“My eyes are barely open. And it’ll be like a warmup for your leg muscles.”
“Only on the right side.”
“That sounds like a you problem.” She says through a yawn.
I laugh and sling my arm around my best friend’s shoulders. “You’re right, it is, let’s go sleepyhead.”
STROKING IT
Chicago’s TitaniumPerson route is anchored downtown in Grant Park. I already have the home field advantage so it wouldbe almost selfish to wish we were swimming at Montrose Beach like Miguel and I have all summer.
Dee and I park north of the river and make our way down through the pre-dawn light to the transition area and the start line. It’s quiet but electric.
Hundreds of athletes stand around in their wetsuits and extra layers, swinging their legs, windmilling their arms, nervous laughter tittering through the corrals. Last year I started back here with the age group entries.
This year, I’m at the front.
It feels like all eyes are on me as I move up the fence line. I haven’t met any of these other women before but Miguel had me review some of their race stats to prepare. Some are incredible swimmers, some swift bikers, and others can put down 26.2 miles like it’s a walk in the park. I have mental markers for each discipline of who I want to be in front of knowing what they keep in the tank.
But Miguel’s voice is in my head,run your own race Princess.
The dark, calm water of Monroe Harbor in front of us. To accommodate the full distance of the swim we have to snake south, turn north, turn south, and then come north again and head to the exit platform. The open water swims I did in training with Miguel were actually choppier and tougher than it will be in the protected harbor walls.
But then again, it was just the two of us swimming around families splashing in the surf.
Today, I’m surrounded by women who want to beat me.
We greet each other quietly with smiles and nods as final adjustments are made to our gear. It’ll be a neutral start, we all get in the water, paddle to the line, and then the gun will sound.
The splash of my competitors jumping into the lake brings me back to the present. Now is when I laser in on the task ahead.
A 2.4 mile swim.
The water hits my ankles as I step down the platform and the cold dunk is a shock but as I surface with a gasp, I find I’m not as cold as I thought I’d be.
As I slowly join the others at the starting point I send a quick mental thank you to my mom for the new wetsuit. It fits perfectly and Miguel was all too happy to dispose of my old one.
“Okay TitaniumPersons! On your marks,” the PA announcer calls and I start to move onto my stomach.
“Get set,” I lightly flutter my feet.
The traditional gong sounds and cheers erupt but they’re muffled as my face crashes into the water and I begin my race.
In every previous race, I was in the throng of people in the rolling starts. Three or five swimmers enter the water at a time and just get started. It’s busy and I got caught in several congestion points. I had to tread water waiting for space to open up, which slowed me down and wasted energy.
This year, up with the elites, there is more space. The pace is by no means leisurely but it doesn’t feel frantic as I make my final turn north. I’ve been able to simply swim the entire time.
I lift my head to spot the distance between here and the platform. Volunteers are in fluorescent yellow shirts, making it easy to spot them.
Head down, I keep my strokes even as I approach.
My triceps and upper back feel tight from the repetitive pulls but my arms and legs slide through the water propelling me forward.
A volunteer’s hand reaches out to grasp mine and they help me out.
“Great swim!” He cheers and I smile.
Immediately I unzip my wetsuit and start to peel it from my shoulders revealing the tri suit Dee’s family bought me. It’s bright orange and says “Fueled by Curryosity” on the back.
