The Finish Line!

Well, it's done. Yesterday saw me swim, bike and run 32 miles along western Manhattan (and the Bronx . . . it was an equal opportunity triathlon), and I have survived to tell the story. Later this week I'll write more on the lessons learned and valuable insight revealed from swallowing a mouthful of the Hudson, but for now, on my day of rest, I'll hold you over with a few simple (though still profound) comments on my race to the finish.

1. You have to get up early to run a triathlon. Really early. Like 3:45am early if you live in Jersey. Lucky for me I had a husband who cared enough about me to fake alertness and drive down the Turnpike blasting the Zach Brown's "Chicken Fried." I can guarantee you we were the only people rolling through the Bronx jamming to country music.

2. Lots of other people do triathlons too . . . about 4,000 of them. But I have to say despite my training run-ins with poorly attired cycling snobs and Wallstreet types in Speedos obviously overcompensating for a lack of something else, these athletes were some of the nicest people I've ever met. Everybody was incredibly encouraging, eager to help out, and generally the opposite of every person I have run into at a New Jersey Dunkin' Donuts. There is quite a bit of camaraderie when we're all dressed like seals waiting in line for a port-a-potty.

3. Despite not having a fancy Italian bike or those pretentious clip on shoes, I beat the shit (sorry Mom) out of some of those chicks on the bike course . . . and all without changing gears . . .once. A few months ago, I decided to take a "naturalist" approach to cycling and committed to using only the power of my short muscular legs to carrying me up hills and through long flats. It was my way of giving the finger, or toe in this case, to all of those riders who were constantly clicking up the course. They may get to the top faster than me (some of the time), but my legs would look a hell of a lot better in short shorts.

4. The volunteers and crowds were some of the most enthusiastic and supportive people I have ever come across. They were also a bunch of liars. As I entered the final mile in Central Park, I heard shouts of "Only 1/2 mile left!" or "The finish is just around the corner!" Being appropriately concerned about the melodramatic moment of my impending finish, I began to sprint, (mistakenly) believing that I was just a few strides away from the end of this journey and conjured up every mental trigger for tears I could possibly muster; Jon's brain hemorrhage, the struggle of passing the Bars and moving so far away from my wonderful friends, and the incredible family members who had passed away from obesity and neglect of their own health. I began tearing up and sprinting through this mental montage through the finish. Then . . . there was another turn, or another "1/2 mile left!" And I lost it . . . no, not "lost it" as in I began sobbing though Central Park but "lost it" as in I was over it. I could only sustain my cinematic game face for so long before I just got pissy with all the onlookers and wanted to yell, "You said that shit 2 miles ago!" By the time the finish line snuck up on me, my mental focus had turned to whether my braid had stayed in place for post-race pictures. It had. It's about the journey though people, not the finish (because you can always take fake finish line pictures later).

5. And finally, a Jimmy Buff's stuffed double cheesesteak sandwich never tastes so good as after a gulp of the Hudson.