I farted in my wetsuit: Patriot Half race report

WILLIAMSBURG, Va. – I love endurance sports for a couple of different reasons. No. 1: I am convinced that the longer the race, the more it is a metaphor for the Christian life – there is suffering from the start, encouragement to and from others in the midst, and celebration at the finish. No. 2: The longer the event, the more my ego gets checked. My first 70.3-mile triathlon – The Patriot Half here on Saturday, Sept. 11 – was certainly an exercise in answering the question “Just when did I start taking myself so seriously?” From the word Go, the event fought back, humbled me and helped me live in the present, enjoying what is instead of lamenting what was past and/or fretting what could be to come. Not long after the start gun fired ...

I farted in my wetsuit …

… and it tickled as it bubbled up to my neck. That was all well and good; a nice distraction from the reality of swimming 1.2 miles in the brackish James River. (By the way, as a result of this race, I learned that brackish means a combination of salt and fresh water, not just nasty.) But an apparent unintended consequence of farting in my wetsuit was the added buoyancy, which helped me float even more than I usually do when encased like a sausage in neoprene. Normally this would be a good thing because more float means more speed. But the James has quite a current, and being more buoyant apparently made me more susceptible to being flushed off course. I spent more time than I wanted talking with the kayakers whose job it was to keep people from swimming into the path of barges or the Jamestown ferry. Whatever the reason – current or just general lack of ability – I came out of the water in about 43 minutes and was quite distracted. I ran into an old college buddy, Janet Diersten (nee Shealey) in Transition 1. I never like knowing the truth about myself, and the truth was I not only was caught by a girl on the swim, but I girl I know (never mind that she’s really fast and was the 7th woman overall), which may have led to my lack of focus, which probably led to my general inattention to my task at hand, which may have led to …

I bonked on the bike …

… and by that I mean I failed to negotiate a 90-degree turn within the first mile of the 56-mile bike leg, and ended up flying over my handlebars and landing on the crown of my head in a ditch. That’s why we wear helmets, right? Any injuries I suffered were little more than some superficial scratches on my shoulder and some sore neck muscles the next morning. The crash probably did more damage to my bike than me, and I ended up stopping three times within the first 28 miles to fiddle with my rear barrel adjusters in order to make my gears shift properly. I finally hit a rhythm and really enjoyed the very flat course (compared to the incessantly rolling Shenandoah Valley). There was one scare for me late in the race when, as I was approaching the final water hand-off point – which I was counting on to maintain proper hydration in preparation for the 13.1 miles I was about to run once out of the pedals – a driver, apparently confused by all the two-wheeled vehicles on the John Tyler Parkway – abruptly stopped in front of me close enough to make me think I might flip over my bars again and into his trunk, and he distracted the dude handing out water just long enough to prevent him from handing me the greatly anticipated fluid. It was the one time I think I lost my cool during the race, and I yelled at the car: “What are you doing?! Drive!” As I approached the end of the bike, I missed the turn that tossed me out of the saddle on the way out, and I had to turn around and get back on course, commenting to the ladies directing traffic that the corner might be a little dangerous. Not sure how true that was, seeing that I think I was the only person out of more than 600 that couldn’t keep the rubber side down around it. So which is more dangerous? The turn or me? Don’t answer that, because there’s more to read …

I laid a turd on the run …

… OK, I didn’t really lay a turd, but I felt like I needed to, and I tried. There were port-o-potties along the course, and between mile 9 and 10, I was feeling a turtle head, so I made a pit stop. It may have just been a latent effect from the brackish James because nothing exited despite my efforts, limited as they were by the fact that I had been moving constantly for more than five hours at that point. Thus, I continued slowly on. There were lots of positives to going slowly, but the best thing was that Nicki caught me with a little less than 5K to go. There are few feelings like finishing a tough effort with the person that means the most to you in this world. We chatted about our races up to that point, realized how thankful we were that God has given us health and ability to even consider completing a sprint tri, much less a half ironman. We linked hands as we made the turn for the finish; we kissed as we crossed. It was a beautiful end to the season, and a fantastic start to the after party.



I finished in 5 hours, 44 minutes, 50 seconds. Which didn’t net me much on paper (20th in the men’s 30-34 age group, 160th out of 382 men overall), but plenty of joy. The beer tasted just as good. And Nicki maintained her awards streak, taking third in the women’s 25-29s (27th out of 155 women overall). The Trophy Wife has won hardware in 18 of her past 19 races, and this time she got a bottle of wine. Few things are more awesome than sharing in the spoils of victory with a fast woman!

The weekend overall was fabulous. We spent Friday night with my cousin Lee, her husband Dave and daughter Jenny in Williamsburg, where we caught up over Terrapin (all roads lead to Athens) and burgers. It was great to see Lee as she cheered us on race day, too, as she camped out a few meters from the line and gave me a big Go Dawgs! as I headed out for my second loop on the run, even though Dave did his graduate work at Tech. We saw Dena, our office manager at work, with her family. She was there near the turnaround and the finish taking pictures and hollering (kinda like she does every day in the office). We landed at Mama and Papa Bear’s house in Richmond and spent two days sleeping, eating and otherwise recovering.

The places, the pain and the people couldn’t have been better. Now we move on to … nothing. Just enjoying what is. There will be more events to endure in the future, but they are not now. There will be people and practice to take seriously, but not me. I am who God has made me, limited as I seem. And this race, this life, has led me to a place of acceptance: Of limits, of the present, and the realization that both not only exist, but can be enjoyed. That is a place and a time that I like, and that is right where I need to be.