This one is very late in coming. I wrote and published a number of reports for races that were later in the 2018 season than Williamsburg for reasons explained below. I actually finished writing this about seven months ago, but then I got my hip fracture diagnosis and that ordeal took over my life, attention, and this blog for a few months. Now we’re a week out from Ironman Virginia 70.3, the race formerly known as Rev3 Williamsburg, and it seems like the time to finally hit ‘publish.’

Initially I held off writing this one because it turned into a really difficult and upsetting day when a friend and teammate had a terrible crash, and I was hesitant to revisit it. Seeing him in such distress stirred up a lot of feelings and fears about my own crash four (now almost five) years ago – feelings and fears I’ve worked hard to move on from. I didn’t know if I wanted to reexamine them in this way, since, as my readers (hiii mommy) know, I have a tendency to wax too nostalgic here, drilling into every detail of my races. Was that kind of deep excavation going to be too painful with this one?

Ultimately I decided I needed to write it out to be honest about the experience and to write through my resurrected anxieties. This is why I started the blog after all: to work through the trauma of my accident in 2014 and to honestly chart this journey. I’m honest about everything else – from bowel movements to insecurities, to my less charitable thoughts, and everything in between. Why hold back now? So buckle up for this one, or find some other unreasonably long ramblings to peruse over your lunch break. (Not you though, Mom, you’re biologically required to read to the very end.)

So now without further emotional exposition…

Race Day Eve

After volunteering with the adults’ sprint and kid’s races that morning, over the course of Saturday afternoon my focus started to shift to my own olympic distance competition on Sunday. I had originally signed up to race the 70.3 but lingering quad issues and a pinched nerve in my left shoulder had other ideas so I’d scaled my ambitions back to the oly.

Having raced the NYC Tri (also an oly and one held annually on the surface of the sun) the weekend before putting fewer miles on my legs was definitely the wiser choice. I’d resisted going all out in New York hoping to have gas in the tank, but approaching a second scorching hot race weekend in a row I was feeling the wear and tear more than I’d expected or hoped. Nonetheless I was optimistic to throw down a strong race and build on the previous weekend’s performance – at least in the bike and run since NYC boasts the fastest oly swim course out there. (The strong current support makes swimming in the Hudson more palatable [less certifiable.])

Knowing I’d be going sans-NYC current the next morning I wanted to get in a practice swim. Rev3 teammate, Clarice accompanied me down to the river where we discovered the scorching conditions extended to the water. We goofed around a bit with other teammates including race director, Eric, and eventually got in some work with a few laps around the first sighting buoy.

After swimming I hung around a few more hours helping with packet pick-up and introducing myself to all the dogs I could before heading back to the hotel. Scott and my own dogs met me there – the La Quinta is big-dog friendly and just like 2017 I fully recommend pet-people visiting Williamsburg stay there.

Once we got the pups situated we joined the Rev3 crew for a large team dinner at Anna’s Brick Oven. I was happy to introduce Scott to more of these crazy people who I’d fallen so quickly head over heels for. Clarice had managed to reserve most of a huge back room and we took over four or five long tables. It was probably overwhelming but Scott seemed to handle all the whacky tri people in stride – he must be getting used to our special breed of batty. Anna’s was perfect for the pre-race meal: it was generic kinda bland (which is what I wanted!) pasta with lots of carby options. Plus it was maybe a three minute drive from the hotel.

After dinner we got quickly back to the La Quinta with all our hounds and I did my pre-race prep, laying out clothes and nutrition, braiding my hair, and spending some QT with Benson and Stabler. I was in bed around 10pm and up at 4:30am – typical.

Race Morning 

It worked well that I had driven separately from Scott so that he and the dogs didn’t have to get up too early and check out of the hotel at 5am. I tried to get ready quickly and quietly without turning on too many lights. Having to creep around helped get me out of the hotel quickly and I was on the road to the race site by 5:20am and had parked by 5:45, leaving me an hour to set up and vacate transition.

I felt much more lowkey doing the olympic distance than I would have doing the 70.3. I was set up quickly and with little anxiety, bathroomed – also with little anxiety! I spent the remainder of my pre-race time social butterflying, flitting from Rev3 teammates to Speed Sherpa teammates to DC Tri Club friends and generally not stressing about the day ahead.

Coach Josh was doing the half distance and once we were all kicked  out of transition it was so nice to have him there for pre-race distraction and directions. (I don’t know if the feeling was mutual, hopefully I didn’t interfere too much with his efforts to take his impending 70.3 miles seriously!) He was rid of me soon enough as his race started at 6:45 while the oly didn’t get going until 7:20…or at least that’s when it was supposed to get going.

The half started on time and once those athletes were all in the water we oly racers self-seeded into a line down to the dock. I wormed my way into a clump of similarly-paced Rev3 teammates, happy to have even more pre-race distractions. I can’t speak for the athletes around us but we at least were having a grand old time goofing around and waiting for our race day to begin.

And waiting.

And waiting.

7:20 came and went and still we waited and waited. And the day heated up. And people grew antsy and murmured that they must be canceling the swim for some reason. By 7:45 word made it back to us that the water was a little rough and there were still 70.3 swimmers on the course. After standing for over an hour outside transition, and on line for nearly that long, our pre-race dopamine had been spent, and we were less and less excited at the prospect of having to swim.

By 8am, whether rationally or aspirationally I became convinced that the swim would be cancelled, and I let myself off the mental aquatic hook. Still we stood on line hearing rumors of how bad the current was out in the river, and I floated further and further from my mental swim prep. Then suddenly at 8:15 we were given the go-ahead to hit the water. By this time I had completely convinced myself that organizers were just figuring out how to have us run fairly from the “swim” exit to transition, so this swim-is-happening-and-happening-now information hit my like a bag of wet bricks. (What is that? Clay? Would that just be a bag of clay?)

Swim 

I didn’t have much time to soak in my surprise as the line quickly began marching down onto the dock and into the water. I tried to get my mind right while I adjusted my goggles and was swept quickly toward the choppy Chickahominy.

Choppy and near-scalding. I don’t think anyone was harboring any delusions that this race would be wetsuit-legal but at 83 degrees it rivaled the hottest water I’d ever raced in. I’d had the chance to swim in the febrile river the previous afternoon but as my feet hit the dock – which was partially-submerged for some reason – it was a boiling shock to my lil piggies.

Like irreverent hostages down a gangplank my teammates and I marched the length of the dock, which sunk deeper and deeper into the river as we went. By the time we were being positioned two-by-two to jump off the bathtub water was up to our calves. We were still cracking jokes when Rev3 (pirate) king and race director, Eric, ordered us into the water. We toppled forward in pairs and got on our way.

Within a minute the whole group of us was in choppy surf swimming parallel to the shore. The Chickahominy water is brackish and dark, which contributed to some early disorientation as I tried to find a rhythm. Under other circumstances the confluence of the late start and the rough and dark water might have given me terrible swim anxiety, but as it was, every time I looked up to sight I saw at least one of my teammates a few strokes away. It was so comforting, feeling like if I got into trouble I could yell to any number of friends (family) for help. That confidence allowed me to put my head down and start working my way consistently (if not quickly) through the muddy water.

We headed north along the shore until we reached a point where we turned right and east toward the swim exit. It was here where things had apparently gone wrong for the 70.3 swimmers: their course had headed further north after the shore dropped away before turning right for the exit. But at the appointed turn buoy the river’s currents had converged and created a sort of rip tide pulling a large number of athletes downstream. Many had been rescued by the safety kayaks and this collecting of wayward 70.3 swimmers had caused the olympic course delay.

To avoid a repeat, race officials had shortened the olympic course a bit allowing us to turn toward the exit before the currents converged. Swinging right I felt good and could see the exit ramp a few hundred meters ahead. The swim was flying by faster than I expected and I realized it was now or never to pee. I put my head down and stopped kicking and squeezed. I had an easier time going than I do when I have a wetsuit on, but I still had to slow way down and concentrate to eek a pee out.

Finally I successfully peed 100 meters or so before the exit, but then I became afraid that in my bowel exertion I’d also pooped. My mind began racing through possible swim exit scenarios: ‘If I did poop, will people be able to tell when I get out of the water, or will my chamois disguise this mortification until I can get to a porta potty? It is a long run to transition, what if I smell or poo runs out of my bike shorts down my legs?’ I wasn’t sure what would happen as I emerged up the exit ramp – I still had no idea if I’d actually accidentally soiled myself trying so hard to pee. Luckily I hadn’t; my chamois were just stuck in my butt cheeks hence the sensation of having number two’ed.

As I ran away from the brackish river relieved to have maintained what dignity I still have in the bathroom department (a low bar if ever there was one), I hit my Garmin and saw 22:33. I was tentatively happy with it though in the moment I had no idea what distance we’d covered. After the race I could see from GPS that I’d done 1200m rather than the 1500m expected in an olympic distance. We’d had the current on our side for a lot of the swim so not a total sub-2:00/100m victory but I was relatively content with it. 22:33 wasn’t so slow that I couldn’t make it up on the bike and especially the run.

T1

As I said it was a long run from the swim exit to transition. I ran as quickly as I felt I safely could, trying to be light on my feet, wary of rocks or anything sharp in the road. I pulled my helmet and shoes on quickly, and given that it was just 25 miles and not 56 I didn’t dawdle over nutrition. I shoved a couple gus in my tri top and ran for the bike out. Given the long run from the swim exit, I was pretty happy with a 4:39 T1.

Bike

The bike leg starts up a hill out of the Chickahominy campgrounds, then swings a hard right onto Route 5 and immediately more climbing over a sizable bridge. That’s really the hardest climbing of the course until you have to traverse the same bridge coming home – which of course always feels worse after putting 25 or 56 miles on your legs.

I was excited riding out and over the bridge. After the discombobulation of the late will-they-or-won’t-they swim start my head was back in the game and ready to throw up some big numbers. Coming off the backside of the bridge I dropped into my aeros, shifted into my big rings and started to pick people off. (If I learned to swim faster I wouldn’t get such a confident boost in the first few miles of the bike!)

One of those people was Rev3 teammate Robert, who shouted encouragement as I rode past. I was feeling strong and the boost of teammate support was an added pep to my pedaling. Coach Josh had instructed me that morning not to go out too hot and to leave plenty in the tank for the back half of the bike and of course the run.  I knew the bike course well enough from the previous two years and the prospect of 25 instead of 56 miles had me feeling relaxed. I heeded Josh’s words and rode relaxed not pushing too hard.

Over the first five mile straightaway I averaged a little under 20mph which felt right on the money. I wasn’t taking it easy, but I was nowhere near maxing out and felt confident if I maintained that pace and effort I’d have plenty of gas to burn on the back half of the course. Knowing the rolling terrain well and given my RPE (rate of perceived exertion [reverse grammatical parenthetical for the non-tri-peeps!]) averaging over 20mph for the whole course felt very doable.

Miles five through ten included a couple short climbs and I backed off a little too much dropping to an average 19mph exactly. At some point in there Robert passed me back – with more shouts of encouragement of course – and I thought, ‘get your head (legs) in the game, Liz!’ Miles ten through fifteen brought with them a greater elevation gain than five through ten but I buckled down and brought my speed back up to a 19.5mph average.

I passed Robert again exchanging more Rev3 teammate love. Our leap-frogging was keeping me happy and motivated. It is so much fun to have your race family out on the course, and there are no hard feelings in passing one another – not like we’re in the same Age Group! Robert is one of the most genuinely kind and supportive people I’ve met in this sport and being out there with him was a blast. We each wanted the other to have the best, strongest ride we were capable of, and over those first fifteen miles I think those Robert sightings helped me turn in a performance I was proud of.

I was feeling fit and ready to kick it up a notch for the final ten miles. Just after mile 15 there was a hard left turn onto a windy and somewhat rough road. Robert passed me again just after the turn and I yelled him on while trying to stay fast and still navigate this more challenging terrain. I was however feeling a little discouraged that my 20+ mph average might be slipping away as I sat up to round a tight turn around mile 17.

As I came around the corner maybe 50 yards ahead of me I saw someone was down in the road. Immediately I thought, ‘please don’t let it be Robert.’ Then I saw his bright green helmet attached to the person on the ground and my heart stopped dead in my chest. 150-0bpm in no seconds flat.

I didn’t break until I was almost on top of the scene, flying toward the scary tableau fast as I could. At the last possible second I slammed my breaks, kicked my feet free, and threw Koopa Troop to the dirt next to the road. (Honestly and perversely leaping off like that without falling and becoming part of the accident was the best bike handling of my life – maybe my under-pressure version of an adrenaline rush isn’t lifting a car off a baby but successfully unclipping and dismounting my bicycle.)

Ok, if you don’t want to hear the graphic details now is the time to skip ahead. (That includes you, Robert and Marnie if you don’t want to relive [or live for the first time] that unsettling experience.)

Robert was lying face down on the right side of road, face pressed against the back of his arm. He was unconscious and there was blood – it seemed like a lot of blood including globs of it in the road a whole foot away from him – coming from somewhere on his face or head. Scariest to me was that he was gasping for breath in fraught pants and blood-clogged gurgles. I’d never seen or heard anything like it and became immediately convinced I was watching my teammate and friend die. Not just my friend and teammate, but truthfully one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, who less than five minutes before had been cheering me on. And now I thought for sure he was slipping out of this world in front of me.

There was another man (guardian angel?) crouching over Robert who I now barely believe existed. In my panic I didn’t think to get his name or bib number, but miraculously he said he was a doctor and that Robert’s pulse was good and we just needed to let him come to. Robert wasn’t dying, he was going to be ok per this Clarence Oddbody AS2 MD. (If you got that reference you’re my new best friend.[Or you’re my mom or my husband.])

After just a couple minutes, or an eternity, I don’t know, Robert moaned and began to pull himself back to consciousness. He was still straddling his bike and he struggled against the pile of carbon between his legs as Dr. Gabriel and I tried to calm him. Robert wanted none of our calming though and persisted in trying to pull himself up, flummoxed by the bike around which he was wrapped. I called his name and let him know I was there as I worked to disentangle his legs. With considerable effort he pulled himself free and turned himself around so that he was sitting up. He blinked at the Best Samaritan and I, clearly not comprehending where he was or maybe who he was or who I was.

I knelt in the road in front of him, trying to calm him as a two-man motorcycle pulled up. At first I thought these were just two guys who were happening by but I quickly realized they were with the race when one pulled out a walkie and radioed in the situation. I explained to them where we were and that we were on the Olympic course while trying to keep Robert calm and seated. With the patient awake and situation under control, our guardian angel doctor friend asked me if it’d be ok for him to continue on and finish the bike. I said yes and I think I thanked him but really I don’t know.

Sir, if you somehow happen to read this, please reach out. I am eternally grateful to you for stopping to help my friend, for being in the right place at a terrible time, and for probably keeping me from spinning out in that awful moment.

As the motorcycle pulled up I realized my Garmin was still running and awkwardly hit pause, not wanting anyone to notice and think I was the worst most selfish person ever. At some point Rev3 teammate Josh* – not Coach Josh, I have multiple tri-Joshes! – came around the curve and saw Robert and I on the side of the road. It must have been a terrible shock to see that familiar Rev3 Castelli kit in duplicate down on the shoulder, bikes askance. He quickly dumped his own wheels and raced over to us.

*This is in fact the same Josh who had, just the day before, abandoned his own sprint – in a speedo – to come to the aid of a runner who’d fallen. His race weekend definitely had a theme. And that theme is that Josh is a great human and triathlon is lucky to have him!

I caught Josh up to speed on the situation as well as I could. I told him I didn’t see the crash and didn’t know what had caused it and he immediately set up the road to try and figure out what had brought our friend down so that we could spare any other athletes a similar fate.

While Josh paced up and down the road I stayed with Robert. He was speaking now, but he was asking me the same two questions on repeat: “Liz, did you see the accident?” “No, I’m sorry, Robert, I didn’t.” Then he would touch the tip of his tongue to the jagged edge of what was left of his front left tooth. “I think I may have chipped my tooth, did I?” “Yes, it looks like you’re going to have to see a dentist.” He’d take it in, sit with that information for a minute or two, and then like clockwork he seemed to notice me anew and would start back in on, “Liz, did you see the crash?”

We continued that pattern for ten or so minutes, and I tried to get creative with my answers. When he asked if he was missing part of his tooth I told him it gave his face a lot of character, that he’d get a new better tooth, and so on. (Fortunately this was also the source of all the blood rather than a more serious cranial gash.) I thought back to my own crash and wondered how I’d behaved and interacted with people in the hours-long gaps in my memory that I’ll never recover from that day. It’s probably for the best that most of that day is lost to amnesia.

Finally an ambulance arrived and I spoke with the EMTs letting them know about his memory loss and circular questioning. One of them asked me his full name and I started to respond but Robert overheard and filled them in on his name and other PII I won’t share here. Hearing him so coherent was a massive relief and I thought his mental fog must have cleared. The EMTs took down his information and then went to the back of the bus for their gurney. Robert looked up at me and asked, “Liz, did you see the crash?” The fog lingered on.

Robert was loaded into the back of the bus and I joined Josh who had found what he believed to be the offending divots in the road that had brought down our teammate. He was standing in them directing cyclists to the right as they rode through. Two days in a row he found himself literally standing in holes on the course.

A race support van had arrived around the same time as the ambulance. I asked if they had any tape to mark the road and they did not so they radioed for someone to bring someone. While we waited, Josh continued to shoo athletes away from the obstacle, even as some rudely yelled at him to get out of the road and others refused to slow appropriately for the scene. I walked up the road some to try and catch cyclists further upstream to warn them of the hole and to implore them to slow down.

Before the ambulance pulled out to take Robert to the ER, one of the EMTs approached and asked if I was Liz because Robert was asking for me. I followed them to the back of the bus and peered in at Robert who was strapped in and ready to rock to the hospital. “You asked for me?” I inquired. He looked up, “Oh! Liz, yes! Did you see the crash?” Still foggy. I ran through his questions one more time before they shut the doors and got on their way. It was encouraging that he’d retained enough short term memory to know I was at the scene, and later on Robert told me seeing me in the back of the ambulance is where his memory of the day picks back up.

Not long after the ambulance pulled out – much to the relief of a lengthy and increasingly agitated line of cars that had formed – more race support rolled through with the requested tape. Josh marked the divots in the road as clearly as he could, and finally the episode seemed to have concluded for us. Robert was safely on his way and we’d done what we could to make the course safe. We retrieved our bikes from the side of the road, waited for a break in athlete traffic, and got on our tentative ways, agreeing to ride back to transition together.

I was so happy to have Josh’s (non-drafting!) company as we made our way back. For the next few miles I obsessed over every crack and blemish in the pavement and stressed over the dappled shadows cast by the trees, hindering my depth perception. Josh in front, we picked our way conservatively until making a turn back onto the main road back to transition around mile 20.

Something shifted in my mind and I decided to try to salvage the last five miles. I couldn’t keep letting fear win the day and hold me back and athletically I didn’t have anything to save up for – I was off the podium so why not just hammer it home and spend whatever I had? I found my way back into aero and picked up steam.

I rode past Josh and began picking off other cyclists much like the first few miles. I found that over-20mph average I had hoped for over the last 7.2 miles – minus the slog back up the bridge which was also accompanied by a beast of a headwind. I don’t remember that climb ever being quite so unpleasant before but it was tough this time around.

I cruised into T2 with a total bike time of 1:57:09. I’m not 100% on how long the entire episode took to play but my Garmin was paused for 32 minutes, so I’d guess around 35. I didn’t spend any energy thinking about it and just focused on having a good run and finishing strong. Robert was being taken care and would be ok and there was nothing more I could do for him. I decided to just go have some fun and see if I could run the 10k well.

T2

I had a strong T2 at 1:36. I didn’t dawdle but I also wasn’t stressed since I wasn’t in any sort of podium contention. I just ditched Koopa back in the ground racks, traded my helmet for a visor, and pulled my race number on as I made for the run out and headed back to that blasted bridge.

Run

I felt inexplicably happy as ran up the steep grassy hill – minding Josh’s Saturday hole – and swinging a hard right onto the bridge. During the entire bike ordeal I hadn’t really thought much about the race, but in the back of my mind I think I must have given up on finishing it, so suddenly getting the opportunity to do so was a welcome development.

My legs felt pretty good – they had gotten an unplanned thirty minute recovery in the middle of the bike after all! I could feel the last ten miles of effort, including that final windy climb, so it absolutely felt like an OTB (off the bike) run, but I probably got my form and rhythm down faster than I otherwise would have. I charged up the bridge, happy to be out on my legs, and down the other side and turned in a strong 7:32 for my first mile.

After the bridge the course has a few small rollers but is a mostly flat three miles out and then back the same way. The 70.3 athletes have to do this six-mile lap twice, and their turnaround is a bit further than the 10k turnaround. This setup means athletes of varying speeds and running different distances share the run course, which also means despite being quite late to the run party I still had lots of Rev3/Speed Sherpa/DC Tri Club company out there.

The late start meant the sun was higher in the sky than I would have expected. A July race in Virginia is always a scorcher and this year was no exception. I grabbed cups of ice at every aid station – and the out-and-back setup affords many aid stations. I was hot but not as hot as I’d been in NYC or on this very course in previous years.

Despite the heat and the variably-relieving patchwork of shade I held my rhythm steady out to the turnaround with a 7:34 and 7:33 for miles two and three respectively. I felt like my exertion was right on the money. I was working my butt off but had just enough on reserve for the final push home. I passed dozens of people and no one begrudged me my pace. In true triathlete form, friends and strangers alike shouted encouragement as I overtook them.

At some point a pair of feet came running fast up behind me and I became briefly incensed that someone was going to pass me. The human attached to the flying feet called out to me as he ran by and I realized it was my friend and DC Tri Elite team member Adam. I yelled him on and thought, ‘ok that’s fine. I can handle an elite athlete in the 70.3 race passing me. BUT NO ONE ELSE!’

I thought it and I meant it and I stuck to it. Adam was the only person to pass me over those 6.2 miles. After the turnaround my pace did drop a touch into the high 7:30s with mile four at 7:37 and five at 7:39. I wasn’t mad about it because my frequent tendency to negative split is a result of holding back too much early on. I still felt like I would have enough for my final kick to the finish but I definitely wasn’t holding back.

I kept grabbing ice and water every chance I got and soon I found myself back at the bridge for the final time. Five miles had flown by and I had to climb up and down this beast once more. At least on foot it didn’t feel as windy as it had on the bike. My pace dropped back into the mid-8s for that quarter mile schlep upwards, but I recovered on the downhill dropping into the low 7s before hooking a hard left back into the grass. I had to slow up some as I rounded the transition area, mindful of the lumpy terrain masked by thick grass. Mile six was my slowest of the day at 7:46. I wasn’t thrilled with that but I had no time to dwell on it. I was soon back on the road for the final .2 miles to the finish line. I had indeed left just enough in the tank to kick it up a notch for the last minute of my race. I dropped into 6:40s and welcomed the pain that accompanied that final sprint home.

Scott and the dogs were waiting strategically just before the finish to run the chute with me. I was working too hard to take one of the dogs so the three just fell in behind me and gave chase to the finish line. This is one of the Rev3 traditions I will miss the most. Even as we sneer a bit at the race orgs that co-opt our trademarks like individual notes in race packets, this is one I hope other races will adopt where possible. Finishing a race with your family is amazing. And it acknowledges how much the people who love triathletes sacrifice to make our dreams happen. I wouldn’t be here without Scott and even without those pups, it feels so right whenever they get to run in with me. (And the pictures are epic.)

All in all Garmin says I turned in a 46:37 10k. Actually it says the course was a touch short – or maybe I was a touch off setting my watch – and hence that my average mile time was 7:37. Twenty seconds a mile faster than the previous weekend in NYC, though that course was harder, hotter, and I’d done the whole bike in one go so not really a fair comparison.

I suppose I was happy with that but I wasn’t thinking too much on how well I’d run; after a scary, emotional morning, what mattered the most to me was that was able to do the run at all. I had unequivocally enjoyed that whole 46 minutes and 37 seconds on the course. I think I ran the whole thing with a big goofy smile on my face.

Race Afternoon

Being part of team Rev3 means lots of friends, and also lots of food after the race. Oh and shade much to Scott and the pups’ relief. We all found some space in the Rev3 tent and I got to introduce my dude and my dogs to some more of the teammates I’d been gushing about since meeting them in January. Birkin and Daenerys are pretty race (and insta) famous so the introduction excitement was mutual in a lot of cases.

The drive between Williamsburg and DC is never not terrible so Scott got on his way after not too long. I wanted to stick it out to usher in the final finisher – another tradition that makes Rev3 races so special. I sat through the podium ceremony for the 70.3 – the oly prizes having long since been awarded – and indulged in some of the champagne Josh had stashed in his trunk.

We got updated in mid-afternoon that the final finisher wasn’t yet on the second lap of the run course and was still at least two hours away. Knowing how long the schlep home was liable to take I decided I had to call it and head back. I was disappointed to miss the inspirational final finisher tradition but given that it took over four hours to make the 150 mile drive back it was for the best.

When I finally made it home I looked at my phone and was thrilled to have a notification from Robert: he had made it back to reality and was posting on Facebook. How else would we measure recovery in this day and age but by social media check-ins? Seeing that little red notification flag next to Robert’s name was almost as welcome a sight as when he’d opened his eyes that morning. I went to bed with the relief that he was on the road to recovery.

Aftermath

In the days following the race Robert continued to update the team on his prognosis and recovery. He and I talked some about what I’d seen, I filled in some of his memory gaps, and shared my own accident. This had been Robert’s first crash – I joked that he’d gone pretty big for his first fall.

I also replayed that moment coming around the corner and seeing him down and bloody in the road over and over in my head. When I tucked myself in at night that scene kept me up and I had to force my thoughts elsewhere, afraid the memory would bleed into my dreams. Worst of all, every time I took Koopa Troop out for a ride I dwelled on Robert’s crash, and then on my crash, and then my mind would spin out. I let fears I’d long overcome return with a vengeance and started to mentally backslide.

This season had felt like a turning point, where I was starting to look forward to getting on the bike even more than running in some ways. (And always more than swimming.) Some of that was injury-based: irony of ironies, it’s my beloved run that causes the most physical issues (that one giant bike accident notwithstanding,) and yet it’s my Koopa Troop who intimidates me. But as my speed and my confidence have grown so has my enjoyment. (And I’ve also learned how nice it is to worry less about what to eat before a ride unlike how cautious one has to be with their pre-run tummy!) So to feel the same fears creeping back – and this time with visual aids – was panic-inducing.

Here’s where the tri community stepped in and saved my mind and season like it always does.

I didn’t want to tell anyone how distressed I felt after Robert’s incident. I didn’t want to sew trauma for him or his family by airing the ugly, graphic details. I didn’t want to make his experience and recovery about me. And I was embarrassed that I was still having bike fear issues. But without me asking for help or sharing my mental struggles with anyone, several people reached out. Ellen was one of course. And a number of Speed Sherpa and Rev3 friends called and texted and they didn’t make me feel silly or weak or selfish. They just said, I bet that was hard given your history. And offered their time and attention. More than anything they normalized my feelings, and somehow that lessened the sting of those feelings.

After a few weeks I stopped reliving that moment, stopped turning that corner to see Robert in the road every time I closed my eyes or pulled my bike shoes on. By Ironman Maine I’d rediscovered that bike love from the beginning of the season. And it didn’t hurt that by Ironman Maine Robert was back in the saddle and on the race course. He took it easy – doctor’s and body’s (and wife’s) orders – but he did the whole 70.3 and topped it off with evening Rev3 “PR buckets” shenanigans.

Now we’re ten months past Rev3 Williamsburg and I’m happy to report that Robert is happy and healthy. He’s been  cheering me on through my own recovery and even came and rode with me my first day back on my bike. It felt profound and full circle to be out there with him. I hope we have years and many more rides together ahead of us.