The Whole Shebang: Worlds Race Report

Yep, she got banged up but she made it through both races. To tell the whole story will take quite a while, so get some nutrition and hydration going, put your feet up, and bear with me – or not. These are just my own experiences and, frankly, my ramblings. I’m no expert, but I do have a lot to say about what is probably my once-in-a-lifetime thing. Besides, I’ll get more out of this core dump than anyone else because it helps me to process these experiences in the full light of day. So, enter at your own risk! I’m throwing caution to the winds and letting it all hang out.

After a long-ish overview, I’ll describe the aquathlon first and then the sprint triathlon. Did I mention that this will be the world’s longest Worlds race report? It’s more than 11 pages. Be forewarned.

Overview

Worlds is a lot like “The Amazing Race” – long periods of sitting on planes and buses, short periods of great physical intensity, a significant amount of confusion and frustration, and moments of utter elation. In years to come, I’m sure I’ll remember that last item and forget the rest. Isn’t selective memory terrific?

Also like “TAR,” Worlds held many surprises for me:

• Other countries don’t produce as many athletes in my age group as the US. Where have all the old gals and guys gone? Not to triathlon every one, though a Canadian woman took gold in my age group in the sprint. The US was also quite well represented in the younger age groups, especially on the male side. Only in the Elites did I see dominance by other countries. The kid I talked to in our hotel lobby said he was the second fastest American but didn’t make the showing he wanted. (The Elites, by the way, get a different warm-up jacket with a red yoke and a large “USA” in white – very nice!)

• Triathlons in Austin are better organized and better conducted than Worlds in Budapest, and there’s only so much you can blame on the language barrier. I talked with an American woman in my age group who had been in Vancouver a few years ago. She said it was chaotic there. No wonder the World Triathlon Corporation, owner of the Ironman® symbol, is giving the International Triathlon Union a run for its money. For the Olympic race on Sunday, it was raining so hard that volunteers didn’t show up early enough to put out cones for the bike course. The first wave was the Juniors. The fastest four got hopelessly lost on the narrow, winding streets of downtown Buda (west of the Danube) and couldn’t finish the race. A high school senior from Corpus was one of the seven who got stranded overnight in Frankfurt with me, so I heard the whole story first hand. The most ironic part is that when the four kids realized they didn’t know where to go, they saw an official on a motorcycle coming toward them. He then made a U-turn in front of them and looked back at them. Wouldn’t you also assume that he intended to lead you through the course? Not so. The guy sped up and peeled off after a couple of miles. The four kids biked around aimlessly and finally stumbled upon the run course. It’s also ironic that the weather cleared up beautifully about mid-morning, so later waves enjoyed sunny, blue skies and had to apply sunscreen. If only the Juniors had started later, this kid might have gone home with a medal. He showed a lot of maturity by taking the loss in stride. It probably helped that one of the service academies is trying to recruit him for their triathlon team.

• Athletes and volunteers from all countries are kind, helpful, and encouraging to each other. I didn’t see any cut-throat competition, at least not in my waves of 55+ women, and I didn’t hear any complaints from younger athletes. Sportsmanship prevails, no matter what uniform you’re wearing. If you make an effort to say “Thank you” in the language you think they speak, they’re even more accepting. (I recognized a French accent from a volunteer on the bike course and called out “Merci!” I got “Avec plaisir!” back, not just “De rien.”) Since there were hardly any Hungarian spectators along the courses, the only cowbelling was from athletes, volunteers, friends, and family members. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN!!) I gotta say, though, that there’s no thrill quite like the one you get when a buff young Hungarian guy passes you on the bike and shouts, “Go, KellEEE!” I pedaled my heart out, but I just couldn’t catch him. Hey, so what if it was a pity cheer. I’ll take it!

• ITU officials were everywhere on the bike course, and were they ever diligent about enforcing the no-drafting rule! The penalty boxes were clearly marked with white paint on the pavement (one near the end of the bike course for those caught during the first loop and one near the beginning of the run course for those caught on the second loop). Since my sprint wave started last and I’m so slow anyway, I didn’t actually see anyone serving time in the penalty box, but on Sunday I overheard a some Elite Australian Olympians complaining about penalties.

• Time cut-offs aren’t as important at Worlds as I had anticipated. At the aquathlon pre-race meeting, I asked if we had to finish within a certain time and was told, “No.” They let me finish and that’s the only way I got the medal. I was much slower than the 77-year-old who won her age group. For the sprint, I was told in no uncertain terms that the cut-off of 2:25:00 would be enforced, but it wasn’t. Just before I turned onto the Chain Bridge less than one-tenth of a mile from the run finish on the Pest side of the Danube, I heard an official on a motorcycle say my name and bib number (2507) on his walkie-talkie. I almost held out my wrists for the handcuffs, but he didn’t pull me off the course. The two or three people behind me were also allowed to finish but the third American (last year’s gold medalist) was listed with a DNF. I didn’t hang around to see if these folks got a finisher’s medal.

Other factors weren’t surprising at all:

• Paratriathletes continue to be the most inspiring people out there, to me at least. I don’t care if there are only a few competitors in each of the five categories (depending on loss of one or two legs, an arm, sight, hearing, or whatever). They cope with their loss, they train, they manage a lot more equipment than anyone else, they show up, they finish. They also rely on and trust their support team to do for them what they can’t do for themselves. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN). In the Budapest airport on my way home, I talked with a Canadian above-knee amputee and her husband, who also races as an age grouper. She had lost her leg to an IED in Iraq, but since she was a triathlete before the injury, she was determined to be a triathlete afterwards. I hadn’t known that most paras are encouraged to race only the sprint, not the Olympic, and I hadn’t known that above-knee amputees can’t stand in the pedals to go faster. The most heart-breaking para story that I observed happened Sunday on the Olympic bike course. A young Brazilian guy whose right arm was missing had a flat on his back tire – I heard the pop – and pulled over. Fighting tears with a brave face, he leaned his bike against his body and pinched the tire with his left thumb and fingers. He shook his head and started pushing the bike along the course. There was no way he could make the repair himself. Since I was only a spectator, I wasn’t allowed to help him either. I hope the official heading toward him called a mechanic, but I don’t know what happened to him. His race may have been over, as it was for several people that day.

• Racing is racing, no matter where it takes place. If you can race in Austin, you can race at Worlds. You might have to jump into very cold water, you might have to race in the rain, you might not have the hills you like, you might have to jump over potholes in the street, you might not have many spectators to cheer you on (THANK YOU, CAROLYN), you might not know any of the other racers, you might not get a chance to look at the historic buildings along the course, you might be tired and cranky from loss of sleep and strange food, and you might have all kinds of problems, but you can do it. If you love the swim or the bike or the run or all three in Austin, you’ll love them at Worlds. If you can do things that are hard for you in Austin, you can do them at Worlds. If you’re a racer here, you’re a racer everywhere. Go for it!

• Representing the USA is just as much of a thrill as I’d thought it would be. Wearing the colors, bringing home the medals, cheering for other Americans, embracing the freedom our country provides where even old ladies can get out and do crazy things – I’ll remember these details forever. I had a minor disappointment that the Parade of Nations didn’t take place as I had envisioned. The athletes didn’t march in a stadium the way they do at the Olympics. Instead, Hungarian volunteers carried the flag and a poster bearing the country’s name across the room where the athletes were milling about while rock music from each country played for a minute or so. It was hard to see anything in the crowd. I wish I had counted the number of flags, but it felt like 40-50, more than I had originally thought. And rock may be our most influential export. Who’d a thunk?

• Did I mention that this is a very long race report? You might want to take a break before the aquathlon story.

The Aquathlon: Wednesday, September 8, 1:00 p.m.


I’m so glad this race didn’t start first thing in the morning because I might not have made it. The day was dreary, overcast, and (to my Austin bones) chilly. There were rumors that the officials would shorten the race by lopping off the first 2.5K run because the water was cold enough to REQUIRE a wetsuit. It’s one thing to run, swim, run in decent weather, but quite another when the water is really cold. I couldn’t imagine cramming even a slightly sweaty body into a wetsuit. When we were bused from the hotel to the race site Tuesday afternoon for the pre-race meeting and packet pick-up (both of which were totally disorganized), we heard that the rumored change was official. We were to swim only 1000 meters and run 2.5K. I was grateful I could take my time getting into my wetsuit and grateful to be reasonably warm before the race. That was a relief, and so was the good news that no time cut-off would be enforced. However, there were a few glitches.

The first glitch was that my race packet contained no chip. There was no bib either, but then no one got a bib. (On race day, we were body marked.) I was told to come back just before the race the next day to get my chip, but Carolyn marched me to the information desk to get things straightened out then and there. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN). A volunteer who spoke much better English than the one who sang “Tomorrow, tomorrow,” so to speak, actually got me a chip and a race number – 612. When I got to the transition area on race day, there was no marker on the rack for 612, so I placed my shoes, socks, running hat, and transition towel in an empty spot beside # 611. This turned out to be okay, but it really felt strange to set up my transition area with racks but no bikes.

The second glitch was the water temperature in Lagymanyosi Bay just off the Danube River. Rumors were flying all over as to whether it was 12 degrees Celsius, 13 degrees, or 14 degrees. Carolyn assured me it was only a little colder than Barton Springs, low sixties, where I had trained several times with Tri Zoners. If I had grasped that even the warmest number being circulated was 57.2 degrees Fahrenheit, the inside of my wetsuit might have gone chocolate with fear. For sparing me the truth and encouraging me to start the race, THANK YOU, CAROLYN.

We got a short “warm-up” swim which took my breath away, and not from excitement. It felt icy! The water looked a bit like the lake at the Texas Ski Ranch – you couldn’t see anyone’s bubbles or even your own hands – but it was clay-ish green, like cold split pea soup. I don’t think I’ll ever know what possessed me to stay on that pontoon and jump BACK into that water. I knew it was cold. I know I don’t like cold water. (In southern Chile, Shannon and I chased ill-tempered llamas to avoid jumping into cold water!) I thought I’d have trouble breathing. I guess I just got caught up in the moment. Thank goodness the race started immediately. By the way, the ITU skips the “Get set” part and goes from “On your mark” to the blast of the starting horn. I was a little surprised and stayed by the pontoon for a few seconds, but then I never go out with the others.

What can I say about the swim? It was tougher than I could have imagined. I went out too fast, of course, in a desperate attempt to get warm. For each and every one of those 1000 meters, I was cold. The skin on my bare arms was stinging. Nearly everyone else had long sleeves. (Note to self if there’s ever a next time: Purchase long sleeved suit.) But here’s the mystery – if I was so cold, how come my goggles fogged up so thoroughly? For about three-quarters of the race, I couldn’t see a thing. I missed the two buoys we were to swim through near the swim exit. A kayaker had to herd me toward them. I made a U-turn and probably added 20-30 meters to my swim. The whole time, I was too terrified to stop and clear my goggles. I have no words to explain why. Maybe I was afraid that if I stopped, I wouldn’t get started again. Maybe I was afraid I’d sink. I certainly wasn’t rational. I doubt many of us were. It’s blooming crazy to get into water that cold!

There were only two things to be grateful for on that swim: The first is that it was finally over, and the second is that my legs and feet didn’t knot up painfully until near the end. Those last 60-70 meters were arms only. When I tried to stand and hobble out of the water, my legs wouldn’t hold me up. I fell a couple of times and had to crawl toward the grass. It was very, very green. I focused on its lush softness. (By the way, ITU provides no handsome firemen, or anyone else for that matter, to pull people out of the water.) By the time I finally got vertical and in motion, I was certain I had torn my right calf muscle. There was horizontal pain toward the lower end of the big gastrocnemius bulge. I never go fast to my transition area, but this time I really limped. The struggle to get out of my wetsuit and into my socks and shoes, however, distracted me from the pain, so I decided to set forth as best I could. Besides, the air temperature felt a bit chilly so I needed to warm up.

One thing you can always count on about a run is this – no matter how crappy you feel at first, no matter how much you think something hurts, no matter how discouraged you are, no matter how much that little devil on your shoulder tells you to quit, you ALWAYS feel better – eventually – if you can just listen to the angel on the other shoulder that tells you to keep on putting one foot in front of the other. Pick ‘em up, put ‘em down. Pick ‘em up, put ‘em down. Just do it. Just keep moving. You’ll feel better sooner or later, if not now, then surely “Tomorrow, tomorrow.” By the end of the run, I felt almost okay.

I’m certain I was the last one out of the water and the last one off the run course. Fortunately, it was a loop, so I saw a couple of other slow ladies to cheer for. One of them (in a red uniform, maybe a Canadian) looked to be in worse shape than I was – pronounced limp, grimace, side lean, one fist clenched to her abdomen – all signs of trouble. But she kept moving. With that example, how could I quit? I mean, really! I think I kept going to honor her spirit. Besides, the run was only a mile and a half. Surely, I could do it if Shirley the Canadian could. (Wouldn’t it be funny if that was her name?) So the worst thing about the run was that I did it, and the best thing about that run was that I did it. I did warm up a little, and most of my cramped leg and foot muscles relaxed enough to make locomotion possible.

When the aquathlon was finally over, I was ready to curl up in a warm bed, but Carolyn gave me my warm, dry after-race clothes (THANK YOU, CAROLYN) and then suggested that we hike over to race headquarters and look at the results. Since the start lists weren’t posted ahead of time, I had no idea how many people were in my age group. When Carolyn pointed out that I was listed as the first (I just now deleted “and only” because I’m not allowed to mention that fact ever again), I was so dazed I couldn’t really take it in. She walked me over to a nearby eatery and we had a late lunch while waiting for the awards ceremony which was to start at 4:30. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

Climbing up on that podium and receiving the gold medal nearly did me in. I may have plastered a huge smile on my face, but I was holding back too many emotions to list. Joy finally triumphed, and I suddenly found myself very proud to be a 72-year-old American standing in Budapest near the Danube River with tangible proof of a world title for the USA around my neck. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of other people could have taken that title, but I’m the one who dressed out and showed up and finished. It counts just as much for the USA as gold in a 100-person wave. Now, there’s no reason to take pride in my time of 1:07:10, but there’s every reason to be proud of showing up and finishing. THANK YOU, CAROLYN. I couldn’t have done that race without you.

Now would be a good time to take a break because the sprint story is next. Did I mention just how long this report is? Do you believe me now?

The Sprint Triathlon: Saturday, September 11, 8:20 a.m.

If I amazed myself by finishing that tough aquathlon, I absolutely astonished myself with the sprint triathlon, but not in the way you might think. The astonishing part is how my mind functioned – not very darned well. I would be ashamed of myself if I hadn’t subsequently learned so much about how my brain works. Massage therapists talk about “referred pain” and never rub you where you say it hurts. I think I experienced “referred fear.” It was too scary to think about the cold water and the leg cramping, so I distracted myself by worrying about the time limit.

When I found out after arriving in Budapest that my wave would start at 8:20 and that the course would close at 10:45, I began fretting about making the time cut-off of 2:25:00. I had never raced that fast in my life. On Thursday, I asked several 55+ US women what happens when an athlete is pulled off the course. They looked at me skeptically but couldn’t tell me because this had never happened to them. Fine! On Friday, I found a USAT person and asked. He assured me that the time limit was in effect and that I’d probably be driven back to the race start. Great! That news made me start worrying about how and where to meet Carolyn since she would be at the run finish. My cell got no service and neither did hers. Peachy!

My brain trolley went off the tracks. Silently, I griped and whined that I had stated my expected finish time as 2:40:00 on my team application form. Then I sniveled to myself that USAT shouldn’t have invited me to join the team if I would just get myself disqualified. I wished I’d never heard of Budapest. I wanted to go home. The pity party was in full swing, but only inside my head. On Friday evening, I finally got up the nerve to talk to Carolyn about it. I went on and on about whether to start, when to scratch, what to do, where to meet if I DQ’ed. Whine, whine, whine. She was very, very patient with me. She knew a bad case of nerves when she saw one. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

To backtrack a moment in further praise of Carolyn, on either Wednesday or Thursday, we had cruised through the booths at the Expo where she advised me to get a neoprene skull cap to keep my head warmer for the sprint. That should have comforted me. She also pointed out that the air and water temperatures were warming up a bit and that the prediction was for more warming by Saturday. That should have been good news. She mentioned that the sprint swim was 250 meters shorter than the aquathlon swim. That should have made me feel better. (THANK YOU FOR TRYING, CAROLYN.)

But no! I was determined to see my pout through to the bitter end. Finally, on Friday night I got out a pen and paper and added up what I remembered of my typical race times. If I did the swim in 33 minutes, which I’ve occasionally done before, finished the bike in an hour (only 12 mph, which I’ve usually done), and completed the run in 50 minutes (difficult but maybe do-able if the calf cramp subsided), I stood a ghost of a chance of making it, or so I thought. When I expressed this happy conclusion to Carolyn, she calmly and confidently said, “You can do it.” (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

After a welcome nanosecond of utter euphoria, some cold, hard truths asserted themselves – I hadn’t included T1 and T2, I hadn’t factored in my still very painful calf muscle, and I hadn’t even thought about the cold, cold water. Danger, danger, Will Robinson! Distraction! Distraction! Don’t think about the water! Don’t think about the leg pain! So I resumed my silent worries about the time cut-off as I went to bed the night before the race.

I wish I could say that I was smart enough at that moment to recognize the “referred fear,” but only yesterday and today have I admitted to myself that I wasn’t so afraid of the cold water itself but of what it might do to me. I believe now that I was flat out scared to death of cramping and injuring my leg even more, thus ending my so-called athletic career. I’ve only just begun to race. Three years aren’t enough. May I have just a few more, please, please, please?

So on race morning, I was still stewing. Although I was going through some of the proper motions – dressing out in full uniform, gathering up my gear, visualizing my transition spot, eating a good breakfast, putting on my game face – I was worried and it showed. Carolyn told me that I was a big girl and that I could call it if I wanted to. No one was going to make me race. Others had already scratched. That was exactly the right thing to say. Just as the bus was about to arrive at the race site, I told her, “I think I want to start the race.” I figured I’d take it leg by leg and see how far I could go. She probably made some encouraging reply, but I was so into my own stuff that I don’t actually recall it. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

What I do remember is that she took me through a checklist just before I entered the swim start check-in. “What are you going to do?” she repeatedly asked. I said I would start, I would go out slow, I would go wide, and things like that. I had defogged my goggles to within an inch of their lives, so I hoped I’d be able to see the buoys. Then she reminded me to sight often, sight often, sight often. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

We didn’t get a “warm-up” swim. That plunge into the water felt really, really icy, but it was the last one I would have to do in Budapest. Before I knew it, the horn sounded. I followed my strategy as best I could, but I had trouble catching my breath. The water was no colder than it had been on Wednesday, but the humidity index felt much higher and it actually started sprinkling before I got on the bike course. Five or six times, I had to breast stroke for a moment and get a good breath. Once, I even thought about turning over on my back, but I hadn’t practiced that in a wetsuit. Fortunately, my goggles let me see the buoys, and I didn’t go very far off course.

A digression recounting the experience of Margaret, who is 73 and took gold last year for the USA, will drive home just how brutal that swim was. Though admitting that swimming is her least favorite part of triathlon, she has always managed to finish. After the race, she told me that throughout the swim she wasn’t sure she was going to make it. Early in the swim, she turned over on her back and looked around for the rescue boat. It was nowhere in sight. So she paddled on, using more breast stroke than free style because she couldn’t catch her breath. Many of us had trouble breathing. She said the shoreline was looking mighty good, but there was a seawall that would have been difficult for her to climb. For the second time she tried to find the rescue boat. No luck. She struggled on. Three more times she turned over on her back and fully expected the rescue boat to come pull her out. Each time, she had to say a few curse words, which I won’t repeat, and make the decision to keep going. She swears she was the last person out of the water, but I didn’t know it at the time. I really admire her determination!

My swim exit was a tiny bit more graceful than it had been on Wednesday, and I don’t think I fell down at all. I think Carolyn called out my swim split to me, but I can’t remember it now. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.) The slog up the hill to my bike felt much longer and wetter than it did for the aquathlon. I saw drowned worms, little gray-pink squiggles, everywhere in the grass. When I reached my bike, I was astonished to see that a couple of bikes were still racked. One was Margaret’s. I took no comfort from this because she had said she was a strong biker. I fully expected her to catch me. If you’ve ever seen an old lady futz around and hurry at the same time, you know what I was going through. I whipped on my bandanna, helmet, and camelback and didn’t even bother with socks. I just stepped into those sopping bike shoes and pulled on the Velcro like the young fry. Then I ran at least an eighth of a mile in ankle deep mud before reaching the mount line. Fortunately, I forgot all about calf pain.

When I took off on the bike, I went slowly at first on slick pavement in the rain and then a bit faster when I realized I probably wouldn’t fall any more often than usual. No one but slow second-loopers were still out there, so I took advantage of their familiarity with the course and watched as they navigated around puddles, manhole covers, and assorted debris. Not once did I look back for Margaret, but I expected her to whiz past at any moment. She didn’t.

When I finally got my legs under me and saw that the gears and brakes worked fine, I realized I’d probably finish the bike unless something horrible happened. Suddenly, about half way through the first loop, I experienced one of those moments of elation. Utter euphoria flowed through me. I was all by myself on the streets of Budapest, wearing a TeamUSA uniform and racing for the sheer joy of it. It’s a good thing my glasses were streaked with rain so no one could see the tears as I talked to my late mother and father. Then I talked to each of my four wonderful children. I talked to my nine lovely grandchildren. I may even have whooped and hollered just a little, quietly, of course. Never before have I had such an intense sense of pleasure during a race. (Not getting eliminated first on "The Amazing Race" comes close.) Hanging on to that feeling will get me through many unpleasant things that may happen during the rest of my life. It was magic. The second loop was just a blur.

Then came the humongously long run into T2. It was at least a quarter of a mile on slick grass and mud. With drowned worms everywhere. In the rain. I could almost feel Margaret and another couple of 55+ women on my heels. I probably appeared to be stepping on hot coals. However, I took the time to put on socks. Despite the plastic bag I’d used, they were damp to wet from the get-go. Then on the way to run out, I sloshed through ankle deep mud, and they were really wet. The bad news is that those shoes still stink to high heaven. The good news is that I didn’t see Margaret and the others.

Somehow, I started the run pretty well. I felt good. I didn’t even think about pain. After all, I had gone to Medical on Thursday and had had a very painful chiropractic treatment. I’d also engaged the hotel masseuse for an equally painful massage because the poor little girl had no idea what she was doing. But oh well. I had done what I could to take care of myself. Now it was all up to me, or so I thought.

The run course was right beside the Danube River, which wasn’t blue at all, by the way. It looked like the same cold split pea soup as Lagymanyosi Bay, only with swift currents and large barges. Despite the rain and the scarcity of marker cones, the run was actually very nice. I just trucked along, trying to remember my technique mantras – shoulders back, head up, quick feet, high knees, relaxed shoulders, loose hands. I passed one bridge, two bridges, three bridges, and became a little concerned that I wouldn’t recognize the bridge I was supposed to use to cross the river to the Pest side. Then I remembered it was the Chain Bridge, which would be blocked off from traffic. The fourth bridge had traffic flowing. Rats! Hope it’s the next one.

All of a sudden, I heard my name and looked up. There on a street lane higher than the one I was on appeared Carolyn. She shouted encouragement. She ran just ahead of me and kept calling out to me. When our paths converged, she ran right beside me. I couldn’t have been happier. She came out of nowhere just as I was getting really tired and sloppy in technique. She helped me sooooo much! The race wasn't just up to me any longer – Carolyn was there to help! (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

Just before I turned onto the Chain Bridge toward the finish, I risked a quick glance back and saw Margaret and a German woman about 50 to 75 yards behind me. If I didn’t fall down or screw up big time, and if they didn’t have a huge finishing sprint in them, I wouldn’t be the last person out there. Then along came the official on the motorcycle who I thought would pull me and the others off the course. But he didn’t! He didn’t! I was allowed to cross the finish line!

The whole race finish is a bit of a blur. I was dimly aware of loud music and the voice of an announcer, but I couldn’t spare any cycles for listening. A couple of numbers, “two twenty-seven” something penetrated my brain, and I figured that was my time. I didn’t make the cut-off, but I stayed ahead of those two women. The German put on a great sprint and came in just a few seconds after me, but I don’t know how much farther back Margaret was. All I knew was that I finished third in my age group and bested last year’s gold medalist and a younger German. That was enough for me.

After I’d gotten a blanket, some water, and a banana, Carolyn found me and started walking me to the barge that would take us along the Danube and back to the transition area. She asked a question I couldn’t comprehend. I must have said something brilliant, like “Huh?” because she repeated the question: “Did you hear what the announcer said when you finished?” Well, not really. “He said you got bronze.” What? What? It can’t be. I missed the time cut-off. “That’s what he said.” At that point, I lost control of myself. I broke down like a baby. I cried and whimpered and screamed and behaved as I hadn’t done in 65 years. She pulled my head down to her shoulder and patted me on the back. (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

I don’t know how long I was in that state of helpless, wide-open gratitude mixed with elation and disbelief. The next thing I knew, we were standing in line to get on the barge, and I suddenly realized that Carolyn was dripping wet and probably very cold. She wouldn’t take my blanket and she wouldn’t take my place under the awning. She insisted on taking care of me. Not many people have done that for me in the past 65 years. If I ever hear a rumor that Carolyn is even thinking of saying “Frog,” I’ll start jumping before I know how high. Whatever Carolyn wants, Carolyn gets. Yes, I know I’m being obnoxious, but so what? I owe this girl, who’s the age of my oldest daughter, far more than I can ever repay, but that’s not going to stop me from trying. So there! (THANK YOU, CAROLYN.)

The remainder of Saturday is vague in my mind. Somehow, we got my bike and gear out of transition, and Carolyn wheeled it a mile or so to the bus that would take us back to the hotel. I’m pretty sure I spent the afternoon in bed under a thick duvet trying to get warm, while Carolyn went shopping. We must have eaten lunch and dinner. I think Carolyn took my bike to Jack for break down and boxing because the job got done. She must have packed to leave at the crack of dawn on Sunday. I can’t swear to anything.

All afternoon, two refrains chased themselves through my mind – “I didn’t cripple myself. Yay!” and “They’ll never give me the bronze. I missed the cut-off.” It took reading the USAT press release that night, which clearly listed me as the bronze medalist, to convince myself that it actually happened. In a strange way, I find myself happier about the bronze than the gold because in my mind the bronze validates the gold. I raced for that third place, while I considered the aquathlon a test case for the sprint. Among amateur aquathletes in my age group, however, the gold means on that particular day in that particular race I was the best in the world because I showed up and finished. Now, if I ever find a professional aquathlete in my age group who raced that day, I’ll surrender the medal, but I’m not holding my breath. There aren’t many who make a living at triathlon, let alone aquathlon. If it weren’t for age groupers, there would be no USAT and no ITU, so let’s celebrate the triumph of amateur hour. Long may it sing in the hearts of wanna-be and gonna-be athletes!

Sunday after Carolyn left, I felt disorganized and almost lonesome, so I went out to the race site and watched some of the Olympic age group swim starts. On the long walk there, I saw the Brazilian paratriathlete who had the flat tire. The sun came out, the skies turned blue, the temperature warmed up, and I enjoyed sitting in the sun and feeling my damp clothes drying. I sympathized with the couple of swimmers who abandoned the race because I could so easily have been one of them on Wednesday, Saturday, or both. I was very, very lucky that I didn’t get into serious distress. I rather admired a man in the 55+ wave from Sweden. He did what Margaret thought about doing. He struggled to the seawall and pulled himself out of the water. This set off all kinds of alarms among the rescue community, and about seven EMT folks rushed to his side with a wheelchair, blankets, IV equipment, and such. He waved them off with obvious irritation, and they finally left him alone. He sat there on the seawall for at least half an hour, no doubt taking care of himself mentally and emotionally since he didn’t need any physical help. Tough race.

When I got hungry for lunch, I went back to the hotel and then decided to take a nap since all the stores were closed on Sunday. Though shopping is at the bottom of my skills assessment, I thought I’d try to find a few things to bring home. Alas, it was not to be. So I made a feeble attempt to dry some of my clothes before packing for the trip home. Thanks to an unexpected overnight in Frankfurt, I may have to throw away the moldiest socks and some stinky shoes. But not the TeamUSA clothing. That’s all salvageable.

As for the closing awards ceremony Sunday night, I wouldn’t have gone if I hadn’t wanted my shiny object. Both the opening ceremony and this one would have been pretty disappointing if I’d expected anything. Chaos reigned. As it was, I stayed only long enough to collect my loot and to ask a bystander to snap a picture of me with the US silver medalist in sprint, Pattie. (Her time was astonishingly better than mine – 1:54 something to my 2:27:30.)

My main take-aways from this experience are pretty important to me, if to no one else in the world. I learned a lot about myself. I found out that I’m stronger and tougher than I thought I was. The word “wimp” is no longer in my vocabulary. I discovered that I hide my real fears under a layer of superficial worries. Well, emotional honesty and strength are lifelong pursuits, aren’t they? I found out that I’m hard to take care of, partly because I’m so butt-headed. Before I become confined to a wheelchair or whatever my end-of-life situation turns out to be, I’ll work on listening to caregivers and learning to accept their help graciously.

On an even more positive note, I reaffirmed that I do love to race. I learned that I have ambitions of going faster and longer, even if it’s only by two seconds and two centimeters. I found out that it’s possible to develop a little bit of self-confidence despite a lifetime of self-doubt.

If I had known in advance what it would be like, would I still have gone to Budapest? In a heartbeat! Will I go again? That depends on whether I qualify and whether I can save up enough money because I really don’t want to do another fundraiser. I’ve asked far too much from friends and family already! However, I certainly hope this isn’t my last Worlds. If it is, then I’m really glad I participated. The whole shebang is that all of the she-banging (the injuries, the difficulties – not what you’re thinking!) was worth it. Triathlon has not seen the last of me. Not by a long shot!

A final note to those who like to plan well in advance – Worlds is in Beijing next year and New Zealand in 2012. ("Tomorrow, tomorrow.") Start planning and saving your pennies, folks, because most of the older Americans I talked to said they'll skip Beijing because they’re afraid of the air pollution. My take is that if Olympic athletes and Amazing Racers could do it, age groupers probably can too, only more slowly. Besides, my granddaughter spent a semester there and kept up her outdoor running without permanent damage.

Congratulations! We've finally reached the end of this report. If you’ve stayed with me, thank you (“sheh-sheh” in Chinese). See you at the races. And one more time, THANK YOU, CAROLYN!