Race Day Eve Eve

When I registered for Augusta 2021 back in the spring I immediately went searching for a pet-friendly Airbnb knowing we’d want to make it a whole family trip to GA and spend a few days in Atlanta after. I found just about the cutest three bedroom house imaginable – white picket fence around a large yard and everything – and reserved it, figuring I’d worry about filling the rooms later.

Over the next few months friends signed up and unsigned up for Augusta and roommate plans changed. My teammate Melissa, who had proved to be an excellent race weekend buddy back in Maine in 2018, decided to switch from another half when she heard that Augusta had a downhill swim and a few weeks before the race she decided to shack up with us. (Luckily she loves dogs.)

She flew and we drove down the Friday before the race – I got to return the massive favor she did of driving my bike to Maine three years ago by bringing down her steed so she could fly. She got into the house before us and I was relieved when she texted that it was as cute as the pictures suggested. I feel very fortunate to have had some epically good race weekend Airbnb luck both this season and over the last few years.

Once Scott and I arrived Melissa got to see firsthand how he is the most generous and thoughtful race sherpa that ever did live. He went to the grocery store with lists from both of us while she and I sat outside on the adorable deck and had some vino while we watched the dogs play and caught up after almost two years apart thanks to COVID. We got a teensy bit devoured by mosquitoes but otherwise it was a perfect evening.

For dinner we ordered delivery from Farmhaus Burger in downtown Augusta – the run course goes right by it – which turned out to be some of the largest burgers we’d ever seen. I absolutely recommend it if you’re trying to put away a billion calories! The menu was fun with almost too many options including veggie burgers, and the delivery was quick and easy. I wouldn’t order from Farmhaus the night before the race but otherwise I give it a thumbs up.

Race Day Eve

We let ourselves sleep as late as we wanted on Saturday before Melissa and I drove down to the expo around 10am leaving Scott with the dogs and vowing to be back by early afternoon to relieve him. Oh how we were wrong! Once again, thank goodness Scott is the world’s best, most understanding race sherpa.

The expo was inside the Convention Center downtown – a descriptor which I use loosely for Augusta. Packet pickup was quick and mostly painless, though not one, not two, but three dudes cut in front of us in line as we were next to show our QR codes – a new procedure – and grab our things. They weren’t maliciously cutting, just that some men really never learn to take any stock of their surroundings or other people. It’s remarkable really. What a way to move through the world.

Eventually, once the menfolk had been served, it was my turn and then the process was easy. The volunteer handing out packets and swim caps asked me if I wanted a pink or a green cap. Given the choice I opted for green and was pumped not to have yet another girls-wear-pink swim cap.

Because of COVID the expo was pretty small with limited shopping options. Ironman had its usual setup of branded and race-branded gear, and as usual they were out of women’s sizes in most of it. Apparently they’d run out of things by mid-day Friday but they had plenty of large men’s gear. (See? Those guys didn’t need to cut us – the expo was ready and waiting to cater to them whenever they arrived!)

We stocked up on a few things, I picked up race tats from the Augusta Tri team as there was to be no body marking thanks to COVID, and I also picked up a poster from a local athlete who I’d met when I did this race in 2013. She and I had ended up doing the run together that year and we kept in touch. She’s a teacher and an artist and does a print for Ironman Augusta every year. Back in 2013 she sent me one after the race and Scott had it framed – it’s hanging in our pain cave and I often look at it during long rides to psych myself up.

Once we had our packets and other fun things, Melissa and I returned to the car which we’d parked just across the street from the Convention Center. Given the pandemic and lax enforcement of the mask mandate inside the Expo I was happy to get out quickly. Transition was a mile and a half away and we planned to do our bike/run shake-outs by riding there and running back.

We saddled up and set off from the parking lot around 11am, having scheduled to rack our bikes between 11 and noon – another COVID protocol to limit crowds. We rode most of the way there which only took a couple minutes, so we then backtracked through town and happened upon a pace line which we joined to add some mileage to our shakeout rides. I felt like I was moving kind of slow, but I figured it was because we were maneuvering around traffic and I wasn’t clipped in since we’d have to run back. I wondered briefly if I should have a mechanic check out the bike but it didn’t feel that off. I put it out of my mind as we got into transition and racked.

We were in and out quickly (and no one checked our 11am-12pm racking tickets) and got to jogging back to the car. It went smoothly and I was optimistic about how loose the legs were feeling and low the heart rate was staying. We finished our ten minute assignment a couple blocks from the Convention Center when it hit me: I’d left my car keys on my bike – safely tucked away in my bento box but, ya know, over a mile away from where we were standing, sweating, and supposed to be done working out for the day.

We stood around flummoxed by my stupidity and trying to figure out what to do next for a few minutes. I didn’t have a mask on me so ordering a car was out. I considered calling Scott to get his keys but we had the car and I wasn’t about to ask him to uber to us. I thought of calling my friend Holli who was in town but she’s a pro and I didn’t want to do anything to interfere with her pre-race plan. I told Melissa she could hang out and I’d walk back to the bike but she, being the awesome racecation trooper she is, said she’d walk back with me, but first we needed water. It was a surprisingly mild weekend but it was still 80-something degrees and we’d just biked and ran.

By a stroke of luck there was a farmer’s market going on across the street. We wandered over hoping to find water without having to venture indoors maskless somewhere. I was nervous we’d strike out when the scent of patchouli hit me upon entering the market, but fortunately one of the food vendors came through.

Waters in hand we decide to take the riverwalk path back to transition. It took us a few minutes to find a staircase up to the elevated walkway but soon we were on our way, back from whence we came.

Within a couple minutes we passed a little food truck advertising ice cream and other noms. It was past noon at this point and here was a place to get food without going inside anywhere so we decided to make a pitstop. We each ordered hot dogs and then we waited. For, I kid you not, 25 minutes. For hotdogs. And they were tasty but they were not half hour hotdogs tasty.

We ate and then resumed our odyssey back to transition. After another 25-ish minutes we made it, I located my keys exactly where I’d stupidly stashed them, and we turned around for the long trek back. We ran into Holli on the way which was nice, but otherwise it was over an hour on our feet and three-plus extra miles in the sun that were far from ideal 18 hours before a race.

When we got back to the car it was around 2pm and we had wanted to drive the bike course, albeit much earlier in the day than it now was. I texted Scott and he said he was fine with the doggos (actually he was having a great day) and we should go drive it if it’d be helpful, so we headed out for 56 miles through north Georgia. (The bike used to be mostly through South Carolina [Gamecocks suck!] but the state got tired of all the road closure irritation of an Ironman with very little of the economic boost so the course had to migrate.)

We headed out of “downtown” Augusta for the peachy countryside to the south of the “city” and were quickly sure we’d already gone off-course. Ironman’s turn-by-turn bike directions are very irritating in that they don’t include distances, so you have to compare against google maps and try to figure out how long each direction will last – is the next turn in half a mile or ten miles? Who knows! Yes there are turn arrows painted on the road but they’re easy to miss while driving, especially if you have no idea when to look out for them. Melissa and I struggled with this very obvious and fixable deficiency for the first 15 or so miles until we finally got the hang of the course. Around five miles in I noted we seemed to be on a false flat for a while and that we should remember that tomorrow. This observation would bite me in the ass, kinda literally, the next day.

As we drove we noticed another athlete following us – either that or he was trying to murder us? (North Georgia…who knows. [Insert Ned Beatty gif here…]) Ultimately we didn’t get murdered and we were very happy to have taken the time to drive the course. It’s much hillier than the old SC ride, with all of the elevation coming between miles ten and forty, and a couple long grinding ascents. Race day was going to throw some no-bs climbs at us, but we now felt we knew what to expect and where.

It was past 4pm when we made it back to Scott who, true to saintly form, was in great spirits despite being left on his own all day. (He’d found a dog park a few minutes away and met other Great Danes, several puppies, and now was making use of the great yard, deck, and weather.)

Melissa and I showered – I’m sure we were pretty stinky from our unnecessary pilgrimage back and forth (and back and forth again). She set about race prepping while I set about dinner planning. We ordered take out from a place called Oliviana’s and Scott kindly went to pick it up. Not that Augusta has a whole lot to offer on the fine dining or Italian front, but it was absolutely mediocre and perfect for pre-race carbing.

I must be really rusty at transition packing because it took me ages to get my morning bag ready while Melissa was done long before bedtime. Having paid for them I was painstaking about applying my race tats as well. Eventually I was finally as prepared as I was gonna be, and after a few Schitt’s Creek episodes – a streaming tonic that may replace my pre-race SVU tradition – we all were tucking in around 9pm. I credit Melissa with this uncharacteristically responsible bedtime.

Race Morning

I set my alarm to 4:13 am with plans to leave the house at 5:20 (meaning 5:30) but I was up pretty well awake by 4am. Despite those extra few minutes, I dawdled so slowly through my oatmeal and coffee that we weren’t in the car until 5:35. (It’s possible that part of the delay was a result of me trying to climb back into bed in my kit for extra snuggles with Daenerys.) Finally though, I crawled into the back of the Subaru with the dogs while Melissa rode up front and Scott drove.

I nursed a bottle of Scratch and tried to find a comfortable, safe, and not totally conspicuous way to sit with the pups. We were already running late when what should have been a 10 minute drive to transition was extended by early road closures. Despite assurances to the contrary, our exit off the highway was already closed at 5:45am. We were forced to drive over the river and into South Carolina (boo fake USC!). We could see transition and the swim start as we crossed the Savannah River and my stomach did oh-shit-oh-shit flips as we drove in the wrong direction and into another state.

I felt awful that I’d been so pokey getting ready and that now, after making her walk miles in the hot sun due to my stupidity the day before, I was making Melissa so stressfully tardy for transition. As the swim start got smaller and farther away through the wayback window of the Subaru, I was afraid we might even miss the race we were cutting it so close. Scott was able to quickly turn around and  and fortunately the exit was open as we now approached it from the north. The diversion into the Palmetto state probably only added three or four minutes to the trip but given how late we already were those few minutes felt interminable. (Also the proximity to yucky Gamecocks probably made it seem longer.)

Scott let us out a few blocks from transition and we rushed to our bikes fighting upstream against crowds that were already leaving for the swim start. We passed Holli who was in line for one of the shuttles to the swim. She teased us for showing up so late but then had to contend with her own odyssey involving a shuttle driver who didn’t actually know where the swim start was so it seems we were in good company with our pre-race near-disasters!

It was just about 6am when we finally got to our racks. We didn’t need to pump our tires as it hadn’t been cool enough to let air out – though later on I would come to really regret that I hadn’t more thoroughly check my bike set up. (This is called foreshadowing. I’m building tension. Is it working?) It took about 10 minutes to fill bottles and prep our spots and then we hustled over to the porta potty lines.

There were a few banks of portas scattered through transition and I had obviously been sussing the line situation at each. We opted for the bathrooms toward the back corner that I think most people hadn’t noticed in the pre-dawn dark. The line moved quickly and Melissa and I were done and grabbing what we needed to exit transition with time – not a lot but some – to spare before it closed at 6:30.

Pre-Swim

Melissa and I were both pretty COVID cautious and felt safer walking to the swim start rather than cramming into a shuttle of southerners knowing many wouldn’t mask and many weren’t vaccinated. By now we were very familiar with the 1.2 mile walk, and other than being a little chilly we made it there with no issues.

People were already lined up according to swim times so we quickly found some space and shimmied into our wetsuits. The fact that the only available space was on a steep incline was a challenge but I chalked it up as an extra warm-up. Perfect since I never really do a warm up! (Should I be doing a warm up?)

Melissa had brought the morning gear bag Ironman had given everyone so that she could check her warm clothes and shoes and have dry things waiting at the finish line. I hadn’t brought mine as that’s what husbands are for but I did take her up on her offer to check my otherwise-throw-away flip flops – they’d live to see another race morning!

As she was tying up the bag she realized her timing chip was no longer strapped around her ankle, but she was positive it had been before she had put on her wetsuit. We tore the gearbag open and pulled everything back out, flipping clothes inside and out, checking pockets, and growing panicked that after our tardy morning she now had no chip. Eventually she found it wadded up in her wetsuit sleeve but it was an unnecessarily tense few minutes and yet another delay.

She ran to find the bag drop-off and I squeezed into the mass of people in front of a sign for projected 30 minute swims. It was hard to predict my swim time as the current was an unknown quantity. I live in mortal fear of seeding myself too aggressively and having to swim with faster athletes, or, worse, having to try too hard in the water. I’ve swam around 37 minutes in several 70.3s and felt like seven or eight minutes was a reasonable expectation for the downstream boost.

Melissa made it back from gear check just as the line started moving and I was so relieved we’d get to start together. We both wore masks as we were surrounded my a couple thousand people in very up close and personal proximity. A few other people also masked but most didn’t. (Actually a decent chunk of spectators did, but very few athletes.) We were in the middle of the Delta surge and Georgia was being hit very hard, Augusta ICUs were overflowing with COVID patients, and I found it really disappointing, predictable but disappointing, that Ironman hadn’t made even the teensiest bit of effort by requiring masks at this mass start.

Swim

The pro men and women got started at 7:00 and 7:07am respectively. (And Holli made it just in time, no thanks to the itinerant morning shuttle!) Age groupers were sent off at 7:15 and we were inching forward shortly thereafter. It took us 20 minutes to make it to the dock. Melissa and I ditched our masks in a trash can just before we stepped on to the slippery floating mass of metal.

Aside from donning neoprene on a hillside, the first athletic challenge of the day was to safely descend a steep and incredibly slick ramp down to the water. There were inch-wide steel rods creating a quasi-staircase, but you had to tightly grip the railing and gently step down. The whole contraption was wet, which, being so high above the water, I can only assume was largely from pee. It was a good reminder to see if I could go once before entering the river, knowing how I struggle to pee while swimming – especially in a wetsuit.

Once we reached the flat dock we had about two minutes before we were sent off and I successfully squeezed out a pee just before being summoned to the edge of the dock and into the river. It felt like a victory before my time even started, and I stepped into the water feeling ready to work.

Because of COVID (and non-pandemic general bureaucratic incompetence) the public pools in DC had been an absolute mess, and with Delta I didn’t care to swim indoors anyway, so over the summer I had joined the Wave One Swim Club that holds three weekly open water swim practices at National Harbor in Maryland. I’d gone to their practices a few times over the years, but never with any regularity because lap swimming was more convenient and my job used to involve a lot of evening events. Working from home and without evening obligations I was able to make it out at least once a week and as a result, stepping into the Savannah River I felt more comfortable in open water than I ever had before.

For the first time I didn’t have to fight off the panicky mean voice that usually plagues me with thoughts of you-can’t-do-this for the first few hundred meters of every race. In the weeks before race day I’d even been swimming outside in my wetsuit so I felt fully comfortable from the jump. (Step, we’re not allowed to jump in.) The Savannah River was also much cleaner and more pleasant than the Potomac. I’m used to not being able to see more than a few inches in front of me. This water was clear and I could see everything around me easily which made the swimming that much more enjoyable.

The clean clear water also meant I didn’t need to really sight off the buoys, and, better than that, it meant I could try to draft off someone. I seemed to have seeded myself appropriately, so for the first few hundred meters there wasn’t anyone to try and follow. After a few minutes though a man swam up on my right at just the right amount faster than me and I decided to go for it. I’ve only ever successfully drafted off my bff Clarice during a practice swim in Kona, so I wasn’t sure I’d be successful, but I knew when it did work it was a huge boost.

As this faster gentleman got past me I pulled behind him and picked up the pace a bit to follow his toes, and oh my god it worked. With the see-through water (which is absolutely how water is supposed to be, right? I shouldn’t need an adjective?) I could simply watch the bubbles he was kicking up and swim through those. Eventually I managed to pull up alongside his calves which is the swim draft sweet spot. I was able to relax my effort but keep pace with him.

This joyride lasted probably 500 meters before another, less kind gentleman swam over both of us and my ride swam on without me while I was sputtering to recover from the cruel dunking. I was disappointed to lose my tow but at this point we were more than halfway through the swim and I was really proud of myself for hanging on as long as I did – it felt like a breakthrough and a success I can replicate and improve on in future races. (If the water is clear [like water’s meant to be] anyway.)

I put my head down and tried to get into a rhythm for the last few hundred meters. The second half of the swim was very seaweedy which made it more difficult to get in the zone and go. Every so often I had to wrestle free of the slimy aquatic foliage, or worse, spit it out. And my brain that had been so mercifully quiet until now started conjuring thoughts of the gators known to stalk this river. (There are actually divers who, in the days before the race, cut down as much of the seaweed on the course as they can and they are stationed under the swimmers the whole time. Both thank you to them and yikes!)

I didn’t have to swim through the kelp for too long before the swim exit came into view. Things got more crowded once we were pointed right toward shore and I had to content with some folks who were swimming and wading defensively, but I was able to utilize my one tiny person strength and swim further than most people before the shallow water forced me upright and up the boat ramp. As I ran up the incline I clicked to T1 on my watch and was thrilled to look down and see 27:20 for swim time – the current and the drafting had given me a 10 minute boost off my usual 70.3 pace.

My official swim time was actually 27:09, and better than that, 13th in my age group – the highest I’ve ever placed in an Iron swim. I usually come in middle-of-the-pack and have to bike and run my way out of that hole, so to finish in the top 15% of the swim was a huge win leaving me in much better shape to cycle-run my way towards the front…at least it should have if I’d checked my bike properly…

T1

It was a steep run up to transition. I jogged it up trying to move deliberately but not spike the heart rate unnecessarily. I swear I tried to hurry through transition but I just can’t get my T1s right. It’s mostly the getting my feet dry enough to pull socks on that I struggle with. I also had to wipe down my glasses repeatedly before I could get going. A very lame six minutes and 39 seconds I was finally in the saddle and on my way.

Bike

And right away something felt off. The wheels felt slow and everything felt like it was dragging. I tapped the brakes a few times and they squeaked with dew and I told myself the lethargy was water weight. I rode through town feeling frustrated with my speed but chalked it up to legs that hadn’t warmed up yet and the in-town section of the course just not being conducive to speed. I was (pretty) sure I’d be able to pick up the pace once I got out to the more open road.

Over the first five miles I averaged around 18mph and I had to work for it. There were a few short climbs up highway onramps but otherwise these were some of the flattest miles of the day and I should have been in the low 20s and expending much less effort. Maybe three miles in, while heading up one of those onramps, the tire of a guy a few bike lengths ahead of me popped loudly. It looked to be a tubeless tire and I heard him curse loudly as he pulled over. I felt awful for him and thought, comparatively, this weirdly slow heavy ride wasn’t so bad, and I continued to push aside thoughts that something was wrong with my set up.

A few more miles in Melissa rode up next to me. As she passed I asked her if I looked like I had a flat. I’d started to notice a friction-y noise and was wondering if I had a slow leak. I’ve actually never had a flat while out riding and worried I wouldn’t even know how to identify one. She paused and gave my ride a once over and reported that everything looked ok before riding on ahead. We were traversing an overpass with some dirt and gunk on the shoulder so I told myself the friction-y sound effect was just rolling through that debris. I was a little disturbed by easily Melissa had overtaken me, but I’ve always considered her a more naturally talented cyclist so I wasn’t too bothered by it. On I rode dumbly ignoring the shit’s-not-right inklings.

Not long after Melissa effortlessly overtook me I reminded myself of the false flat I’d noted the day before. I thought as soon as I get past this bit my speed is sure to come back to me. By now, 7ish miles in, I was very worried about my sky-high heart rate. Dave had wanted me 135-145 BPM, but I was in the mid-150s fighting for 17/18 mph. I knew this was not sustainable for 50 more miles – especially because I hadn’t hit any real hills yet – but I kept coming up  with excuses for why this was temporary and would soon be ok.

Around mile 8 though we started down a clear descent and my pace still didn’t pick up – I was still working for 18 mph, downhill now. I felt like I didn’t have time to stop though, I needed whatever momentum I could grind out because at mile nine the course headed up the first serious climb of the day and I didn’t want to pull over and then take it from a standstill. Very soon into the nearly mile-long uphill effort I knew 110% that something was wrong, and I began to suspect that the front wheel was rubbing against the brake.

I dug into my pedals and fought my way up, still managing to pass some of the many people around me as my mind spun – faster than my encumbered wheels – on what to do. I knew I needed to pull over but I didn’t want to stop mid-mountain, and with the course packed with athletes there was nowhere to safely stop anyway. Finally, 95% to the top there was a driveway and I pulled off and carefully unclipped – always a dodgy endeavor on a slow incline.

Sure enough my front wheel was rubbing against the right caliper. As I tried to spin it I was shocked I’d managed even 18mph or any climbing at all. I’d basically ridden 10 miles with the brake on. I’d expended who knows how much needless extra energy and lost at least ten minutes before pulling over. Now I desperately pulled the front wheel off and reaffixed it but could not get the brake to stop rubbing. The wheel seemed like it was on true, so maybe the whole brake component was off. Whatever it was I didn’t have the tools or skills to fix it there on the side of that climby highway.

After a few unsuccessful reskewerings I said ‘fuck it’ and opened the brake calipers. Given the hilly course – all that ascending comes with a bunch of descending – this was a dicey move, but I didn’t know what else to do. I’m a wimpy descender so I’d just have to be extra cautious riding with minimal front brakes – at least I’d have the more important rear brake, right?

Decision made and mechanics adjusted I turned back toward the packed course and had to wait another 90 seconds for a sufficient break in traffic to safely remount and take the last few degrees of this first hill. About 30 seconds after I’d swung back into the saddle my watch and bike computer both buzzed to alert me that I was ten miles very slowly down – and averaging 16mph for miles 6-10. In addition to those 10 very slow miles my pitstop had taken three or four minutes and a sub-3 hour ride was slipping away.

The good news is that as soon as I was back on my dearest Koopa Troop felt like himself again. A hundred or so slower athletes had passed me while I played inept mechanic and I had so much work to do now. I got to work repassing them, finally feeling in control of my ride – well minus the front brakes.

My heart rate immediately fell in line too, dropping from the 150s and 160s into Dave’s prescribed 130s and 140s. It climbed as I climbed up a miles-long grinder from miles 13-15, but my pacing and biometrics fell into place as soon as I was no longer riding with a drag suit on.

My back did start to ache with each hill, an issue I’ve had in races but never in training. I’m sure a lot of the pain was due to ten miles of over-exertion plus sciatic issues I’ve had all summer. Approaching the first aid station once we leveled off at mile 15 I slowed and looked to see if there was a medical tent that might have Advil or something to alleviate some of the pain but saw nothing but gels and bananas. I was doing fine on nutrition so on I rode vowing to check out the next station at mile 30.

The cooler than expected day was at least assisting with nutrition. I had scratch in my aero bottle, a bottle of water in my cage, a couple gus, and a couple stroopwaffels. I was hydrating regularly and taking in gu or waffle every time my watch announced another five mile lap. I felt good fuel-wise the whole ride. At mile 20 I did drop one of the gus as I tried to bite it open, but I was able to grab another at an aid station and it was ok. I also forgot my salt pills, which I keep doing on the bike so I have to figure that out, but the mild weather saved me there.

Miles 15 through 30 were climby and achey on my back, but they were mostly enjoyable. I tried to mind my heart rate on the uphills and ride delicately on the downhills knowing the course from the day before and minding my lack of stopping ability. I have a tendency not to shift enough uphill so I tried to appropriately gear and keep my cadence steady and not burn too many matches the way I’ve mistakenly done on climbs past. The course stayed pretty crowded the whole way which I didn’t love, but also there were always people to pass (good mental boost) and talk to (good distraction).

I was averaging around 19mph now even with the climbing, and I was running the numbers trying to determine whether I still had any chance at a sub-3 ride. At first it seemed doable but as I went and ran the the numbers every mile I realized it was pretty unlikely. I started getting very unhappy with myself. Why hadn’t I pulled over the second I thought something was off? Why hadn’t I triple-checked things this morning or yesterday – I’d made multiple trips to transition after all.

By mile 30 I knew we had less than ten miles of climbing left and I was absolutely pissed with myself. Once again there was no medical tent at the aid station so I knew I was on my own with the achey over-climbed back. With only a few more hills I figured there was no reason to hold back on the ascending effort. I burned through a few matches and some rage as I dispensed with the last climbs of the day.

By mile 40 the climbing was done, but the ride back to transition included a total mindfuck five-mile out and back followed by a lot of ugly, headwindy, trafficky highway. I stayed low and tried to hammer.  I put up my fastest bike numbers of the day but it didn’t really matter. I made up some good time and ignored Dave’s directives to back off the last few miles, but with the headwinds and then a couple slow, winding miles back through town, it wasn’t nearly enough. I finished the bike with a disappointing 3:05:40.

T2

I was so mad at myself as I dismounted. After setting myself up well with my best swim ever I’d totally blown it. And I’d been most excited to see what I could do on the bike today. I felt like completely let myself and Dave and anyone who’d cared down. And after eight years of this sport and all this time and energy I’d spent pivoting to the bike when I’d had to pull back from running, I just felt like I’d never get it right.

I usually have a strong T2 but my disappointment dragged at me and it took three minutes and 55 seconds before I was finally out on the run course. And I was out there with a bad attitude.

Run

As I got going my legs felt as shitty and slow as my brain, which was screaming at me that I was a worthless idiot who had no business dragging Scott and my body (and pocketbook) through this sport any more.

My run has never been the same since the hip fracture so I was going to do this half marathon strictly off heartrate and absent any sort of time goals or even expectations. I didn’t look at pace at all but tried to settle into the 150s where Dave wanted the first 5K. Within seconds of leaving transition time I was at 160bpm  and having to hold way back to stay there. A hundred meters in and the run already had already combusted. I felt like I was barely moving and yet my heart was pounding. I was sure I was bombing this harder than I’d bombed the bike.

A few minutes in I saw Scott and the dogs and announced as I passed them that this was my last triathlon. As I turned down Greene St, a beautiful, wide thoroughfare lined with the kind of old Southern architecture I usually love to gape at, I just felt miserable with myself and completely dejected. I had no idea what my pace was but I felt sure it was around 10 min/mile and still my heartrate was barely contained. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through 13 miles this way – physically and mentally.

I lumbered past the first mile marker and waited for my watch to buzz – at least the course seemed a little short, maybe it’d only be 12.9 miles of this misery. Ten seconds past that first marker my watch dinged and I looked down at my wrist expecting to see a double-digit mile time. Instead I saw “8:17” glowing up at me. What the eff? I was moving much faster than I thought – much faster than I felt like I was moving. I was actively holding myself back to stay at least close to my heartrate parameters and I was running that fast? My mood immediately rebounded. (For some folks it doesn’t take much.)

I feel like I must be the most shallow triathlete in the world (and that’s saying something) for how instantaneously my attitude 180’ed. There’s so much more to this sport than speed, but I’ve had more than my share of disappointment and am still grappling with the fact that I’ll likely never fully recover my run, so I shamelessly reveled in the unexpected first mile split.

While my heartrate was still a few beats a minute higher than Dave had wanted it, the effort felt manageable as long as I fueled well. So I stayed locked into that 160 bpm and grabbed plenty of water, ice, and calories at the first aid station, walking through it to eat and drink and shove ice into my bra and the back of my kit. I thanked the volunteers and tried to savor the experience of getting to race generally and getting to run down this wide, shady(ish) boulevard.

Actually only half of the multi-lane street was shaded, and a police woman was trying to force athletes to run to the right of cones down the center line, forcing us onto the sunny  side of the street. I heeded her but most runners ignored her and she was clearly exasperated by it. I know she was trying to keep a lane open for spectators and race or emergency vehicles in case they came by, but it’s pretty cruel to ask athletes 60 and 70 miles into a race in the South to run in the direct sun when there is shade a few feet to the left. (On the second lap I didn’t even pretend to try to obey her pleas – and she’d mostly given up trying.

A few minutes past the first aid station, and a few seconds past the second mile marker – course was still running short! – my watch buzzed announcing an 8:32 split. A little slower than the first mile but only because I’d walked to hydrate and eat, and even if I ran 8:30s or 40s the rest of the half marathon I would be thrilled with the performance.

Keeping my heartrate steady at 160 I rounded a few quick right hand turns and soon was heading west on another wide road parallel to that beautiful shady boulevard I’d so enjoyed. This time though there was no shady side – police orders or no. There was however increased crowd support and I felt myself quicken with the cheers. Quickly I pulled myself back though, realizing that, despite the crowd-generated adrenaline boost, it was going to be even more important to moderate the effort now that the course was all sun all the time, at least until the second lap.

Mile three came in at a perfect 8:16 – my pace was consistent and still felt sustainable – shallow me was still thrilled. I walked through the second aid station, grabbing plenty of water and taking time to swallow a few of the salt pills I’d grabbed in T2 as well as half a stroopwafel. With the walking mile four clocked an 8:28 and now I was in the single digits!

In the middle of the 4th mile I saw Scott and the pups and had my already buoyant spirits lifted by Daenerys as she excitedly galloped next to me. Scott told me Melissa was a few minutes ahead of me.  The course is a series of out-and-backs down parallel streets so I started scanning the runners running west on the other side of the median for my friend.

I didn’t spot her but I felt good as I got to turn around and head west myself for mile five. Thanks to the course layout I saw Scott and the dogs and got some more exuberant running alongside Daenerys in this fifth mile too. He told me I was gaining on Melissa. I was excited to hopefully catch up to her and maybe run together for a bit. The day was starting to feel hotter with these shadeless stretches down Broad Street so I was happy to have a reason to keep pushing.

My pace did slow a bit without any tree cover: mile five was 8:38 and mile six was my slowest of the day at 8:54. That was thanks in part to the continued merciless sun-running as we turned off Broad Street to run back east on river-adjacent Reynolds, and in part because I realized I’d dropped my salt tabs and took extra time walking through an aid station searching my kit pocket and then grabbing extra salty treats from the tables once I realized they were definitely gone.

I was unhappy with that almost-9-minute mile so I tried to pick it up a bit as I hit the halfway mark. The mile-and-a-half on Reynolds is the toughest part of the course though. The buildings are more blighted as you run east and the crowd support dwindles. There was a an aid station towards the end of it though populated by a family that was playing music and dancing and trying as hard as the could for us. I paused there and grabbed a coke – when my body says it needs something in a race I try to listen and that coke sounded exactly right. They were also handing out ice pops – this was definitely the MVP of aid stations and it all added up to a much-improved 8:26 for that seventh mile.

As I turned off Reynolds to start the second lap I considered how remarkably improved my spirits were – just an hour before I’d run past this very spot and told Scott I was done with triathlon. Now I was enjoying myself and back to loving the sport. There was a small incline and soon I was back on partially-shaded Greene Street. The policewoman had given up keeping runner in the sunny, righthand lane, we all just took advantage of the short reprieve and ran under the trees.

My watch buzzed an 8:44 for mile eight as I walked through an aid station, again favoring chips and things to make up for my lost salt tabs. Shortly after I started running again I saw a familiar pony tail. I ran up next to Melissa and jogged with her for a bit. She was feeling the heat but looked steady. She was definitely ready to be done and we were only a few miles from the finish. She told me to run on ahead which I did, happy to have had a moment with my teammate.

I was happy to see mile nine back in the 8:30s with an 8:34 buzzing just as I turned off Greene and back onto sun-drenched Broad. At least the crowds here were almost as enthusiastic as the early afternoon Georgia sun. I was able to keep mile ten consistent with an 8:31, and now I was starting to think about something that had seemed impossible during the bike and beginning of the run: a 70.3 PR.

With a 5k to go I had done the math and if I could bring this half marathon in under 1:53 I was pretty sure it would be a personal best for the distance. The day was feeling hotter and hotter, Broad Street was sucking my will to run, but that thought fueled me forward.

Ok Broad Street did beat me up a bit with an 8:51 for Mile 11, but as I cornered the turnaround I resolved to turn it up the rest of the way home. I wanted that PR.

I still felt out of race practice – I was afraid if I went too hard in this penultimate mile I’d crash and burn in the final. Instead of going all out too soon I dropped into the 8:30s again. I was chasing a 1:52 run time, nothing more. Mile 12 was right on the money at 8:34. I just needed to stay steady the last 1.1 miles.

I opted to skip the last aid station. As I made the turn from Broad onto Reynolds with just over half a mile to go I decided I was safe to push a little harder, pretty sure I could stay in the pain for the last few minutes. I dropped into the 7:50s down desolate Reynolds, this time knowing I got to turn for the finish before running the whole lonely stretch.

I passed people right and left until two glorious right turns took me toward the finisher’s chute. Mile 13 came in at 8:08 – the fastest of the day, and with .1 to go and the red carpet in sight I stepped on the gas some more, dropping into the 7:20s for that final minute. The effort was rewarded with a 1:51:30 half marathon, and an overall time of 5:34:51 – a 1:15 PR.

The Aftermath

I was so happy with my legs. They’d shown up after I beat them up with that wheel-rubbing stunt on the bike. And after months of achilles struggles and sciatica, somehow this run had been pain-free. I joyfully reunited with Scott and the dogs, and we only had to wait a few minutes for Melissa to finish as well.

We grabbed some athlete food and Melissa picked up her morning gear bag, and then we vegged for a bit before making the long mile walk one final time back to transition. We once more opted to walk along the river, shuffling slowly. We ran into Holli and all compared notes on the day.

Once we’d collected our things from transition we were thrilled to find that Scott had parked very close and we could finally get off our feet. I wedged myself in the back with the dogs and we headed home to our adorable Airbnb.

Scott and I then decided to drive the couple hours to my parents’ place in Atlanta that evening rather than wait for the morning. The proximity to family and opportunity to spend a few days recovering poolside post-race is one of the many pluses of Augusta.

Coach Dave pointed out later that if I hadn’t ridden with the brake on for ten miles I probably would have turned out an even faster run, and looking at my age group I probably would have cracked the top ten which has been a goal for a couple years. It all added up to a great race but unfinished business, so heading back down to Georgia in 2022! And happily Melissa, ever the excellent race-cation teamie, feels the same.