns to amusement. Here I am, ready to run hard, and I can’t. How many times in my life has THAT happened? Try none.

See, I’d come to this race to go hard. I’ve been racing some sprints this year while preparing for a pair of longer races later this summer, trying to find out where the edges of my pain threshold are—how fast I can actually go if I concentrate on going fast, block out lapses in focus and embrace the good pain that comes from a sustained racing effort. Three weeks ago I logged a really successful chapter in this experiment, and I’d hoped to continue my studies this weekend. Well, I was, as Richard Brilliant (my Greek art professor) told me so many years ago, mistaken.

OK, so what if I was wrong? Let’s look at this another way. (And isn’t that a typical answer from me.) The sun was out, it was a beautiful day, the crash landing had been relatively soft, so what was my problem? That I couldn’t run as hard as I’d like? Well, boo-hoo. Everybody else was laboring under the same (rapidly deteriorating) conditions. OK, I take that back. The leaders had more beach!

At home that afternoon, as I applied ice to the green and purple lumps forming on my legs, I reflected on the day. I’m usually not so mishap-prone, but each one taught me, or reminded me, of things I need to be mindful of while racing. It was a great rehearsal, and there were lots of good lessons to be had. And it was fantastic to hear the answer, "Yes!" to the question, "Can you go harder?"

But the day wasn’t through with me yet. That night, in bed, I was beset by those pre-sleep muscle spasms that seem especially common after a hard effort. I sleep on my side, and this time it was an arm that chose to flop around. That’s right, clocked myself right in the head, I did.

And why not? It was the perfect end to a day that made up for in hilarity what it lacked in perfection. And those days, my friends, are the absolute best you can ask for.

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