The Beforemath
In July I was forced to DNF after just the swim at Lake Placid thanks to a year’s worth of crippling nerve pain and a labral tear in my hip which had made training for a full impossible. Though the DNF had been the plan for months, and the weekend was still a blast, I was disappointed and needed to redirect by somewhat-crippled energies. As a consolation race, my PT and docs all thought a 70.3 would be manageable by the end of the summer. Fortunately, a great group of my OG Speed Sherpette teammies (and Justin!) were mulling Augusta and I both love that race and needed to redeem myself after riding the first ten miles with the brake on in 2021.
Melissa also wanted another crack at the course so we pressured our friends until most of them agreed. Then we found a big house to rent just off the run course in “downtown” Augusta and made various planes trains and automobile plans to get down there.
I flew to Atlanta Thursday night, leaving that extra day early as insurance against air travel fuckery – there’s a lot of that these days. Plus I’m never mad about spending extra time with my folks – especially when my visit coincides with the arrival of their new puppy, Heidi! Spending a few days with my new furry, spotty little sister was a great reminder of how wonderful puppies are, and also, how much work they are.
My trip south was uneventful, and Melissa and Sara’s Friday flights were equally punctual. The fuckery for them however came in the form of hours-long car rental lines and depleted inventories. Sara landed in the afternoon and waited three hours for her chariot. Melissa landed around 7pm and nearly encountered the same, but I was able to convince her to just cab it to my family’s house, 20 minutes from the airport, and ride with me to Augusta in the morning. She eventually acceded and was rewarded with pie and ice cream upon her arrival. (My folks are fun.) She also got some puppy and big dog kisses and we both slept well in our own rooms before getting on the road at 8:30 Saturday morning.
Race Day Eve
My dad kindly lent us his new Bronco which was fun to drive – my beloved Mini Cooper Yoshi is 19 years old and car technology has advanced quite a bit in the last two decades. (I still love and choose Yoshi though!) We arrived in Augusta at 11am. Unloaded the car and then met up with the team at the Expo.
Getting checked in was easy – though I am apparently email-challenged and initially gave volunteers my QR code from last year which caused a tiny panic attack that I wasn’t properly registered. Pro tip: now that IM uses QR codes to check in, have those bad boys ready well-ahead of time! We did a little retail damage, I picked up a print from my local friend Carrie who paints something for the race every year, and Melissa and I collected our bikes from Tribiketransport.
We had lunch outdoors at a cute vegan spot called Bee’s Knees which was very good but the meat, egg, and cheese substitutes turned out to not be as hearty as the real thing and Justin and I were both famished again within a few hours. Then we headed back the house, loaded our bikes and helmets up with the requisite stickers to rack our steeds. Melissa and I did a shake-out/make-sure-our-bikes-work (and that the brakes aren’t rubbing!) ride up and down East Boundary road which had bike lanes, but still wasn’t particularly pleasant.
From East Boundary we headed to transition and met up with Justin and Merle to put up our bikes. Ironman’s new system of assigning bibs on a first-come basis means that if you check in with your friends you get to rack with them too. We’d done packet pickup on the later side so we had some high up numbers and not the most ideal transition placement, and yeesh were the bikes crammed in ridiculously tight with ten to a rack, but at least we were all together. We walked transition, making note of the landmarks we could use to quickly find our spots during the race, and then walked the easy 15 minutes home. Pro and PT Holli was also racing again this year and joined us on our walk home.
It was about 4pm by now and we decided it was too late to drive the course. Melissa and I shared as much intel as we could remember from the previous year, and I went so far as to hastily publish my 2021 race report which I’d been sitting on, composed but unedited, so that people could read it and try to glean actual course insights amongst my rambling and bathroom diatribes.
The race guide was actually helpful in one way: I’d recorded the name of the Italian spot from which we’d done successful race day eve take out. We opted to order from Oliviana’s again this year. Insider trick: we discovered the online ordering didn’t work and the phone was busy the first few times we tried, but eventually we got through, placed the order, and Justin and I went and picked it up. Once again it was the perfect bland, over-sized proportioned pre-race carb-fest.
Much of the house indulged in vino with dinner but I abstained, always afraid of how alcohol can disrupt my sleep and make the early wake up that much more unpleasant. It probably would not have mattered though – maybe it even would have helped – because despite a sensible 9pm bedtime, I logged at most three hours of sleep before the 4:30am alarm.
The lack of REMming came mostly courtesy of a house party across the street that blasted the most deafening bass off and on from 11pm to 1am. Admittedly I hate base, the way it pings your bones like a tuning fork makes me nauseous, but this was truly next-level horrendous. I could literally feel it in my fillings. It was so loud I took it personally – wondering if the locals were trying to torture their early rising, street and river-clogging visitors. I can’t imagine a universe in which someone would have found it pleasant to be around that sound and physical sensation and so I assumed vindictiveness.
By the time the bass finally stopped for the last time I had mostly given up on sleep. The train or trains that rolled by a few blocks away – preludes to the next day– made extra sure I remained conscious. At one point a train whistle went on so long I thought there must have been something or someone on the tracks that it was trying to move. The final audible icing on the no-sleep-for-Liz cake was the let’s say, mind-altered woman who wailed outside the house around 4am. Sara, with whom I was sharing an otherwise comfy queen bed, slept through it all, but I was very much already up when that 4:30 alarm sounded. (At least fellow insomniac Justin commiserated with me over pre-dawn, sleep-deprived oatmeal.)
Race Morning
We all ate and did our prep in the large kitchen. Merle graciously made two pots of French press coffee which everyone appreciated – especially me since flying to Georgia meant I didn’t have my usual pre-race Sbux doubleshots. We managed to get out the door by 5:45 as planned and were walking into transition at 6am. Much like 2021 this meant we were walking in when most people were already walking out to line up for shuttles to the swim start, but this year I didn’t feel stressed about it. We all pumped our tires and prepped as needed, I was able to hit the portas, and we were walking out by 6:25.
The swim is a downstream point-to-point which means it starts 1.2 miles away from transition. As we set up our very tight spots, having to place our things in front of our bikes rather than alongside, the morning announcer repeatedly, emphatically declared that anyone who planned to walk to to the swim needed to leave transition by 6:15.
We ignored this admonishment and also ignored and sidestepped the long shuttle line when we walked out at 6:25, and we all agreed later that we’d timed and executed it right. The walk was a great warm-up and we arrived with sufficient time to pull on our wetsuits – over a lone compression sleeve for me – and drop off morning gear bags. (I skipped this part as all I wanted after the race were my flip flops which Sara gamely took from me.) We were all ready to go and filtering into the queue when the pro women went off at 7:07.
The Swim
One thing we did not time right was our swim seeding. Merle is a Kona-racing front-of-the-packer and argued that we should all start together towards the front; the rest of us slowpokes (in the water anyway) wanted to start further back. Further complicating things is that, while Augusta is a fast swim, just how fast varies year to year with the current and how much water has been released from the upstream dam. We knew this year was going to be a few minutes slower than 2021, and we also knew that at the athlete briefing race organizers had advised everyone to line up based on the time they would swim an unassisted 70.3, but also also knew most people wouldn’t follow those instructions. We thought we’d split the difference by finding what seemed to be the middle of the horde, next to the 31-33 minute pace signs. In the end we should have listened to Merle.
It took a long time to reach the water, even from what we thought was the middle point of the crowd. The age groupers started at 7:15 and I didn’t hit the river until 7:44 – eight minutes later than I had in 2021. Especially in a hot, crowded race like Augusta, earlier is better and every minute counts.
The four of us inched along, trying to stay together but ultimately getting separated so that Justin and Merle started a few minutes before Melissa and me. I tried to pee over the course of that very slow slog but was unsuccessful. When we finally got to the dock – which was as slippery as it had been in 2021 meaning other people had had better pee luck – we divided into five rows which were let off every three seconds. After the long line build up, this part moved swiftly along and suddenly I was stepping up to the edge of the dock and then into the water to start my race.
The Savannah River was a perfect 73 degrees. The metered entry meant minimal crowding and the wide open space plus my weekly open water swim practice – actually almost the only swimming I did this summer – meant I could comfortably and quickly get down to business. I was feeling confident too because I’d had a drafting breakthrough in this swim the year before and had managed to ride some toes in for a 13th place AG swim finish – unheard of for me. I’d also successfully gotten a toe-tow all 2.4 water miles at Lake Placid just two months before, and I was looking forward to riding a wake again here. Alas, our timid swim seeding meant that I was faster than everyone I’d started with, so rather than latching onto someone quicker for a ride down the river, I was passing people on my own. And also having to do all my own sighting and pacing, like a total sucker.
The river water was clear and I could easily see the swimmers to my right and left. I kept searching for someone the right amount quicker that I could chase. A few times I tried to hitch a ride off someone only to find they were too much quicker or too far away for me to get to in time. I found my own rhythm and was able to sight decently off the well-placed buoys and many safety kayakers. I could tell that though that I was moving much slower than I would have been with an assist. It’s not just the draft that speeds me along in the water – it’s having something other than my own thoughts to focus on. Ten years in and I still struggle to exert myself aerobically in the swim because as soon as I exert myself a little my brain screams at me that I’m going to have a heart attack and drown.
I know it’s morbid, especially because it is a far too-frequent triathlon occurrence (it even happened at this race), but my history of heart issues and asthma consume my mind in the open water as soon as my BPM starts to climb above 130. So I swam effortlessly, slowly down the river, searching and wishing for someone to come along to refocus my mind and tow me in. Finally, a bit after the halfway point, a woman swam past me at just the right clip and proximity, and I was able to jump behind her and follow.
She appeared at the perfect time because I’d been trying in vain to get past a man who was alternating between sprinting as quickly and wildly as he could and breast stroking. It must have been some sort of plan because he did about 30 seconds of each, but it was not fun to be around. The breast stroking was slow and wide and I would have to swim at a diagonal to pass him. Then he would kick and flail wildly and pass me back with a wall of splashing, inevitably sending water into my nose when I tried to breathe. After three or four rounds of this I was ecstatic to catch a draft from someone fast enough to get away from him for good.
This woman was also a great tower because she barely kicked. I was able to stay glued to her feet, just a foot or two behind her. At first I wondered if maybe she wasn’t kicking because she was peeing (that’s the only way I can pee in the swim, though it wasn’t working today) but she kept swimming that way for several minutes, so I’m pretty sure that was just her style. The only downside and challenge was that she did not swim very straight. Even zigzagging I knew she was faster than me, so I stuck it out, but her serpentines made her unpredictable and as a result after a few hundred meters I lost the rhythm a bit and brushed her toes a few times in quick succession.
At that point she became aware of me and wanted me gone. She began kicking furiously, much like the strange sprinting/breast stroking gentleman she’d ferried me away from. I got a mouth full of river water and sputtered. Her thrashing was counterproductive though, slowing her pace allowing me to pass her. (So I guess in that way it was productive, she did get rid of me.) At this point I was close enough to the end of the swim to see the final (only) turn buoy up ahead. With a couple hundred meters to go I was able to override my frantic brain and exert myself towards the swim exit.
Things were crowded around the righthand turn toward shore, and they stayed crowded for the 60 meters to the boat ramp exit. I swerved around people as much as possible, using my short arms to my one water advantage, swimming in past the taller people until I absolutely had to stand. Once upright I trudged up the ramp, looking at my watch as I crossed the timing mats to see a 31:36 – four minutes slower than 2021. I didn’t expect to PR today but I didn’t want to be too far off the mark and here I was starting the race with a four-minute deficit. I had my work cut out for me.
T1
T1 is pretty long and up a significant incline. Happily this year there were wetsuit strippers at the top of the hill. I rushed to the end of the stripper line and plopped down in front of the last guy before transition. He quickly yanked my neoprene off, I handed him my volunteer appreciation bracelet, and rushed toward the bike racks.
Garmin says I covered over a quarter mile during this transition, which is a lot, but it’s not enough to explain how bad my T1s are. As I always do, I struggled to towel blister-causing crap off my feet and get my socks on. I was pokey with my gloves, helmet, and glasses too. I also took two Advil, not something I normally do but I was the walking (biking/running) wounded. Coach Leslie had predicted a four or five minute T1, but it was 5:42 by when I finally crossed the mats onto the bike course. I felt like I’d let her down.
The Bike
The first few miles wind through town, sharing some real estate with the run course. There are crowds and a few 90 degree turns in a row, so it’s hard to get cranking until you’re heading up the onramp onto Gordon Highway in mile three. In 2021 we’d had a tailwind heading out but my brake had been rubbing so I couldn’t take advantage. This year we had a slight headwind, plus I was very nervous that if I pushed too hard too early my fragile hip/nerve situation would implode, leaving me in agony for 50+ miles. (Or worse, waiting for the sad wagon.) I had a goal of going under three hours so I didn’t want to be too precious about my injuries, but I’d gone 3:05 the previous year and that included ten miles of brake rubbing and a several-minutes stop to fix it, so I figured I could keep the first fifteen or twenty lowkey and still bring it home sub-3 with room to spare.
Over the first few miles I felt like I struck a decent balance, averaging 18.2mph for the first five mile “lap”. I was going faster than at this point last year (not hard) and the effort felt restrained but not overly easy. A half mile long, pretty steep climb kicks off the next thirty miles of hills at mile nine. It felt challenging and my nerve twanged the way it often does these days when biking or running uphill, which I felt affirmed my choice to hold back.
From there the course winds away from main thoroughfares along less-traveled country roads. There’s a nearly three mile ascent that starts at mile 12. It’s not so steep but it’s long and winding with a few fake outs where the briefly road levels and you think you’re done, only to turn a corner and find yourself climbing again. I made a point of shifting down and down, passing fewer people than I usually do while climbing. My nerve responded kindly in kind, with minimal discomfort. These two early ascents took their toll on my pace, and I averaged only 16.5mph for miles five through fifteen.
Just as that long winding climb finally crests at mile 15 the course hangs a left onto Brown Road, a street with smooth buttery pavement that is a joy to bike. The first aid station sits shortly after this turn. I rolled through grabbing a banana. I’d been eating every time my watch clicked off another five miles and hydrating throughout and I was feeling good. The temperature was so far very comfortable and I knew I’d already made it over two of the day’s biggest hills. Now here was this delightfully smooth pavement and I thought, maybe it’s time to pick up the pace.
Sadly, Brown Road was short lived and within a few minutes the course hung a right onto a less inviting stretch of pavement. It wasn’t bad, but it wasn’t the same joy-inducing substrate that invited speed. I knew I should pick up the pace some, and I did, but up and down several miles of rollers I also maintained some downhill caution and uphill restraint. I naively didn’t stress too much that miles fifteen through 25 averaged 17.3mph; in hindsight I should have realized sooner that I needed to seriously pick up the pace. I just felt so sure that in the absence of 2021’s mechanical mess-up there was no way I’d go sub-3. If I’d stop to think more about it though I would have realized that in the absence of 2022’s dueling injuries, I’d been in better, faster shape in 2021.
In any case, as I passed the halfway mark I did the math and finally realized I was currently on pace to ride this course in 3:08 – three minutes slower than last year and nine slower than my goal. Sure there were only ten more miles of hills and then hopefully a tailwind home, but I was still on pace to miss the mark by a lot and thoroughly disappoint myself. I found my big ring and got to work.
Miles 25-35 averaged a much improved 19.9mph, including a second slow roll through an aid station to grab another banana and water. Holding this pace the rest of the way might have been enough, but at mile 36 we hit the final big hill of the day, 2.5 more winding gradual miles. This time I did push it, using my tiny person advantage to pass as many people as I could. I’d been playing leapfrog with a handful of women, shouting encouragement to each other as we passed and then fell behind and then repassed each other. I yelled them on as I overtook them once more, this time planning to stay in front of them.
Miles 35-forty averaged 18.6mph, but now the climbing was done, the timing was clear, and I knew I had to hammer it home for the next 16 miles. Once again the course didn’t make it easy: at mile forty it swings a hard right into a few miles of truly sketchy pavement. It’s twisty, and slightly downhill, but riddled with wheel-eating craters. I exerted myself but didn’t feel like I could ride too aggressively. To end this section we had to ride gingerly over a set of railroad tracks, hook a hard left onto a crowded, slightly less terrible road for a few miles, and then finally another right back onto the main highway.
Finally home-free now, right? Wrong. Yes the climbing and bad pavement was finally done, but at mile 43 the course swings another hard right for a nearly five-mile out and back next to the Augusta Regional Airport. I remembered this section as mentally tough the previous year – it’s hard to be diverted off the road home for this section that feels like the course designers added upon they realizing they were five miles shy of 56. This year it was physically tough too with a strong cross-wind all the way out and then all the way back in. I wanted so badly to back off the effort. Having to push and stabilize myself against the wind was painful. My hip and nerves mingled discordantly, begging me to slow down. But I was running out of road to get my sub-3 time and the math was still not in my favor. I had to keep pushing.
Everyone around me had backed off, so I passed people the whole way and skipped the aid station located right before the turn back onto the highway. Despite the wind, unpleasant conditions I managed to average just under 20mph for miles forty-fifty. I was chipping away at my deficit but it wasn’t good enough. Running the numbers I realized I needed to hold over 21mph the rest of the way back to go under three hours.
I did a quick mental check in with myself and the race plan. Coach Leslie had advised me to take the last five miles easier, to bring my heart rate down ahead of the run. Here I was contemplating the exact opposite of that, and it still likely wouldn’t be enough. Was it worth it to throw everything I had at this last bit of biking, and jeopardize my already chancy run situation?
Ultimately, and quickly, I decided, yes it was. I wanted the sub-3 more than I wanted a good run. I’d had a good run in 2021 and I’d come back to this race to redeem myself on the bike. Plus, in my condition the run was likely to be agony even if I conserved my legs and effort here. In the end a sub-3 bike was worth a slow, terrible half marathon. And so I got as low as I could, shifted as high as I could, and set fire to a whole book of matches.
For the next five miles I rode hard. There were a few rollers and turns, and the road was narrower than I would have liked for how aggressively I had to ride, but I largely enjoyed pushing myself. I passed men and women, calling my spot constantly and overtaking dozens of people. I managed to average over 22mph for miles fifty-55 and reminded myself that when I push I can actually go as fast as almost anyone out on the course. I have to learn how to harness and maintain that energy.
With one mile to go the course winds back through town. It’d be impossible – and dangerous – not to slow down. I slowed but stayed faster than everyone around me, picking people off and ticking the seconds down until the bike in arch was finally in view. I had to back way off the last few hundred meters and I could see I was at 2:59:something as I braked, unclipped, and swung myself out of the saddle, dashing over the T2 timing mat as quickly as I could. By my Garmin’s count I’d made the sub-3 cutoff, but I didn’t want to celebrate until I saw the official results later. They confirmed it: final bike time of 2:59:38. I didn’t know how this run would go but it was worth it.
T2
My T2 is always much better than T1. I hustled to our not-the-best-placed racks and hung up my steed – easier now with a much emptier rack, though I could see that Merle and Justin were already out on the run. I swallowed down two more advil, scuffling a bit with the child safety cap, swapped out my shoes and grabbed my visor, bib, and nutrition, and scurried toward the run out.
Transition sat in a big shadeless grass field, and for the first time I felt the Georgia heat. It was a relatively mild day by southern standards, but at 11:30am in the direct sunlight it didn’t feel mild. I didn’t regret the bike effort, but I did feel a pang of worry for the 13.1 run miles ahead of me. T2 clocked a 3:11.
The Run
My legs felt cumbersome and slow jogging out of transition onto the equally shade-free quarter-mile stretch that precedes the main course. I forgot to hit my Garmin for at least a minute so I knew I was going to have to bake that time into my mental calculations as I went. I felt slow and clumsy, but I tossed back a cup of water and doused myself with a second at an aid table just past transition and reminded myself that I’d felt equally terrible in 2021 only to have a great run. I didn’t know if the same would be true here but at least I knew there was hope.
I pulled up the heartrate face on my watch and saw 163. Leslie had wanted me to keep it under 160 for the first 5k and right out the gate I was too high. That was to be expected with those last fast bike miles though so I didn’t beat myself up, I just worked on slowing my pace and breathing.
About halfway through the first mile a man in a Tri Miami kit dropped a bunch of ziplocs out of his pockets as he ran past me. I grabbed them and called out to him but he didn’t hear me. I sped up and ran alongside him, handing him his bags. He thanked me and I dropped my pace back down. The effort spiked my heartrate further so I slowed even further, to what felt like a shuffle as I turned onto my favorite part of the run course: Greene Street.
Greene is a wide, patchily-shaded avenue lined with beautiful old Victorian houses. I felt hot and slow, and my heartrate was immovably at 163, but when my watch buzzed one mile I looked down and saw 9:09. Not as exciting as the 8:30s last year, but much faster than I felt I was going. My spirits lifted, feeling like maybe I’d have a (decidedly slightly slower) repeat of 2021’s surprisingly good run.
There’s a well-stocked and well-staffed aid station in the second mile and I walked through it, collecting water, taking one of my salt pills, and filling my sports bra and kit with two cups of ice, saving some to hold in each of my hands and to rub my face. (I learned the ice-holding trick long ago and it’s a great way to fool your body into thinking it’s cooler than it is.) I loped back into my 163bpm jog and was happy to see a 9:16 when my watch announced mile two – I was maintaining low nines even walking the aid stations and holding way back.
At this point the ice was doing its job and I decided to see what would happen if I picked up the pace a teensy bit. My heartrate ticked up a touch and my hip voiced an objection. I did manage to bring mile three in 8:53, but I decided I better not push too early, I didn’t want my leg to rebel with most of the run to go, so I slowed back down.
Miles 3-6 are an out and back on Broad Street, which has great spectator support, but is much hotter than Greene. I kept walking the aid stations and restraining myself pace-wise. My hip and nerve were still twinging a little as I ran reservedly east down Broad. Over the next few miles I averaged right on a 9:30 which would have crushed me in previous years, but this time around I was proud of myself for holding back and felt like the pace wasn’t too bad considering it included 10-20 seconds of aid station walking.
After the Broad Street out-and-back, the course hangs another two rights to take athletes east down Reynolds, the closest street parallel to the river. After a few blocks people on their second lap get to veer right again for the finish line while people on their first have to stay straight along Reynolds for almost an entire mile. This is the loneliest part of the run. Luckily you only have to do it once, and even more luckily, I had warned teammates about this liminal space devoid of spectators or anything encouraging, and Sara heard me and showed up there! As I was slogging in direct sun, hitting the halfway mark and trying to decide if I had it in me to finally speed it up, suddenly there was Sara cheering.
“What was that you said about this being the loneliest part of the course?!” she yelled at me. I laughed and teared up. I was so moved that she had filed away my comments the day before and shown up – even more so because she was originally supposed to be out here racing with us, but after a reckless driver destroyed her bike she still traveled and showed up. To have selfless friends and teammates like that never fails to move me and keeps me coming back to the sport despite all of my own setbacks.
I soaked in Sara’s encouragement, walked through the halfway point aid station (where I also picked up a push pop that was maybe not race-sanctioned but which everyone was taking) and proceeded with a lot more pep in my gimpy step. It was just what I needed to make my mind up: I was gonna make a play for a sub-2-hour half marathon, and, therefore, a significant negative split.
Mile seven clocked another 9:30 and I’d been at 61 minutes at the halfway mark, so with only six miles to go I really needed to pick it up. Mile eight included a bit of an incline to get back to shady-ish Greene Street which slowed me down some. Merging with the runners who were just hitting their first lap after exiting T2 was a boost – not in a schadenfreude way, it just felt like no time had passed since that had been me and here I was feeling better than I had one lap prior.
Mile eight with its incline clocked a 9:11. Faster but not faster enough. I picked up the pace in mile nine, or so I thought, but it also clocked a 9:11 – perhaps my walk through the aid station on Greene was longer than I realized, I did pause to give some salt pills to a gentleman whose legs were cramping. Whatever it was I knew I had to accelerate more aggressively, and with only four miles to go I didn’t have much to lose, so I stepped on it – or I did the 2022-about-to-get-hip-surgery version of stepping on it.
My hip and nerve were feeling much better than they had off the bike. I worried they’d rebel again when I sped up, as they had a lap prior, but as I pushed forward the whole left leg situation seemed to hold. Also, after struggling to keep my heart rate in place over the first half, my bpm had miraculously come down. All the ice and the focus on hydrating had worked – who’s ever heard of someone’s heart rate decreasing 3/4 through a race?! As I dropped into the mid-8s, my heart rate only crept up a little, finally ending up in the zones Coach Leslie had prescribed for this part of the race. I don’t think I’ve ever seen such definitive proof of the physiological benefits of proper fueling.
Even with another aid station stroll replete with ice down my front and back and more salt intake, mile ten came in at a much-improved 8:46. With just a 5k to go I felt energized and ready and able to push the pace further. I was on track for my negative split but I would still need to hustle for a sub-2.
Early on in that tenth mile, as I passed people and felt myself getting stronger, a woman in an all-black kit charged past me like it was nothing. I yelled encouragement to her and felt inspired to push that much harder. I thought about her as I picked up the turnover and let my heart rate tick higher. I was running east down Broad Street, and as I crossed railroad tracks on 6th Street I heard some spectators remark with alarm that a train was coming. I had more than a mile to run before I’d be back at this intersection coming the other way down Broad so I shrugged it off. I felt terrible for anyone who might get stuck for a minute or two, but I thought for sure it wouldn’t affect my race.
It was easy to forget about the train because a block later I saw Sara and Lola. I felt so proud that my friends were there to witness my surge. They said later that my energy and mood were so different from where they’d seen me a few miles before. I again walked through the aid station near the Broad Street turnaround, feeling confident that I’d been running in the low 8s and that it was worth the pause to hydrate and cool down.
After throwing more ice down my kit I launched back into the 8:teens, feel happy and capable. I saw a familiar black kit and repassed the fast woman who had overtaken me a mile ago. I said hello and she encouraged me on – it was everything I love about the sport and community. I rounded the switchback to head west and a couple short blocks later my watch announced an 8:34. That was better but with two miles to go I was all in to push even harder toward that sub-2 finish.
I was holding low 8:00s and feeling confident when the lady in black passed me back, which just fueled my fire. We greeted each other as old friends and, knowing she was in better run shape than me, I decided to see how long I could hang onto her wake. (Hopefully I’d be more successful than I was in the swim!)
I could not have been in a better mood as my new ninja friend and I crossed 4th Street. My giddiness waned though as I looked up and saw a strange crowd two blocks ahead, and directly in front of them, the aforementioned choo choo rumbling unhurriedly by. I didn’t know what to do. Should I keep running hard and hope the train would pass in the next two blocks? Should I stop now and avoid the crowd to wait? I kept on running, from 4th to 5th Street, feeling the joy recede with every step as that damned train just kept coming. At 5th Street my mentor in black slowed to a walk and I did the same a few paces behind her, happy to have someone else make the call.
We walked dejectedly toward this impassable obstacle less than two miles from the finish line. I heard someone call my name and turned to see Justin standing to the side of the road in the shade. At first I thought he was finished but no, he was also just waiting out the railroad schedule, which, like a combustion-powered honey badger, don’t give a fuck. I waved to him but kept walking, following my new friend to the front of the exasperated throng. There I found Lola and Sara, who tried to cheer me back up and offered to bring me to a race official who was taking down bib numbers of affected athletes. I was in a haze and getting upset and I don’t think I reacted much to my friends’ efforts to help. I just stared at this impossibly long and unbothered train and felt my sub-2 and momentum slip away.
After about a minute of mindless staring the caboose finally came and went, and the mob rushed forward. A great thing about triathlon is that the run is rarely crowded, but once the track cleared it was like the start of a competitive 5K – around a hundred people all hearing the gun at the same time and making a move. To make things trickier, I knew we were yards from the narrowest section of the course, where both the east and west-moving lanes of Broad Street converged winnowing the path to almost single-file for a block. I had no interest in getting stuck behind people I couldn’t pass, so as everyone surged, I surged harder.
I successfully got in front of most of the grumpy horde including the woman in black, sprinting harder than my barely-run-conditioned-self had any business going. I’d been fueled by joy a few minutes ago, but now it was mostly irritation. I was running close to a 7 minute mile which I knew I couldn’t maintain, but it felt worth it when my watch buzzed an 8:45 for mile 12. Miraculously I could still bring it home in under two hours.
As I made the series of turns off of Broad and onto Reynolds, my run queen passed me one more time. I was hurting from the entire book of matches I’d just razed and slowing down. She overtook me easily but paused to urge me on. Her visage in front of me once more and a few words of encouragement were exactly what I needed to get my head back on. I’d been holding low 7s, and that wasn’t sustainable, but I did manage grab onto something just under 8 and hold on.
It took everything I had in me, but that’s exactly how you want to finish a race: spend it all. It seemed like it took longer than I remembered from the first lap, but I was elated to finally see the course divide for the finish line. I leaned into the last two turns off Reynolds and back onto Broad. 
I made sure to drink in the crowd and live in the moment as my feet hit that beautiful finisher’s chute red carpet. I’d be going under the knife in six short weeks and needed to hold onto this feeling to stay motivated during a long immobile winter. The crowd did not disappoint and I finished feeling I’d given it everything I had – and grabbing my sub-two with a final run time of 1:58:29 and a final mile at 7:48.
The Aftermath
Lola and Sara were cheering just beyond the finish line. I collected my medal and my emotions and joined my friends. We found Justin and got to cheer Melissa in. Then we found Merle who had won her age group exactly as I thought she would. After grabbing some athlete food (pizza) Merle and I found the shuttle to get back to transition while Justin and Melissa went in search of their morning gear bags. The shuttle took a wildly meandering route to avoid the bike and run courses – it took a half hour to make it the 1.2 miles back and still dropped us off a ten-minute walk away. We absolutely could have walked in less time.
Merle rode back to the house while I pushed Koop over to TriBikeTransport which was set up conveniently right next to transition. The only downside was that, after dropping off my bike, I had to walk the mile and change back to the house schlepping all of my gear. It was slow going but I stopped and cheered runners on along the way which was nice. And even if it was a bit of a slog the house I was so happy to not have to drive anywhere.
Back at the house I showered and then walked back to a restaurant on Broad Street where Sara, Lola, and Merle were downing a pitcher of the strongest (and worst) margaritas I’ve ever encountered. They were dilly-dallying, probably thanks to all the bottom-shelf tequila, so I had to hurry them out to make it to the award ceremony in time for Lola to claim her slot to 70.3 Worlds in Finland next year.
After awards we were flummoxed to find that almost all of the restaurants downtown were closed. I’m not a business owner, but it sure seems like a missed opportunity to close shop right when a few thousand calorie-depleted athletes with disposable income are wandering around. We found one open spot that would take a to-go order, but we (or really Justin) waited over an hour for some mediocre burgers and sparse veggie sides.
We had all agreed to stay over after the race so we could make a proper team weekend of it but Augusta was not making things easy. Still we had a great time indulging in lots of wine and each other’s company. If I can ever get myself all the way healthy I want to take a fourth crack at this course – one of these days I might get it all the way right…trains willing.
Plus I got to recover working from (my parents’) home in Atlanta for a few days after, sneaking in some pool and puppy pointer time. So admittedly I’m geographically biased in favor of IM Augusta.
