Sunday morning finds me with my feet in the sand and my heart beating fast. I focus on the serenity of my surroundings: Palm trees, salt water, white sand beaches. And 200 other people showing varying degrees of nervousness.
Fort DeSoto has always been a favorite spot of mine. Born and raised in St. Petersburg, I grew up climbing its cannons and wandering through the tunnels of the fort, running down the sandy beaches, riding my bike along the trails, searching for sand dollars in the salt water.
Today, though, I won’t have time to hunt for sand dollars on my swim and my bike ride will be a bit faster-paced too. My run will cross the finish line instead of the boundary of a campsite. I came to Fort DeSoto early this morning to race in the Top Gun Triathlon—my first tri in nearly a year and a half.
Because of coronavirus, gym closures and working from home became the norm. Our lifestyles became more sedentary, stress levels rose but most of all our healthy outlets were shut down. In a global pandemic—when it is more important than ever to maintain a healthy lifestyle—many things have gotten in the way of doing just that.
Not today.
Despite most races being canceled or rescheduled indefinitely, the Top Gun Triathlon pulled through. Logistics—road closures, extra pay for hired police officers and paramedics, the requirements of volunteers and more—mean race directors need a certain number of participants just to break even. Putting on a race takes a great deal of work under normal circumstances; with county ordinances mandating small numbers and limits to the number of participants permitted to sign up, most directors this past year have been forced to cancel their races.
I am pinching myself just to be here. There is an exceptional challenge in racing a tri, and it has been disappointing to have race after race cancelled.
My fellow participants seem just as excited to be here.
The swim portion is self-seeded today. This is different from pre-COVID races when large packs of swimmers gather at start line, and today we're entering the water in groups of just two people. I wander closer to the back of the pack. A middle-aged man with nipple piercings jokes that he only does triathlons so he can drink more beer, and I laugh along with him.
I have found my people.
I am nervous to the max, but when I look across the sand I see my boyfriend approaching. He came to see me off, and I couldn’t be more grateful. I dart over for a quick good luck kiss before getting back to my spot.
Soon it’s my turn. I think of my reasons for being here today as I charge out into the water: I am here because I want to be better than I used to be. I am here because I want to be healthy. Strong. Confident. I am here because I know I can’t wish away insecurities, fears, anxiety—but I can feel insecure and afraid and anxious, and then do the damn thing anyway.
I am here because I am an athlete. I may not break any records—but I sure as hell will tri.
The water is cold but invigorating and I don’t know whether it’s the temperature, the fact that I finally get to do a triathlon again, or the image of my boyfriend on shore but I have the best swim of any tri I’ve raced in. I stumble out of the water feeling dizzy, but happy. I shake the water from my ears and slog up the shore. One quarter-mile done; 13 to go.
At transition I rinse and dry my feet, hop on my bike and get ready for the next 10 miles. There are a lot of strong athletes out here, and I get passed by a handful of elites. Still, though, I hold my own and am able to pass several other riders. My breath is rapid but as I reach midway I look across the clearing and see nothing but diamond-studded waters and the Sunshine Skyway Bridge. Miles of paradise. I cheer out a few hoots and despite not getting any reply from fellow racers, I feel good.
This is living.
When I reach transition for the second time, I down an energy gel, peel off my helmet and take a few gulps of water.
I start my run strong and steady. There are less volunteers and people cheering than at most races, so the ones who showed up really make a difference. I pass the giant fort I used to climb around as a kid. As I turn the corner, I hear music playing and see a man standing next to a boom box blasting the YMCA. I sing and dance with him. My boyfriend is there, too, and I feel my pulse quicken as my heart dances along.
It’s just what I needed to get me through the last leg of this race. I keep a steady pace for each of the 3.1 miles, smiling and cheering fellow athletes on as we all make our way to the finish. The man I began the swim with has donned a viking cap for the run, and I laugh as we cheer out to one another. I knew that guy was cool.
As I approach the finish line I pick up to a sprint, pumping my arms to propel my legs forward. I remember my reasons for being here. All of the things that brought me here, all of the things I fought against that almost stopped me from being here, all of the reasons I will continue moving forward from here.
Rather than a medal, today I receive a face mask upon crossing the finish line. There is no photographer or post-race party. Still, though, crossing that finish line makes me feel so alive.
I am healthy. I am strong. I am confident. Some days are tougher than others and I’ve still got a long way to go. But no matter what—I will continue to tri.
Against all odds, race director Fred Rzymek made it happen. I spoke with the longtime race director after the triathlon to gain some insight.
Rzymek believes it will be “well into the third quarter of 2021 before events are even close to what is considered normal.”
Normally, the Top Gun tri gets several hundred to 1,000 athletes. This year, Pinellas County capped the race at 250.
“After 30 years of producing events, this has been the hardest time I can remember—and I have seen a lot. We have produced during recession, hurricanes, oil spills, red tide—nothing as bad as this,” says Rzymek. What moves him to push forward is the athletes. “We all need to stay motivated in the best and worst of times…keeps the crazy away.”
Indeed.
I also spoke with Chris Lauber who, with his wife Rya, runs the Florida Road Races. Lauber has been directing races for 20 years and calls race directors the “motivators and facilitators.” This year, the race director duo is focusing on building virtual races until in-person races can resume. Participants can join Facebook groups and post about their training to help motivate others; virtual race participants receive medals once they submit their results.
As person who uses fitness to maintain both physical and mental health, I can appreciate everything race directors are doing to help athletes stay motivated.
Will 2021 be a typical year for athletes? Not by a long shot. But with race directors like Rzymek plus Chris and Rya Lauber, I am confident it will be as good as it possibly can. All we can do is tri.
Learn more at floridaroadraces.com
