St. Anthony's Triathlon

Deborah: When Pat asked me to participate in a “Team” triathlon many years ago, I turned her down initially. I really wasn’t interested, even though I would only have to complete one leg on the three-person team. Each year she’d ask again and, I’d politely turn her down. Actually, the only reason I eventually said “yes” was because the race is in downtown St Petersburg. I love downtown St. Pete. It’s one of the best-kept secrets in this country. I realized that jogging or biking its streets would only add perspective and appreciation for its beauty; I finally accepted her invitation.

 

Swimming was out of the question. I could swim, but I didn’t enjoy it and didn’t do it very well. This was not an issue, however, because Pat swam that portion of the triathlon relay each year. I chose to jog and we recruited my son to do the bike. Our “team” was set. Training for the race consisted of jogging 2 miles 3 times each week for about 3 months prior to the race.

 

Race day was exciting. The day BEFORE the race was even exciting – just to be part of 4,000 athletes from all over the country converging on our beautiful city filled me with anticipation. I did, however, sort of feel like a triathlon imposter since I was only doing one leg of the race. You see, the jog is last, and I’m starting fresh while most of the other athletes have already swam and biked. I hardly felt legitimate. Nevertheless, I felt pleased that I was connected to the event in some small way.

 

For the next several years, we participated as a relay team. Pat always swam and I either biked or jogged depending on who we could find to complete the team with us. However, each year Pat would say to me: “You know, we should really think about doing the whole race ONCE before we die.”

“Why would I want to do that?” I’d always say.

“For the experience of it,” Pat would say nonplussed.

“Are you crazy? I could care less about doing the whole thing.” Every year the post-race dialogue was the same…until 10 years ago. When Pat said we should do the whole race, I surprised her by saying, “Maybe you’re right.” After her double take, I said, “Well, maybe next year we could each do 2 legs of the race and get someone else to do the third leg. If we do okay, then the following year, we’ll try the whole thing.”

“But, you’ll have to do the swim,” Pat said skeptically.

“I know. I guess I can learn how to do it. I’ve learned harder things I suppose.”

“I’ll help you,” Pat assured me.

 

The first day that Pat took me into the Gulf of Mexico to swim started well enough, but ended about 30 yards later because I became dizzy and nauseated. “I can’t do it,” I told her and went home to bed hoping that I’d wake up the next day without feeling woozy.

 

We didn’t talk about it for several weeks, but then Pat, in her gentle way, said: “You didn’t have goggles on. Your hair was in your face. Try it with goggles and a cap. You’ll do better.” Off we went again…this time with supportive gear, but the same result. “I can’t do it,” I continued to protest.

Pat didn’t say anything at first. “I think once you get used to it, you’ll really enjoy it.” Maybe she wasn’t getting just how awful dizziness and nausea feels. Nevertheless, because she knows me so well, I didn’t completely dismiss what she was saying.

 

A few months later, I was in California at a hotel with a reasonably long swimming pool. “Maybe if I start out in a pool and just did a few laps and built up to it, I could avert the dizziness,” I thought. I managed ten laps. Thus, my swimming history changed course as I slowly increased laps, joining the YMCA so that I could practice each week. Gradually, I worked up to 100 laps.

 

Ocean swimming is a totally different matter though. On race day, I was the last one out of Tampa Bay, but I felt strong and was able to bike without difficulty, turning the timing piece over to my nephew for the jog. “I’m glad I don’t have to do the jog, but I think I could do it next year,” I told Pat. Pat thought she could too.

 

I had no desire to train any more than I already was: 45 minutes 3 times/week. If that didn’t get the job done, then there’d be no triathlon for me.

 

April 29, 2012 arrived. This year was different for two reasons, the first being the obvious fact that I was no longer a “Team Triathlete;” I was bona-fide. I had earned my place at the starting line. The starting time was the other difference. In the past, I would begin late in the morning so I’d never seen the start of the race. This year, I was in the wave of swimmers near the beginning, scheduled for entry at 6:48 AM. Little did I realize how breathtaking this would be. Standing on the west end of Tampa Bay, looking toward the east at 6:48 means that the sky is turning a brilliant crimson-magenta orange, eerily filling the air with the glory of anticipation that we were already feeling. Tears came to my eyes as I opened myself to the beauty…more tears with the prayer that was said for the athletes…more tears with the National Anthem. The race hadn’t even begun and if it would have ended right then, it would have been enough for me. But it didn’t stop there. As I was stepping into the water, I hear “Nana. Nana” and turn around to see my granddaughter and daughter cheering me on. “They’re never out of bed before 8AM on a Sunday,” I told Pat. I was pleased that they recognized how important this day was for me. I felt loved.

 

I finished the race in 4 hours and 1 minute. It was an unremarkable race except for four things:

• My cell phone fell out of my shirt when I was cycling, splatting all over Central Ave. I had to stop and gather all the pieces (and remarkably after the race was over, the pieces went back together!)
• My friend posted herself at the 1 and 5 mile markers of the running course with iced towels to assure my comfort. She was a sight for sore eyes and sweaty skin!
• Throughout the race, I kept marveling to myself, “I can’t believe I’m doing this at my age. I CAN’T BELIEVE I’M DOING THIS AT MY AGE. Thank you God, thank you GOD, THANK YOU GOD!” I felt incredibly high.
• I felt deeply grateful for Pat’s love and faith in me. It was her gentle, persistent encouragement that was allowing me the gift of this day – one of the best days of my life.

 

When I crossed the finish line, my granddaughter, Macy, was there to greet me. “You’re my hero Nana,” she said wooed by the blue and gold participation medal hanging around my neck. I explained to her that I had come in last, but indeed, I WAS a hero. “I’m a hero because two years ago, I decided to start taking care of myself. I’m most proud of THAT decision,” I told her. You see, I had made a commitment to live from a place of deep integrity, requiring me to let go of facades and hypocrisies. The truth was, while I was busy nursing others into health, I often neglected my own well-being. If I was going to live an authentic life, I was going to have to start practicing what I was preaching. Crossing that finish line did not represent a fit body as much as it represented the fulfillment of a desire to live from a place of deep integrity. To do that, I had to abide and reckon with my hypocrisies. It was hard work, but it was work that was bringing me peace.

 

The next year was a bit different. Unlike the previous year, I knew I would cross the finish line, but I wondered if I would marvel at the glory of God since some of the anticipation and surprise would be worn off. To my delight, it was no different. Standing on the shore of Tampa Bay, I listen to the prayer and National Anthem, and I feel overwhelmed with awe. This year something new is added: “We stand here today in solidarity with our fellow athletes in Boston,” the announcer says, honoring the athletes and spectators who had been killed just a few days before during the Boston marathon. Then, the eerie vibrato of the bagpipes begins to play Amazing Grace. More people than just me had eyes with tears in them. Ironically, I would be flying out the next day to Boston to speak at their state Hospice and Palliative Care conference. I was with them in more ways than one as I stood on that beach feeling the vibration of song, instrument, and their broken hearts.

 

I made it through the swim and the bike. The jog proved a little harder because my calves were tight for the first mile. By the second mile, however, my calves loosened up and I was flying high again — slow, but high. Regulating my breath and anticipating my oxygen needs is the secret and I’m able to do it fairly effectively. I’m feeling so good that I feel a bit guilty. I know that Pat struggles with the jog for multiple reasons. I allow myself to feel her struggle: “I’m with you Pat,” I silently shout to her in my mind. And so I pray…

____________________________

 

Pat: “A  triathlon was on my bucket list. But this year, I was questioning if I could it at age 65. I also wondered if my aging bowels would cooperate. You see, I suffer from diarrhea when jogging. Known as “runner’s trots,” it commonly affects long-distance runners. However, it affects me at ANY distance. How would I survive? For two years, I experimented with nutrition and GI strategies. Nothing seemed to help. At last, I realized that the only solution was for me to accept the fact that if I were going to run this race, then I’d have to succumb to the indignity of diapers. Yes, diapers. After I got over the initial repugnance that I harbored, Depends became my new friend. I’m grateful for my new friend; repugnance is no longer needed or unwelcomed.

 

One thing that surprised me this year, was how uncomfortable I would be leaving my husband home alone. Last year he had been able to drive to the run route for a meaningful high five. This year he was following the race on his computer. I was starting to realize the many difficulties of becoming a caregiver.

 

Sitting on the beach with Deborah waiting for the race to begin, I was overwhelmed with a wave of “what was I thinking? What am I doing here?” In spite of adhering to three days of “brat” diet and three Imodium in the past 12 hours, I had already made deposits at two porta potties. We were to be in one of the later waves entering the water, so we had plenty of time. I shared my misgivings with Deborah and she graciously agreed to a 20 minute meditation sitting in the sand as the sun rose. Thank you God. Now, I was ready to go  (swim that is).

 

The swim route was reduced to half a mile due to rough water. The swim is my best event… bummer. Finally, we were off with the shot of a gun. For the next four hours, my mantra alternated. First: “Just keep swimming” in the murky waters of Tampa Bay. This later morphed into “just keep pedaling” for 25 miles as all the other cyclists rode by calling out “On your left” as they passed me by. I enjoyed seeing neighborhoods I’d never visited before; somehow, they look different on a bicycle than in a car. Finally, it was time for the bowel busting 6.2 miles of “just keep running”. It was actually more “just keep walking” and sighing with relief as I was able to pass all of the porta potties along my route! In some ways, this was the real win of the race.

 

Going into the water in a late wave, you are on the race course long after everyone else has finished. It feels lonely out there since not only the racers, but most of the spectators have also left. As I came to the one-mile marker, a dear friend had the corner all to herself. What an amazing gift when she greeted me with cheers and an iced towel. Maybe I would live afterall.

 

During the first mile, several friends joined me including some who had already finished the race. I was able to absorb their energy to keep going. In the final turn, I agreed to run again. The screaming and cheering of my friends along the fence allowed me to cross the finish line running and smiling.

 

I crossed the finish line, getting eighth place in my age group (eight out of eight ain’t bad!) I finished the race because of the grace of God. Deborah told me, “You’re my Hero!” I thought she meant that she was proud of me because I finished the race, but she clarified her reasoning: “I’m proud of you for finishing the race. But, I’m more proud of you for BEGINNING the race with diapers on. That took humility and courage. Humility and courage that most of us don’t have.”