Having cast aside the comfort and relative anonymity of triathlon relays months ago, I set my sights on my first real solo multi-sport adventure: Nathan’s Tempe Triathlon on Septmeber 23 at TempE.coli Town Lake. Yes, I’d competed in the Anthem Sprint Triathlon weeks before – earning a silver medal as the second-fastest of the fattest – but I didn’t feel right counting that event since I could have waded through the swim.

My taste of the silver medal, however tainted, had inspired new dedication to training – after all, I was mere seconds away from being the fastest of the fattest – how well could I do if I actually stuck to my training plan and larded my training table with something more than burritos and beer. Ergo, I redoubled my commitment to good nutrition. I was going to hydrate the shit out of myself… Or should I say piss?

It was thus that I found myself standing outside of a bank of 20 Port-O-Lets at 5:45 on a Sunday morning with 462 fellow competitors. I have said it before, but it bears repeating: Pre-race Port-O-Lets are not a beacon of civilized society. The human digestive tract was not designed to process Gu’s, Chews and cardboard-flavored Bars to the exclusion of other nutrients (like beer and burritos). Crossing that threshold (and holding my breath), my stomach was turning somersaults anyway because I was more than a little nervous about my first non-wetsuit open-water swim that didn’t involve waterskis and a beer cooler.

I did my business and trotted back to the transition area to leave my flip-flops and iPhone with my gear (yes, I take my iPhone to the bathroom – so does my husband), and then I took my place in the lemming-line of barefoot women, ages 35-and-older, to await our 6:42 starting plunge into the dark murky waters of my Waterloo.

Standing in that line with my husband and Sherpa, Pat Bertinelli, 6:42 came and went… as did another 20 minutes.

“I gotta pee again.”

“There are 20 Port-A-Potties right there. Take your pick.”

“I’m not gonna go barefoot in a Port-O-Let!”

“And yet you’re gonna swim in Tempe Town Lake?”

He had a point, but I had a plan: I would pee in Tempe Town Lake, because… everyone else does!

After another painful 10 minutes, I walked cross-legged toward the lemming cliff… hopped in and… couldn’t pee. Never have I been so disconsolate about incontinence. I swam courteously to the outer edges so as not to baptize my fellow racers with the fiery urgency of my bladder… and I concentrated really hard, but I just couldn’t go. Not that it stopped anyone else: The starting gun fired, and I plowed through hot pockets of everyone else’s waste stream, en route to getting kicked, slapped, mauled, groped and pounded by invisible hands and feet.

I kept waiting and waiting for the open water to open up – but it was not to be: I was mid-pack! For the first time in my life, I was in the thick of it – and it SUCKED! It’s easy to swim when you’re last. You don’t have to worry about navigating the flailing bodies. You just have to worry about swimming straight and surviving to the finish. Mid-pack, you have to worry about whether you’re gonna get swum over – or in my case, whether you’re going to swim over someone else. Seriously: I was overtaking people on the swim! I was in the hunt! I was visualizing the podium!

I was getting kicked in the head and choking on a big splashes of urine-tinged lake-water. AWESOME!

I staggered safely from the water in 20 minutes, 45 seconds (313th place overall, 67th percentile). Not a nautical-speed record, but also not last. In those brutal 750 meters, I had passed a couple of dudes who had started 8 minutes in front of me. I’d also passed a couple of ladies (117th of 189 – 62nd percentile) after throwing some elbows of my own. I ran toward the transition area, right past the Berlin Wall of 20 empty Port-O-Lets! No time to lose!

All though I swim… and bike… and run in the top 75 percent of all competitors, I can sit on the grass, put on my shoes and socks and remember to buckle my bike helmet like a champion! Mitt Romney may mock the 47% as a bunch of layabouts, but this one transitioned the hell out of the Nathan Tempe Triathlon: My fierce swim-to-bike transition was a blistering 2:32 (47th percentile for the ladies), while my bike-to-run was 2:03 (55th percentile). Some may say it’s because I spent a few weeks practicing those transitions in my garage during my “brick” bike-run workouts… I would say it’s because I had to pee with the urgency of a 65-year-old man at 2 o’clock in the morning after a night of beer-drinking revelry.

 

Nevertheless, I mounted my bike and zipped past that vacant metropolis of portable-plumbing marvels. I recalled the story of four-time Ironman World Champion Chrissie Wellington: As a matter of principle, she purposefully lets loose a stream of liquid contempt on racers she feels are abusing the drafting rule (maintain three bike lengths’ distance from the nearest competitor). Grinding up Rio Salado Parkway, I thought about emulating this role model of womanly athleticism… and then I thought: “No fucking way! I’m not peeing on my new bike! You know how much I paid for this?”

And so, I kept riding – careful to maintain my three-length distance, announcing authoritatively “LEFT SIDE” when passing my victims, and making sure I put the soul-crushing hammer down when I overtook them, forcing them to drop three lengths back into my backdraft of shame. At least that’s how I imagined it: The reality is that I dropped 9 minutes, 12 seconds off my bike time from the Anthem Sprint Triathlon over the exact same 20K distance. By not peeing on my competitors and focusing on my ride, I finished in 45:27 (128th for the ladies, 67th percentile – baby!).

Rolling into the transition, my heart soared when I saw sweet husband / Sherpa, our upcoming Half-Ironman relay teammate Jason, training buddy Kellee and her sweet husband Dirk. Buoyed by their cheers, I ripped off my helmet, fastened my race-belt, pulled down my visor and again ran right past the mostly empty shrine to chemically enhanced waste disposal… I say mostly empty, because at this point, roughly 1 hour, 8 minutes into this epic multi-sport adventure, the top 10 overall finishers – including the first-place woman (kudos, Adrienne LeBlanc – age 43 !?! – 1:06:29) – had already finished and were, no doubt, punishing the toilets in the same way that they had punished the race course.

And so now, I will open a window into my soul as we circumnavigate Tempe Town Lake together on foot… the contents of my bladder, now expanded by at least a liter of purposeful hydration from my bike-bottle and accidental hydration from my lake-swim, sloshing along at a dismal, but consistent, 12-minute pace. All those people I had passed on the bike? The ones suffering in my backdraft of shame? Yeah… they passed my sorry ass on the run… I watched my name cartwheel down the race results as their legs pumped past me – their ages written clearly in black Magic Marker on the backs of their left calves. Any woman in the 40s was fair game… and it seemed that all of them were making a meal of me right now.

Do you know how painful it is to run when you gotta pee? Almost as painful as when you have to run.

I did not pass a single woman on the run as I scanned down the sidewalk, looking for a lonely Port-O-Let… a public toilet… an open building… a discreet corner… The race course actually passed a set of public toilets – next to the urine-and-manure scented horse park on the north side of the lake – which found me doing mental calculus to determine how badly sweet relief would impact my overall time. Could I spare 2, maybe 3 minutes? Hadn’t I already sacrificed that amount of time by jogging so awkwardly that even the para-triathlete passed me at a brisk limp? Looking forlornly at the loos (and the Spandex-clad man waiting outside them for his 10-year-old son – the same father-son duo that had passed me about 10 minutes into this journey), I put my head down and trudged onward. Only one mile to go.

The man and his boy re-passed me again without breaking stride… at least the kid didn’t pee on me.

But soon, I could hear the thumping bass and dub-step rhythms of the finish line. I jogged a little faster, possibly breaking the 10-minute mile barrier, if only for 500 feet as I hurtled past a cheering Pat, Kellee, Dirk and Jason, running through the finish line, bending gingerly to drop off my timing chip, then all-out-sprinting toward the Port-O-Let that was about 500 feet beyond.

“We’re so proud of you! We’re so proud of you! How was the race?” Kellee called, as I dashed past her.

“I gotta peeeeeeeee!” I shouted, joyous at the green “vacant” sign on the door.

Ahhhh.

I finished the race in 1:47:18… good enough for 27th in my age-group, 137th among the ladies and 366th overall… or the 75th, 72nd and 79th percentiles. Sadly, Nathan’s Tempe Triathlon did not have a category for Fastest of the Fattest, so I competed against the incredibly fit (and likely not-as-hydrated) ladies in my age-group. If I had run just three minutes faster – which I have accomplished in many other 5K races (10:45 to 11 minute miles – easy!) – I could have picked up 10 places overall, and three in my age-group (apparently women in their 40s are badasses), and I would have had a chance to surpass my time at the Anthem event, even though the swim / wade in that race was 350 meters shorter!

Still, this is why we run the race – to overcome challenges (and to live a life of what-ifs until the next opportunity for vengeance presents itself).