I finished my first triathlon on Saturday and if you have me added as a friend on myspace you are undoubtedly sick to death of hearing about it and are probably wishing that I would shut up or drown or at least get my toes run over by a bicycle during the next one.
I wouldn’t mention the whole thing again if it weren’t for the fact that I almost didn’t finish my first triathlon because I almost gave up and swam back to the beach because about seven minutes after the gun went off ye olde Evil Voice Inside My Head shook off its Zoloft hangover long enough to remind me that I was, in fact, terror-stricken.
Boy is that water murky.
Shut up Evil Voice.
Casket murky.
Thanks Hemingway, what the hell is that even supposed to mean?
It’s just, well, it’s dark down there. When you’re face down, you know, like in the water, swimming? Don’t you feel a little like you’re having something slammed shut in your face?
No.
Like a casket? Or a shroud?
That’s really sick.
Sure gives a whole new appreciation of the phrase “watery grave” doesn’t it?
Are you going to start in on that Jenny Greenteeth bullshit again?
Nah. But I bet being in it’s a lot like being buried.
Go to hell.
Well, that is, if being buried meant you couldn’t breathe. I guess in that sense the water is worse than a casket, huh? Because you know, you can’t breathe.
I’m a strong swimmer.
Suuuuuuuuure you are…
(A few silent moments during which I begin to hope the Evil Voice has succumbed to an adrenaline overdose.)
Woo boy! I bet there could be ten… fifteen… maybe even thirty bodies down there and you’d never know for all the murk.
Steph?
Steph?
Get lost. You’re not the boss of me.
Yeah, yeah. You’ve trained for this, blah-ta-te-blah-blah-blah.
Don’t you have anything better to do?
Better than this?
(Looks around. Kicks at my frontal lobe.)
No, not really. Hey! How’s your breathing?
Get lost…
I bet you’re feeling a little straved for air about now huh?
No.
Sure you are. Can’t breathe?
I’m breathing just fine thank you very much.
You know, just because nobody’s drowned in this event yet doesn’t mean there can’t be a first…
Gah! Shut up! I’m fine!
Are you? Sure you’re not having trouble breathing?
Yes.
Positive?
Yes.
Absolutely certain?
Oh honestly…
You’re panicking. I can see it. Here. Let’s get one of those medics in the kayaks.
Do that and I’ll…
You’ll what? You know you want out of here.
I’ll switch from Zoloft to Jack Daniels and Xanax cocktails.
Sure you will. Hey, what’s say we get out, dry off, catch a movie. What’s the point of this whole thing anyway? To prove that you’re better at not drowning than the next guy?
No.
Oh, yes. You’re outta here.
No.
Sure you are. Tell you what we’re gonna do… we’re going to flag down one of these kayaks, tell ‘em you need to get out of the water…
And that is when I had an honest-to-God, full-blown, hyperventilating-holy-shit-I-can’t-breathe-and-I-think-I’m-going-to-die panic attack right there in the middle of the water during which I blew several precious minutes floating on my back and trying to decide whether I would continue chasing the pack into deeper water or accept disqualification and drag my sorry ass back to the beach. The Evil Voice almost won. But that was before I started thinking – really thinking – about what it would be like to quit and how stupid I would feel once I was back on shore watching everyone else finish the swim and move on to the bike and run portions.
So I turned back over and continued even though all I really wanted to do was get out and run home where I could curl up in bed and suck my thumb.
A few weeks ago a friend of mine gave me a self-help book on coping with panic disorders. I have yet to read the book but the title popped into my head; Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway. It probably sounds stupid but I repeated that damned phrase to myself over and over and over and over again until the panic attack was over and all there was left to do was try to make up for time lost.
I set my peripheral vision on the strongest swimmer in the pack: a competitor whose wetsuit had an orcan stripe that gleamed white through the murk, and I kept my head down and stuck to her side until we made it back to shore.
Then I passed her and just about everyone else in my division on the bike.
(Pictured above: This is me on the verge of a total psychological meltdown.)
