***Sorry for the delay! I've been in a tamale coma for the past 2 days!
Back to the story:
I get on land and fix the damn timing strap on my ankle. I race to my stuff in transition and hunt through my giant bag for a shirt I had not planned on wearing. The shirt is in the very bottom of my gigantic bag, and under all kinds of useless crap. I put it on, but my helmet is already on. Shit!
I get on the bike. I'm getting passed like a little girl on training wheels. Shit! Even the fat girls are passing me on the bike (and by fat girls, I’m talking about the two hundred and fifty pounders who are all wearing tight spandex tri suits). Will this ever end, I ask myself? Then, I see BJ ahead of me by a few minutes. I am hopeful again. Seeing BJ has given me the hope I need to complete the race. She's safe. I'm safe. Husband is alive. Everything is okay again.
I finish the bike portion of the race. I get off the bike completely drenched in sweat. The shirt is hot and, thankfully, my boobs are still contained. I take the shirt off and head for the run.
I start running and one lady passes me. You are a marathoner; you can do this; beat her, I tell myself. You can beat all the fat girls that beat you on the bike, I tell myself. And, I do. I start passing the fat chicks. The race is almost over. I can hear the roar of the crowd as people finish. Thanks God! I turn the corner and kick it into gear. I finish strong! I'm alive-not injured. All is right with the world.
My first open water triathlon is over, and I didn't drown or crash on the bike. I'm so happy to be done.
Ten minutes later, I want a redo. I ask Husband when and where is our next race.
Then, it’s time for us to go back to BJ’s house and get ready for my friend's wedding at noon.