Why is this so important? Because is New England, no less.
This is my second year in the triathlon world, and to be quite honest, my first racing. Last year while I completed 5 sprint triathlons and 1 olympic -or "Oly", as the insiders call it- I was merely participating in them. This year, after months and months of hard, horrible training; after more 5 am wake up calls than I care to count and more hot Epson Salt baths at night than is probably healthy, I finally raced my first triathlon.
Day starts at 4:30 am, time to gather all bags that have been pre-packed the night before and the water bottles with pre-race, race and post-race drinks.
As I drive to Hopkinton I can't help but remember where my mind was last year and how much I've changed. As I start to recognize the roads, I begin to feel giggly and nervous. I'm about to do this. Again.
In the parking lot I instantly recognize bright blue and orange BPC jackets. My two coaches, Vic Brown and Kelly Cassidy are already there. We hug and scream like we haven't seen each other in years and start our walk to transition area. I pick up my numbers without and I.D. promising the volunteer that Natalia is me, I swear! Then the religious body marking ceremony begins. Kelly and I strip out of jackets and pants and beg the girls to do so quickly. Is 43 degrees out here, with winds that promise not to cooperate.
Walk to transition to lay out bike, shoes, helmet, more shoes, body glide... looking around for familiar faces. Many friends to hug, to wish good luck, to complain about how horribly cold it is. Looking around to see who may recognize my uniform, new and shiny, and to how many I will clearly be wearing the wrong colors. Coach Kelly: wear it with pride girl! With pride! And I sure do.
Time to warm up as indicated by coach Ali the previous night, cause there's no rest for the wicked. Coach Kelly and I head out to do a quick bike, a quick run and ignore the order to warm up in the water. We can't feel our feet or hands. Is 43 but feels like 30. Gladly we squeeze in our wetsuits, secretly praying they'll zip up. Time to walk down to the beach.
The sand is frozen and the wind only seems to pick up. The buoys are floating away and no one appears to do anything to stop them. We make our way into the water: the sooner the better. Let's get over this and if we are to die frozen, it better be now. It's 62 degrees. Yes, the water is warmer than the air. Can we exchange the run for an aqua-jog?
The wind is only picking up and this reminds me too much of last year, me, crying in this same beach, telling Coach Vic how I really think I won't survive, and I really think I won't do this.
I spot Vic and quickly walk my way to him to ask for advice, this year without crying tho. Just as last year, he assures me I will be fine, just don't aim to the buoy. Aim to this and that point and the wind will do rest. And breathe only on your right side. Ok, is all A. o.k. Coach Vic tells me I'll survive, then I'll survive.
20 seconds. 10. There they go. Elite and 20 to 34 y/o men start to swim. Elite women, 20 to 34 y/o and me, watch in disbelieve how off course they are and how it seems like they're not moving at all. Now one, two, three take their caps off and wave them to call for help. Guys, this is not exactly what I would call encouraging...
20, 10... Here we go. It's go time.
The wind is way worse that it looked from outside. It doesn't matter right or left breathing, the water slaps you in the face, and the other 100 women swimming slap you everywhere else.
I swallow water one too many times and I start panicking. Am I gonna have to call this off? I spot coach Kelly just next to me. She seems alive to me, then I must be alive too. I try to remember everything coaches Vic and Ali have told me: hands like paddles, push your torso down, spot slightly every 3 strokes... swim like a gorilla Natalia! I dolphin kick my way around one buoy as the first woman goes down, up in the boat. I put my head down and repeat my mantra: Swimming like a gorilla, swimming like a gorilla... Beach at last! I run to transition, dizzy and disoriented, wishing I would've done more 200's/push ups/squats combos.
Wet suit off, bike shoes, helmet, jacket, sun glasses on. Big sip of my coach "legal crack" drink and off I go.
Fast legs, fast cadence, small circles, relaxed shoulders... I spot my first victim. Oh! Lady in tennis shoes, you will not be faster than me! On your left!
Is funny what a piece of clothing will do for you on race day. I feel the weight and responsibility of wearing the BPC uniform and think of what other people may think if I slow down: what kind of "performance coaching" is that? Com'on, there's no pain. "This is what training is for" Laura's voice comes to my mind... Dude with Lakers shorts, you are so, so not going to pass me.... On you're left!
Finally the dismount sign. Try to run thru transition but my feet are completely frozen. Helmet, bike shoes off. Running shoes on.
Here. We. Go. Fast legs, fast cadence coach Vic's voice repeats in my mind. Fight the wind with your arms, on your toes, coach Kelly's interrupts. Go Baby! coach Ali's yelling comes next. Mile 1 down. Zip of water. Mile 2. Big hill... oh lord. I decided to sprint it out and get over it as fast as I can and my plan works. Now comes the bridge that with the 50 miles p/h wind seems like the bridge to nowhere. Down the bridge and I hear the music coming from the finish line. I spot my final target: lady with the baggy grey cotton t-shirt, I'm sorry. I'm gonna have to pass you. I gather all the voices in my head. My coaches and peers all talk to me and I somehow dig deep and find one last sprint.
Finish line at last! Time to hug everyone, to dance to the up beat music, to tell the tales of how horrible it was. To high five everyone for yet another great time.
Last year I survived. I finished. This year I was out to beat me, and I did. By ten minutes or so. This year I was out to race and to make my uniform proud. And in my own terms, I did.
Until next year Season Opener. I'll see you and your crappy weather once again.
