DNF Is Better Than DNS: A Race Report

Today was a day of firsts for me. My very first triathlon. My very first bike crash. My very first DNF.

My first taco’d wheel. My first case of road rash. And the first time I’ve had to type with a splint on my finger.

The day went a little something like this…

After waiting around anxiously for several hours, my wave went off like the ten others before it. A nice announcement about the course, a simple reminder to be safe and we were off. Though I had gone out for a couple of open water swims before this, that reliable feeling of beginner’s asphyxiation hit me. I ended up doing a mix of ugly freestyle, breast stroke, backstroke and plain old doggie paddle for about 150-200 yards. I still hadn’t been completely dropped by everyone in the group, as there were a couple of others even more green than me. Once I turned the first buoy, I decided to have a go at some real swimming. In fits and starts, I managed to catch up with the back of the main pack. Since I forgot to put my HR monitor watch on before the transition area closed in the morning, I’m not sure what my split was. I am sure that it wasn’t pretty, though.

I gave my better half a dizzy little nod as I trotted up to the transition and vowed to catch a few of those fish-like ladies on the bike. After T1, I was on my way to doing just that. I had probably gone about two miles and overtook about half-a-dozen folks. I was duking it out with a girl who was in better shape than me, but who was on a MTB. I past her, she passed me. I passed her again and then she smoked me just as we were coming up on a course photographer.

After trying not to grimace at the lens, I started putting the hammer down one more time. This was when things went wrong. After being passed the last time, I had done my best to get to the side of the road and to drop back to avoid drafting. The photographer was just enough of a distraction for me to lose sight of how far right I had drifted.

As I was increasing speed, I realized that I was approaching the road’s edge. There was no curb and a ledge with about a foot drop-off onto dirt and gravel. I thought to myself, “I’d better be careful, or I’m going to drop off the side of the road here.” But to my horror, my muscles seemed incapable of steering me left. In fact, I just kept drifting closer to the ledge. At that point I thought, “I don’t like where this is going.”

Then it was just a tumble of flying wheels and crankshafts, elbows and fingers and knees all impossibly colliding at once.

Despite all the hurt, I got up convinced that I could press on. Then I saw my bike. My front wheel looked like calligraphy. All those curved metal spokes were writing a pretty clear message: Your race is over.

In the end I was pretty fortunate, I suppose. The race volunteers and director were really great. I got a hitch to the med tent and some nice folks helped me pick the gravel from my arms and fingers. Though one of my fingers is pretty badly sprained, I didn’t break any limbs. I was lucky enough to have my husband there for support at the race site, and to help me thoroughly clean and bandage everything at home. As for my bike, the wheel is toast but my frame and fork checked out. Things could have been much worse.

And, hey, at least I know I can do better at my next tri in June.