DNF

The most ignominious humiliation any road runner or triathlete can suffer is to have the acronym, "DNF" ascribed to their performance after a race.  Did Not Finish; DNF.  Oh, the shame. 

I used to be an obsessed triathlete.  Each day was not complete if I did not get at least a "double" workout in.  Double meaning I trained in at least two of the three discliplines of swimming, biking, and running.  A really good day I might get a triple in, while weekends were usually the "long run" or "long bike" days.  It's funny, I initially started training as a way to keep in shape for my true passion, surfing.  Cuz let's face it, just surfing alone isn't gonna keep you in great shape if you're an East Coast surfer; too many down days.  The irony is that as I became more competitive, especially with my siblings who also raced, I would sometimes feel almost "guilty" to be out surfing when I should have been sweating through a seven-mile fartlek (Swedish for "speed-play;" meaning a free-form speed workout) run.  I confess that there were even a few occasions when I sacrificed a surf session to get my workout in.  I know, Blasphemy, huh?

My time was the '80's, which were the pioneering, glory days of the sport.  While by no means at a world-class or even top level regional athlete, I was an above average finisher in most of my races.  I often raced in that no-woman's land, equidistant behind the pros, and ahead of the middle-of-the-packers.  My races were mostly lonely affairs where I would pass few other racers and be passed rarely myself...unless I was having a bad day.  Fortunately my bad days were few and far between.  Only one time did I record a DNF.  And in that particular race I knew going into it that I would probably drop out, simply because I had a stress-fracture in my foot, that I expected would prohibit me from finishing.  I did slog through about half of the six mile run before the pain caused me to employ reason over bullheaded stubborness and stop. 

The worst race I ever had was a half-Ironman distance race in the hills and mountains of Vermont.  The race was called the Steelman Triathlon.  It consisted of a: 1.2 mile swim/56 mile bike/13.1 mile run, each component exactly half the distances of the full Ironman distance races, made most famous by the original Ironman held each October on the Kona coast of the Big Island of Hawaii.  Always more of a short distance, speed type triathlete, as opposed to a distance, endurance racer, the Steelman was a big bite for me to chew.  I'd competed in the race twice before in the "team" category, as the swimming leg while two of my brothers each did a bike and run leg.  The first year we came in second and the next year we actually won the race, each of us earning exactly $50 apiece and the bragging rights of calling ourselves "professional athletes."  My brothers spent the following winter in Florida, both training for an Ironman race to be held on Cape Cod that coming summer.  Married with kids, I didn't have the freedom to train as much as they, so set my sights on completing the Steelman as an individual racer.  My brothers teased me that since it was only half the distance, it wouldn't be as worthy an accomplishment but I pointed out that it was up and down (some really steep!) mountains not all flat like the Cape race. 

My race could be summed up in a single word: Bonk.  In cycling and triathlons the word "Bonk," means pretty much the same as what marathoners refer to as: "hitting-the-wall."  The physiological phenomenon is pretty much the same; bonking occurs when your physical efforts have utterly exhausted the fuel store glycogen reserves in your body.  It's hard to describe the feeling unless you've ever felt it, but for me it's kind of reminiscent of the "Robot" character in the old tv show: "Lost In Space" when someone would remove the battery power back from his back and his blinking lights would snuff and his hose arms would go limp and he would shut down.  That's what happens when you bonk, your body, shuts down.  I bonked about twenty miles into the bike portion of the Steelman.  The only way to stave off bonking is by tanking up, and then refueling during the race.  This is why triathletes and runners typically eat massive amounts of pasta the night before a race; carbo-loading we called it.  The only problem is, no matter how much you stuff, you will run out at some point and it is imperative to refuel, with glycogen supplements.  In the old days, we ate alot of bananas and fig bars.  Modern nutritional scientists have now developed gooey gel packets that racers can suck on.  What happened to me in that race was that I was so nervous before the race that I could barely eat.  Compounding my error that day was I relied on the advertised pit-stops along the way, where water and other goodies would be supplied to the racers, to keep me fueled.  I did not pack anything more with me on my bike than water and some lightweight rice-cakes.  BIG mistake.

The weather was well into the 90's on race day (heat only exacerbates and accelerates the bonking process; I also never handled the heat well) and, the first feed stop didn't appear until 25 miles into the bike; I was already toast by that point.  My race goals evaporated quicker than the sweat off my back and the race for me, soon became no more than a slog.  So mad at myself for being ill-prepared, I barely touched my brakes on the back-side downhill of the tallest mountain I climbed that day and my blurry eyes focused on the 56mph reading on my bike computer as I careened towards the bike-to-run transition area.  I'd never before or since topped 40mph on a bicycle; I'm too scared!  But that day, I didn't care. 

It might have been better if I had crashed.  Eating fistfuls of cookies, bunches of bananas, and swilling cup after cup of Exceed (which was the high-tech energy juice of the day) I stupidly thought I might be able to get through the run.  And for the first 10k of the half-marathon, I did actually have a spurt of energy and started passing a few people again.  Of course, maybe half-way up a three-mile dirt road mountain pass, I ran out of gas again and was reduced to walking which next to not finishing was a triathlete's second worst humiliation.  I managed to crest that mountain but even walking soon became too hard a chore and a mere two miles from the finish, I actually stopped, sat on a guardrail, cried...prodigiously, and gave-up. 

But I didn't really.  I sat on that guardrail for at least a half-hour, too fatigued to even offer a "fuck-off" to all the people who passed me, offering their well intended encouragement.  I don't know what got me going again, what force of will or mental strength got me off that guardrail and shuffling one foot ahead of the other, but I did.  I even jogged the last hundred yards or so and finished, more than an hour after my pre-race target time.  Rather than any sense of triumph, I felt only a profound sense of failure.

My brothers completed their Ironman later that summer, amidst their own personal dramas.  They still teased me for awhile after that I'd only done half what they'd accomplished.  But nothing they said could have made me feel worse about my horrible performance that day in VT.  Circumstance kept me from ever redeeming myself again.  I did compete for a couple more years but never had the will or opportunity to attempt the Steelman or even consider trying an Ironman.  Funny though, both my brothers not only stopped racing, but training as well.  And while they got fat and sedentary in their new lives as husbands and fathers, I continued, if not training, at least swimming, biking, and running, for fitness. 

I've kept up with varying degrees of dedication, to this day, over two decades later.  My fitness is nowhere near the level it used to be.  Not only age, and the years, but many injuries and surgeries have slowed me down.  For most of those two decades, my competitive energies were thrown into soccer.  Having played a little as a teenager, I took up the sport again when my three sons began to play.  I played, coached, and reffed.  And my body took the toll.  5 knee surgeries alone, later, I ain't got the legs I used to have.  But I still run a little and bike too.  And once in awhile, I get a little of that old feeling, and a little of the old remorse too, that my triathlon career was a bit of a DNF...that I left something unfinished there...performed lousy in my biggest race, never even attempted the Everest of triathlons, an Ironman...

Sometimes, when my breaths are huffing, the arms are swinging, and everything isn't hurting...my mind wanders...comeback?