Eyelids fluttering open, I quickly realized that something was amiss.

What time is it?

Blinking furiously as I glance at the stunning illumination of my phone, I wondered if I was simply experiencing yet another premature exodus from my solace of slumber. However, as the numbers on the screen melded into more recognizable shapes, I realized that the opposite was true.

“Babe, we gotta get going.”

Colleen roused herself from her slumber and we set to the tasks at hand.

To say that I had taken a hiatus from triathlon would be a vast understatement. My last race had been at Loveland’s Peak to Peak race back in June of 2010. I had gone from three seasons of 15-20 hour training weeks to weeks of hardly any consistent training. It was partly burn out, but the biggest factor probably involved the fact that I had moved across the world to pursue a Master’s Degree. Now here I was, two years later, out of practice and barely fighting off self-doubt.

Moving quickly, I slipped into my racing kit. The blue and red of D3 Multisport was novel, but the rest of me routine followed one of the cardinal rules of triathlon. “Nothing new on race day.” My transition bag had been packed the night before, and contained within everything I needed to swim, cycle, and run. Pre-race nutrition consisted of two bananas and two cups of chocolate almond milk. More than enough for a sprint distance race.

Gathering up our gear, we loaded up the vehicle and began our drive to Union Reservoir.

What am I doing?

I had raced in a score of triathlons since I got into the sport back in 2005, but I hadn’t felt this nervous in years.

Pulling into the parking lot, I mentioned my doubts to Colleen. Not one to mince words, she quickly told me I was, in fact, being ridiculous. Fortified, I picked up my race packet and headed into the transition area.

For the uninitiated, the transition area is the place in which we “transition” from swimming to cycling and from cycling to running. At best, it’s a place for organized chaos, at worst, it’s simply good old fashioned anarchy.

I found a spot on the racks and meticulously set up my kit as I always do. Towel on the ground, running flats on the towel, visor on the running flats, helmet on the visor, sunglasses in the helmet. My cycling shoes were already clipped in the pedals and prepped for a flying mount. Setting up came back to me like I had never left. Satisfied with my prep work, I snatched up my wetsuit and headed out of transition to warm up.

Adrenaline.

Warmed up and squeezed into a wetsuit, I tried to slow my breathing and center myself.

“Racers! Please make your way to the beach. 10 minutes!”

The race directors voice cut through the autumn morning air and through the subdued murmuring of the racers. Colleen gave me a quick hug and sent me on my way.

“Kick some butt!”

A quick swim and some announcements later, I found my self standing waist deep in Union Reservoir alongside the rest of the first wave. There were some handshakes and well wishes, then silence. Tension building as we tightened ourselves up taunt as bowstrings.

Here we go. 

Air horn blasts faded out as we slipped beneath the waves. Hands and feet flash in a flurry of strokes. Pea green hues blur together with the baby blue flashes of the September sky.

Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Breathe. Stroke. Stroke. Stroke. Spot.

The swim proved to be the maelstrom of bodies and waves that it always is. Tenaciously chasing orange buoys, I eventually find myself running back up the beach towards transition. Spewing lake water and shaking the dizzies out of my brain, I peel off my second skin and fasten my aero-helmet into place. Running out of transition, I slide onto my bike and slip my bare feet into my shoes as I pedal onto the first stretch of the course.

Shoes strapped. Power meter on. Find your cadence. Gear up. Go Go Go. 

A lapped course full of turns. Technical skills tested. Other than the smell of leaves and the calls of “on your right”, I am completely unaware of anything not related to the road or the race. I pass and am passed. A few swallows of water to keep me going. Humming drive trains lull me into the perfect rhythm. I make my final lap and turn back towards transition. The last miles a blur in my mind. Slipping out of my bike shoes, I dismount and run barefoot into transition. Pebbles and pavement bit at my soles, but garner no notice from me. The bike is racked and my helmet is traded for a visor. Running flats fly onto my feet and then I am running again.

Breathe.

Cheering fades behind us as we run down a dirt road. Yellowed fields fade by on my right as I fall into my pace. All I hear is the soft crunching of dirt and gravel beneath my feet. Kilometers fade away as the burning in my legs radiates throughout my muscles.

Push it. 

The finish line pops up in the distance. I focus and leave it all out on the field. My energy is depleted the moment I cross the gate.

I had estimated my time would be somewhere around 1:20 before the race. As I crossed the line, the clock read 1:20:58. Overall, not a bad result. I felt great, and I’m excited to get back into the wonderful world of triathlon. Thanks to Without Limits for putting on yet another great event, and thanks to Dave S. at D3 Multisport for working with me to get me back into shape.