I’m calling this one the first, because I will never count the initial failure, no matter what bullshit is spewed about ‘having the courage to try’ and whatever. I’ll tell you the short version, then I’ll give you a play by play. I finished. Done. Officially a triathlete, with a time of 2:10, which is 30 minutes slower than the next to last person. I was the last, and everyone had to wait an extra 30 minutes for me before tearing everything down, packing up and going home. However, as a friend of mine says, ”the last person to cross the finish line is a finisher.”

The swim was rough. Water was choppy, I had on a new wet suit that I had just bought and never swam in it before. More about that later. I was the last one out of the water and I struggled! Waves in the face, I had to flip onto my back, it was not my best swim.

Then to the bike. It was better. I didn’t stop on top of the dreaded Darby Switch hill, a steep incline about 4 miles into the race. Normally I have to stop on the top of the hill and catch my breath. This time I kept going slowly, but didn’t stop. Got to the dreaded 3-legged hill, 2.5 miles of incline… I passed the point where I got my flat tire and flipped it off, victoriously sailing passed. I did stop once for about 30 seconds on the hill to catch my breath and rest my legs, but then kept going. When I got to the dismount station, I unclipped my left foot and was feeling good. Then I couldn’t get my right foot out and I was so wobbly from biking that I almost fell over, and caught myself on the sign. Dragged my bike to transition, changed my shoes, and headed out to the run.

At this point, when I started the run, everyone was finished but me. My brain said run, but my legs felt like 200 lbs of jello each. I tried to run and they just would not go! I settled for a brisk 4 mph walking pace, and tried to throw in a few jogs from telephone pole to telephone pole. When I got to the turn around I chugged a water and started back, but I was so tired there was no sense of accomplishment or excitement, just wanting to finish this and be done. Of course I had to run the last quarter mile across the finish line, and my kids and husband were there to support me. Everyone who stayed cheered me on, and it felt good to be around such a great group of encouraging people. People who keep the race open an extra 30 minutes just for me. People who wait to eat dinner in order to watch me finish. People who finished the race in half my time, but still genuinely encourage me. My husband who thinks I’m crazy but still supports me.

The fat girl inside wants to hide from the attention, she wants to shrink away from the photos and the cheers. She’s embarrassed that people stayed to watch her, mortified that she was so slow they had to wait for her. But the desire to participate, to reach my goal, to actually do it, had to overcome that. And it’s not a one and done thing. Through the whole race I had to tell myself to keep going, not to quit. “Who cares if you finish? “. The devil on my shoulder asked. “What are you trying to prove? That fat girls can exercise too? You think any of those people care? No, they just see a slow fat girl.”. I had to continually swat him away. In the end, it didn’t matter if anyone cared or not, I finished for me. To show myself how strong I am, how determined I am. For my kids, to show them how anyone can do anything, to show them you don’t have to come in first, your just have to show up and try. Or Tri, as might befit the situation.