Triathlon: An Unexpected Ending
by Rowan Beck,
August 25, 2011, page 9....

Rowan Beck trained this summer and qualified for the USA Triathlon Sprint Nationals held in Burlington on August 20. The Sprint included a 750-meter swim, a 20k bike ride and a 5k run. This is the third in a series of articles she’s written about her triathlon experiences.

The USA Triathlon event that took place in Burlington on Saturday was more than just a one-day race. Thursday night, anticipation burning a hole in my chest, I went to pick up my number. Pulling into the parking lot at the Sheraton, the host hotel, I began to think I might be in over my head. The athletes reminded me of the muscle pictures in biology textbooks. Their bikes were futuristic, aerodynamic machines. One had wheels like LP records. Their helmets looked like they belonged in Alien.
Overwhelmed, I took a deep breath and entered the conference hall. Names and numbers were listed on white sheets of paper taped to the wall. I was number 2,774. I swallowed hard thinking there must be a mistake – there couldn’t possibly be that many participants. I walked to the tables in the back looking for my section. I was banded like a fledgling bird and told to keep the band on until after Saturday. I was sent to another table to pick up my chip. The young man behind the table spoke like a warden. “Name, number, ID?” He handed me a bracelet reminiscent of something one might receive under house arrest. Too afraid to ask where it went, I hovered near the table until someone else did. It was for the ankle.
Friday I took my bike to “transition,” the area where I would be changing for each event. The racks seemed endless – the grassy parks of the waterfront had become awash in metal. There were two transition areas, one for the Olympic distance and one for the sprint. Athletes were milling around, getting their bikes ready for Saturday. It took 15 minutes of wandering up and down rows of numbered racks to find my space. I racked my bike, removed my timer and kissed it good night. Butterflies were building as I walked away. This event was huge – what was I doing here? Then I heard another racer shout, “Hey Shelburne Triathlon girl! You ready?” I smiled, and we talked briefly about the race.
Race day the waterfront was buzzing with racers. Time seemed to drag. I kept looking at my watch to see if it was time to eat or move into transition; I wasn’t racing until 12:46 p.m. Finally 11:30 came, my time to enter the transition area to set up my towel, shoes and race belt, and pump up my tires. I slipped into my wetsuit, asked Rayne Herzog, my coach, for any last-minute advice. He looked at me, smiled, and said, “have fun.” I gave him a hug, took a deep breath, looked inside, put my head down and walked to the boathouse where I would jump in the water. No one was really talking, we were just standing, waiting to get in the water. My wave was the last. We were cleared and told we would have to tread water for four minutes before we could move into position. One by one we plopped into the water.
We were told to line up; I couldn’t find a good position. I moved close to the dock but couldn’t get away from the other swimmers. The horn blew and we were off. My mind was empty, not one single thought, then BOOM, someone ran into me. I backed off. Moments later the same guy ran into me again. A string of four-letter words ran through my head, and I moved further to the outside. My father’s voice came into my head: “Settle it down. Slow it down. Breathe. Find your mark.”
Before I knew it, I was out of the water. I sprinted to the transition area, passing racers and ripping at my wetsuit. I wriggled out and threw on my bike shoes. Again I heard my father’s coaching words. I flew out of the transition area and onto my bike. The course was fast, hilly and short, an all-out sprint. I was having fun and enjoying passing people.
I was going 34.8 mph with two miles left when it happened. I was feeling really good, screaming down Pine Street, avoiding potholes and thinking about my next pass. There was a loud SNAP, then another pothole. I lost control of my bike. I heard Rayne’s voice in my head telling me to relax. I thought, “This is going to really hurt.” I closed my eyes, unclipped my feet and accepted I was going to crash. I launched over my handlebars and went head first into the curb, cracking my helmet. I didn’t stop there; I bounced backward into the middle of the street. As I lay there, eyes squeezed shut, I heard other bikes as they zipped by. I opened my eyes as more bikes passed and whispered, “Help.” I could barely raise my arm. Not one athlete stopped. I can let that go, but not even a shout, “Biker down needs assistance!”
My father must have been looking out for me because suddenly a man with arms like Tarzan was with me. “What’s your name?” he asked. I couldn’t answer. Then he said, holding my hand, “How can I help you?” “Can you just hold on to me for right now?” I whimpered, my entire body shaking. “I got you.” He yelled for help, which got everyone’s attention. I don’t know who he was. He wasn’t a volunteer, just a spectator from Rutland who came to watch. I asked his name but I can’t remember it, which is common with a head injury. He kept holding me and didn’t let go until the rescue squad arrived with the ambulance.
Soon there was a lot of commotion. I was frustrated because I couldn’t remember anyone’s name. I just wanted to go home. My body felt like it was being stabbed with millions of needles, and I was beginning to cramp up. I had gone from what seemed like 100 to zero miles per hour in about 15 seconds, and I couldn’t stop shaking. I thought I was going to throw up. The questions were dizzying, I couldn’t focus, and I was beginning to lose my composure. I don’t even remember the ambulance arriving. I was put on a backboard, in a collar, and sent to Fletcher Allen Health Care.
The care I received was amazing. I felt like Dorothy from Oz as I look back at how many people came to help. The rescue squad was kind enough to put my bike in the ambulance with me and got special permission to bring it into the room. I’m happy to report that I’m okay, nothing a little rest can’t heal; however, I look like I fought with a cheese grater and lost. I think I came through my crash okay due to proper training, learning how to relax, proper equipment and because somebody upstairs was looking out for me. My season is most likely over, but I will get back out there. Triathlons are fun, and I’m hooked. I’ve already been online to see when the next one starts.