We Are Shining Stars

This is my swim wave. I'm the short one in the center to the right of the tall woman 
with her hands on her hips. The horn is in the air, poised to sound 
the start of our race. 

We left off with me standing in a lake waiting for the start of my swim wave in my sprint triathlon.

This is what I knew standing there: If I make it to the run, I'm golden. My legs know what to do. "My legs are fine/after all, they are mine." 

That quote comes from a song I heard on the radio every time I was going to or coming from a workout: Carry On by Fun. (watch the video here)

Eventually, the lyrics started sinking in and I realized this was my triathlon theme song. Call me crazy, but I think it might have a bit of an Ethiopian beat to it, once it gets past the intro.

"If you're lost and alone (bike ride)

Or you're sinking like a stone (the swim)

Carry on

May the past that you've found

Be your feet upon the ground (the run)

Carry on

Carry on! Carry on!"

My past is running for sure. I've run so many races I can't even begin to count -- hundreds I'm sure -- everything from 55 meters to the half marathon. And all the runs between races. I have thousands and thousands of miles on these legs. 

So there we stood, watching the 55+ group on their way out to the turn buoy. And I was praying. And I had to pee. And then the horn sounded.

And my feet cramped oh, six or eight times. I got kicked, but not in the head. My right goggle filled up with water. That one is okay; I don't need to see out of it since I turn my head to the left. But despite it all, I managed to keep moving forward. "Carry on," I sang to myself. I got out of the water six minutes faster than the quarter mile swim I did in my first triathlon. And I had gone 200 meters further. I considered heading to the porta-potty to pee before the bike, but didn't want to waste the time. Carry on.

I was pretty darn happy here. The swim was over!

I jogged across the beach and through the parking lot to my bike. I was glad to see her. My trusty green bike. Not as sleek as the multi-thousand dollar tri bikes, but she was going to take me 18 miles around the country side. A zillion people passed me. But here's the thing. At least half of them added, "Great job!" or "You're doing great!" to the obligatory, "On your left!" call. They didn't need to waste their breath encouraging me. But they did.

I got to the halfway point feeling good. And happy. I sang out loud as I pedaled along, "If you're lost and alone/or sinking like a stone, carry on!" And then there was a note written in chalk on the road that read:

Swim

Bike

Run

You're halfway done!

Best road writing inspiration ever. 

But oh man, every bump in the road reminded me of how badly I needed to pee.

I got around the loop and turned back onto the out-and-back portion of the ride -- and people were still riding out. Huge shock. I wasn't going to be the last one to start the run. This is not because I'm super speedy on the bike -- I still have a lot of work to do there, but because of the number of swim waves and the fact that by virtue of my elder athlete status, I was in the second wave out of eleven? Fourteen? Somewhere in there. But still. They hadn't all caught me, nor would they all. "Good job!" I called out to them, especially the ones who looked like they were struggling. 

I also thanked the volunteers and the families who sat in the ends of their driveways, ringing bells, clapping, cheering, and playing music. "You guys are great!" I told them. 

I crossed Route 11, rode up the hill on the bridge that crosses I-81 and turned left onto the final stretch. My nemesis stretch. My "I'm tired" stretch. I passed a 65-year-old woman -- our ages were written on our calves during the body marking process, so it was easy to know if you should feel ok or completely bummed by someone who was passing you -- somewhere in that section. She had a bell on her bike that she rang every time someone passed her. It was her breath-conserving way of saying "Great job!" Once I got by her, it was also my way of knowing if she was gaining on me again. We had leapfrogged several times in the opening miles, so I was not counting her out. Whatever happened, I had to keep that bell behind me. Although every time I heard it, I smiled. 

There was no final-stretch-tanking for me on this day. Up the last hill, slowly, but less slowly than normal, thanks to the ringing of the bell. A left hand turn down the path to the transition area, and I found myself in the middle of a pack. Me in the middle of a triathlon pack! Wanting to cruise as fast as possible, but hemmed in on all sides. On my brakes the entire way down, even where it leveled out. 

There was a "I can't get my shoes out of my pedals" crash and burn at the transition line, but it happened to my left, not in front of me. Whew. But it bottlenecked us and increased other crash and burn odds, so I got the heck out of there.

Into transition; off with the camel bak. I took a few swigs of Gatorade to ward off the hunger that had been gnawing at me for the last three miles of the bike ride, and I was off to the run. I still had to pee, but the port-a-potties were in the opposite direction of the run. Nope, not stopping now! Carry on!

Off the bike and onto the run course. 
Hearing my child calling out "MOM" makes my race.

And oh, my trusty legs felt like bricks. Those big, gray concrete bricks they build foundations out of. Trotting out of the park, I thought with some surprise, "I think I'm going to have to walk part of this." So much for "my legs, they are fine." A woman twice my girth passed me like I was standing still. I checked her calf. She was 30-something. Okay then, I could handle that.

I stopped worrying about who was passing me and just concentrated on moving forward -- "run your own race,"' just as I tell T.

Like the Tin Man after his oiling, my legs came back to me. I just kept putting one foot in front of the other. And I found myself passing people. Lots of people -- who'd passed me on the bike. We all have our strengths. And when push comes to shove, the triathlon favors the runner. Somehow. "Great job." "You're doing great," I encouraged, paying it back, and maybe forward a bit.

We made it to the one-mile marker and then cruised on to the turnaround. Somewhere along in there I passed the woman who'd passed me leaving the park. Either she'd slowed down or I'd picked it up. "You're doing great," I told her.

Around a bend and the turnaround -- and the water I was hoping for at the mile marker -- were in  sight. I took a cup and walked four or five steps while drinking, since I have yet to master the art of drinking while running. Then with a breath of deep resolve, I told myself I was on my way home and put my legs back into gear. All I had left was a one-and-a-half mile run to get to my finisher medal. Piece of cake.

I passed a woman with a '27' written on her calf. Since the swim waves started with the oldest women and worked their way down to the youngest, she'd really rocked the swim and the bike. About five minutes later she passed me back and then, about ten yards ahead of me stopped to walk. I'm fairly certain she thought she ought to be able to outrun the fat lady with the '54' written on her calf, but just didn't have it in her that day. "This would be easier if the bike ride was last!" she exclaimed.

"Not for me!" I responded cheerily. I was smiling. Through the whole run. My legs were fine. I'd hoped I would finish the run in 45 minutes, based on a 40-minute time in a July 4th five kilometer race. Looking at my watch, I figured it might be closer to a 40-minute pace. Bonus!

Walking toward me the other way was was bike-bell woman. She had said she doesn't run. That's the great thing about this race. No one cares how fast or slow you are -- everyone is just pulling for you to get to the finish line. "I have to pee!" she exclaimed. "So do I!" I called back.

As we approached the park, we could hear music and the announcers. A hand came out from the sidelines to high five me. "Great job, Karen!" said Smooth Runner, a long time running friend who now coaches a triathlon training program. And then I was back in the park, picking my way over the loose rock. I really wanted to start my kick, but I was afraid of twisting an ankle. Something I wouldn't have worried about twenty or even ten years ago. Finally we were off the rock and back on the beach and then the sidewalk to the finish chute.

I pumped my fists in the air in victory as I crossed the finish line 20 minutes ahead of my projected time -- the biggest surprise being coming in nine minutes faster than my projected run time. I finished it just five seconds shy of my post-50 PR for five kilometers. Which I ran without a swim and a bike prior. Hubs didn't catch my finish on camera or have T waiting for me -- he was on the playground -- because I surprised him with my way-earlier-than-anticipated arrival. I had found my way home, and I was strong, and I was alive.

"We are shining stars
We are invincible
We are who we are
On our darkest day
When we're miles away
Sun will come
We will find our way home
....carry on, carry on!"

I have to say, after all the worrying, fretting, and anxiety, this swim/bike/run turned out to be a totally exhilarating experience. On that day I was that 25-year-old who lives inside this 54-year-old body. And it was great.

December 31 is sign up day for the 2014 running. I'm already training. And I plan to do the triathlon that takes place in my own town as well. Or maybe an Olympic distance, if my feet can handle a 10 km run. But one triathlon per year does not seem like it's enough.

Because, to quote a poem much older than anything from Fun, but summing up my life's motto:

"Thus, though while we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run!"
(Andrew Marvell: To His Coy Mistress)

And yes, I finally got to pee.

"[Today] we are young

So let's set the world on fire

We can burn brighter than the sun."

--We Are Young by Fun