Milfoil Follies (Olympic Distance Triathlon, Part Two)

A few weeks before the Pacific Crest race in Bend my teammates and I did a sprint triathlon in a neighboring suburb. The sprint tri consisted of a ¼-mile swim, a 14-mile ride, and a 5k run. We preening Team in Training folks talked about the sprint tri with confidence, and prattled on about how fun it would be. “We’ve been training for an Olympic distance race for months! A sprint will be easy!” We all suited up that morning, plopped into the water, and were instantly humbled. I almost immediately started to panic, a deep, sincere and serious panic, which blindsided me. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t put my face in the water, and the more I focused on my inability to do either, each became exponentially harder. About 2/3 of the way through that swim, my brain was awash in expletives and the thought-equivalent of tears, as I determined that I would have to pull out of the Pac Crest race in a few weeks and return all of the money I raised for the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society and face shame and disappointment, and this isn’t fun and why am I doing this, and shit, this fucking sucks. Then I got out of the water, on the bike, on the path, and across the finish line, and was committed to triathloning for years! No, decades to come!

Fast-forward to the water at Pac Crest. Now pause. Shall I review a few details? Event: The Olympic distance triathlon in Bend, Oregon. Date: June 25, 2006. To finish: swim .9 miles, ride 28, and run 6.2 (a 10k). X-factors: 92-degree heat (ugh), and 4,500 feet elevation (hic). Me, in the water, just having felt confident, strong, and cool (please read earlier post for details about coolness), quickly realizing that all feelings are fleeting. This moment is otherwise known as the, “Oh shit” moment. I’m not sure why I panicked – after the ill-started Issaquah experience I did a lot of time in my wetsuit, swimming sans anxiety. I even managed to accomplish some decent distances in open water, all in preparation for the Big Day. Still, being surrounded by a sea of bobbing, grunting, churning arms, heads, and other extremities, while knowing that sign-bearing relatives were hooting and picture-taking a few yards away on the shore made my already nervous stomach drop to my knees. I imagined that the proud, hooting relatives were becoming nervous on my behalf. “Oh dear, she’s falling to the back. Do you think she can make it?” I imagined the people on the shore, my people, saying, “Ohh, she’s going to be last. She's a good writer, though...” At that moment the whole event was about me, the spotlight was on me, and I was evolving from my earlier self-prescribed persona of sinewy cool to become flopping minnow in a sea of salmon.

During the many prior months of training I quickly learned that my brain was a greater hindrance to my efforts than any muscular effort or development. My training seemed to work my body, sure, but more notably it revealed a voice of self-doubt deep within me which will likely require many thousands of dollars of therapy to silence. It was almost scientific – by the time I hit a decent pace my inner doubter would start to note my various pains, the uncomfortable breathing, and then my position in the pack (read: very near last, always), and upon that final notation, I would emotionally crumble. I cried on more than one occasion throughout the training, threw an entirely ungracious fit one night in particular, and was generally snappy to quite-patient partner-in-crime-cum-fiance Steve myriad times.

So, to finally get into the water to begin the event I had worked toward for so long and to feel that familiar panic seep into my core like cold water was totally deflating and frightening. Then I heard a voice. “How you doin’, Kerry?” Kathy Minnis. Kathy pulled up alongside me one night months prior at a pout-inspiring run. She talked me through my wallow, listened to my warbling complaints, and then somehow got me talking about documentary filmmaking and book clubs. She saved me that night, and then that morning her voice cut through my raspy haze in the first stretch of the anticipated swim. “I’m fine, I think.” She knew. Was she going through the same thing?

Allow me to properly set the stage here – it’s not like Kathy and I were bobbing along by ourselves in a calm body of water. Rather, we were surrounded by adept swimmers finding their paces, positions, and sight-lines. Then I noticed a fellow TNT teammate Jenny, close behind Kathy. She looked nervous, too. We all started verbally dragging each other along. The buoys looked so far. I couldn’t get my pace. The swimmers around me were distracting, and then my ego further deflated when after I rounded buoy one a purple-capped swimmer buzzed past. Purple caps were in the next age group after ours, and started five minutes after our wave. I was bobbing, catching my breath when the purple churned by. “Jerk!” I laughed, and then Jenny and Kathy joined in, making my horrible sportsmanship somehow worthwhile. We hit the next buoy, and the next. I was trying every frigging pacing mechanism imaginable. I should sing a chorus to a song. No songs came to mind. I should count. Counting made me too aware of distance. I should chant the names of the people I’m doing this in memory of. Grand. Ma. Grand. Pa. Jed. Griffin. Chris. Takino. Grand. Ma. Grand. Pa. Jed. Griffin. Chris. Takino. Churn churn churn. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Oh bla. Di oh bla. Da life goes on. Bra! La la. How the. Life goes. On. We all. Live in. A yellow. Submarine. Yellow. Submarine. Yellow. Submarine. Breathe. “You okay? Next buoy. We’ve got it.” Go. Go. Go.

Then, the finish line was in sight. Small, and far away, but in sight. The inflated Red Bull logo which marked the finish was beautiful and grotesque, and just out of arm’s reach. Kathy suddenly broke away, and I immediately missed her. Jenny was close behind. I just churned on.

We were taught in training to swim until your hands hit the ground twice. There’s something quite unintuitive about that. Swimming in lake water is odd – it is totally dark, and as if each molecule is camoflague-colored; there is green matter all around, but all microbial, and almost immaterial. There is nothing to see, except your hands coming into the water in front of your face, and the stream of bubbles generated when the extremities break the water’s surface. You spend 30 minutes staring at the green void and a trail of bubbles, and then suddenly milfoil appears. Milfoil is the freshwater equivalent of weeds, and possesses none of the charms offered by any of its saltwater relatives. The field of vision goes from void to swampy, plasticene weeds almost instantly, and then as you swim toward the shore the weeds climb toward you, and then your hand is hitting the lake or reservoir floor. We were trained to avoid popping up at that instant, and to swim a bit further – becoming vertical when the water comes to your knees is easier. As you rise from the water you grab the rip cord attached to your zipper, start pulling, and the goal is to be half-de-suited by the time you reach your bike. This is a lofty goal.

For fun, please try this. Float in water in a long-sleeved t-shirt for 40 minutes, and try to make yourself hyperventilate a bit. While you’re doing this, try to work up a sweat – this surely seems impossible in the refreshing water, but for the sake of fun, please indulge. Next, pop upright and run toward the shore, while peeling your clothes off. Dizzy? Oh, and try to pull your swim cap off, too. And don’t drop your goggles. Finally, suck in your stomach and smile for the race photographer! You’ll be able to buy the photo online later!

I got to my bike, and pulled off the rest of my gear. I was a soggy mess, but totally exhilarated that I had just completed the first third. Of. An. Olympic. Distance. Triathlon. WHEE! I was chatty, giggly, jokey, just an all-around pleasure, I’m sure. “Ha ha, only two-thirds to go! Hell, that was EASY! Whoa ho ho!” I shoved all of my soggy crap into my tri bag, left it at the station as directed, pulled on my sunscreen, my helmet and gloves, shoes and socks, grabbed my bike, and started the 100-yard trot out of the transition area. I noticed that Steve’s bike was already gone, as was Kristen’s. There were a lot of other bikes around, though, so I supposed I wasn’t too far behind.

As I walked my bike to the top of the hill to the mounting area, I started feeling faint. Very faint. Shit, maybe I should just sit down. Go. Go. Go. I stumbled onto my bike seat, distantly heard my feet clip into my pedals, and started going. I thought I was listing to the right, and felt my bowels churn in protest.