Wonder what it’s like to be the last one to cross the finish line? I found out first-hand.
As a present to myself for my 45 birthday I raced in my first sprint distance triathlon in Effingham, Illinois. The year before I had done a "mini trialthon" through my local park district. As it turned out, that had not seasoned me. I’d been training for five months, but lost my motivation around the third month, when I began to dread the thought that I was going to make a fool of myself. In spite of my fears I kept swimming, biking and running right up to race week. My running was a struggle. I had to force myself to lumber along the path at the park, knees aching, shivering in the cold winter months. Every runner I saw go by me made me feel envious and admiring at the same time. Along with my physical training I practiced a lot of visualization, and "saw" myself swimming the .25 mile swim, biking the 13 mile ride, and running the 3.1 mile run. Was I ready? Heck no! But I am a good endurance swimmer and a decent bike rider, so I thought I could make up for my running deficits. At least I was staying in shape for my job as a police officer.
Race morning already showed my inexperience. I was the only one walking around in a wetsuit an hour before the race started. It turns out you don’t actually put on your suit much before the race starts. I was afraid of looking like some kind of idiotic contortionist if I put my suit on in front of the other racers but I ended up having to take it off and put it back on anyway (in front of a bunch of people who were too polite to laugh) in order to get body marked. The swim leg was in a lake reported to be a toasty 60 degrees so a wetsuit was important. My family has a cabin in Canada where I swim every third week in August, with summer on the wane, in cold spring fed water so the wetsuit has come in handy quite a bit.
I put my feet in the water and tried to relax. My husband and son were among the spectators on the shore. They had watched me work for this, and in spite of my guilty sacrifice of family time, they gave me their total support. When the the whistle blew, I hit the water with the other 86 participants and made the same over-excited mistake I had made in the mini-tri last summer. I breathed out on my first breath instead of in. Instantly, I couldn’t catch my breath. I tried to relax and breast stroke through it but I was hyperventilating badly. All my hours and hours in the pool, following straight black lines in 82 degree water seemed for naught. Other swimmers were passing me left and right as I gasped for air. There were rescue boats lined up along the course and I saw a guy raise his arm and be rescued. Did my arm go up? Of course not. I would stubbornly drown before giving up so soon. I did notice a rescue diver following me at a discreet distance and that’s when I realized I was the last one out of the water.
I had one of those childhoods where I was the last in any race I was made to participate in. I remembered that embarrassed, sad feeling. It was welling up in me once more. But hey, maybe I could make it up on the ride. After struggling out of the wetsuit and struggling into my bike shorts I walked my bike out and on to the road. My husband and son were standing there anxiously. I stopped and put on my bike gloves and blew them kisses. The pavement was smooth but there were some hills. As I crested a hill about the three mile mark I saw some riders ahead of me. I was closing in! I rode hard and the gap slowly narrowed. I started up a steep hill and threw it into as low gear as I had. But it turned out I didn’t have it. The wheel stopped and I couldn’t pedal. My chain had derailed. It was jammed in tight. I reached for my cell phone on my race belt but in my haste I had forgotten to wear it, so I couldn’t call for my husband’s help. How stupid. I thought about walking the bike back that many miles in utter defeat. But what choice did I have? Other riders came whizzing by from the return direction. "Are you okay?" they yelled. "I’m okay," I called after them, but they soared by me. I wondered if I had been lying there mangled, covered in gore and blood, whether they would have shouted the same thing and whizzed by just as quickly. I was still calmly pondering what to do when one of the race directors drove by. He stopped and came back around. I explained the situation. I held the bike steady while he began yanking on the chain. After several tries it finally popped loose and he said, "there you go, be safe." I asked him to tell my husband what happened. I knew he would be worried when he didn't see me coming in with the other racers.
Once the chain was fixed it didn't occur to me to go back. Later, other racers told me that they admired me for not giving up, in spite of the fact I was no longer a contender.
I was on my way. Ten or fifteen minutes had gone by since my bike derailed. All the riders had passed me going the other direction. But I rode solidly and enjoyed the beautiful May day, with the sun shining down on me from the bright blue sky, and the early wildflowers waving to me in the breeze. Biking was sometimes a very zen experience for me, and I was feeling one with the road. The volunteer car drove slowly behind me, like my own little parade. Trying not to run anyone over, I made it back to the transition area while the runners were finishing up. I struggled out of my bike shorts and shoes and into my running shorts and shoes. My bathing suit underneath had mostly dried from the ride, so I was not uncomfortable. This time I remembered my cell phone and waved to my still anxious looking husband. My son was cheering. Many of the racers had finished and were shouting at me, "great job!" I wanted to shout back "are you crazy?" I self-consciously set myself a steady pace. If my cheeks were not already flushed from my exertions, they would have been anyway from sheer embarassment.
Some people were walking their way in. I said to a dejected boy who looked to be about twelve, "you’re almost there, keep running." I was caught up in the encouragement I had received, and wanted to pass it on. He ignored me. The run was fairly flat and I chugged along, not huffing, knees strong. The volunteers were packing up the water and Gatorade as I passed the first station. Fortunately, they still had some handy and I grabbed a bottle of water as I ran by. I made it to the turn around point, where the volunteers, who had learned of this straggler via radio, were still waiting for me. I had read in one of my triathlon books to look around and smile, and always thank the volunteers. So I thanked them enthusiastically and started on my way back. I felt so good. This was the best run of my life. As I came in towards the finish line a cheer went up. So much for sneaking in quietly, I thought.
"Great job! Way to go! You’re keeping it strong!" people yelled as I passed. My husband and son were waiting for me. My son came up behind me and we crossed the finish line together. He hugged me and said, "Mom, I’m so proud of you." People were still clapping and cheering. The race director made an announcement that I was a beginner (if it wasn’t obvious) and my birthday had been yesterday. NOW I was embarrassed. I couldn’t believe the cheers. I said to my husband, "I’ll come in last again next time if I get this kind of applause." It took a minute to sink in. Yes, there would be a next time. We packed up and left without attending the awards ceremony.
I felt exhilarated the rest of the day. It didn’t turn out the way I’d pictured it but I still did it. The next day depression sunk in. Even if the bike hadn’t broken down I probably would still have been last. Next race, same thing, I thought. That sad little girl who was always last had come back. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had not been three of my fellow cops who knew me, racing too. How long before the story of my abysmal finish got out in Copland? One of the cops, an Amazon of an athlete who worked as a state trooper, called and left me a message. I got around to listening to it the next day, thinking she was going to try to make me feel better. I didn't especially want to feel better. However, the message from her was that I had received a special trophy for my efforts, and she had picked it up for me after we left!
When I held the trophy in my hands, I couldn’t help being pleased. It said 4th place. I figured they must not have one that said "slowest ever." I looked up my results later and sure enough, I was fourth out of four in my age class. The trophy was of a woman running. Me, running.