While training for the Eugene Marathon, I was a magnet for stress injuries, and while cross-training for rehab, I accidentally fell in love with swimming and biking. Already hooked on racing, I decided to sign up for the Pacific Crest Endurance Sports Festival Olympic triathlon — a 800 meter swim, 25 mile bike and 10k run. I had only six weeks to train after finishing the Marathon, and I was committed.
The event was held in my hometown of Bend, Oregon, and on race morning, it was only 38 degrees Fahrenheit. By 7 a.m., I was standing waist-deep in the Deschutes River with the other participants — 81 women wearing yellow swim caps, wetsuits and goosebumps.
When the race horn blared, I dove headfirst into the current. I couldn’t see anything but murky, weeded riverbank and bursts of sky as I came up for air. Halfway through the swim, I switched from freestyle to breaststroke for a better view, and I saw a swarm of neoprene-clad bodies ahead. “Shit,” I thought, “I’m losing.” But behind me was a sea of yellow caps. I wasn’t losing; I was in front of the pack, pulling towards the men who had started before me.
As I finished the swim and scrambled out of the water, my feet had gone numb and it felt like I was running on overstuffed bags of flour. The transition to the bike was a struggle. But as I began to chug up the 1,900 foot climb from Riverbend Park to the Virginia Meissner Sno-Park, I was in the zone.
At the turn around, I settled into my drop handlebars for the long descent. The only thing I could see from my aerodynamic stance was a narrow scrap of pavement disappearing under my front tire and my speedometer approaching 40 miles per hour.
I was making good time when I reached the first roundabout, and after two more, I could see the bike finish. I slammed on my brakes, and my back tire skidded below me as I kicked out of my clip-in pedals.
“I think I have frostbite,” I yelled to my dad as I hobbled into the transition area. My fingers and toes had lost sensation during the ride, but I slowly regained feeling in my feet as I ran, easing into a fast but comfortable pace.
The run course climbed 400 feet in the first three miles, and I was wheezing when I crested the last hill. By then, I had counted five women in front of me. I was in sixth place. But when I reached the turn around, there was one woman hot on my heels. I began to push my pace, and my legs cycled like wheels below me as I descended.
Around mile four and a half, the woman passed me, but I didn’t care. I knew I had left everything on that course. My legs wobbled as I sprinted towards the finish line, but I felt strong and confident gliding through.
I was hooked. Ironman 70.3, I’m coming.
