South Bay Triathlon VI
Uvas Reservoir, Morgan Hill, CA
3/4 mile swim - 16 mile bike - 5 mile run
Sunday, May 17, 1998
Part IV
The Run (5 miles)
Trot, trot, trot, trot. Little tiny baby steps. Boy, tha's weird, I don't recall my feet ever being so numb. I'm lucky I don't fall flat on my face, seeing as I can't rightly feel the earth beneath me. I wonder what my ankle thinks about all this? Guess it'll report in soon enough.Need to go to the bathroom; don't you just hate that feeling? There aren't many things more uncomfortable than the need to relieve when you're running. Ugh. It's not too bad for the moment, guess I'll just tough it out. Boy, this race sure has been a bomb. But what the hell, it's so pretty out here; just take your time and enjoy it. Don't even try to push. At least, not until you can see what your ankle has to say. It's unfortunate that this entire run is on the road, no opportunity to run on a softer surface.
Runners stream by in both directions. Among them I recognize Kevin Joyce out for a little post-race "warm down" run back along the course. Ha! He "jogs" past me like I'm standing still. Me, I'm just out for a little air, that's all. Hey, it's the first truly beautiful day in what seems like months, and between the lake and the trees and the blue sky and the rolling green hills, it's all pretty sumptuous. I'm happy just to be here.
Here in the present moment. I've ceased all needless fussing and am just enjoying where I am and what I'm doing, to the extent I am capable of "doing" right now. The reality is I have a bum ankle and don't know how long before it's going to rebel; I'm limited, can't push. My race to this point has been less than stunning, but that's in the past. That other thing I had been worrying about is far in the future, it is not now. Now is a beautiful day, impressive athletes surrounding me on all sides, courageous people giving this their all, and an ankle that thus far is functioning. I'm content to be here, now, a part of it. No, I'm not competing, but I am doing. And I'm done with all the negative thoughts that deviled me earlier in the day.
I trot, smiling, through the aid stations, laughing at the enthusiastic kids handing out water and good cheer. They're so eager, so refreshing. I pass perhaps two people walking, tap each on the shoulder and offer words of encouragement. Mostly, people are passing me; I offer them encouragement as well. "All right! Good job, looking strong, go get 'em!"
About a mile and a half out my feet announce their return from sabbatical. Ah, such a pleasure to renew the acquaintance! Well now, how 'bout that ankle? I feel my way gingerly along. Now that the joint is warm it's actually holding up pretty well, but it's clearly not 100%. Will it get me through the full 5 miles? I think so. Let's just stay tuned in and see what happens.
I glance at my watch as I trot through the 2 mile aid station and laugh aloud. Almost exactly 20 minutes. Perfect. Well, considering the ankle, I have nothing to complain about. I'm content.
Friends pass on the other side of the road, Kurian, Brent, Randy, Tim, Steve, Ed, Herb. As I near the turnaround the crowd thins out. Up a nifty little speedbump of a hill. Horses in the pasture on the other side of the road sun themselves indolently in the tall grass. Two are lying down, one sprawled completely prone in blissful equine contentment. Boy, he's got the right idea. That's the way to spend a gorgeous day like this.
I wheel around the cone at the turnaround and wince as I torque the ankle. Ouch, better keep that sort of thing to a minimum. The volunteers cheer me with, "Halfway done! Hard part's over!" I laugh and tell them, "Hey, I think there are maybe two people behind me; you can start cleaning up now!" Another glance at my watch elicits another laugh; 25 minutes on the nose. Well, there's something to be said for being consistent, right?
Now I've gotta run back down this hill. It's not much, but mind the ankle. Trot, trot, trot, translates into POUND POUND POUND as I galumph on down. My ankle lets out a little whimper, but gives no hint of full-fledged screams. I allow myself a grimace and keep going.
The "out" on this course is slightly uphill all the way, I think, because the "back" sure feels a lot faster. Maybe it's because I can feel my feet now and am not quite so worried about my ankle. Or maybe it's because I'm so used to longer distances that it takes me longer to warm up. Or perhaps it's just because it's taken me this long to lighten up and let go of all those expectations and worries and distractions, and now I'm just having fun.
Whatever the reason, I basically occupy the front-of-the-back-of-the-pack now, and that's ok. Trotting contentedly in my own happy little fog, I suddenly begin to really notice the people now running toward me. It dawns on me that some singularly inspiring performances are being put in here. The runners on the other side of the road, the people "behind" me in the race, strike me as remarkable people.
These are the folks who are hurting the most, but who keep pushing on. These are the first-timers who had no idea what they were getting into; the folks who perhaps breast-stroked their way through the swim and bulldozed their way along the bike course on mountain bikes with knobby tires. Some of these folks may have been racing through injuries, or perhaps they sport a few extra pounds that render this 5-mile run the equivalent of a full marathon for them. Or, like myself, they're just average folk with no athletic talent but a great desire to test themselves and stay the course.
On a good day I'm not a heckuva lot farther ahead of these folks than I am now. I frequently run myself down for that reason; after 5 years in this sport, you'd think I'd have improved a little bit! But the comedy of errors in which I had been starring all day serves as a reminder that there is more to triathlon than PRs and seamless performances and constant improvement. You can't control every circumstance in every race, and when you wind up having a day like today, you'd darn well better be able to find some other motive for being out there. For me, I'm finding a celebration of courage and determination of which I am proud to be a part. Works for me!
I pick up the pace in the last two miles, focussing on a girl 50 meters ahead running at about my pace. Just see if you can catch her. No big deal if you can't, 'cause today is no longer about that, but see if you can. This focus keeps my pace honest, but I continue to save part of my attention for the runners heading out. I call out encouragement to almost all of them, and to the two or three fading runners whom I actually catch and pass on the way back in. At the aid stations I grin at the youthful volunteers and inform them that they are all "Awesome!"
I feel like Veruca Salt transmogrified into Pollyanna. Kind of nauseating, huh? But the act of turning my attention outward from myself and toward others exhilarates and energizes me. I speed through the final mile and, though I fail to catch my 50-meter rabbit, I do close the gap somewhat, and in the final 25 meter sprint to the line I hold off a fast-closing gal approaching from behind.
So I stopped my watch with a 47:00 flat run split, which gave me one small victory for the day: I negative-split the second half of the run (22 minutes versus 25 for the first half). I'll take it. Overall time was 2:11:21, fourteen minutes slower than '97, Woohooo!
Skippy and Tess ran up to hug and congratulate me. I grinned as I related the horrors of the day that eventually culminated in my little epiphany on the run. Then Skippy told me a story that really made me glad that I had stuck it out.
Apparently, a woman had run the entire race and entered the beginning of the finishing stretch only to pull up and stop. The spectators, volunteers and athletes nearby all cried out urging her to finish, to run the final 20 meters and cross the line. This woman, however, was adamant. "I refuse to have such a lousy time posted on the internet," she answered heatedly. "I just won't do it." And she walked away to get her gear out of the transition area.
Wow. Kinda sad, eh? I guess the numbers DO matter that much.
Whoa.