So. The triathlon. Otherwise known as “the day I almost went gently into the light while wearing a bike helmet and a discount sports bra.” It was no bueno, people. No bueno at all.
The big day began last Sunday at 4 a.m. when I woke up and checked my email. I was touched to see that one of the women in my neighborhood had sent my entire team a message saying that she’d “prayed for every one of us to do awesome.” Of course, it’d soon become glaringly obvious that Jesus must have been in the warehouse taking a smoke break when my name came up, but still. It’s always nice when Heaven gets a heads up that you’re about to run a 5K.
I was definitely nervous the few days preceding the blessed event, but I was also filled with loads of delusional self-confidence. (Just like when I recently thought I could pull off a Meatloaf song during karaoke night. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light,” I can’t quit you.) While I hadn’t ever done a 12 mile bike ride and a 5K run on the same day before, I’d still trained enough to where I could cycle 8 miles, then run 2 miles without hurting myself. That, plus my three days of “hydrating” like a rabid chihuahua, led me to believe that I’d be just fine.
What a dumbass.
Because after standing around for 2 1/2 hours in 100% humidity—in air so sticky that even the birds were chirping, “Holy crap, man. Where’s my frickin’ inhaler?”—I was already feeling a little woozy. But even so, I chugged some Gatorade and hopped on my bike as soon as my relay partner finished her swim. I figured the cycling bit would be easy. I figured wrong.
The first part of it was okay; I actually passed people and zoomed up hills that others had to walk. But around Mile 6, I started to feel major chills throughout my head and body. It was like I’d just slammed a jumbo Icee and had brain freeze, only it was all over. Even so, I forced myself to keep on peddling until the end just so I’d be able to take off my padded bike pants before I collapsed. The last thing I needed was someone posting my picture on Facebook with the caption, “LOL!!! Big Ass Roadkill, Y’all!!!!” (Even during a triathlon, it’s important to manage your online reputation.)
Once off the bike, I was ready to call it quits, but decided I’d try to just walk the last leg of the race. I was still having chills and not really sweating (obviously some kind of heat exhaustion), but I really wanted to finish. And I did, finish, but let’s just say it wasn’t exactly graceful. Here’s how the 5K went down (cue theme from “Chariots of Fire”):
Mile 1: Stagger off bike and enter the running trail looking like someone fleeing a collapsed building. The three people standing on the sidelines cheering on the racers spy me and immediately change their chant from “You can do it! You can do it!” to “You can…do…wow. Jeezus H. Should we call 911…? Or airlift….? Well, bless her heart, I guess.”
Mile 1.5: Stop at water station and pour cup over my head to cool off. Now look like a ferret in a rain barrel.
Mile 2: While tromping on the trail through the hot, muggy forest, come to sad realization that if I’d been a soldier in Vietnam, I probably wouldn’t have earned the Purple Heart after all. I’d have been handed over to the enemy for complaining about my chafing panties.
Mile 2.3: In perhaps the best, most validating part of the entire race, get passed by a 300-lb. wheezing Grandma. And her 10-year-old granddaughter.
Mile 2.5: Water break. Ferret.
Mile 2.8: Shuffle past a crazy looking spectator on the sidelines who’s clanging a cowbell and screaming. She looks right into my face and blares, “SMILE!” My weakened state is the only reason I don’t cold-cock her with a bike pump.
Mile 3.0: Finally seeing the glimmering finish line, I gasp and zig zag toward it like a junkie running into his favorite crack house. I notice my team standing on the sidelines, all but recovered from the race they finished an hour ago. They scream my name, then one of them trots over and says, “Let’s run!” I’m too tired to protest.
Mile 3.1: As I slowly jog to the very end, I pass my husband and two boys who are there cheering for me. I’m so happy that they see me cross the finish line and get my triathlon medal, it doesn’t even matter when I come in behind someone in a walking cast.
The next few minutes are spent in the medical tent where they load me up with Gatorade and ice packs, then finally, mercifully, I go home, take a shower and pass out on my bed until dinner time. It’d been one of the longest, most exhausting days of my life, but—I still made it through without uttering the word “motherf*$#er” even once.
And for that I’m very proud.
(And I’d like to thank everyone for the funny comments and words of encouragement last week. You’re all fantastic.)
my hero
[…] This post was mentioned on Twitter by Heather Gardner, Wendi Aarons. Wendi Aarons said: My triathlon: The Post-Mortem. http://tinyurl.com/28al92g […]
“…but I still made it through without uttering the word “motherf*(#er” even once.”
For that, you deserve a pony. No! Make it a unicorn!!
Wowza, lady. So freaking proud of you!! But where are the pics, hmmmm?!
And by the way, if I ever see that lady at mile marker 2.8 I will cold-cock her with my own bike pump, in your honor.
Holy cow you should be sooo incredibly proud of yourself! I’m so impressed! I thought, after reading the bike part, that you wouldn’t make it to the end – but you did it! Go you! I trained for a sprint tri last year, but pregnancy got in the way – so now my goal is to do one next May – wish me luck! And, finally – when are speaking at BlogHer – I want to make sure I attend your session!!
Nothing but total admiration and respect from this quarter. If I tried to do what you did, it would kill me. You are awesome! (And the restraint with the language is seriously impressive icing on the cake!)
Who schedules a triathlon on bloody JUNE is your part of the world? You should sue.
Dear Wendi,
I personally think you’re nuttier than a fruitcake for even thinking of attempting such insanity. But good on you for finishing what you started. And many, many thanks for blessing me with the visual of JC out on a smoke break. Made my day hon.
What, no vomiting? Not even dry heaving? Well, there’s always next year! Congrats!
Holy sh*t, I am so proud of you. Which I’m sure means a LOT coming from a total internet stranger.
Very inspiring! The only disappointing part was that I thought you were going to look back at your sneaker-prints once you crossed the finish line and wonder why there sandal-prints instead. And then Jesus would reappear and say, “My smoke-break was over! I’ve been carrying you since Mile 1! And man, next time maybe rethink that whole 10-week carb-loading thing.”
wait, that didn’t come out the way i meant it. i meant, passing out– oh, never mind. (once you hesitate when your wife asks, ‘honey, how do i look in these jeans?’ – you’re done. nothing can save you.)
woohoo! good job!
You should have killed that cowbell lady. No jury in the land would convict you.
Wow, Wendi! I’ve never even tried to bike 12 miles, so I can’t even comprehend how hard that would be. Especially with hills! I’m very glad that you finished and didn’t pass out or utter “mother&*$%^r” even once. You should share a picture of your medal!
I’m so very happy I stumbled upon your blog. You’re my hero, and I haven’t laughed this much since…well, since your last post!
I love your new tattoo. A little subtle though.
But seriously – at least you finished. I think that’s the most important thing. When you tell people you ran in any kind of race – how often do they ask you what your time was? And when they do – you can just lie.
I am proud of you – even if I did lose a ton of money on my bet about you saying “motherf*$#er”. Oh well. Congrats anyway.
You finished! I’m so proud of you. Difficult for sure. But you didn’t quit. And that takes a lot of courage motherf*$#er.
You finished. ‘Nuff said. You’re my hero!
Man, sorry, couldn’t concentrate on the post…your bod is so bitchin’ in that photo.
You should be so proud of yourself for finishing. It doesn’t matter if you crawled across the line, what matters is you made it across. Having said that, maybe it would have been a more enjoyable crawl if there had been some male butts to get you through. Just saying. 😉
That is a picture of you with the tattoo, right? Awesome.
Congratulations on the impressive achievement. I would never have made it through that, to say nothing of controlling my swearing. Way to go!
Hilarious and YOU ROCK!!! Congrats!
Now, you deserve a week in a drunken haze of bad tequila, Brad Pitt look-a-likes, and strange motel rooms.
As my Wii Sports Active Trainer would say, “You, my friend, are poetry in motion!”
There are some things in life I will never understand – giving birth without an epidural, voting democrat, and participating in triathlons. Like the sympathetic dental hygenist told me after I dislodged a permanent inlay on my right molar ‘That’s what you get for flossing.’ I am certain you were awesome – and wise enough not to do the swim part, that should count for something. Thanks for sharing the misery!
That was hilarious. And has convinced me to never participate in a triathlon. At least with a discount sports bra. That’s just wrong.
A screamingly hi-sterical biathlete, you rock!!
I wouldn’t have ever made it over the finish line without passing out. I’m lucky if I’m not tired after feeding 4 dogs, 5 cats, a calf, and chasing after 5 puppies…that’s a race in itself!
I’d have mooned the smile lady…”here, smile THIS, mutha!”
Um, just one question. Which swears did you actually utter? I’d be proud as a peacock that you didn’t use motherf*$#er if I weren’t so incredibly sure you used words that need asterisks and $h*t to clean ’em up before you posted ’em.
Way to go on not dying! That I am impressed with especially with the smoke break going on while you shuffled along in a haze.
Oh $h*t! I just realized what a motherf$#*er I was with my comment on your first post. I taunted your @ss and everything.
I owe you an ice cream cone. Two scoops at least or maybe a banana split.
Impressive finish. Way to not suck! My spin class is meeting at the pub for lunch today ( I’m not making this up). I will lift a pint of cleansing ale in your honour.
Did you ever know that I’m your hero?
Wait, um…
This is hilarious, and terrible.
Congrats on finishing! I mean “finishing”
I bet the person in the cast used one of those motor carts part of the way and that’s why you came in behind them.
I’m proud of you too!
Congratulations on finishing–one more thing for your “I’ll never do THAT again” list. By the way, I think you should read this: http://hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com/ I think she might be some kind of spiritual sister or something.
Murderous rage when you are doing these events is just another word for motivation in my book. Had you hit her with the bike pump, the adrenaline would have definitely shaved some time so next time, I suggest you give it a go. You don’t have to maim her. Just a love tap because bruises heal. Anyway, finishing is a win and there’s no such thing as a bad win (at least I don’t think there is) so good for you.
YAY SWEETIE!!!!!!!!!!! I am so proud of you. Last Sunday was my first half marathon ever and I was so happy that it was 80 degrees and humid and that the entire race was uphill. Both ways. I think I summited Everest at one point. I was delusional somewhere in the neighborhood of 10 miles. The only difference was 6 of the miles were on a dirt trail in the woods where I was being eaten by mosquitoes and my Road ID wristband only held two emergency numbers, both of which were my husband’s. He was running the race 10 minutes ahead of me. If I was going down, I was apparently staying down. That’s the only thing that kept me going, that I was going to be eaten by vultures if I collapsed. In any event,I finished it in just under 2 1/2 hours. And guess what lunacy transpired thereafter? I decided to run the Boston Marathon in the spring. Proves I need a rubber room. 🙂
I think you should celebrate your m%th*rf#ck+ng success with a big vat of MindWiper Punch.
you’re a beast, ms. wendi.
that is all. 🙂
I feel your pain Wendi.
You have true grit.
Way to go, Wendi! Drowned ferret and all, I’d still be proud of myself!
Wendy, your problem is that you’re attempting athletic endeavors outside. In Texas.
You get yourself back up to the mother land, say in November, and try it again. You’d be FLYING past those 70-year-olds and cast-wearin’ fools.
xoxo
And by “Wendy” i meant you. “Wendi”.
: )
“…Well, bless her heart, I guess.”
You are my hero, as usual.
I’m disappointed that you didn’t say motherf*$#er. That’s the only thing that could have made that day fun. And carry pepper spray next time to spray cowbell smiley women.
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