But then there’s the headache of races in general. Like the stress and time it took to ship and receive my bike, which has made me question if any of this is worth it. And then, as usual, I can’t sleep the night before, and the anxiety builds to a point where my stomach is a mess, my nerves frayed and my mood frantic.

This is how I get out of bed on the morning of SOMA. I drink a cup of coffee and only feel worse. I back my sister’s red Corvette out of the garage at five thirty in the morning, all the time thinking I’m going to scrape it or crash it into something, make my way through the dark onto strange highways, reading my scribbled directions by the light of streetlamps because I can’t find the overhead light in my sister’s car, and I can’t stop thinking about how anxious I feel. If I was the slightest bit more anxious, I might not be able to breathe. I don’t know why I feel this way, but I can’t calm down.

I make it to the race, wind my way to the top of the parking deck and manage to back the beast of the red Corvette into one of the last parking spots left without hitting the truck parked next to me. I’m later than I want to be. I follow a trail of athletes to the transition area, where my bike is racked and waiting for me. The horizon’s edged with red, there’s a buzz of anticipation both from the people moving toward the race start and in my head. It’s more than anticipation. It’s fear. It’s the same thing I felt in the car. I’ve no idea what I’m afraid of, but it’s tangible, directionless, irrational and as much as I try to ignore it, it’s pitted in every inch of my body. What I want to do is sprint until my body gives way, the only way I think I can shake this feeling, then go home. Instead, I set up.

I arrange everything neatly below my bike. Swim cap and goggles will go with me for the start. Bike shoes, un-velcroed with a sock in each one. Helmet and sunglasses on top of the bike. Running shoes untied, visor. A few extra bottles of Gatorade. A bottle of Gatorade in each cage on my bike. I should be ready. I walk out to the swim start, push myself into the cluster of other white caps, the hundred or so Quarterman women in my heat. I realize I’m still wearing my flip-flops, and I run back to drop them off.

While they’re playing the national anthem and a minute away from the men’s swim start, I’m in the bathroom for the fifth time that morning. This isn’t looking good.

This is the first swim start that’s in the water. This means I have to jump off the dock and swim about 100 yards to the area where the swim begins. The water’s about 68 degrees and I’m one of three or so women who have opted not to wear a wetsuit. This fact is actually not bothering me. It used to bother me, until I raced with a wetsuit and realized how little it helps. Or perhaps my anxiety has peaked, it’s full of other irrational fears and I can’t add one more.

I hop in the water. It’s cold at first, but not terrible. I make my way over to the start area. I make idle, stupid conversation and am ignored by the women doggy-paddling around me. A loud horn sounds. Everyone starts kicking, paddling their arms and bumping into one another. The race has begun.

Because I am pretty fast in the pool, but notoriously a terrible open-water swimmer who can’t swim a straight line or avoid getting tangled in buoy lines, my coach has advised me to find another swimmer and draft. I think this is an excellent idea. I’m also hoping it will calm my nerves. And I try to do this for about ten seconds, but it doesn’t seem to work. My instinct is to get away from someone else’s feet, find a clearing. Plus, I take a minute to get my bearings, take one look at the shoreline and realize I absolutely do not want to be swimming. I do some sort of breaststroke. I cannot put my head in the water. It’s not that I can’t, I don’t want to. Some strong force has taken over my mind and is quickly reasoning and deciding that I’m not going to do this swim and not going to finish this race.

I attempt a freestyle stroke and it’s an absolute mess. I’m panting for air. I wonder if I’m having a panic attack right here and now. I don’t feel like I’m going to drown. I don’t feel like I’m not strong enough, not trained enough to do this swim and finish this race. I simply don’t want to. Here I am. Flubbing it. This is a short swim. Six-tenths of a mile. Nothing, should be a cakewalk. I should be out of the water in fifteen minutes tops. Yet I’m flubbing another open water swim.

I push myself on. I somehow force myself out of a breaststroke and into a freestyle. I breathe as much as I want to, keep my head up in a very inefficient position, which I know is making this swim ten times harder and slower, but it’s the only thing my mind will allow my body to do. Just finish the swim, I tell myself. Just keep swimming. And that’s what I do. Just keep swimming. Not gracefully. Not fluidly. Not fast. But as I swim, my mind lets go and allows my body to move, allows my breath to come more steadily. I round one buoy, and I calm down. I’m still breathing every stroke, but my head’s lower, I can feel the water moving over me, not against me. I try to enjoy it. This is the nicest part of the race, I tell myself. You love to swim, I tell myself. But I can’t forget that I’ve already flubbed it.

I round another buoy, getting close to the shore. I know I’m going to finish this race now. The anxiety and panic have been sloughed off. And there’s only a residue of disappointment and defeat in their place, at how incompetent I am at the swim. Eight-minute penalty for panic attack.

I make it back to the dock and two guys help me out of the water. I’m happy to get out of the water. I don’t feel tired. I try to shake off the swim and hop on the bike. The race becomes somewhat uneventful from this point forward. I feel strong. I can push the pedals and hold the recommended power without any trouble. Higher even. I force down some Gatorade, even though I’d rather throw up. After fifteen minutes, my thighs stop complaining, the burning resides and I feel even stronger.

The course if relatively flat and I’m speeding along, my mood lifted. I’m having fun. I’m not dreading the 6.5 mile run ahead. I’m going to take that one water station at a time, and now that I’m done with the swim, I’m confident I’m going to finish.

I make two mistakes on the bike. I forgot to remove the seal from one of the Gatorade bottles in my cage and I have to stop to take it off. Then near the end, with my clock at 27.5 miles (the race is supposed to be 28 miles total), and the finish line not in sight, I’m convinced I’ve made a wrong turn. I slow down and ask a few people if I’m on the Quarterman course (there’s also a Half-Ironman course and a lot of turns), and they think so but are not certain. At 28.5 miles, I pull over to the shoulder and ask a race volunteer. She doesn’t know, points me to another volunteer on the other side of the bike course. This stop takes at least a few minutes, and I was only one turn away from the bike finish. Four-minute penalty for stupidity.

I start the run in great spirits, which means I’m well fueled. I take it easy, and as my coach advised, think about unrolling into it. I am able to unroll until about the third mile and then my legs start cramping. At every water station, I take a few seconds, dump water on my head, gulp some Gatorade and keep moving. The run is around Tempe Town Lake, a dry, flat course. It is a blessedly cloudy day and the sun is hidden, the temperature mild. Everything is in my favor. I make a friend on the run, a big guy who’s going my pace and I make some jokes to him, though he doesn’t make them back. Either he doesn’t appreciate my humor, or he’s about to collapse. I’m glad I feel good enough to make some jokes. And I’m noticing the runners in Phoenix don’t seem to be the speed demons you find in the city. There are runners even slower than me, big guys, too. I keep thinking of the finish line.

At mile five, I pass a girl who says, “Don’t think, just run,” and this becomes my mantra for the last mile-and-a-half. It’s the best advice I’ve ever gotten. It’s exactly what I need to do. I just have to keep my legs moving, think less, keep going. On the last turn, when I really want to walk, a woman cheers me into the chute. “You’re almost there!” she says with such enthusiasm that I dig up a sprint, or what feels to me like a sprint, and I give it all I’ve got. My sister and nephew are by the finish line and they hold out their hands, which I slap then take five more steps and I’m done. Born in the USA is blaring over the speakers.

I’m done. I feel okay. My jaw feels stiff, like I’ve been chewing the same piece of gum for the last few hours. I grab a half a peanut butter sandwich, a bottle of water and we make our way out of there. My sister thinks I finished about 40th of all the women. I’m not so sure. I think I did alright, I should have done much better on the swim, could have shaved a few minutes off the bike. I’m happy with the run because I didn’t have to stop. I develop an odd cough. I float through the rest of the day, eating as much as possible and ready to sleep every time I sit down. I wish I was faster, stronger. For all my training, it doensn't feel like I'm physically or mentally cut out for this. I tell myself most people couldn’t finish this kind of race, but I should be able to do a half-Ironman by now; I should be able to put my head down in the lake; I should be running a 9-minute mile and have a flat, cut stomach; I should be far improved on my times, but I’m still running the same speed race as the very first race I ever did.

"Why do you do these races?" my brother-in-law asked. And I didn’t have an immediate answer. I like to say I’ve done them. I like to say I’ve finished a few Olympic-distance triathlons. I like to feel like I’m in good shape. I like to talk about triathlons. But that can’t be all. It may be what I hate most about them—getting up alone and driving in the dark to a race, jumping into a lake with a mile to swim, pedaling a bike so there’s enough left for the run, and not knowing how it’s all going to turn out. It’s a test. I may not like how I do in them, how I react when I push myself when the reaction is panic and fear, but now I know. And I keep on learning.

RESULTS
Overall time: 03:06:44
Age group finish: 4th out of 24 (W30-34)
Overall finish: 188th

SWIM
Age group finish: 12th
Overall finish: 212
Time: 22:49
Time/100: 2:25 (in the pool, 1:35)

TRANSITION 1: 2:02

BIKE
Age group finish: 2nd
Overall finish: 189
Time: 1:33:44
Speed: 17.9

TRANSITION 2: 2:04

RUN
Age group finish: 9th
Overall finish: 231
Time: 1:06:08
Per mile: 10:06