It’s been a few years, let’s see if I still remember how to write one of these. If I recall correctly, I think I’m supposed to stream of conscious for an inexcusable number of words, offering the reading public (hi mom!) entirely too much information about everything from my pre-race BM(s) to my least charitable thoughts (toward myself and others). Here we go.

Or here we add context, and to the word count, before going.

In November of 2022 I had surgery on my left hip to repair the labrum and correct an impingement. Recovering from that slicing and dicing in the last year of my 30s proved slow and anything but linear. During the summer of 2023 I signed up for the Colonial Beach sprint 24 hours before the race, only to discover it was jellyfish city so I switched to the duathlon given my bad reactions to anything stingy. Seeing volunteers handing out ointments to all the groaning welt-covered swimmers at the awards ceremony that day, I know I made the right choice. But it did turn out to be my only chance to swimbikerun that summer and so, while I did manage to multisport, I didn’t manage to triathlon the season after surgery.

I also didn’t manage to write a race report for my first ever duathlon, though apparently I tried. Logging onto this site for the first time in a long time I discovered a few halfassed paragraphs about Colonial Beach – all about the lead up to the race and nothing about the race itself. Never not giving the people (my mom) what they (she) want(s).

That unnecessarily long wind up is just to say, as we rolled into spring of 2024, I realized I was 18 months post-op and had yet to return to the sport I love so much I’ve devoted millions of thousands of hours and words to its doing and telling. I wanted to fix that.

And then I broke my toe in April and was off running until the end of July and half the season was gone. And then we were in Canada and on the road for most of August and even more of the season had slipped away, un-tri’ed.

So when my dear postpartum friend Ashley suggested Giant Acorn sprint as our grand return to the sport post baby and surgery (her thing is better) I was game. I even convinced the sometimes-star of this blog, Owensies, to join us. And then Ashley got COVID and so it was just Owensies and I. Both of us years older and heavier and out-of-shaper than the last time we’d done this stupid sport together. That really took the pressure off.

Giant Acorn is one of several races that take place at Lake Anna in Spotsylvania, VA. It’s an easy 90ish minute drive (at least at 4am) from DC. The swim is pleasant – though there was admittedly some brain-munching bacteria taking kids out earlier in the summer – and the bike and run are both a bit hilly but pretty and fun. I love a localish lowkey race day.

I managed a responsible 9:30pm bedtime on Saturday night and was up at 3:30 Sunday morning. Ok I may have hit snooze once while Scott actually roused himself from the bed before me. I was decently efficient in dressing, breakfasting, and getting out the door with (almost) all my gear by 4:40am. (And even for a sprint wow is there a lot of gear.)

After years away I definitely questioned whether I was forgetting anything and why I did this sport in the first place, but I managed to bring everything I actually needed. I was nervous but my stomach was disconcertingly quiet, maybe just out of practice. I knew my guts would awaken somewhere out on I-95, with plenty of time to churn and torture me most of the way to Lake Anna State Park.

Sure enough that’s exactly what happened, but we made good time and neither the dogs nor I had an accident in Scott’s new Honda. It was 6:15am and dark as we pulled into the Park, and there was zero race signage or anyone to guide us. It had been almost a decade since we’d been there for a race but luckily I (was pretty sure I) remembered to ignore the turns indicating parking areas. Scott seemed skeptical each time I admonished hi to just keep driving straight, swearing we’d hit water at some point. We made our uncertain way in the pre-dawn gloom down a miles-long hill and discovered I had in fact remembered correctly.

Obviously I enjoy being proven correct – especially when backtracking would have further delayed the bathrooming – but I was now distracted by how excessively lengthy that hill had been. I had not recalled such a drawn out climb to kick off the bike. This realization was less than ideal given my less than existent bike fitness. (I’d ridden outside three times for a cumulative total of 25 miles this summer – and all in the two weeks leading up to race day.)

Scott unloaded the dogs while I unloaded Koopa Troop and my mountain of gear. There was an actual indoor bathroom so I made grateful use of that before grabbing my packet. Packet pickup took about two minutes and then it was a short walk to transition where the racks were unassigned. I was rolling Koop in and picking a clutch spot next to bike in/out shortly after 6:30.

I was on the earlier side arriving but was pretty surprised by the number of people already there and opting for the racks furthest from the bike in/out side. Pro tip* – and this is real even if my sucky transitions don’t lend me much credibility – spend as little time running in bike cleats as you can. In a setup like the one at Giant Acorn where the bike in/out is the same side while the run out is over on the other side of transition, you want to be rack near the bike in/out.

*This is actually kind of the opposite of a pro tip as they leave their cleats clipped into their pedals so they never have to worry about running in cleats.

Owensies arrived not long after me and racked his steed right next to Koop. We were early enough to take our time setting up which I think as rusty husks of our former triathletes we both appreciated.  Scott and our perfect puppers waited patiently just beyond the fence. It was like old (younger) times.

I realized as I laid everything out that I’d left my bike computer charging in the living room. Forgetting my bike computer is also like old times. Older but no wiser. Ah well, I could just rely on my watch for 15.5 miles. Other than that I had everything I really needed and had plenty of time to arrange it under my well-placed rack.

Around 7:30 I grabbed my swim stuff and exited transition. The lake was 77 degrees so wetsuit legal but just barely. I’d hemmed and hawed about whether to wear mine: sure I’d be faster in it but I might be uncomfortably warm which would slow me down. And would any speed gained swimming be worth the added time in T1 peeling it off? Ultimately I learned from my many years ago mistakes and decided to wear it. My swim is my weakest leg by far so if I’m allowed to use the neoprene, I should.

There was no line for the portas next to transition so I made a pitstop there before heading to the swim start. Once on the beach I pulled on the wetsuit and made for the water. And it was indeed warm. But I got in a short practice swim and felt ok, and buoyant, so I stuck to my guns and kept the suit on.

I climbed up the beach and found Scott and the backpack I’d foisted upon him containing a banana and some other snackies. I grabbed the fruit, peeled it, and enjoyed some pre-race calories while Owensies and I found a spot in line. There were no pace signs so we opted for what seemed like smack dab in the middle.

As we stood in a sea of jittery athletes, we chatted and I nonchalantly chomped my snack. A woman next to us who was doing her second ever tri remarked how relaxed we seemed. I realized she was right. I felt pretty chill about the whole thing. First triathlon since getting my left hip put back together which was momentous, but it was also just a sprint on a familiar course with a good friend and zero expectations. I was pretty zen and really happy to be there.

Owensies remarked that he needed to figure out how to work his new watch before we started and I realized that I had never multisported in mine either. I set it to Triathlon mode and a message popped up that if I wanted it could just sense out the transitions for me freeing me up from having to hit buttons to mark each leg. I said sure, let’s do that option, not really trusting that it would get the transition timing mats exactly right. And it didn’t, so for purposes of this report I’m going to go off of the official results from Kinetic rather than my garmin data. (And obviously I won’t be using my bike Garmin data, because that little buddy was back in DC charging. It’s got so much juice now that I’ve hung my outside wheels back up for winter!)

At 8am they released the collegiate athletes into the water. Around 8:15 they started the time trial for the rest of us: two swimmers every five seconds. When Chris and I were on deck I felt a swell of oh-shit! but quickly we were being waved side by side into the water and the quick burst of nerves dissipated.

The Swim

We ran down the beach and into the lake. I felt really clumsy about when to stop running and start swimming. There was nothing smooth about my dive in but after a few awkward strokes I found a rhythm and got to work.

I’d hoped to find some speedier toes to draft off but I think I’d seeded myself too far back for that. As I got going I was pleased to find it not too crowded, and also found myself picking off a decent number of swimmers. Usually one to passively take the outside track in the water, I made a game time decision to find a more aggressive inside line.

As I pushed myself forward I kept expecting my inside track to run me into people or a sighting buoy but I found I had plenty of room the whole way down the first side of the three-sided course. I passed people the whole way, but not too many. The self-seeding had been pretty accurate.

There were a few people moving slowly in white swim caps, meaning they were nervous about the open water swim and wanted the safety crews to keep an extra eye on them. One was hanging on a kayak in my path and I had to adjust my route around them, but otherwise I got to the first turn buoy without incident and feeling strong.

Hanging that right I was momentarily disappointed to find the distance to the next turn buoy – which would be the turn back toward the beach – was at least double what I thought. Having spent so much time the last few years swimming in choppy windy open water with Wave One, the distance wasn’t a concern, I’d just been pushing myself harder than I might have, assuming I was half way home.

I stuck with my inside track and kept it moving. I decided to keep pushing down this length so that I could back off the effort towards the end to bring my heart rate down pre-bike. I felt like I made good time and was again pleasantly surprised to find no real obstacles as I picked out this inside line between the turns. (Have I just been wrong all these years in assuming the faster inside track would be a melee? Have I been self-sabotaging all this time or were people just seeding and swimming with uncharacteristic politeness in Lake Anna?)

Swinging right around the second and final turn buoy, the path became less clear. I don’t know if it was my goggles or the configuration of the sighting buoys, but I couldn’t really make out where the actual exit was. I ditched any attempt to stay inside and pointed myself vaguely in the direction of the beach and the swimmers ahead of me.

Down this final stretch I did have to weave around some meanderers and backstrokers. It slowed me down a little but there was plenty of space and I still didn’t know exactly where I was going. About halfway down this last length I was able to make out what looked like two inflatables that I thought were maybe demarcating the exit lane. I adjusted my heading and hoped I was right.

And I was! The number of swimmer obstacles increased as I neared beach. I did my best to keep my bearing and not get kicked or punched. As the shore rose up beneath me, I struggled again to figure out whether to swim or run. At one point I stood to run as others were doing, but being a mini person the water was a lot deeper and harder to run through for me, so I dove forward again, getting in a few final strokes before standing once more.

I glanced at my watch and saw 15 minutes and something and was pretty thrilled with that. I couldn’t tell if or when it clicked forward to mark me as T1 but I ignored it. At my last sprint back in 2022 (Culpepper Tri if you’re wondering, but for which I wrote no race report) I knew I’d swum an abysmal 18 minutes so whatever else happened here at Lake Anna I was happy wit the swim.  Official results have me at 16 minutes on the dot but even that is a huge improvement to which I credit all my open water time the last few summers.

T1

I felt awkward climbing out of the water, trying to run up the hill but stuck on a single-file narrow path between fences and behind athletes who were not hustling. I used the unplanned lull to peel the wetsuit to my waist. I also heard Scott calling to me and got to see him and the doggos cheering me on, so I couldn’t be too grumpy about the slow trot up to transition.

Once I finally got around everyone and through the swim in chute I ran to Koop. The rest of the wetsuit came off easily and I felt like I was efficient in drying my feet and pulling on socks and cleats. Then came a moment of indecision: whether to wear my bike gloves or not. My need for them over the last few years thanks to worsening Raynauds and appallingly sweaty palms has really gummed up my T1 times, but I’m always happy I have them. It was drizzling out so I took the few seconds to pull them on. I also pulled on my sunglasses but discovered they needed a wipe down so took the time to do that before finally pulling Koop off the rack and making for the blessedly close bike out. Per Kinetic my T1 time was a glacial 3:03. Even with the slow walk up the hill, yikes.

The Bike

I remembered that the bike course at Lake Anna starts on an incline straight out of transition so I had made sure to leave Koop in an appropriately low gear after my last ride. In my memory the preliminary rake after mounting was much steeper, I recall finding it intimidating in years past. I was happily surprised to find the grade less aggressive than I had thought, though the dark drive in had been a reminder that, while not as steep, the climb out to the road was long.

I was nervous that I’d bobble the mount given my lack of outdoor riding the last couple years, but I was relieved to take off smoothly, avoiding a bit of a cluster at the mount line. The one photographer on the bike course (and I don’t mean Scott) was stationed maybe a hundred meters in, not just on a hill but a turn, so no luck looking cool for the cameras. Just take my word that I looked remarkably proficient for someone who’d spent way too much time on her Peloton since last year. (I’m so embarrassed telling everyone we bought a Peloton!)

The hardest things about time away from triathlon is not the loss of fitness but the lack of practice in knowing how hard to push and when. As a stronger cyclist than swimmer I’m used to getting out of the water and having to pick people off straight away on the bike. But here I was faced with several miles of incline and general amnesia about how much effort is too much to expend.

That and yeah, ok, I am out of bike shape. The loss of fitness thing is hard too.

So I erred on the side of caution, at least until we got out onto the main road out of the park. I dropped into my arrows when it wasn’t too steep and passed some folks, but every time I felt myself start to push I pulled back. Right or wrong, by the time I was swinging the left onto Lawyers Road I felt like I had a full tank but my average speed was in the toilet.

I also could barely see anything. It was gloomy grey and the rain was picking up, and I was wearing my fancy (kinda douchey) bike sunnies. I’d poured over whether to wear the gloves or not but thrown these on without a thought, and now I could barely see. I inched them down the bridge of my nose to see if it was better without them and it very much was. But I was afraid with my unpracticed handling that I’d drop them or never get them back on if I pulled them off now and needed them later.

I gave it another couple low visibility minutes before making the call. I sat up and slowed some to pull them off. I tried to stuff them down the front of my kit but found that I had to unzip it first. I fumbled a bit but managed to get them safely tucked into my sports bra and then rezip. It took maybe 30 seconds total and then I was back in action and could see. I dropped back into my aero bars and got to work.

Sorta.

I tried to bear down and make up some time but as soon as that intention hit my pedals a car drove by and then basically stopped in the lane up ahead. I sat back up to be able to brake if I needed. I passed a few people and, as I got closer to the inching along motor vehicle, saw that bikes ahead of him – slow, hybrid bikes – were riding far into the lane and with the rain and narrow winding road, the driver didn’t see a way to safely pass.

I slowed up and hovered behind the car not sure what to do myself. I couldn’t pass him to the right, he’d left no shoulder. I wondered if I could safely pass to the left but it didn’t seem advisable as there had been intermittent car (and bike) traffic in the opposite direction too  and between the rain and curvy road I couldn’t see what was coming.

Fortunately after two or three minutes the driver hung a right and got out of our hair. Who knows if that’s where he’d wanted to go or if he just wanted off the course, but either way I was glad he was gone. I dropped back into the aeros and finally got to work.

Sorta.

Having not raced (or biked) in so long, I still felt really lost about how hard to go. I picked up the pace from the climb out to the main roads but I was afraid to drop the hammer too much. Especially because I really wanted to have a decent run.

After years of constant stops and starts with my running, and multiple months-long stints on the bench, I had been running consistently for two whole months, which doesn’t sound like much typing it out but for me it’s as much as I usually get before things fall back apart. So there in the saddle I made a decision I coulda (shoulda) made before the race had I thought any of this out in any way that I would ride conservatively to save the run pegs. (Ya know, “pegs” there was a typo but it’s fun, I’m gonna leave it.)

Around this point my watch buzzed to mark one 5-mile lap down. Only 2.5 of those laps to go, and this one was slow right around 17 mph. I could hold back for the run but I needed to push a little more than that I decided.

Fortunately the next few miles of course were less exciting in terms of vehicular traffic. There were rollers the whole way to keep it interesting, so I stayed out of my big ring mostly, never sure whether a climb would appear around the next corner. Relying so much on my small ring made me feel like I ran out of gears and topped out on speed too low, but I kept thinking about fresh pegs so I stuck it out over the second 5-mile lap. Still I easily put that one away faster than the first, coming in a little over 18mph.

No women had passed me until somewhere in that second lap when a lady flew by. She was working hard and easily overtook me. And there was a big ol’ “44” on her leg – my age group. Damn. I was disappointed but held steady and stuck with my decision to save it for the run.

I didn’t really know the course well (I was winging it in so many ways) but not long into the third lap, or 10th mile, we turned onto a road and found cyclists riding in the opposite direction. My first thought was, oh we must be near a turnaround, yay, almost halfway! Then I realized this was a sprint course and no, we’d already turned around and were well over halfway.

This news spurred me to (slightly more) action, especially realizing I’d now already ridden the whole course and knew generally what to expect. I found that big ring finally and finally got to work.

Sorta.

Not long into my renewed efforts I rounded a corner and encountered another car creeping at an almost-standstill behind cyclists he couldn’t pass. This time it was actually some sort of small commercial truck. And this time I think he actually could have gotten around. And also this time I was really trying to make up some damn time. Also this time the tailpipe situation was worse; I felt like I was breathing straight exhaust as I tried to plot my next move.

I sat up and slowed, pulling up behind and to the left of the lane so I could make eye contact with him in his sideview mirror. I could tell he saw me. When I had visibility and could see it was safe I called out to him to let me pass. He made eye contact with me again and nodded in the mirror and I rode around.

Once safely away from the truck I dropped down and I swear I finally got to work. At this point of course I was almost to the righthand turn back into Lake Anna Park. I made the right and then made the call to push hard for around five minutes and then backoff before transition to give the legs a pre-run rest.

I stuck to that big ring and picked off a handful more folks on the way back down to the lake. I thought back to our uncertain drive down this same then-dark road a few hours earlier, how much further it had been than I remembered. It felt further here too. When my watch buzzed and showed a bit over 19mph average for lap three I was satisfied and pulled back for the last half-mile.

I played it safe riding the brake around the last tight, downhill, slick corner. There were lots of spectators and I didn’t want to embarrass myself (or hurt anyone) by crashing right at the end.

As I kicked my heels free I heard a woman behind me call out, “dismount after the line, right?” “No! Before!” I yelled over my shoulder. “Oh thank youuu!” I heard her call back. Phew.

I came to a stop and swung my leg over the saddle and then gingerly clomped over the wet pavement and then mud through the bike in. I didn’t bother looking at my watch as I didn’t really have a concept or goal around a solid hilly soggy 15.5-mile bike course. The official results had me at 50:42 averaging 18.4mph which seems like an accurate reflection of my mediocrity.

T2

While my tees-one are a mess, tees-two are much swifter. I racked Koop, kicked off the cleats and slipped on the sneaks, swapped my helmet for a hat and grabbed my race belt. I was on the run course in 1:28.

The Run

I’d held back earlier to shine here, but jogging out of transition my legs felt leaden. Almost the entire first mile is uphill and I immediately felt like there was no way I could turn these heavy pegs over quickly, especially while climbing.

The path winds a bit after T2 to bring runners back to that same ascent that we’d just ridden out of T1. Glancing at my watch, (and again having zero clue if it had precisely marked the transition timing mats,) I saw 9:something, and that 9:something felt, not maxed out, but hard. I serpentined around the turns, passing a few people, and feeling already-dejected. Maybe I should have spent my energy on the bike. Why did I think there was any run in these oft-benched legs.

I was feeling bad for myself maybe two minutes in when I saw a spectator with a big handsome Swiss Mountain Dog. I’m such a big dog sucker. I instantly brightened. I smiled and said hello to the pup even though I probably shouldn’t be so haphazard with my oxygen. I didn’t feel any faster or fitter but I was in a happier headspace as I reached the road and swung right up the hill.

And then there in front of me was the 44-year-old woman who had blown by me on the bike. I wasn’t moving fast, but I was moving a little faster than her. I picked up the pace a touch, hoping I’d pass her with enough steam that she wouldn’t call my bluff and try to keep up. I overtook her and kept the slightly elevated effort up for another minute before checking my watch again. At which point I was surprised and delighted to see a pace in the 8:30s and a heartrate not nearly as maxed out as I thought. I knew I was more than halfway up the mile-long hill too so things could (probably) only improve from here.

I settled into maintaining that effort and leaned forward up the hill.  Soon I was turning right and the ground was leveling off beneath my feet. Almost immediately I was at the Mile 1 marker. My watch only said .9 so it had not accurately picked up on the transition timing mats, but mentally it’s always easier to be slightly behind the mile markers than ahead. I could work with this.

Once my watch did buzz the first mile down it said 8:28, which I felt pretty good about considering the considerable elevation gain and the first couple defeatist minutes of the run. Now I kept my effort steady but naturally sped up with the climbing generally over. The second mile is an out and back before the third mile descends back to the lake. There’s a little bit of gentle ascending and descending to keep it interesting, but mile two is a net flat.

I mainly focused on trying to remember what 5K running should feel like. I knew it should be uncomfortable, and it was, but I didn’t want to light every match and blow up with a mile to go. So I tried to feel out 90% effort and hold on. A few times I glanced at my watch and saw numbers in the 7:20s and 30s and I was surprised and thrilled. I was pushing, and hurting, but a productive and sustainable hurt. And most of all, I was enjoying myself.

I was passing people right and left and trying to run the tangents efficiently. I narcissistically enjoy that I’m usually among the fastest people on the run course but really that’s a reflection on how much slower I swim and bike comparatively. But I was feeling good and moving well, and tri people being who they are, many cheered me on as I passed. One older gentleman who was ahead of me on the out and back shouted out my turnover, a form feature of which this shorty is very proud. (At 4’10” it’s really all I have!)

Both right before and right after the turnaround there was an aid station. Each time I took a little water but I was running too hard to do much more than choke on it. The weather was probably mid-60s and a little humid but pretty comfortable. Right after the turnaround I saw Owensies coming the opposite way and looking strong. We high-fived as we passed each other and I felt a jolt of teammie-triggered adrenaline.

I passed the mile two marker as we turned left down a road that would spit us toward the beach. My watch, still a bit behind the markers, buzzed a 7:44. That was better than I’d hoped for at the bottom of the hill 15 minutes ago, but now I knew I could do better. With a mile to go I leaned a little harder into the pace and spinning these short pegs.

The course stays on this generally flat, somewhat windy road for about half a mile before funneling athletes into a wooded downhill path to the finish line next to the beach. Just before squeezing onto that narrow descent I overtook the gentleman who’d praised my turnover and I saw “75” written on his leg. He was cruising so strong and it gave me such a boost of hope that maybe one day I can get the better of my health issues and stay in this sport longterm. As I passed him he again shouted out my rpm and I yelled thank you and that it was all I had before dipping into the trees.

The last half mile, maybe a little less, is almost trail running. It veers off the wide road onto a tight path through the woods. While it’s paved, debris and roots interrupt the blacktop, and it’s only wide enough for one or two pairs of shoulders. The rain had stopped but it was still slick under the canopy and there were treacherous wet piles of leaves the whole way down.

Emphasis on down. The aggressive pitch of the descent felt as dangerous as the slippery footing. Downhill sounds nice in a race but only to a point. I was trying to push the pace, spend whatever was left, but I was very nervous I would fall, and I could feel gravity pulling my form to shit.

I was hitting my left, battered side too hard. I tried to moderate the impact but every fierce step reverberated up my left leg, striking the sciatic nerve that has chronically dogged me like a tuning fork. I thought maybe I should slow down to save the leg, but I didn’t want to back off when I was so close to the end and hadn’t seen a triathlon finish line in two years.

There was a gentleman ahead of me now with a large “M” denoting military division on his calf. With maybe a quarter mile to go I was gaining on him but fading a bit from effort and compressed nerve-borne anxiety. I also wasn’t sure how to pass anyone on this skinny little trail.

He must have heard me coming, and also heard me back off some, because as we exited the woods with .2 miles to go he stayed as far right as he could and started waving me ahead of him. It was so generous of him. I’m sure he was also spent and ready to cross the finish line, but he took that moment to care about my race and he plotted his course accordingly.I couldn’t waste the generosity of spirit and thankfully the road was flattening back out, so I charged ahead with everything left. I passed the mile 3 marker, 7:11 per my still slightly behind watch, and sprinted down the grassy finisher’s chute to run it in for a 23:42, or 7:38/mile average.

The Aftermath

I knew I’d pushed myself because as soon as I stopped running I had to breathe through the urge to puke. I traded my timing chip for a medal and collected a wet towel and water. I wandered away to find Scott who I could see perched with the pups up the hill by the point where the path exits the woods. We cheered athletes in from there until Owensies came through a few minutes later.

Once we’d all reunited, I borrowed Scott’s phone to check the results and at first misread that I was second female overall. Then I realized I was second masters female overall and I felt a little like I’d just been called old, but still I was ecstatically surprised. (Masters is the designation for 40+ in triathlon, which seems at once cruel as 40 isn’t so old to necessitate our own awards and a misnomer because I definitely haven’t mastered a thing.)

Scott helped me schlep my gear to the car and Owensies and I changed into dry clothes before attending the awards ceremony. I was excited not just to podium but also to find that overall masters get called right after everyone overall, so we didn’t have to wait through all of the divisions. (This sounds bratty but we hadn’t hit up athlete food yet and the hunger was starting to hit!)

As I took my spot on the blocks the first place masters woman stepped up behind me and I saw it was the woman who’d passed me on the bike but whom I’d passed back early on the run. She must have started the swim after me. I did feel a pang of disappointment at that revelation but it didn’t overshadow the general thrill of an overall podium spot in this first race back.

After I got some pics and my medal, Owensies and I grabbed some grub. (Which I of course shared with Scott!) The post race food was taco bowls which were delicious and hit the spot. Kudos to Kinetic for such satisfying swimbikerun eats. With happy bellies we all hugged goodbye and got on the road back to our separate corners of DC.

When I had the chance to dig into the results a little more. I discovered that first place had beat me by only 7 seconds and she had swum and ran much slower than me, but biked faster. More distressingly, I realized her transitions were cumulatively 10 seconds faster than mine and all of that time was in her T1. This is not the first race I’ve lost in my first transition. There were a bunch of places I could have made up 7 seconds in the saddle – the whole ordeal with my sunglasses chief among them – but how embarrassing to repeatedly blow it before I even get biking or running.

I’m still so pleased with my race and a good run always makes up for feeling like I let myself down elsewhere. I also learned when I had a look at the women 40-44 age group results that I had the fastest run, 4th fastest swim, and third fastest bike, so nothing to be too glum about.

Starting and ending the tri season on the same day also left me hungry for more in 2025. Then again that slippery downhill sprint did inflame my nerve issues, so I’ve been dealing with that literal pain in the ass (and down my whole leg) in the weeks since Giant Acorn, which hobbles my drive to get back to real racing next year.

After more than three years of chronic, sometimes debilitating nerve pain I still don’t have any answers, just trial and error attempts to manage the pain. But I am at a point where I feel acutely that I will not get any younger and I’m not willing to be sidelined anymore. There are weeks and months-long periods where the pain becomes unbearable and I can’t run (or comfortably sit or sleep) or do much of anything, but at least regarding my new normal day-to-day aching, I’ve decided that my love of sport trumps. So I’m cautiously looking at 70.3 options next year and imagining a multisport future. Days like Giant Acorn are reminders that there’s still something  competitive left in this body and still so much more to learn.