Race Report: Moraga Treeline Triathlon (Unofficial Title: On Coming Back to a Self)

I have always understood the world of endurance sports in terms of ratios. Perhaps this is only natural because this is how I understand-- or, have understood-- my self as well.

It is a world of weight: power. Mind: body. Self: unknown (represented in the physical world, perhaps) which isn't too dissimilar from the way a distorted body image works: it is a world of comparison, of weighing one thing versus another and coming up with an answer that is not really definitive, but relative and always shifting its meaning from good to bad, depending, I suppose, on place and time.

Or perhaps this is my understanding of myself until today when I competed in my first meaningful race since 2012 and my first triathlon since 2009. In between 2010 and 2013,  I was "not enough"-- not training enough, not "elite" or fast enough (or, oddly "too much") weighing too much, occupying too much space-- in order to compete.  In the months leading back to move home (to Reno this past August), I thought I'd left the world of athletics behind. My body had done reasonably well; my time with ratios, ended. I didn't run a 2:46 marathon but I ran a 2:47 which isn't too shabby; and from the avalanche of injuries which followed, I thought I'd never run another race again.

I can't say how grateful I am that I was wrong about that. Or how grateful I am that, at 32, I am not "too old" or "too slow" or even "too unworthy" to occupy a spot on the starting line again. I am honored, humbled and well, (if I haven't repeated myself too much already) grateful that there's still room for me there in the early-morning chill of shuffling bodies, shivering with cold and anticipation.

But there was a new feeling mixed in with all the usual pre-race jitters. It made me smile, hum a little tune and joke with the guy seeded two bodies faster than I was-- the man in white who would win the race. It was something along the lines of happiness, pure and golden like honey, and maybe just as sweet.

*
I was worried about this race when it started snowing on Donner Summit and didn't stop snowing by the time I reached Colfax. Or, that snow turned to rain in Auburn and it kept raining through the flats of Sacramento, Davis, Dixon, Fairfield and that wild west of highways, 680. Walnut Creek: rain. Moraga: rain and rain and more rain.

The forecast for the race start: 46 degrees and all I'd brought to wear was a swimsuit and my Ocra tri shorts (if only because I find the company name hilarious. My "killer whale" shorts. Yes, I'm strange like that.) I had socks and shoes; cycling gloves, cleats and my helmet. Nothing remotely warm, however, and here I was in (not freezing) but potentially cold rain. (And after a recent bout of cold-related muscle strains, I worried I would injure myself at some point if the wetness kept coming down.)

Luckily, though, the dawn was clear and beautiful: I got to Campo High (where the race was held) at 6:00 am and the sun had already cast the terrain in a daffodil-colored light.  I set up my transition area first, racking my bike and crumpling my race number under my seat (yet another disadvantage to being so short.) The body-markers weren't on site yet, however, so I unpacked and re-packed my race bag, triple-checking I had everything I'd need. It seemed scarce to me somehow: just one goo. One bottle of "ensure" I'd dump into a bottle between my legs for the ride. And then, the obvious: the bike and all its paraphernalia,  my racing flats void of laces but instead spandex things (to make them faster to get on and off.) My water bottle filled with a watered-down electrolyte mixture I've come to really like especially on long rides on what have been warm spring days here in Nevada.

After my obsessive packing-unpacking I realized I forgot: a towel.  I don't know how this happened since I always remember to grab one for swim practice. In retrospect, however, I didn't have time to dry off-- or, glad I didn't take the time to. It was much more efficient to let the atmosphere do that work for me on the ride.

*

A young girl wrote "6" (my number) on my biceps in permanent marker as well as on the back of my left calf along with my age at the side of the pool. This is called "body marking" and a unique feature of triathlons. You not only have a race number; you also have a tattoo for a day (if that), making you a certain kind of athlete: fast or one of the pack and always a function of your age.

The mayor of Moraga gave an unnecessarily long talk as the long line of athletes shivered the morning. Perhaps the most illustrative moment of this display was the singing of the national anthem when he realized there was no flag visible from the pool where we'd swim and instructed us to simply gaze in the direction opposite of the sun.

THE SWIM

The swim was not only a staggered start, but an organized one at that: only one person in the pool at a time and each of us separated by ten seconds. I was number six, so I was the sixth person in the pool that day, meaning I was a minute behind the leader of the race immediately; meaning that the 300th person of the race would probably never catch me (which is part of the reason I'm not sure if I did as well as I thought I did. Official race results are still pending.)

The pool was 50 meters from wall to wall and 8 lanes wide: the swim was a "snake swim" in which each athlete would swim once down (or back) a lane before climbing out of the pool to run toward the transition area, perhaps 200 meters  near the sport fields.

My impressions of the swim are as follows: shock when a tall, slender man identifies himself as a former teammate on the Walnut Creek Master's Team. I remembered him immediately. He was our fastest swimmer. I wondered how I was seeded so closely to him. And then I realize I'd used my time in  yards-- not meters-- for my seed time. I say a silent "Shit!" to myself and hope that I am not too embarrassed by several other competitors passing me.

The water: warm like a bath. I struggle with conducting flip-turns not only meant to turn me around, but also meant to move me from lane to lane.  I was immediately aware of my tri-shorts flopping in the aqua breeze and I worried they would fall off. Not the biggest tragedy, I guess, but it was like swimming with an ass-sail. (I can't wait for our team uniforms to arrive.)

 I am passed perhaps 10 meters from the final wall. The ladder out of the pool is clogged. I try to lift myself from the pool (the pool side is elevated by its gutter system) and, at first, fail. Panic ensues and I lift/roll myself out and catch-- passing-- the man who passed me en route to the transition area.

I do not remember much about this transition. Only that I put my helmet on first, then my shoes and gloves. I drip-drop-ran to the spot where I could start riding.

THE BIKE

It took a bit to get into a rhythm. I wasn't tired per se, but disoriented. My arms had all my blood and my legs wanted a share of the oxygen. Also, I was cold-- literally dripping wet riding into 46-degree air. And, it would only get colder.

I was passed, almost immediately, by a male athlete with a pointy-helmet. You know, the aerodynamic ones, the ones that say "I'm fast" and that I'm not sure I'm ready to wear yet. I tried to keep in his draft even for the first quarter mile, but he out-powered me and I didn't want to rely on my quads for the entire ride-- especially since this first part was a mostly undulating "up."

I tried to focus on pulling with my hamstrings and smooth transitions between muscle groups. I also tried to concentrate on not being cold. I suppose I was successful in that last one: I was not cold, but numb: I felt absolutely nothing for the first six miles of the ride. I felt less when the ride left Moraga (proper) and headed toward a small town/community called "Canyon" in the Oakland hills.  This was one of my favorite rides when I lived in the bay: the canyon is dark, green and fern-covered-- like a miniature tropical sub-climate almost.  It's almost always cooler than the surrounding areas and today was no exception: in fact, there was a layer of mist and fog which hung heavily over the tree canopy, depositing moisture into the boughs which dripped onto the road (and onto me.)

Here, climbing (slightly) and trying to catch the phantom cyclist in front me I only glimpsed between turns that the following thought occurred: OMG, am I naked? I felt light, air-filled and like there was nothing covering my legs. I wondered if I'd stripped off my shorts without knowing it back at the transition area; I felt incredibly naked.

But my ocra shorts were still there, securely. This is also when I realized I hadn't eaten or drank anything at all so far in the race. I tried a sip of Ensure and it clogged my throat (maybe I should cut it with water next time) but jeez: it was like inhaling snot (albeit a vanilla-flavored snot): the stuff stuck in my throat and I think I'll have to figure out how to carry and drink it for a longer race.

A fast-- and strong-looking-- man passed me in the final miles. We played leap-frog for a mile before his chain derailed and I sailed ahead to the next transition area.

A quick shout-out to the town of Moraga: I loved how every law enforcement officer and every volunteer-- on the bike, especially-- cheered me on with kind words.  A smile, a wave, a good job: not one of them didn't say or do something that brought that happiness to the surface again--- or that made it bubble and fly into the atmosphere this morning, buoying me home.

THE RUN

I couldn't feel my hands and feet. This is what I thought as I got out of the aerobars to turn back into the transition area for the run. I was a human torso: I had a mind and heart and lungs but my feet and arms, well, I'd left them back somewhere in that lush canyon.

 I hobble-ran to the racks again and tried to rack my bike with its handlebars until, after about the fourth try, I realized I was racking the wrong end. I took off my shoes--arms shaking-- and realized it's a hell of a thing to try and put on shoes when your feet are senseless. I thought of my uneaten goo in my pack while I snapped my race number around my waist, took a last sip of water and bounded out of the transition area, knowing I'd wasted enough time already.

The man who'd lost his chain on the ride was ahead of me. The first 50 meters of the (running) race was flat and he kept his distance. But, quickly, the course turned vertical and I passed him.

Running after riding and swimming isn't the most pleasant feeling, but I felt good, actually -- my hips a bit tight-- but nothing so awful that I couldn't-- or, didn't-- want to keep going. My major motivation was that the race finished on the track-- A REAL TRACK-- and I've really, really missed running on a track (UNR doesn't allow "non-athletes" to run on the track. All my speed sessions are on a trail or a bike path or, even a road. )

I miss the precision, of knowing where and why and how fast you are to the stride. No ratios: time is time, after all: how fast an ultimate measure.

So on that last lap, would you believe me if I told you I out-sprinted (by a lot) one of those male elites? That I felt that old-self again: that self who ran, who wanted to win, who wanted to compete?

This time, though, I was only running for ME. Not a time. Not a goal or a love or a man; just to tell myself I could finish a race and finish well. Or, I could finish. Not last. Not first. But finish and understand that crossing as a type of new beginning... and not an end.

Photo credit to the amazing-brilliant poet Steve Gehrke who values the miles on the page and in real-life. <3 td="">

THE FINISH

I didn't win the Moraga Treeline Triathlon. I wasn't even close!! But I swam-rode-ran and I didn't fail. In fact, I felt like I won. 

I could be strong "just as I am" -- not thin or beautiful or remarkable in any way. Just me.

Or maybe I am remarkable-- and dare I say-- beautiful (?) because of who I am, the love I have for training and writing... for living my life the way I do?

No matter how you slice it, I rocked this event.

And-- I'm not going to question if I'm an athlete or not.  I am.

My hours. My yards. My meters. My hours. My miles.

And, I am grateful for all of them.

Letting Go: A Necessary Training (and Personal) Progression

I've decided this is the year I let everything go. 

I admit, when this thought came to me, it wasn't the happiest moment: I was staring at the shadows flickering on my bedroom ceiling and I was remembering all the things my ex had said about me. And all the things coaches had said about me, too. And the random words that random people happen to say-- without realizing they are saying them-- about me, too. About my body (its size and shape); about my ability to perform (as an athlete, as a runner, a swimmer, a cyclist; as a lover, as a writer, as a teacher, as a friend, as a colleague); or about the capacity of my heart and mind (too limited, too narrow; too large; too uncomfortable no matter its size or shape.)

In sort, the flickering shadows told me that no matter whom I have known, I've turned out a failure (for them.)

But as I stared at those flickering shadows, something unexpected happened. I didn't consider that any of these voices-- no matter who said them-- were right. I simply watched a branch as it painted abstract lines across the plaster and realized, for the first time, that none of those voices have known my journey-- none of them know my meters and miles the way I know them.  They are, after all, my moments, my miles, my meters, my seconds.

None of them, in fact, knew the abstract musings of a branch under moonlight just like none of them know what lies within the meters-miles-moments.

And so I've decided to let them all go. 

Someone-- an elite triathlete-- one told me that if I truly wanted to train for an Ironman, I'd have to let go of several "comforts" in my life such as my membership to a master's swim team (even if I loved every person on the team and seeing them made the rest of my life bearable); the need to feel "rested" before a workout and most certainly social situations that involve any sense of a "weekend" or a "vacation." I thought he was talking about solitude: about having to train my body for a specific sport and having to address the needs of the event, etc.

But I think I misunderstood him.

"You find out things about yourself when you train for events like this," he'd said, once, when we were discussing the possibility of him coaching me for an Ironman distance tri. It never happened, of course: I had already decided I couldn't and I loved my master's swim team in a way I can't get too mad at myself for. After all, they were my only friends.

But now that I'm training for a half-ironman and I'm on my own, I know: he was right.

You find out things about yourself you couldn't ever know or expect. 

For me, here are a few examples: I hate being cold. I hate running in the pre-dawn dark or at night when I can't see where my feet will fall. I dislike having to run at lunch when I don't have time to shower before I do the rest of the things I must do the rest of the day. I hate soda, but drink it because it really does make me cycle better. I hate (really, really or more than most things) swimming at night because that means I have to get wet not once or twice or even three times in one day: when I swim at night, my day is bookended in a saturated wetness. And puffy eyes. Ick, right??

But training this much strips away the things that really don't matter. It's mostly a matter of time: fitting in your hours or minutes. It's no longer about meeting some new "fastest" time, but just making a certain time again and again and again. Or, being able to maintain a pace no matter how awful you might feel after work and that meeting in which you wanted to cry. The class where none of your students read and you must improvise and they just look at you blankly.

Here's what I found: no matter how awful my day was, I could wake up and swim/cycle/run or get off work and swim/cycle/run and meet the interval times given to me. I was not fast, no, but there was this space inside myself where I could reside, the most-true-me, the me I don't show off or write with; the me who is quiet and patient; who observes and says, quietly "go" when it's time.

She's been there for me when those other voices fall away. When an ex decides I'm no longer interesting or beautiful or thin (who derided me for SEVEN YEARS that I was not a runner, that running was bad, that I was bad because I was a runner and who NOW dates a runner, loves a runner, who says this runner is so much better than I am) .... or when a prospective coach decides I am not worth the effort because my life-- as an athlete/writer-- is complicated.

That little voice-- my voice-- tells me I'm worthy of my own belief that I am going to succeed. 

It's not an exciting idea or even an original one: but when I train I love the quiet space inside my body. It's beyond my body: a place where I can forget all those other voices. Where I can be the most-myself I can be. I hardly care, mid-swim, where I am beside all the bodies of the world. In that moment, it's just me.  Breathing, turning, stroking, timing.  All those present participles of the body: those are the actions I do.

 *

I'm not sure I can accurately describe what it feels like to let go of a person or an idea. If you want to know the truth, I'm not sure I have.

It's more like this: I retreat into my body and in-between the very base requirements (breathing),  I find myself.  The thing which pushes, which pushes against.

It is a private space; my space.

I kick, stroke, breathe, cycle, run, swim.... I say: "keep going."

I let go of all those voices. Those people. Those memories.

And, I do.

Kick. Stroke. Breathe.

And, believe.

One day.