Countdown

Musselman: Geneva, NY: 15 July, 2012

48:09 swim

T1: 2:53

3:26 bike

T2: 3:11

2:05 run

Tags: Todd from Breakaway, Rita O’Brien, David Savoie, Brian Moldover, Fredy Cumerma, Dylan Germack, Lisa Kreibe, Carla Cue

Back in January, I recruited Dave Savoie to help me train for my first ½ and full Ironman. He was game and I was pleased, starting off from a fall/winter of running and beer drinking in Oxford. I had my doubts about how I could prepare in time when I didn’t get on my bike until late April—having spent 4 months on 12-hour Saturday shifts. But, I rode through 3 months with Brian Moldover, putting up with me and my shenanigans on Jameson, my Jamis Venutra Sport road/racing bike.

So, I’ve spent the past 6 months of weekends either waking up early and heading to the hospital or on the road and in the lake with Brian, lightly leaving the bedroom, trying not to disturb my boyfriend, Fredy, who thinks of my endurance training and races as crazy, but undoubtedly respectable. I’ve also spent the last 6 months swimming laps in the pool at Penn—too many to count—running laps on the 2.1 mile HILLY Haverford Trail; and when my distance has become too much, taking the train into the City to run the West River/Kelly loop.

So, on July 14^th, I knew it was too late to back out. I found out in June, 5 months after registering, that we would be burying my grandfather that Saturday morning. Oh God, I dreaded, a 6 hour drive after funerary tears. My grandfather passed December 31^st in Florida after a stroke and remarkable rehabilitation, only to be taken by a clot that had spread to his heart 3 days before scheduled discharge from rehab. He was cremated per his wishes; and his oldest daughter was waiting for the whole family to be able to participate in his burial—it was somehow scheduled for July 14^th.

So, after tears and memories, my sister, Dylan, and I started our 5 hour 40 minute drive from Philly. The weather that morning had been melancholic to reflect our mood, but as we headed north, sunshine hit our windows, bringing hope and recognizing vigilance. We made it in around 7 in the evening. The race directors had been overwhelmingly helpful in understanding the situation and arranged for me to pick up my room key that evening (I had reserved athlete lodging) and my race packet the next morning.

When I registered for athlete lodging in dorms I expected rows of beds, but we arrived at a house on the river. Though it took us awhile to find the room, which was in the basement (nice and cooled), we felt like we were in 7^th heaven. And I was overwhelmingly pleased in introducing myself to the folks across the hall from us in the basement to find that Todd and Rita were our lake house companions. Todd came to the rescue when I’d described our morning of rain and starting lubing my chain. That night we went to bed on full stomachs from our generous housemates.

4:30 am hit and I came out of my temporary unconsciousness—race nights are always hard for me to sleep through. My phone rang its nonsense and my sister and I leapt up. I trudged upstairs in my tri top and bottoms, searching for food.

We made it to the race site when the sun hadn’t even started to rise. We could hear the crests in the water hitting the “sea” walls  and I shuddered. As the sun did start to rise and the sky brightened, I felt a lump in my throat grow larger as overbearing black clouds numbed the blue sky.

The race atmosphere pumped up as they blared Sarah McLachlan on the speakers. Around 6:45, the water temperature was announced to be 78.8—not wetsuit legal, or at least, those wearing wetsuits were not eligible for prizes. I rejoiced. I hate wetsuits—I grew up on the Gulf of Mexico in my bikini. I grew up thinking wetsuits were for scuba-divers, and I  did not like the constricting feeling.

At 6:50, all racers were called to the coral. I started my swim at 7:10, wave three. I waded out to the start line, feeling mussels underneath my feet. They were smooth unlike the crusty oysters and barnacles in the Gulf. The water was cool, but tepid. At the bang, I started swimming in shallow water, seeing others behind my wade through. About 800 meters into the swim the water was surely choppy. I took the advice Lisa Kreibe had offered and only sited while cresting a wave. I avoided mouthfuls of water. In another 200 meters, the next wave started catching up with me. I didn’t feel threatened, however, as I noticed it was mostly people in wetsuits. I new they would catch up eventually. When I hit the canal I felt like I was home free and my sister and I sighted each other, renewing my power.

I got out of the water in what felt like 40 minutes and ran to my bike. In looking back, it was a 48 minute swim and I had definitely trained harder than that. T1 totaled 2 minutes 53 seconds. I had taken time to powder my feet to prevent blisters and make sure I took enough gels to power my ride.

All was still there and ready. I tied my signature bandana around my head, buckled my helmet and threw my energy into my back pocket. I also shoved my Kashi bar into my mouth and started chewing. Clipped in, I felt read to roll, but dreading what I did not know. Unfortunately for me, Carly Rae Jepsen’s Call Me Maybe floated through my head the whole ride. About 10 miles in, I was surprised and lightened by a caravan of stagecoaches with Amish men and women with their kids on their laps. I couldn’t help but giggle. At mile 15, it started to rain, a light drizzle at first, as we rode the farm roads. Then, at mile 20, it started to pour. The rain hit my face and arms like needles. I had to take off my sunglasses to maintain visibility. Thunder and lightning cracked in the distance and all I wanted was for race officials to pull us to the side. My shoes were soaked. And for the first time, I had to dodge frogs crossing the street. It felt like the end of the world in the Bible. But, I rode on and mile 30 came so suddenly. Geeze, already half way through. I climbed hills ferociously—thanks to training from spin classes, passing Cervelo 3T’s and Treks. As soon as I knew it we were back at Seneca and riding the gravel trail behind the army grounds. Just five miles to T2. Looking back, the bike was 3:26 and T2 was 3:11. I was dismayed when I got back to my soaking when Transition area, forcing myself to put on sopping shoes that I had under a waterproof tarp—but the rain seeped through.

I started the run quite tired. I munched on my gels one  by one, mouth full at each photographer I passed. Dave had advised me, or commanded me, to stop at each aid station for sponges and fuel. So, I did. And I do not regret it. I hit no wall. I barreled up hills and only passed people on my feet—no one passed me. I ran through each hose that spectators sprayed on us. And I couldn’t stop smiling. Volunteers shouted, you make it look too easy, look at that smile, but I couldn’t stop. Mile 8 had already hit and I knew mile 10 was right around the corner and I would pass our lakefront house again. The 13 miles rolled by like no other, and I got to the ½ mile of spectators in no time, grinning ear to ear.

I finished triumphantly, thankfully, knowing my grandfather was looking upon me. 6:26 flashed on the clock, so I guess 6:16 was my race time start to finish. Not bad for a first.

So, I have done it. Today I am sore—muscularly—and I took the day off when I thought about all of the gunk I have to clean off of my bike, shoes, transition bag, etcetera. I am also trying to figure out how to deal with these blisters at the base of my butt—luckily I am a woman and thongs and dresses won’t be hard to pull off.

So, that was my race.

Thank you to all of the supporters and kind souls out there who took the time to encourage me. And thank you to Carla Cue, who started me off with this crazy sport!