Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Laney
Is Na’an Stop
I wake with a gasp. If I didn’t know better, I’d assume I was late for my final exam and just burst into the auditorium naked.
But no, it’s 4:03 a.m. and my alarm is set to go off in a minute.
With a relieved sigh, I grab my phone, preemptively turn off the alarm, and let my arms flop to my sides.
A year ago, I was waking up in this same bed, in this same room, getting ready for the same race.
But unlike a year ago, I feel like a completely different athlete. Or, at least one who has leveled up her game.
Just a few miles south, Miguel is waking up and starting his pre-race routine.
His herniated disc was mild and for the last three weeks he’s done the physical therapy and continued his training with a few modifications.
And he still cooked for me like he wasn’t injured at all.
His physical therapist cleared him for the race today with clear follow-up instructions.
Waking up in my own bed for the Chicago TP today brings a swirl of emotions all fueled by adrenaline. I know the route like the back of my hand, it’s the same trails, roads, and water I’ve been training on with Miguel.
And this year, I have two TitaniumPerson finishes under my race belt.
One of them being the third fastest on record.
It still feels wild to call that stat my own.
My ranking catapulted and I am running with the elites today. My results here in Chicago will be added to my pro card tally but it feels less dire to earn points today.
I’m not desperate like I was before. The urgency isn’t lighting a fire under my ass this morning, but the drive to compete is still there. I’m excited to hit the starting line this morning.
A quick cold shower wakes me up completely and I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“You’re insane.” Dee says when I step out in my wetsuit, crocs, and sweatshirt.
“I’m aware. You made a new sign?” I point to the folded up piece of cardboard she’s hugging to her chest.
“Yes, and you can’t see them yet.”
“Them?”
“Shit, I’m too sleepy to keep secrets, don’t ask me any more questions.”
I laugh. “Alright, let’s head out.”
Dee hands me the keys. “You drive.”
“Why?”
“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 would be 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.
The front has “LANEY” in big bold lettering with “is na’an stop!” under it.
They hosted a dinner for me and Miguel on Thursday night. They kept the spices to a minimum knowing how absolutely fucked your digestive system can get during these races.
I told them it hadn’t been a problem so far but Auntie Leepa said it would be a shame if the new outfit they bought me got poop stains on it.
“That’s my girl!” I hear and I look up to see Dee with her family along the transition lane. The sign she’s holding over her head says, Yay! You didn’t drown!
I laugh as I jog past them kicking my wetsuit down as I run.
Miguel helped me set up my bike last night, and I checked it all again this morning like I promised him I would. I didn’t knock anything over either!
Just as I left it, my helmet balanced on the saddle, sunglasses rubber banded to the handlebars, and a caffeine chew taped next to it. A satisfied smile stretches my cheeks and I inhale deeply as I clip into my helmet and pull my bike off the rack.
It rolls easily to the start line where I can mount and get my feet clicked into the shoes already clipped into the pedals. The whole transition feels smooth and even with my heartrate pounding in my chest, I feel calm.
Two and a half miles of swimming and the first transition are behind me.
My feet find the powerful cadence Miguel helped me master and I settle in for the one hundred and twelve mile bike ride up and down the lakefront.
RIDING IT
It’s almost laughable to think I felt satisfied after the swim.
The miles are taking their toll.
My ass is raw. My seat is no longer a bike saddle, it is a torture device meant to derail me. My butt is burning, my quads and hamstrings too, and my delts, lats, and trats take turns locking up.
But my watts have been in the ideal range and I choose to believe I still have juice in the tank.
Which is good because I don’t think I can stomach another artificial watermelon flavored gel. But somehow, the idea of actual food is worse.
The stretches of miles for the bike course are much less populated than the transition area and the marathon that will snake through the city. It makes this leg tougher to endure.
What I wouldn’t give for a funny Dee sign right now.
Mile 80 just clicked by, somehow the 32 miles to go don’t feel like a lot. My mind goes a little blank after realizing it’s still longer than the 26.2 I’ll be running next. I drop my head and watch my feet push and pull on the pedals.
Deja Brew is up ahead. I was on the far side of Lakeshore Drive on the way down but I saw the group of people gathered out front.
My stomach rebels at the thought of the carrot cake I love, but I’ll be back to eating it later this week. Already, my body is getting used to the rhythm of TP races and recovery and it gets a little easier after each race.
I hear a cowbell sounding off ahead and I lift my gaze.
I’m close enough to see Tony standing in the back of a pickup truck, wearing a blowup costume so it looks like he’s riding a dinosaur, ringing the bell.
Leaning against the truck is a giant spray painted piece of plywood saying Ride like the wind bullseye!
I smile and the small twitch of my facial muscles gives me a jolt of energy.
“Free carrot cake tomorrow!” He yells through a mega phone as I pass and my head drops with a laugh.
Before I know it, I’ve spun through the tall apartment buildings of the South Loop and break out onto Michigan Avenue before slightly turning right up Ida B.
Wells Drive, curling onto Columbus past Buckingham Fountain, to Monroe, to Lake Shore Drive, and am rolling towards the transition area again.