in lieu of the world's toughest half

For the detail-oriented readers noticing that this race report has arrived a mere twenty-four hours after the race and taking this as an ominous sign--you are spot on.

Yesterday was the Auburn triathlon. I didn't do either the world's toughest half, or the also-hard, but not-going-to-kill me olympic triathlon.

The night before, we packed our breakfasts, lunches and snacks, the diaper bag and the race bag. We set the alarm for 4am, in order to get us on the road by 4:30. And went to bed at a responsible hour.

All was good.

Until Axel woke up at 12:30am and, despite good faith efforts by me and Mychal (multiple times), cried until 2:30 am. After which point, Mychal and I tossed and turned and failed to fall back to sleep until 4am.

We'll toss the gas savings into his college fund.

race report

I've checked out the blogs of real triathletes who actually win things and have pro sponsorship. Real triathletes write race reports after their races. The day after, not two weeks, and certainly not on the eve of their next race.
But, since I'm still riding my Reynold's Steel Bianchi touring bike, with my all-weather tires, I don't have to hold myself to those standards.
So here's my race report from Wildflower, two weeks ago.

This was my first triathlon of the season, and notable for these reasons:
-It was my first overnight away from Axel. Ever.
(more on that below)
-It took place one week into the beginning of my base training:
Because Axel didn't sleep for March and half of April and because spring never appeared, I didn't start my base training on the bike until the weekend before the race.
-I had to pump breastmilk in the campsite bathrooms:
in front of the entire line of pre-race jittered women, who I think were possibly more embarrassed than me.
-There was a dead pig by the side of the road on the bike course:
Luckily, and, in spite of the heat, it did not yet stink. Though there were blood skids on the pavement, which was disturbing.
-I was asked: "Are you here to watch your husband race?"
By an otherwise unoffensive little girl. Of course I set her straight, "No, honey. My husband is at home watching the baby."

I brought M.F.K. Fisher's collected works for company, ate my pizza and carrot sticks while watching the sun set, called home from the highest point of the campsite with all the other cell-phone wielders, and went to sleep in my one-person tent (which was mistaken for a dog's tent our first year at Wildflower, when I shared it with Mychal and my pregnant belly), and listened to the college kids play horse shoes naked. At that point I felt old, but that feeling was erased at the finish line, which I crossed ten minutes faster than last year.