When the alarm goes off, the view out the window is the same as when I went to bed, dark silhouettes of trees and barely enough contrast to make out the sky or the building across the street, except there aren’t lights on in any of the windows anymore, and instead of the hush of passing cars and muffled snap of closing car doors, it’s just quiet. I’m not sure I slept. It was a conscious sleep, at best, and though I’m not nearly as nervous as the last race, I still have to rent a car and make it to Brooklyn in time to register. And there’s always the chance I’ll forget to pack something essential and irreplaceable, like my bike shoes or helmet, though they’ve both been in the bag on the kitchen counter since last night, packed and ready to go. For all these reasons--the darkness at waking, the nervous sleep, all the things I can forget to pack--I say I don’t like racing. I don’t.
I’ve got my bike in the rented Jetta by six. By the time I’m heading south on the FDR, the sun's up and the buildings and industry across the river have never looked more beautiful or given me such a lift, crisp against a blue sky. Not a week ago, on the same drive, I was taking long glances at a warehouse fire across the same river, no flames, but great shrouds of smoke pumping and spreading. Now the same view is still and solid. And I’m feeling awake and in love with all of it. The sunrise, the industrial landscape, and the Jetta. (My first car was a Volkswagen. I’m a sucker for rack and pinion.) I'm happy to be able to see the city in this light. It may never happen again.
The race is the Brooklyn Biathlon in Prospect Park. It has just returned from an 8-year hiatus. It's small. They ask us to be polite to the people with baby strollers and watch out for cars. It's a two-mile run, a 10-mile bike and then a two-mile run. Registrations consists of one folding table, two boxes with registration packets and three volunteers.
I’m among the early arrivers. This would make some people relax. It makes me uptight. It’s like being early for an exam. It’s a big, fat chance to reflect on how unprepared you are. And while you’re doubting yourself, you get to experience everyone else’s panic--conversations of certain failure, the unparalleled difficulty of this teacher’s exams, and worse of all, the last minute cramming of irrelevant bits of information, any bit of which you happen to overhear and not know threatens to send you into a fit of panic with the rest of them.
But I don’t panic. I set my bike on the rack and lay out my bike shoes and helmet. I take a walk around the lake where I find the blade of a steak knife and a lot of goose shit. I avoid conversation with other athletes. I call my father, the only person who would be awake this early on a Sunday morning. Sure enough, he’s awake.
Being on the phone with my father works like a charm. Five minutes into the conversation and I’m anxious to do anything but be on the phone with him. When I manage to get off, most of the racers have arrived. Some of them have gone off on warm-up rides and runs. I quickly classify these people as insane. This race is short by biathlon standards. By any standards. (I’m not complaining.) Does it really warrant a warm-up? Then again, I’m of the minimum work philosophy. I don’t like to take a step more than I need to. And I won’t.
The other people I classify as insane are the gearheads. These are the people who arrive in one-piece colorful spandex suits with muscles that have sprouted muscles that have sprouted muscles. There’s a group of them in the parking lot running sprints and the coach is yelling, “yes!” and “looking good!” and “high kick!” I have a feeling this is the last time I will see these people until the end of the race.
There’s a small group with Team in Training shirts, otherwise known as TIT. I like these people because they guarantee I won’t finish dead last.
And then there’s some normal looking people, a good number of beach cruisers among the tricked out Cervelos (tri-bikes), and a young girl with her parents who looks like she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing. Having found enough people to make my own flame burn brighter, I feel like I’m ready.
And then we push on to the starting gate, and somehow I’ve gotten myself in the middle, front of the crowd. I’m surrounded by the muscled elite in spandex. I wonder if I’m going to be trampled. I’m not a runner, I remind myself. I never was. I’m not now. And every single person around me looks like they can run a six-minute mile around me. I think about edging out, but there’s no room and I’m more afraid of talking at this point than anything. The woman to my right starts talking about how much pain her back is in. She wonders how she’ll bend over to put on her bike shoes. There’s a countdown and we’re off.
I don’t get trampled but I’m quickly passed by a lot of people. Even the woman who can’t bend, and quite possibly the young, clueless girl who arrived with her parents. She’s got a wide, soft ass, as do a lot of the women who are able to fly past me. I’m afraid to look back and see that I’m the last one in the line of runners. I try to slow myself down, trainer’s instructions. Rather than listen to my own breathing, I listen to everyone else’s as they pass me, and they don’t sound good. Huffing and puffing, really, and raspy in the lungs. I worry about them. I continue to get passed for a good mile and 1/2. What the hell. It's just for fun, right?
When I finish the run, there are a handful of bikes on the racks, mostly the beach cruisers. Still, I'm not the last to arrive. I get my shoes velcroed, pull my bike off the rack and run as best I can with bike shoes through the timing gate. It beeps. I click in and ride while people yell at me to go slow. Not a problem, I think. Especially uphill.
Ten miles is three loops around Prospect Park. Every bike I pass, I look for a race number on the top tube, and if one is there, I give myself a little hand clap. Not literally.
The race picks up. I’m back on the run before I know it. I’m not sure how much I’ve got left in me, but as I start to run, it feels like plenty. I’m moving and I’m not wheezing. I’m keeping up with some pretty big guys, maybe because they’re spent. There’s not a single Team in Training jersey or soft ass in site. Things are looking up.
The closer I get to the finish line, the faster I go. And then I realize it's not as close as I thought, but oh well, mine as well just keep going and get this over with.
I sprint out the last 50 meters with one of the normal, non-spandexed guys. The clock reads 1hr 13 minutes. I’ve come in seven minutes faster than I hoped. Feels good. And there’s not a lot of people around, so I guess I did alright. The normal guy thanks me for pushing him at the end. I thank him for pulling me along. This is the kind of dorky stuff I say at the end of a race, but I’m tired and elated enough to be dorky. I make my way over to the food table and get some water. The last thing I want is Gatorade. The last thing I want is a banana, but I make myself eat one anyway. What I really want to do is get the hell out of there. And I do.
Final time: 1:13:24
2nd out of 9 in my age group (soccer moms)
14th out of 64 women (including one w/broken back)
83rd out of 164 participants
