I felt like I was dying. Not the “I-see-the-light-and-it’s-my-time” dying, but the “I’m-exhausted-overheated-pregnant-nauseas-running-uphill” dying.
I was on my first leg of a triathlon relay in the middle of a scorching Utah afternoon. I didn’t expect to feel so deflated so soon. I had 20 miles to run and 300 yards to swim. How am I faltering this early? How the hell will I cross the finish line?
Something in my mind clicked.
Stop letting your mind wander. Stop bitching. This is what you trained for.
I drew in a deep breath, straightened my posture and willed myself forward.
Two months before this, my husband said he wanted to join a group of friends for a 24-hour, 285-mile triathlon relay race. You are out of your damn mind, I thought. Straight up nuts. He used to do triathlons. He’s WON triathlons. I’ve never done more than a 5k.
I mulled it over for a few days. Was it so crazy? I knew I could physically do it. It was my mind I had to convince.