The 'Hot Racing Mess' Who Finished

I present to you my divisional results (Women 30-34)  for the individual legs of the sprint distance Chicago Triathlon, which took place along the lakefront yesterday. Can you guess when I had the asthma attack?

Swim (1/2 mile): 17th of 219

Bike (13.7 miles): 22nd of 219

Run (3.1 miles): 215 of 219

I guess it was a sign I wasn't in tip-top shape when, right before we started the race, a spectator heard me coughing and joked to me that I should have laid off the cigarettes the morning of the race. 

As soon as I got in the water, I could tell I couldn't inhale to full lung capacity. That said, it's really easy for me to control my breathing in swimming, so I just plowed ahead and got on a roll! The water was 72 degrees, and I had fresh arms. It felt like last year: a perfect swim. 

I passed nearly everyone in my wave and started to take on the next; by 14 minutes, 33 seconds, I was out of the water (if you look up my time, it includes the 2? 3? block run to transition area, during which I saw a few people sprint past me -- still came in 17th though). 

After transition, I hopped on my bike and dealt with the same southwest headwind both directions --a pain in the ass on any day. A quarter of the way I could tell my lack of lung strength was starting to take a toll. I was also shivering, despite guzzling water all morning and an already-warm air temperature. 

The last half of the bike race I didn't feel like I was "racing" anymore, just getting through it -- and not because of muscle fatigue, which is typical: just my lungs and that shivering thing. I began to think of quitting, which felt like a brilliant idea -- until I imagined having to tell people I quit the race. Do I listen to my body? Or am I being too sensitive and not strong enough mentally? Will I get pneumonia again if I keep stressing my lungs?

By the time I got off the bike, I felt dizzy and sauntered to my transition spot to get my run gear on, coaching myself on breathing in through my nose and out through my mouth. Three minutes and something-seconds later (a long-ass transition time) I slowly walked to the start line of the run portion, feeling dazed. At this point, I was 98 percent of the way to giving up.

A woman saw me walking (still on the course), stepped in front of me and said, agitated, "Did you finish the race?" The look I gave her answered her question. By the time I saw Brian, maybe about a city block-length, I was taking off my race number.

The first thing I said to him was, "I don't feel good. I don't want to get pneumonia again." Then I started crying. And then I felt like a loser. 

Brian told me I could quit and he wanted me to be healthy, and getting that confirmation made me not want to quit. So, I put on a long-sleeve T-shirt he'd brought along to warm up and began walking the 3.1 miles.

Thing is, Brian wouldn't let me do it alone. He spent the next 3 miles at my side, walking or trotting with me with a backpack on, which isn't easy. He later told me it wasn't just for support but to make sure nothing happened to me, which was good, because the next 47 minutes featured me gasping for air, stopping, breathing in through my nose deeply and out through my mouth, coughing, then trying to run/trot once my breath was regulated, only to have to walk again -- a hot racing mess.

I didn't mention Brian has been fighting a cold too. What a guy... 

I picked up the pace toward the end when I saw the finish and actually had to stop short of the finish line to try to breathe. I crossed the finish line, went into full-blown attack mode, heard my dad call my name, waved to him, then was ushered by triathlon medical staff into the medic tent, where an awesome and very nice crew gave me an Albuterol treatment and oxygen.

I had an easy time -- someone finished the race and began having seizures. You can see the medic team that worked on me working on that person here.

I summarized the race in a Facebook update and got kudos from several friends, one even calling me inspirational. It's really touching, but honestly, I call it stupid more than anything. I'm glad I started the race, even if I wasn't in the greatest shape; I tried. But once the asthma kicked in full-force, I shouldn't have continued. It's not healthy! And if I grew worse, the chaos on the course could have messed up other people, too, or taken resources away from more serious cases. 

In case you're wondering, I didn't bring my inhaler because I didn't even think of it. I use inhalers temporarily when I'm fighting something like bronchitis or pneumonia, and although I should have taken one with me, just in case, I didn't even put two and two together that a chest cold from last week could trigger an asthma attack during a race. Again, stupid.

It's a race I'd rather forget; I finished almost a half hour after I normally do. Brian says he's more proud of me for finishing this race than any other. I'm trying hard to forget the time, even if I still managed to finish ahead of a lot of people who were perfectly healthy. 

There's always next year. :) 

A special shout out to:
* The medic team. So sharp and on the lookout, I have been taking their standby assistance for granted each race.
* Brian. Duh. Not only did he do a 5K with me spur-of-the-moment, but I thanked him by leaving in the medic tent his Oakley sunglasses he lent me. Sheesh. Yes, I probably could have crossed the finish line without him, but I would not have been as strong. He's there for every race I do.
* My parents, who not only came out to the race but had to watch their daughter gasping for air and disappear with doctors. They also waiting a long time while we collected my gear to drive me home.
* The random people who saw me struggling and called out my race number, cheering for me to "stay strong," "keep it up" and "walk through it." Admittedly, I was annoyed when, while coughing and heaving, some of 'em yelled, "You're lookin' good!" but that's my problem: they were trying to be nice and pry didn't even realize the irony of the cheer they chose to yell.  


And to the fellow racer who looked at me and Brian as she passed and said, VERY snarkily, as we walked, "You know you're in the middle of a triathlon, right?": 

I finished, bitch.