My friend Robyn, a former bike racer, chauffeured me to the race. She also carried my bike four flights up and down the stairs, pumped my tires with an old K-Mart stand-up pump that barely functions, cleaned and greased my bike chain, assured me I was identifiably female in my wetsuit and took pictures of the hottest and hairiest guys (usually not one in the same) in the transition area. She also was quick to point out that there was an enormous factory on the opposite shore where the swim was to take place. Huh.

This was the first race I decided to do with a wetsuit. A wetsuit feels and looks very much like a layer of blubber. Dark, rubbery, moldable blubber that needs to be tugged and coaxed onto your body. When using a wetsuit in a race, you not only have to worry about how long it's going to take you to get it off, you also have to strategically decide when to put it on. And on an 85-degree humid morning, that would be the last possible minute. Once I got the transition area set up--hook bike to designated rack according to race number, lay out towel, arrange shoes, bike helmet, sneakers and sunglasses on towel--I put the wetsuit on halfway. This is a cool look for triathletes about to race. It would not be a cool look anywhere else except for maybe a surf beach or an aquarium. You have to take your moments.

We walked to the beach where all the bright yellow-capped triathletes clustered. Swimmers were going off in eight waves of about 50 people. I was in the fifth wave. We watched the first wave go--the elite racers, the guys who would be finished and halfway home by the time I crossed the finish line, and then three more waves of swimmers after that. My turn. I gathered in the corral with other fifth wave swimmers and then we were let onto the beach to stand in the water and wait for the go.

For the first time I understood that I'd be swimming with men and women, but mostly men. All of my other open water swims had been in groups of women. Polite, small-framed, non-obtrusive women. The water's warm. Why do I have a fatsuit on again? Whoops and claps to shake off the nervousness. Countdown from ten, and we're off.

There are guys swimming next to me, over me, on top of my legs. We're all thrashing and trying to make our way to open space. Nobody seems to be swimming in a straight line. More diagonals that run counter to one another. I try to relax and do my regular three-stroke breathing. This is easier than in other races where I'm too panicked and feel the need to lift my head with each arm stroke. But I'm also getting bumped every time I hit my groove. I site the buoy, which is far away. God, swimming is slow work.

I keep going and soon enough, I'm making my way around a big, yellow inflatable buoy. One more buoy to round and then it's a straight line for the shore. I'm not swimming my usual zigzags. I feel good. I take my time and when I near the next buoy, I site it, put my head down, stroke and when I site it again, my forehead is almost touching it. Whoopsie.

The swim is confusing. There are kayakers telling you where to go and where not to go. I stop a lot and assess the situation. I'm very concerned about swimming in a straight line. My arms are getting tired because of all the water in the wetsuit. Damned wetsuit. The guy next to me seems to doing an awful lot of thrashing and splashing. I pass a guy doing backstroke. I keep on going. I go through waves of warm water and I know I must be close to the shore. I site it and the shore's there, but it looks so far away. Just keep going.

Pretty soon I'm running up the beach and I hear Robyn. She says I look great, in a surprised sort of way that makes me know she means it. My wetsuit is heavy. I remember that I did not sleep more than an hour the night before, and very little the night before that. I feel like it. I tell myself to run, which gets me to at least jog to the transition area.

1/2 Mile Swim: 16m 10s
(Winner: 11m 00s)

The wetsuit comes off easily, but gets stuck on my right ankle.

I put on my bike shoes, helmet, glasses. I'm off.

First Transition: 2m 05s
(Winner: 1m 03s)

When you finish the swim in a race, you feel like you're almost done. It's the easiest and hardest part, the biggest unknown. It feels great to be on the bike. I can stop thinking and pedal, watch my bike clock, pick off people to pass. I get behind guys who look like strong cyclists and try to stay with them. I make myself drink the entire bottle of Gatorade. It's an easy course. The hills are mellow. There's only one spot in the ride where it gets crowded and there's a woman in a thick Long Island accent yelling, "Oh my gawd!" at the traffic. She just can't believe how tight it is. She's one of the faster cyclists. And we all find a way to pass with polite and required, "on your lefts" and "on your rights" and then we're flying again. It's not the last time I'm going to be in Long Island traffic that day.

12-Mile Bike: 37m 24s
(Winner: 32m 49s)

Back to the transition area and now I've got to do the run. I have no idea how much I've got left, but it's hot and the run is a boring course along the Long Island sound, through a parking lot, down a narrow sidewalk, all of it with full exposure to the sun. And then you have to do it again.

Second Transition: 1m 07s
(Winner: 47s)

I take it very slow. Everyone is passing me except a man doing the race with his 13-year old daughter. We're moving like snails and chatting about how we wish it were the second loop though it feels like the fifth. He doesn't seem to be struggling. Then again, I'm not either. My legs are moving. My breathing is easy. It's just that my body's tired.

Everyone passing me is wheezing. They all have energy and drive, and I don't have either. I keep on trucking. I get to the first water station. Asides from getting your race number markered on your calf and bicep, this is my favorite part. I love grabbing the cup, pouring it over my head then littering it on the sidewalk for someone else to pick up. It's about the only time I litter without guilt. I grab the cup and take a sip. This is about the worst water I've ever tasted. It tastes like diet pool water. I pour the rest over my head and when I go to chuck it aside, I'm right next to the garbage can and I throw it in. Not fun.

On the second loop, I suddenly need to use the bathroom, and not in a good way. This is bad. I might not be able to keep on trucking now. The second time I get to the water station, I stop and drink the cup of foul liquid. I need a break. I need my colon to calm down. I keep on going. Almost to the finish, my colon stops cooperating and I have to pause again. I really want this to be over.

The man with his 13-year old passes me and coaxes me along, invites me to follow. "C'mon, we'll take you to the end." I can't refuse. I speed up and tail along with them. It's almost over. He promises me it's almost over. Which is good, because they've picked up their pace and I can barely keep up.

We round a corner. It's a straight line to the finish and there are crowds on both sides of the roads cheering. But the finish line is so much further away than I thought. I've sped up too soon. I feel like I've got that wetsuit on again, a layer of wet blubber on my limbs. I don't know how I'm ever going to finish a longer triathlon. I should just quit. I am beyond desperate for a bathroom. I stop. I don't have the fighting drive. So what if I walk across the finish line? I remember Robyn telling me, "no matter what, no matter how you feel, sprint to the end of the finish." Sprint? I've got just as much a chance of sprinting as I have of doing 10 one-armed pushups right now.

But the crowd doesn't want me to stop. They urge me on. I want to curse at them, or tell them, it's okay, I'm just going to walk. They've already seen what a terrible runner I am. I've got nothing else to hide. But after all, I do want to be moving over the finish line. I get myself going. I tell my colon to wait another 20 seconds. I jog over the finish line, double over for a minute before I find a surge of energy to sprint for the bathroom. It's all over.

3-mile Run: 27m 14s
(Winner: 21m 13s)

After the race, I feel great. Better than great. I've got a triathlete's high. I'm not thrilled with my performance, but it's really the running that's holding me back. I'll work on that. I'm already ready to do another race. We go to Whole Foods and buy some fruit, soy milk. I walk around in my tri-suit, which is basically short-shorts and a tight spandex top. I think I'm looking pretty good until I see pictures of myself in this suit later and realize I look nothing like the women in spandex who are made of muscle and have great bodies. This is another thing that can only be worn at races and never anywhere else. And maybe not even races.

We head off the island. It's one road of traffic after another, hours before we're home.

Overall Time:
1h 23m 58s, 8th out of 45 in my age group
(Wining time: 1h 06m 51s)