The fact is, I experienced more negative emotions about this race than any other competition I've ever been in. (There were some dark days during high school tennis, but we'll excuse those as youthful indiscretion.) I'm an adult now, and I'm frankly embarrassed by the pessimism.
I had built up this race for a month. It was a small, start-up event in Chattanooga Valley. There would be limited competition. I would be in peak shape coming off my half-marathon (which I would have run faster than 1:30:09). In other words, I promised myself I would win.
Then my knee started feeling funny. I wasn't necessarily worried, but it wasn't such a sure thing. I started telling myself that it would be the last race of my season if I could manage a win. Then, I promised it would be the last race, win or not. I needed a break.
Sunday morning, I hated life. I drove to Flintstone alone in the dark, as my parents were out of town. I hated myself for being there so early, because the other people there were clearly tri-geeks with no other life. Their more-expensive, super-aero bikes intimidated me. So did their "140.6" stickers. I considered abandoning the race to go on a long, lonely bike ride, except I'd already paid $55 (plus internet service charge?!). I promised never to go to another race by myself.
I hated packet pick-up. Everybody else was with a spouse/boyfriend/girlfriend/friend...and/or making stupid jokes that only triathletes would make at 6:32 a.m. I made stupid jokes just to fit in. Then I hated myself for that.
I hated getting called out for not having a swim cap. On the 10-mile bike ride, two people passed me. I immediately resigned myself to finishing off the podium, because I was then in 4th place. Then I hated myself for mentally quitting. Somehow, though, I kept them in sight as we started the run together. I had two miles to run myself into first place.
Unfortunately, I didn't see Denny nearly a quarter-mile in front of us. I passed one guy in transition and one on the run, and thought I was in first until I saw Denny's bald head across the lake. And Brandon was behind me, running barefoot to save precious seconds in T2. I was running so hard that every footfall felt like one step closer to a complete collapse.
At various times during the run, I tried convincing myself I would be happy with second place. After all, I like Denny; I would rather be beaten by a friend than an unknown. But I was turning myself inside out to catch him, torn between winning and quitting. He deserved a victory as much as I did, having led the race from the gun. I hated wanting so badly to win, and I hated thinking I could live with giving less than 100 percent.
I kicked. If he had answered, things might have turned out differently. But I surprised him, and it worked. We both staggered across the finish line, completely gassed. I still feel bad for taking a win; after all, his wife and kids were there. It's not like I had anybody to celebrate with. And at the end of the day, it's a 48-minute race, not a half-Ironman. I drove home with another T-shirt, a candy jar of Atomic FireBalls and an upset stomach.
To top it off, I have a renewed desire to stay fast. So much for taking a break: I can't even keep a promise to myself to relax. I hate acting like a Type-A person, even though I'm not one. Yet I kind of hate not being one, because it means I will never fully achieve my goals.
So is a win a win? Ask somebody with more experience.
2 comments:
Love the write up. I'm glad you were hurting because you made it look easy! I was actually surprised that I held you off as long as I did. You smoked by me at Sports Barn. Take a month and go hiking bro. You deserve it. And you're never alone at a race if I'm there! (Did i just write that?)
drewbie, i should have sensed your "aloneness" and ran screaming up to you the second you passed the finish line and made a complete fool out of myself. i fail at our friendship. i am sorry!
Post a Comment