Lake Placid, NY
The vibrations and light were shifting. Night sounds and dusky shadows emerged as I slowly coursed up the dirt road. My feet were still in slow motion but now moved with the slightest of bounce, marking a measured acceleration from the plodding shuffle of the start. Bullfrogs and a range of other amphibious singers rose in an evening chorus from the bog alongside the road, outstretched to the encroaching forest’s edge. Hemlock and white pine ushered a slight green coolness over the extreme heat of the day, now tapering as the sun descended unseen, past the thickly wooded incline I traveled. I coddled a slight pang of fear and surrender but instead let the gift of small reward tingle in the tips of my fingers and the drying sweat on my stomach, neck and shoulders. I continued uphill in isolation. With just my breath and my limbs – toned, capable, lifting and moving me in endless variation. In my body, but out of it. I was an imprint of life, a vapor misting in transit. I felt myself – fully, keenly, exhaustedly.
Nearly two hours prior, I’d begun this journey at water’s edge, wearing a nine-year-old bikini with a faded blue paisley print that was more than a little stretched out. Standing knee-deep in the waters of Mirror Lake in the waning hours of a record-hot day, I joked nervously with a bright tri-suit-wearing fellow athlete next to me. “Look at me in this old bikini, ha-ha, it’s state-of the-art hydrodynamic!” I laughed. “You may be joking,” he returned, “but see that guy in the jean cutoff shorts,” (and bare chested) “he’s going to win the whole thing – by 10 minutes.” (Spoiler: he did! And I was quite glad I invested zero money or ego in my outfit.)
The swim, in a word, was delicious, even as within the first five seconds I’d secured my last place finish for the whole dang rodeo. As goggled, wet-suited specimens of iron and thunder disturbingly slammed their limbs into the limpid early-evening waters, I calmly and intently embarked on a water-borne nature expedition, my main concern being to identify some local water fowl. And perhaps even see an Adirondack loon, whose haunting call is one of the most stirring sounds to be heard on a wilderness lake.
My training regimen, I already well understood, may have missed the mark altogether. To prepare, I’d not bothered to complete a single lap of the brisk freestyle stroke, simply because … I do not enjoy it. It’s altogether too rambunctious, tiresome and splashy. It requires numerous props and pieces of gear to pull off effectively – goggles that don’t leak, nose plugs, earplugs. All cutting off the senses to the point of emulating the claustrophobia of an MRI. The whole freestyle experience, in fact, being antithetical to my raison d’être – to amble through life with my senses turned on. So, that I did.
Amidst the elegant gliding of the breaststroke (decelerated by my loose bikini bottoms taking on water), I also threw in a few stretches of backstroke simply because I so love the sky and clouds. I was rewarded by seeing a sparkling neon dragonfly pair zoom past me toward the rushes and lilies edging the shore. With my head above water, I also had time to converse with the paddle-boarding support staffer looking out for any competitive mishaps. She seemed amused when I showcased my elementary backstroke. Not that I was in any way counting, but I did manage to pass exactly one contestant in the last minute of the swim. He was a stocky, well-built gentleman of vintage variety. His persistent frame remained a recurring motif on the outer peripheries of my own progress, as he was the only competitor I caught a small glimpse of for the rest of the race.
After I shook off and sneakered up during “transition,” I continued in glee and naive enthusiasm to the next activity of the triathlon, the cycle. I had done some very minor pedaling in the Y fitness center a couple weeks before the race, figuring I could knock off 12 miles in my sleep. I’d remembered a friend of mine from Seattle (a quite hilly place) who had grown up in Kansas City (a quite flat place) and recounted, “I could ride my bike for forever back in KC,” and pictured myself similarly gliding through the biking leg without care or much effort, as a setting sun edged towards a flat prairie horizon.
Since my only bike was a dusty 21-year-old beach cruiser, I opted for a modern hybrid model that I’d rented from the local bike shop down the way. I was off! Pedaling amidst the slight breeze with a shimmering lake by my side, I was in ecstasy. To be moving at such a clip through thin air after coursing slowly through thick water was a contrast of extremes which built further on a mounting endorphin cascade. Admittedly, there were some hills to contend with (as it was the Adirondacks), but first just a lengthy gradual downhill with a few curves to navigate that gave me speed and a welcome shock of adrenaline. I felt emancipated, wild and unstoppable, even though I rode my brakes quite a bit more than the average competitive cycler.
The landscape was bathed in a technicolor glow that seemed wholly related to the perfect tempo I was traveling and the plein air experience. No windows, no seat belts, just a body on two wheels awash in wind, texture and color. A bog I had passed 100 times in a car seemed completely new – so many details, hues, tones and shapes I’d missed whizzing by so fast. My senses were exploding. I laughed out loud and pinched myself – metaphorically. (Two hands on the wheel!). How could life be so vital, so potent? And the best was yet to come as I was nearing a stretch I was really looking forward to – three miles of quiet backroad running parallel to a river of singular beauty. A good time for a swig from my water bottle, I thought. But alas, that was another technical matter I had not drilled, and my confidence was low. I wasn’t sure I could pull that maneuver off. All those Tour de France riders made it look so easy! One (or no) hands on the handlebars, an exacting reach down to the bottle, a swift gulp and voilà! But I just couldn’t muster the courage to try. I saw myself spinning out and wrecking the rental bike, or else making a bungle of it and ruining the grace of the journey. It seemed like something that might cause a tire to pop or a chain to fall off. So, I simply stopped for a drink. I took a leisurely moment to refresh and restore. Was it triathlon heresy? If so, I received no deductions from the judges, as it was just me and the red-winged blackbirds. My only competitor had instantly and far outpaced me on the bike leg.
Finishing out the cycling loop back into town on a lengthy incline was tougher than I’d anticipated, but I was still in good spirits. As it began to cool and I felt the day moving quickly toward its end, I welcomed some mental relief at least. I mean I couldn’t be out here doing this in the dark. Could I? Two volunteers enthusiastically waved me through for the final half mile. “You got this!” I was a hero, even if I was slowing things down significantly for the volunteers trying to get home by 9 pm.
Across the line and headed to transition for the run, I carefully ditched the bike, took a sip or two of water, and nibbled on a quick clementine. Then turned myself toward the Mt. Whitney Way loop and began to … not run. Limp, putz, crawl, slink? Let’s settle on “fake jog.” It was pretty much a walk with a whiff of hoist. My legs were lead. Heavy, sore, and stiff. Not happening. Where any kind of lift was coming from must have been a deep reserve of some mystical Tolkien geography. Of all three modalities, running was my strongest suit, but it now seemed quite improbable I would break a 15-minute mile. It was still hot – probably 85 degrees – and I had three miles to go, some of it uphill. Was I still having fun? Not exactly – now I was merely trying to stay alive. I dialed it down to the lowest possible effort setting that would allow me to keep moving forward and finish by nightfall. And then I began to ease out of my body and release it to some other better-suited controller.
I was sure I hadn’t felt this exhausted, sore, and close to imminent peril since I was in the throes of a 36-hour labor that produced a human being. But I trudged on, eventually leaving the civilized feel of the sidewalk for the final leg up a forested, dirt thoroughfare. All I had to do was keep going. Go go go! Any kind of go would suffice. So I loped. Lope. Lope. Loping. I had become a single muscle, really. Just a heartbeat contracting and releasing, fueling the breath. Then – as if a mirage in the desert – a lone orange cone emerged at a point ahead of me on the crest of the hill. That must be it – I was nearing the turn-around. All hail the benevolent turn-around! I circled, started downward, and then let myself get giddy. It was going to happen – I was going to finish.
My family, who I’d asked to be in the vicinity in case my body needed to be extracted from a crevice, ravine or marsh, began to chime in as I neared the finish. I could hear my daughter’s voice floating across the water – she must be swimming at the beach. “Mom! Mom! Go Mom!” I saw my son cheering on the sidewalk and asked him to join me fake jogging across the finish line. It was impossible for him to fake jog, as he is 12, so he ran – as I quasi-triumphantly continued. The support staff was relieved to see me. I had not expired, gotten lost or been eaten by wildlife or a pickup truck. This was good. “It’s a wrap!” They began to break down the tents and remaining race infrastructure quickly and efficiently. I was congratulated and told I had won a small pink towel. I accepted. Then the euphoria kicked in. I was thoroughly spent. I was blissful. I was reunited with my people. I was vaguely proud of something I couldn’t elocute. Perhaps it was that my joints held out? I wanted nothing. I could think of nothing. My senses were full to bursting but I could say nothing. My body kept walking. It kept moving. Slowly stepping. My vision soft, my heart beating.
I felt myself – fully, keenly, exhaustedly. A poet, a dreamer and a triathlete.
***
Elizabeth Woodbury Kasius is a sports fanatic and creative based in upstate NY. Her poetry has appeared in Blueline and other literary magazines, most recently in Boreal Zine and Paper Moon. She also writes music and is working on a collection of basketball tone poems. She credits her kids for the gift of having lived out large swaths of her life in the bleachers. Her writing can be found on Substack at @elizabethwoodburykasius.
