My Teeny Tiny Tri

There's nothing quite like the feeling of saying, "I did a triathlon" even when you preface it heavily by explaining that although it's technically a triathlon it's really the most junior version possible. Called a 20.20.20, it's sponsored by the student rec center and involves twenty minutes of swimming in the pool, twenty minutes on a stationary bike and twenty minutes of running on the indoor track. There's also nothing like the feeling of showing up for a triathlon and realizing that all of the other competitors are fit college students of the traditional age, and some of them actually are triathletes. That feeling? Not as good. I had, however, already paid my entry fee and I really wanted the t-shirt, which was a real "finishers" shirt and not available for simple purchase by a slightly over-weight graduate student mother unless she actually completed an hour of what suddenly seemed to be torturous physical activity.

Fortunately, my partner in crime (husband Aaron) had agreed to join me, so I wasn't the only senior citizen in the group. As is traditional in a tri, we hit the pool first. If I had any residual skepticism that the other competitors were in better shape that I, it was quickly wiped away when I got a look at the chiseled abs of my fellow swimmers. Aaron and I had both taken swimming lessons in order to actually achieve something better than a doggie paddle for this event, but with only a few weeks under our belts, we were far from graceful. I had to stop and pant heavily after each lap and had all kinds of problems keeping my rascally swim goggles from flooding my left eye with water. Our timer was a good sport, especially when I kept asking him if we were done yet (not so I could get in one last lap, but so I could stop the insanity).

Finally our twenty minutes were up and I headed into the locker room to change for the cycling portion. Instead of making rapid transitions, as in a real triathlon, we had ten minutes to change and get to the stationary bikes. Which was a good thing because I think it took me nine and a half minutes to get my damn sports bra on. I always thought getting a wet sports bra off was a pain in the ass. I will never complain about that again, because putting one on when your body is wet is a zillion times more difficult and the situation went from comical to ridiculous to practically suicidal before I finally had the girls properly contained.

Getting that damn bra on did nothing to reduce my heart rate, nor did the two flights of stairs to get to the bikes. I was the last one to arrive and had just enough time to adjust my seat but not enough time to figure out where I was supposed to put my water bottle, which I ended up staring longingly at for twenty minutes since I had failed to notice the clever holder on the bike and left it instead on the floor. Some rockin' '80's music took some of the pain of boredom from the "ride" but none of the pain of the bicycle seat from my sensitive parts. I thought I was doing pretty well on the miles in this portion of the event, little did I know the odometer was set for kilometers. Oh well. I was just happy, if somewhat bow-legged, to be finished.

Wonder Twin powers activate! Form of: Triathletes

The indoor track was on the same floor as the bikes and we didn't have to change for the running portion, so we just milled around waiting to start. Not in that bridled-energy way like an elite athlete--more like that let's-get-this-over-with way of a rueful amateur. Of course, running is my strength so I was actually pretty happy to get started on the track. I didn't account for the fact that this indoor track is less than a quarter of the size of an outdoor track, forcing near-90-degree turns on what is essentially a concrete surface. I am used to getting passed, but on such a small track, I was literally ticking off my distance by how many times a specific runner lapped me (twice for every time I went around).

The best part of this experience was being finished (or possibly walking around afterward with a Sharpied number on my hand, branding me as a triathlete). The worst part is that I finished less than a tenth of a mile behind the amateur winner. This isn't so bad in and of itself, it's bad because now I feel compelled to tri again...

Put a Bird on it: An ugly race shirt, but a beautiful race

Awesome logo not located on shirt

It was the fall of 2009. I was at packet pick-up for Run Like Hell, one of the last races of the season, when I saw it across the room. My eyes drawn to the bright, swirling logo like a tween to a Justin Bieber concert--I knew I had to run the Eugene Marathon right then. Just for the shirt. Seriously.

So, fast forward two years and imagine my dismay when, after years of beautiful, professional, graphic designs and in spite of their fabulous logo, the shirt I get fits like a grocery sack, has a logo seriously lacking in creativity or even a nice font, and is the color of a frozen corpse.Of course, a bitchin' shirt is probably one of the least legitimate reasons for running a marathon. Even so, it did put a damper on the expo before the race. It's a good thing there was a mediocre pasta feed to perk me up afterwords. Okay, so the food didn't do the perking so much as sharing a meal with my husband, my race friends and one random guy who unwittingly sat at our table.

Race day itself dawned glorious and sunny, though there was frost on the windshield when we left the hotel. Aaron made sure I took breakfast with me for the bus ride to the starting area, but I couldn't quite stomach everything and ended up searching in vain for a trash can in which to throw my banana. There were plenty of potties, but not a rubbish bin to be seen. I ended up leaving it on top of a parked car between miles one and two. You're welcome, owner of the gray Nissan Sentra.

As usual, I did not scrutinize the race map as much as I should have to be prepared for the run. I didn't think I would have a chance of breaking my  PR, or Personal Record (4:31:19 set last year at Seattle Rock 'n' Roll) so I didn't really have much of a plan beyond my typical start-slow-and-finish-strong strategy. I did spend some time in rush hour traffic the Friday before playing with my new pace calculator app and figured I would try and keep around a 10:40/mile pace, which would put me in about the 4 hr 45 min range.

I had the good fortune of running with a terrific running buddy of mine, Andrea. We started out together with the agreement that there would be no pressure or expectation of running the whole event together. At about mile five, I started looking for a port-a-potty. I hate this about races because I rarely have to stop for a bathroom break on a long training run. I've come to the conclusion that it must be a result of drinking several ounces of water at a time when I go through the aid stations on a supported course verses taking regular tiny sips from my bottle on a training run (because I carry Perpetuem in my bottle for marathons and need to supplement with plain water). Of course I know that now, but by the time I hit mile eight I really, really had to pee. My average pace at this point was 10:22, so on one hand, I was well ahead of my goal, but on the other hand, it was more irksome because I realized a pace like that did but me within striking distance of a new PR. My bladder, of course, didn't care and so I lost about 4 minutes waiting in line.

I spent the next several miles trying to gain back some of that lost time. I caught up with Andrea and we continued to run together. I think around mile 11 or 12 we both commented that we hadn't seen a port-a-potty in a while. This of course made my bladder sit up and take notice and I immediately worried that I would have to make another pit stop. I figured the lines would ease up after the half-marathoners split off, and I was right: the course was like a ghost town. This was great for bathroom lines, and when I finally saw another port-a-potty at mile 15, I went for it like a fat person grabs a cookie on the eve of a new diet plan. I spent considerably less time on this stop because there was barely a line and only lost about a minute. Enough time to realize that not everyone was having such a good race--there was a crumpled up bib number in the urinal that had clearly been treated like Calvin treats the Chevy logo when he is stuck in the back window of a Ford.

I stuck with Andrea for one more mile and we parted ways at mile 16 after verifying that our mutual friend, Christian would be running her in at mile 20. I ran by myself for a few miles, enjoying the beautiful riverside scenery and then paired up with a nice mortgage broker named Eric for a few miles. He was very nice and shared his gel and running stories with me as I started ramping up for the last ten kilometers. Of course, the photographer caught us on a walk break, so we both faked like we were running. I lost my new friend to an aid station around mile 21, but I started gaining speed. I had a nice rhythm going until an emo duo in the park killed my buzz with a slooooooooow love song. I said, "pick up the pace!" perhaps a little too loudly as two girls turned around and glared at me as though I had been talking to them. Oops! My bad.

Me passing two men with a bonus look at the ugly shirt  (rt)

I had arrived at my favorite part of the marathon--the last four or so miles. I usually am slightly giddy with the prospect of finishing and run about a minute per mile faster than my average for the first half of the race. The best part is that I get to pass a lot of people. I was going to make an analogy to sick caribou here, but it would probably be tasteless, so forget I mentioned it.

My husband was there to take photos of me toward the end and then he ran me in to the the start of the stadium. I don't really remember this part except that I was probably bitchy and moaning about how hard it was right before kicking it in to an eight minute pace for the last two tenths of a mile. It was fun running into Hayward Field, though being new to running and a non-native Oregonian, I don't think it carried as much meaning for me as it may have for others. I did purposefully avoid watching myself on the jumbotron, though apparently, this late in the race the photographers had nothing better to do than take a bazillion terrible photos of me crossing the line. My time was 4:32:28. I can't help regretting that first bathroom stop, because it may have made the difference for a PR, but I won't regret running the Eugene Marathon (except every time I wear the shirt).