#70.3

Well this is the slightly longer version...

This was my first triathlon in 3 years, my last one being this race, albeit on a different course, in 2015. In some ways, it was like being a newbie triathlete all over again!

Here’s how race day panned out:

4am: both our alarms go off. We’d been up a few times in the night because the hotel air conditioning wasn’t working and it kept switching off. Not the best night’s sleep but somewhat mitigated by the crazy early bedtime of 8pm. Choked down some strawberry milk, a gingersnap Honey Stinger waffle and a not quite ripe enough banana.

5:45am: Walk down to transition - about three blocks away and start getting set up.

6am: Spend way too long queuing for a portapotty.

6:30am: All set in transition, wetsuit mostly on, time for a little warm up swim. Then standing around freezing while we had the national anthem and other waves started.

6:56am: My wave goes off. My wave is all the women. All ~300 of them! This is the first time I’ve ever started in a wave this big and I find myself in the middle of the group. It was crazy! I swam into people, people swam into me, my goggles fogged up and I started to feel pretty stressed. At one point I couldn’t even see the sighting buoys because those were yellow and wouldn’t you know it, our wave had yellow swim caps. I decide to just follow the crowd and after the second turn buoy things become slightly less congested. Tried to sight every 10 breaths (20 strokes).

2 lap swim means negotiating the super shallow start/finish twice but also means I got a chance to rinse off my goggles and get rid of the fogging. I had no clue how long the first lap took me. The second lap seemed less chaotic but I landed up going wide when I overly ambitiously decided to sight every 20 breaths (40 strokes). Whoops.

Exiting the water, I cannot get my wetsuit unzipped and to my waist fast enough - the entire weekend I found it incredibly constricting. 

Wetsuit strippers were awesome and then I started making my way to transition (it seemed like a long way).

Swim: 50:40

Took my time: socks, cycling gloves, some water, Garmin on and onto the bike course.

T1: 06:03

07:52am: Onto the bike course. It’s a fairly flat out and back and most of it is on really nice highway except for the southern section as you head to the midway point. That was crazily rough, even more so than the farm roads around here.

There was a nice tailwind on the way out and my average speed was looking pretty good for very low relative effort. I bypassed the first aid station but stopped at the second and third for water refills and portapotty breaks. At one stage I thought I had dropped my chain (I hadn’t) and pulled over to check it out. There was a Velofix support van there almost immediately. I told him I didn’t need his help and then carried on.

The return leg was into a headwind and had a few inclines that other people were kind of slow on. I would overtake a lot of people on the rises and then they would catch back up on the flats. Whenever I had to sit up to get out of the draft zone I took the chance to eat and that worked well. A lot of people weren’t staying right though so at points it seemed like I was constantly calling out that I was coming up on people.

On the return leg I also saw the aftermath of two crashes, one involving what looked like two cyclists and one involving a big transport truck and a smaller personal truck. 

Soon enough the urban sprawl was back in view and I was negotiating the residential streets back to transition.

Bike: 3:01:25

I was slightly disoriented coming into transition, but racked my bike, changed my shoes, grabbed my race belt, bolero, garmin and cap and nutrition for the run and set off.

T2: 2:17

10:56am: As I ran out I realised I was still wearing my cycling gloves and stuffed them into my trisuit. I knew I needed the washroom (again! I was well hydrated!) and then realised that the bolero was going to be a nuisance with my one-piece trisuit. I also had a quick look at the time of day and it said 10:58 so I knew my total race time was just over 4 hours so far.

The first aid station was about 1.5 miles in and I wasted a few minutes in there wrangling my bolero. The run graph basically says it all, some running, some walking, lots of ice being dumped down my sports bra and lots of water and gatorade at every aid station.

I didn’t feel at all like eating, so I didn’t because everything I had (and that was available on course) was sweet. Some chips and salsa would have been really awesome. I saw Dan coming the opposite way somewhere through the long slog along the river so we exchanged a quick hug and kiss before carrying on.

On the big incline on the way back I picked up a buddy from Montana and we walked together for a while and then started running again. We then picked up a third person (who later found me on Strava and it turns out she’s someone Twitter kept suggesting I follow). I left them both behind sometime in the last mile because I just wanted to keep moving to get to the finish but the last few blocks seemed to stretch on for an eternity!

Run: 2:46:57

Total time: 06:47:20 a PB by about 50 minutes.

Some thoughts:

- That swim time isn’t great, but for me is a massive improvement. I actually swam the course instead of doggy paddling/breast-stroking. It helped that I realised during the practice swim that my wetsuit felt a lot less restrictive if I was swimming rather than bobbing around mostly upright. Three years ago, the melee of the wave start would have had me clinging to the nearest kayaker. This was my biggest win for the day.

- I didn’t follow my power plan for the bike - the first part I was flying on super low power and then the return leg was a bunch of surges interspersed with sitting up to avoid drafting. I did however eat and drink well.

- I was disappointed by how much walking I did. I really wanted a 2:30 run which would have had me close to a 6:30 finish. BUT, I have to remember that I couldn’t run for the longest time and have only really been running since January. 

He put his arm around me and leaned in, talking low.

“This isn’t me being mean, this is just what we need to do.” I couldn’t be sure, but I think I recognized him as the man who asked last year in the middle of a monsoon in Indonesia, if I had another lap left. He continued gently, raising his voice just slightly to compete with my sniffles, “You’ve missed the cut-off, we don’t make them to be mean I promise,” I nodded, miserably. “But look, love,” I’m 99 percent sure he said something like that, if not the actual quote — the sentiment. “You are welcome to continue. You will be an DNF, but the course is open. Get out there and give it a go!”

I nodded again and carried my squished, hotel-made onigiri to the Run Out.

He wasn’t the only angel in T2, but we need to struggle through 90 km of biking before we meet her.

Where were we? Ah yes, fresh from having our hopes dashed in the inky foam of the Coral Sea. I found out after that Ryan had dialed up my mom on FaceTime to let her watch me pedal out, and when he saw that I was in a full hysterical breakdown, realized that there is nothing about my performance in any given triathlon that is safe going live. In the weeks since the race, I’ve had a realization about my relationship with the sport.

Being pregnant and giving birth is like a universally horrific and painful experience, right? And yet, there’s all these people out there with more than one kid. I was told it’s because “It’s so worth it in the end, you forget how awful it is.”

GIRL.

I remember every last excruciating millisecond of those 257 days. For that experience, that old yarn does not add up. BUT. Apparently I can spend a whole race scared and crying, and FAIL in the strictest sense of the word and come home and immediately pick races on the two continents I’m missing. (Ecuador and Cape Town, I’m coming for you.)

ANYWAY. We’re on the bike. I’d heard in the little performance art piece about the course the day before, that there’s a dude who just travels the world doing every single IRONMAN event, and he’s declared that the Cairns bike course is the most beautiful.

Oh, you beautiful tropical fish.

You can look anywhere but at the pavement right in front of you while you’re riding? What is that even like?

Someday, I’m going to start a very important translation service: taking the official Course Description copy and making it REAL. Here’s how they described it:

The undulating, and winding course will take athletes past Thala Beach Resort and Hartley’s Croc Farm to the turnaround point, approximately 6km south of Wangetti, before heading back to Port Douglas.

Here’s what it is:

Undulating STRICTLY means up and down, but there’s an undertone of gentle that… let’s just say on an out-and-back loop, there is no rejoicing in racing a downhill, there is only knowing that it will soon be a grueling uphill. The constant hills were tough, but what really ripped me to shreds was the texture of the road and the headwind. In the course brief, we’d been warned that the roads were “county roads” and that we’d be best to try to ride in the left-hand wheel rut. Like the pioneers did. I did not know much about the types of pavement before this race, but I now know that peculiar specifically to asphalt, is a soul-crushing theft of effort. I could NOT get a leg up on it. I pedaled and pedaled and watched my speedometer and worried.

I managed one successful water bottle exchange while still moving and felt like a (slow and wobbly) boss. The road up the coast and back was closed, blessedly. It took 30 miles or so, but eventually I stopped cringing and remembering the awfulness of last year with every course monitor’s scooter that roared up behind me, and I pedaled.

On the way back, I crested a hill and saw a tent. By this point, I was already doing the complicated math as to whether I was going to make it to T2 in time, and a guy stepped out from the tent and motioned with his hand.

OH GOD. IS HE PULLING ME OFF THE COURSE? IS HE GOING TO MAKE ME GET IN A SWEEPER WAGON?

“I just need to let you know,” he started…

NO NO NO NO NO

“That this is the top of the last hill!” He looked triumphant and helpful.

I started crying. Again.

I don’t know, fam, but I’m probably going to need some kind of special warning vest for next race.

Eventually, I was out of the winding coastal road, and on back roads in to town. Then, the wind kicked up. Now of course I didn’t expect the race to be a glassy pool and a spin bike in an air-conditioned room, but DANG. When they say Australia basically just wants to kill you, you don’t imagine your death will be from all the effort needed to overcome inertia, but here we are.

I hit what had to be one of the last aid stations, and wanted water badly. I hadn’t done a great job of eating on the bike, because eating at 20 mph is freaking hard, but I’d been hydrating pretty good. I considered trying to exchange bottles and then just stopped.

“I’m not good at this usually, and I’m really not good at it tired.” I explained to the nice volunteer.

Those last five miles… were peak struggle. Everything was screaming, I was sick of the wind, and I just wanted off the bike. Eventually I started seeing people on the run course. Oh yeah, I feel like THIS, and I have a half marathon to run now.

Fun vacation.

Bike: 4:22:55

All I remember about getting to T2 is that it was full of bikes already. Suddenly, a lady in a volunteer shirt materialized next to me.

“You all right? Brilliant job, let’s get you to your spot.” She steered me through the racks as I walked my bike in a daze of tears.

“I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m just going to… I’m okay.”

I was trying to tell her my dismal scene needs I must act alone, but she wasn’t having it. She stayed next to my spot, chatting as I wobbled to get my bike shoes off. “Here’s the good news!” She continued. “While the cut-off has technically passed, you have loads of time!” There it was, the official proclamation that I’d busted. “One year,” she continued, “I only made it with ONE minute to spare. Another year, one of my friends took 12 whole hours to finish the Half, but he did it!”

Wait, I might be crying again…now.

“Why don’t you see what you can do? Start the run and see how it goes.” I got my running shoes and visor on, and slipped on my fuel belt. “You all right? Good luck, you’ve got this!”

I headed out, and got the official okay to keep going from the kindly course director at the beginning of this saga, and gingerly started to trot. This is where I finally felt like there was a part of me that could do this. All of the running off the bike all training cycle kicked in. I’d been WRECKED on the bike, and now I felt…okay?! What’s even happening?

I ran past Ryan and Frankie and told them I was going to give finishing a go, and trotted on. I WAS DOING THIS. The run course was flat as a pancake and packed with spectators. I started to catch up on the fuel I missed on the bike, and relished the full-fat Coke at each aid station. I wouldn’t touch the stuff if I wasn’t trying to kill myself physically in other ways, but when you are? It tastes like heaven. I had it on my Fuji climb last weekend, and can confirm — Gatorade, who?

There were still tons of 70.3 competitors out there when I started, but as they dwindled, I was VERY careful to make myself as invisible as possible. I stayed well out of anyone’s way racing the 140.6, hugging the shoulder of the path and waiting at the aid stations until they were totally clear before I approached. (The run course was on an esplanade with splash pools, which Frankie took full advantage of.)

Omg those aid stations when you’re not the last one on the course? STOCKED. The run was two laps of the same loop, so the second time through — finally feeling like I was going to very maybe finish this thing — I thanked the volunteers handing out watermelon, “This is my favorite restaurant in Cairns!” I had a lot of time to think on the course, and while I spent a lot of time feeling bad about taking so long, it occurred to me that if the race was only the fastest people, they would miss out on a heck of a lot of entry fees from us back-of-the-packers. While it’s weird to do a sport with professionals out there at the same time, I’d like to think by virtue of it being inclusionary, they can offer more amenities and support to everyone.

I don’t know exactly when I knew I would finish, maybe after the first loop, when my feet were still dry, there was no monsoon, and I was kind of feeling physically… fine? Fine-ish? I was IN THIS. No, I didn’t strictly run the entire way, but I kept moving forward, every single step that much closer to the finish line. Finally, I could hear the announcer and the bells and drums and cheering of the end.

Here’s where I put my finish in humiliating perspective: The woman who won the FULL had a faster time that me doing the HALF. I don’t know what to tell you guys, I’m slow AF. But I have a heck of a lot of Don’t Quit. I ran down the finish line shoot, with the guy on the microphone announcing my name. I got to the end, and he said, “It’s all right to stop now, you made it!”

And then I cried a little more.

Run: 3:30:24

Total: 9:11:22

I did all 70.3 miles of it this time, and THIS TIME, I got a daggone towel.

Triathlon takes a LOT of time. Not just racing one when you’re slow like me, but training. This was Ryan and Frankie’s race too. They let me disappear for half of every weekend day, they helped me get my bike on four different planes, they spent all day figuring out where I’d be when to cheer me on, and hung out on the esplanade for hours while I struggled away at the last 13 miles. And my coach, who kept me honest and on track and encouraged me the whole way, I couldn’t have done this without them. 

Triathlon IS a team sport, if you do it right.

(So I think in the whole “you forget how bad giving birth is” is because babies are so delightful? I mean, talk to someone who has both given birth AND eaten their first meal the day after a long-course race — this is not a comparison that works out well for babies if that meal is artisanal avocado toast and a Bloody Mary, I’M JUST SAYING.)

Yesterday I was supposed to run 10 miles, but only managed 5 pretty terrible ones. My body felt like lead and I was mentally just not in a good place for it. 

After though, I went and watched some of the Boulder Ironman 70.3 and woah. I didn’t expect it to be such an emotional experience, but the atmosphere was just something else. There were tears, peer exhaustion, smiles, intense accomplishment, and even a proposal right in front of us (the Ironman proposed over the fence after he finished!). Talk about inspiring. 

I was there because one of my friends was completing her first one, with the goal of completing a full Ironman next year. I am so insanely proud of this girl and I began to cry with her as we hugged. I have watched her train and commit to something many people wouldn’t even consider and I can definitely say that she is my motivation right now. 

She took this challenge in honor of someone very close to her that just recently beat cancer and is also an Ironman. As I spoke with him, I told him I have done half and full marathons, but never a triathlon. He said to me, “Oh if you can do that, then you can definitely do this. You have a year to get back here.”

The waves dipped down and I spotted ahead of me, trying to keep my eye on the buoy that was only visible if I squinted as hard as I could through the dazzle. Then I saw her arm. It wasn’t a stroke, it was her arm up and waving frantically. Oh my god. We were the stragglers, out on the back side of the swim course, a good 300m from shore, and that lady was in trouble.

                                                      ***** Apropos of anything potentially physically treacherous, let’s begin with the disclaimers and get you to sign the waiver. This race was, in some ways, 8000 times better than last year. The aid stations were STOCKED, maybe because this is the first course I’ve done with a full Ironman happening at the same time, but it made such a difference. The bike course was CLOSED and coned-off and felt so much safer, even with the drop-off down to the Coral Sea. And I received a great deal of kindness from the volunteers all the way around.

And the acknowledgment: I am slow. I am not a gifted natural athlete. The only real talent I have, is showing up and not quitting. The internet was very quick to tell me last year, in a dozen different ways, that I shouldn’t have been out on the course at all. That felt pretty horrible.

Honestly, I probably wouldn’t be out on Ironman courses, if they weren’t kind of the only game in town out here. There aren’t locally-run triathlon series, that I’ve been able to find. And only about one out of every ten IM courses has an Olympic distance option, so if I want to train for an event, it ends up being a big one. I’m sorry for that, I guess. I’m sorry to be in the group chasing the time limit. It would be awesome to finish in a time the internet finds respectable, and I will keep working toward it.

Triathlon is a weird sport, another thought that occurred to me in the many, many hours I had to think about such things. Is there another athletic event where the slowpokes are on the same course at the same time as the pros? You’re not going to turn up at the golf course for a tourney and be behind Tiger Woods. It’s weird.

In any event, as I kept moving forward through the last 13.1 miles of the 70.3 I covered that day feeling like an absolute failure, I couldn’t help but notice — there were a lot of people lining the course that didn’t even start, that wouldn’t even consider running in to the ocean on a Sunday morning to swim 2 kilometers. I mean, myself included! That I even went IN that water at all, let alone made it all the way around without absolutely freaking out, is something I couldn’t have fathomed in my first multi-sport race that had a 200 METER swim in a POOL that I didn’t even PUT MY FACE IN THE WATER FOR. I have improved. A lot. I have trained. Or I would still be breaststroking with my head out of the water.

I suppose this is to say, if you are triggered by stories from people who consider getting to the starting line an accomplishment, and who gets to the finish line after the time limit, and spent a lot of time sobbing during the effort, this is not for you.

But to me, that’s a great story. Now, where were we. Oh yes, that lady might be drowning…

                                                     *****

“HELP!” I treaded in a circle, looking for the paddle-boarding rescue teams. I yelled again, “SHE NEEDS HELP!” After what seemed like forever, but was probably about 45 seconds, a paddle board headed over, followed by a raft with an outboard motor. The rescue teams tended to her, and I waited behind, not able to get around or see beyond them.

After a few minutes they cleared, and I struggled on.

The fact that I was here, riding the grey and white waves, that I was putting my face in this water and not screaming, that I was swimming (in a fashion) was nothing short of a miracle that I couldn’t think too carefully about, because THIS IS THE OCEAN AND I’M IN IT.

It was about this moment, that I started to think about other things like, “Huh. I really don’t like swimming. And I really hate the ocean. What am I even doing here?” But I felt okay. Every so often, I would misjudge a wave and get a mouthful of sea, but I felt okay. I had no idea how long I’d been out on the course, the sun was straight at my face and I couldn’t see my watch, so I just kept going.

Let’s talk about oceanography for a moment. All open water is not the same. The Mediterranean Sea by Marseille is inky blue and rough, it rattles your vertigo but lets you pass. The South China Sea by Bintan is pale turquoise and clear, you’re tricked into thinking you could stand up at any moment. The Coral Sea by Cairns is a gray froth and wraps its current around you and straight sucks up any effort you throw at it.

I swam, and swam, and swam and STILL the buoy wouldn’t get closer. “When I make the turn,” I kept telling myself. “They said it would be with the current after the turn, right? Please let that be what they said.” I’m a crap swimmer, I know this. I have no idea how you’re supposed to overpower a current or train for one — all I know is that I didn’t let it beat me, and I didn’t it let it get in my head. I also know — and can say from experience, which blows my mind — this was the hardest swim I’ve done on four continents.

Finally, FINALLY, I got close enough to the shore to stand. The ocean took two or three more swipes, knocking me down as I struggled to stand and run.

“An hour and seven minutes!” said the announcer. “Just under the cutoff!”

Jesus. I’m a crap swimmer, but I did the same distance last time fully 20 minutes faster. I guess I can’t beat a current. What I can do though, is stay alive in the ocean, swimming as hard as I can, for more than an hour.

I trotted up the carpet, and headed for my bike. I was making okay time in T1, trading commiseration with another woman surprised by how hard the swim was, and I was heading out toward the road when a woman in an Ironman shirt approached me.

“Just so you know,” she started gently, “You’re a DNF at this point. You can go on if you’d like, you have loads of time.”

“What?! The man said! I was an hour and seven minutes!” I was already hysterical by the end of this sentence. I’d managed to look at my watch when I’d gotten out, by my watch I was under, too. I’d gone all the way through T1 thinking I was okay.

“Oh? I’m so sorry, maybe I’ve gotten it wrong then!”

“He said!” I wailed, “He said I was okay!”

It’s at this point, I’d broken a PR. Time to Inconsolable Scream-Crying: nailed after the first event. It’s an awful feeling, to be told you’ve busted your whole race, all that training, all that effort to even GET to the starting line, all of that stress and fear even facing the ocean, to be told you’ve failed from the beginning.

She tried to offer me water, she was understandably horrified at my reaction.

“Can I go?”

I headed miserably for the mount line and got on my bike. It took me five miles to stop crying.

Officially, when I went back and look at my times after the race, she wasn’t wrong.

Swim: 1:10:01

A second over. Does that time show the two minutes I spent waiting for the rescue boat to clear? Nah. All it shows is that I shouldn’t have been that close to the deadline at all. And it shows that I DNFed after the first event.

T1: 8:34

Also, forever. But what the split doesn’t show, is three full minutes of heartbreak. I really don’t know how you train to get over that faster.

Hi, welcome. My name is Zoë Stagg and I’m the world’s slowest Cryathlete.

So we got up and I seriously was questioning my life decisions and Angela and I contemplated just staying in bed, but alas we decided to go do this thing. Also I don’t think Paul would have let us stay in bed anyways. 

Drive over to the race start, after of course getting coffee. Drop the rest of our stuff at transition and it was time to meet the rest of T3 that was there. I had to run to the bathroom and ran over after that to meet everyone. Then proceeded to shove a bagel with peanut butter and a banana down my throat. We loaded up on the buses and headed to the swim start. 

We were obviously getting super nervous. We found some T3ers and I headed to the front of the lines cause I am faster swimmer than angela. We hugged our goodbyes and that would be the last time I would see her until the run portion. I almost started crying when we left each other. 

Cue standing and waiting with like 4 really tall guys from T3 who were all 70.3 pros. I was just trying to take it in and not look like a complete nervous wreck, even though I was. They were all super encouraging and told me to just go and have fun and I would be fine. We were waiting and the elites started and it felt like they had been in the water for forever, but they were having trouble making it up stream the 300m. So then we waited more. They made the announcement that were cutting the upstream portion out for us because the elite men and women had such trouble swimming upstream. At that point I knew Angela was probably really happy cause she wasn't the strongest swimmer and the upstream portion made her nervous. But in the end we were all bummed that we lost that 0.4 miles of the swim. 

Swim: 21:22: It was a fast one! Although it didn’t feel like it at first cause we had to make it across the river to the left side cause we started on the right side. People were having trouble with just getting across with how fast the current was. This was a super fast swim time for me and I felt good getting out of the water. The volunteers on the stairs were amazing and just yanked you up out of the water. The the wetsuit strippers, OMG. They literally are like sit down, push you down, yank your wetsuit off, grab your hands, pull you up, hand you your wetsuit and push you out. It was comical and probably my favorite part of the swim portion to be honest. I wish I had given my red bracelet to the guy who yanked my wetsuit off.  

T1: 7:50: The run into transition from the water was long. My bike and stuff were close to the entrance, but far from the bike start and end. Obviously I took my time. I think I ate a payday bar as I was leaving transition. Getting on the bike was nerve wracking as I was around a lot of people and I didnt want to cause a crash.

Bike: 3:30:19 15.98mph: The bike course was not what I was expecting. It was great!!! Not nearly as hilly as I thought it would be. There was probably 2-3 bad hills, but nothing horrible except one that you go up after a sharp turn so you lose any momentum. One guy had wrecked or toppled over before I got there. I stopped and used the porto-potty around mile 31 I think for the cutoff time when I knew I was fine for the cutoff times. Switched my waters at each station. Ate every 45-50 minutes. Ate payday bars (omg what a life saver), cliff bars with the nut butter (so dry to eat), and some gu’s. I felt pretty good the whole bike. It was pretty and really just a great course. I was back and forth with this one girl so we talked a bit every time we would pass one another. I passed some people, but got passed by a lot of people that were faster than me. Near the end of the course I was happy to just be getting off the bike, but not super looking forward to the run. I did feel good though, so I thought maybe 13.1 miles wouldn’t be so bad. 

T2: 8:05: I apparently took my sweet ass time here. Used the porto-potty on my way out. chatted with another girl while we both tied our shoes and wished each other luck. 

Run: 2:56:24 13.28/mi: The run was so hot, and I was having trouble keeping myself going. I walked most of the hills. It was a two loop course and there was one really awful hill that everyone was walking. I just told myself to do my best and run as much as I could and smile. Talk with people. I probably could have pushed it harder, but the heat was killing me. I was shoving ice down my sports bra and cold sponges in the back of my shirt. Sips of water at each stop, some gatorade, and gu’s. I FINALLY saw angela around the 10 mile mark and I was so happy to see her I screamed her name and asked if she was ok. She said yes and asked the same as me. She was already on her second loop as was I at that point. She passed me around mile 11. I won’t lie was disappointed that I was gonna finish behind her when I was done the swim and bike faster than her.  But she is a 8minute/mile runner and I was at a 13m/mile runner that day. So I have some work to do, but I’ll never be as fast as her, at least not for augusta. Mile 11 came around Angela passed me and I was feeling kind of queasy. I walked the hill and told myself I would run the majority of the rest of this damn race cause I was so close. I did for a small while, but walked more than I wanted. The last mile though I was determined to run the whole last mile. You get to the point of either going right to do a second loop or left to the finish line. I got to go left and I was so happy to be done. I rounded the corner and people were cheering and I was going down hill and I could see the finish and I started to lose it. This was not helpful cause I was having trouble breathing while trying my hardest not to cry. But I did cry, I didn’t think I would be that emotional, but I was. My finish line photos are pretty awful cause I’m making these awful faces trying to not cry and simultaneously try to smile through the distorted face. I finished though and faster than I thought. 

Overall time: 7:04:90

It was an amazing experience. It was exhausting and amazing what the body can do for a full 7 hours. My goals for Augusta 70.3 in September are to run more/faster, get faster on the bike, and finish under 7 hours. I would be really happy if I could cut 30 minutes off my time, but we’ll see. I really think I could improve on my run time, but that means putting a lot more work in. Overall if I could drop some weight between now and then I could improve some of my times and maybe not feel so affected by the heat.