On September 26th, 2009, I competed in the Duathlon World Championships, a race that tested my strength and my character. Here is my account of the events that transpired on that unforgettable day.
If Only The Run Mattered
by Angel Stone
It’s the morning of the Duathlon World Championships. I wake up and head downstairs for breakfast with Don, a 60 year old age grouper who befriended me during the Parade of Nations. We sit down and eat more than we should. I take carbo loading to another level filling my first plate with cantaloupe, pineapples, and watermelon. My second plate is piled high with a stack of pancakes misted with syrup. Feeling full and anxious, I go back to my hotel room to relax. I spend an hour reading and 27 minutes pacing. Eventually I take a nap. At 12:30 p.m., I eat my final meal before the race, an english muffin and a bagel topped with peanut butter. I feel fat and happy. At 2:00 p.m., I meet Don and his wife downstairs and we drive to the race site. It’s sprinkling outside. At 3:15 p.m, I start my warm up. Normally my warm up is laborious but today is different. I feel light and fresh. At 3:40 p.m., I line up with my age group. The gun goes off. I start running.
I position myself in the front half of the pack and my plan is to stay there for as long as I can. At mile 2, I’m holding my position. Even better, I’m starting to catch the ladies who went out to fast. The light mist is soothing, keeping me cool and relaxed. At the turn around point, the lead ladies are coming up the same hill that we are going down. I count 1, 2, 7, 14, 23 people infront of me. Oh my gosh, I’m in the Top 25. At a competition of this level and with a field of talent red clay deep, I’m near the front. I feel amazing. I catch up to a girl who is struggling. When I pass, I give my standard “you can do it, keep it up.” But something compels me to assist her. I slow a bit and say, “try to stay with me, I’ll pace you.” She says okay, in between breaths. She picks up my pace and we run side by side. My stride is strong, my breathing is under control, and I feel incredible. I hear her start to pant. I say, “slow your breathing down, Erica. You must relax.” She immediately responds taking deep breaths through her nose and out her mouth.
We continue running together. On the last mile, which is heavily sprinkled with hills, she can’t keep up with me. I look back, yell her name, and wave her forward. She does not speed up. I do not wait for her; this is a competition after all. I give her one final encouraging shout and then bust a Usain Bolt straight to the transition area. I feel like a champion. This is going to be the best race of my life. I cross the timing pad and look at my watch. I look again in utter astonishment. I ran 6.2 miles in 40:24 minutes, a 6:31 min/mile pace. I’ve never ran this fast before. Ever.
Jubilant, I run to my bike, yank off my sneakers and strap on my bike shoes. I put on my helmet and stuff the last half of a banana into my mouth. The calming mist turns to rain. It rushes to the ground making stability impossible and a PR questionable. I take my bike off the rack and shuffle as fast as I can to the mount line. I place my foot onto the pedal to clip in but I don’t. My foot slips. Approaching racers yell, “keep it moving, get out of the way, go”. I angrily shout back, “I’m trying!” I scoot up to avoid other oncoming racers and after a few frustrated attempts, I clip in.
I get into a comfortable gear and conservatively ease my way out of the stadium trying to avoid the athletes who now hate me and the puddles of water. I safely make it onto the course and it is clear that the rain is planning to take a front row seat for my grand performance. I drop my chest toward the handlebars and try to ignore it. I pull an energy gel from my leg grippers, tear it open with my teeth and struggle to stay erect while riding one-handed. I’m so bad at this. Sugar and carbs consumed, I’m ready to turn it up. I pass a female cyclist with disc wheels. Yes! I pass a cyclist with aero bars. Yes! Things are going well. I approach an older gentlemen and with a smile say, “this can’t be safe, right?”. He smiles in agreement.
I approach the first of many downhill turns. A novice cyclist, I decide to mimic the guys in front of me. They stop pedaling and slow down. I do the same. That’s when I realize how much braking power is lost on wet roads. I don’t like it. A few minutes later, I come to another downhill turn only steeper and sharper. At the bottom of the hill is a two-way underpass divided by a huge cement column. I approach the descent with extreme care. I stop pedaling and slow down. But I can’t. In a panic, I squeeze the brakes again. Nothing. Desperate to avoid that pretty little cement wall, I squeeze the life out of my brakes. My back wheel fishtails and I head straight for the column. I try to brake, to turn my handlebars, to think of some way to avoid what seems destined to happen.
I am barreling toward a cement column and don’t know how to stop. I am panicking and don’t know how to stop. I am losing all control and don’t know how to stop. And I don’t. I fly head first into the cement column. I scream. My head bounces off the column sending me in the opposite direction. Faster than I ran that 10k, my head hits the ground and I land on my left side, bike still attached. I can’t feel my legs. This sends me straight to crazy-ville. I start to hyperventilate. I see blood falling from my chin onto the ground. Is this the end? Suddenly, I hear the worst sound one can hear after a crash: another cyclist crashing! I shut my eyes and brace myself as a cyclist runs me over. I scream again. I open my eyes and watch him get up and back onto his bike. I’m glad I was there to cushion his fall. Punk!
Three volunteers rush to my side. I, unaware if I will walk again, start crying like a 1 year old. You know, with the suctioned bottom lip action. It is a pitiful sight. An angel of a woman rushes to my side saying, “You’re okay, you’re okay”, while she wipes the snot from my upper lip with her sleeve. (She went above and beyond the call of duty on that one.) With the might of a gladiator, she applies pressure to a spot above my right eye to slow the blood gushing from my forehead. The other people try to remove my foot from my bike shoe. The pain is unbearable. I plead, “stop, it hurts”. I’m not paralyzed. They radio for help as I lay in a puddle of water shivering. The paramedics arrive and shift my immobile body onto one of those flat boards. When they lift me up, I ask, “Is this thing safe?” That’s when I knew I was going to be okay.
The doctors discover that I have a damaged knee and mild abrasions on my hip, shoulders, elbows, and back. I will need stitches to close the gash on my head. And then there’s that mild concussion. My friends are told to wake me up twice each night to make sure I don’t die in my sleep.
On the ride back to the hotel, I sit in the passenger seat and cry. Not the embarrassing tears from before but quiet tears. The tears of a woman who devoted several months of her life to train for this event. The tears of a woman who would have to tell her supporters back home that she didn’t finish. The tears of a woman who was on track to have the best race of her life. My spirit ached.
Today, I still feel a great sadness. Fortunately, I have special people in my life helping me see beyond this disappointment. The show must go on. And it will. I have another triathlon this weekend. It is the last race of the season. I will be there and when that gun goes off, I’m gonna run like a stole something!
Let’s talk choreography. What’s your process, genius?
