Sunday was race day. New Town Triathlon. A local favorite sprint. I raced it in 2016 and have been itching to race it again. But 2017 had me in Muncie for my first Ironman-branded half-iron triathlon. Then full ironman training took precedent to racing this sprint in 2018 and 2019. So 2020 was my year to do New Town Tri. Surprise surprise, cancelled due to Covid. Grrrrr. In short, I’ve been patiently (insert eye roll) awaiting my return to racing (not cheering while training) this event. 

Where It All Started

How Part of a Half-Marathon Route Became So Much More To Me

My relationship with New Town dates back to 2011. Yes, it’s true. I first learned of this New Urbanism development while running the inaugural Mo’ Cowbell Half Marathon. The course ran through the heart of the community, known as the main lake and the civic center with its amphitheater, businesses and restaurants. Universal consensus among runners was that the new homebuilding going on in a floodplain was a Step-ford community and therefore creepy. 

To be fair, most folks in the Greater St. Louis Metropolitan Area distain New Town. Well, that may be overstating it. The average resident in my hometown likely isn’t even aware of this community tucked among farms, an industrial business park, subdivisions and business (as well as a Boeing site) just outside of thriving downtown St. Charles. 

Despite training with the local Fleet Feet for several Mo’ Cowbell half marathons, the long runs in St. Charles never included the New Town section of the race course. I had fully bought into the runner mindset that New Town was a place to be run through only on race day and as quickly as possible because there was nothing to see there except closely spaced homes that looked all alike.

My opinion of this development changed when I showed up at Big Shark’s open water swim series there in May 2016. I had never swum in open water before. Playing in The Atlantic Ocean at a New Jersey beach in my childhood and floating in The Puget Sound during the years I worked in Olympia, Washington, were the extent of my open water experiences. That first season of open water swimming was full of anxiety and hyperventilating. I kept showing up each Saturday at New Town Lake ready to swim just a bit farther. The buoys and lifeguards on paddle boards and kayaks made me feel safe. Heck, a few lifeguards came to know me from my consistent rest stops and sarcastic banter. They offered tips and encouragement. Nevertheless if I saw a kayak or paddleboard following me, I was eager to dismiss them with a shout of “I’m ok, really. I’m fine.” It got to the point that I stopped interrupting my swim to address them, instead telling myself they were just doing their job.

My second open water season I lost that feeling of being a misfit among the cool kids with their own wetsuits and tri club shirts. I had taken up with one of those tri clubs and now had triathlete friends to encourage and support me in the lake, on the open country roads and on the sidewalks surrounding the lake. I’ve since ridden countless miles out there over the years. It’s my comfort zone. I know the route like the back of my hand, which is good when you dehydrate and get delusional among the corn and soybean fields. The same is true of the running loop around the lake. Know it so well, I tell myself aloud when to lift my feet up to avoid tripping on sidewalk cracks. 

THE SWIM 

This sprint offers two course: a long and a short. I, of course, picked the long course. Back in 2016, I seeded myself near the back of the long course swim line. This year I was so far in the front of the line that I started all of 4 minutes after the first age grouper. I found myself starting immediately behind faster tri buddies, but I was impatient and itching to get this race started. It’s a time trial start. I got into the lake and got busy swimming. 

I was pushing the effort and working hard. Things felt really uncomfortable and strained. I got to the first buoy and did a single breast stroke to see the second buoy through my foggy goggles. I did a systems check and felt I was breathing hard and my legs were heavy from the 4-hour long ride with efforts on the trainer the day before. “That’s ok. It’s as expected. Just roll back the effort today. This is not a Go For Broke race,” I told myself. Things settled as I focused on my breathing and kicking lightly. 

For the most part, the loop around the lake was uneventful as only 3-4 people swam into me. 2016 me would have popped up and yelled at them, saying, “Stop touching me!!” Now I kept swimming and focused on keeping my arms nice and wide in order to claim my space. 2016 me would have told herself it was her own fault because she must be zigzagging through the water. Now I told myself to stay the course and it was just someone zigzagging in the water around me. 

That last buoy gradually got bigger and bigger. I made the turn toward the swim out and knew I only had 1-200yds left. I picked up the effort despite my arms fatiguing. God bless the two volunteers standing in the rocky shallows to hoist each athlete up and out of the water. I found myself getting a modified lift while I put a knee on the rock wall and pushed myself up. Not my most gracefully exit but I’ve had far worse (complete with gasps from spectators at St. Louis Triathlon one year). 

T1

I got down to business real quick. After all, that’s why I registered for local sprints and olympics. I needed the race experience to power wash off the rust. I skipped drying my feet. They had grass clippings on them from the run through transition. “Will those eat up my skin rubbing against my socks? I’m rolling the dice on this. It’s time to go!!” I told myself. Socks, shoes and helmet on, I walked to the mount line with my bike. An allergy goober was stuck in my throat. I spit it out as I heard my Endurance Madness friends yell, “Nice swim, Jennifer, go!” I yelled my thanks back and off I went.

THE BIKE

The course takes you out of New Town through several turns and the ol’ infamous grated bridge. It has since been covered on only the sides with 2-foot wide metal plates. For race day, they cover those plates with carpets. It is this section of the bike course that worries me the most. Its turns, its bridge, its potholes and gravel, its history for taking down a tri buddy in 2018. In my mind, the bike would be awesome after those 2 miles and then until we returned on those 2 miles. I was right and I was wrong.

Out on Highway B, I let loose and focused on going as hard as my legs could take me. I passed one person, then passed a tri buddy and slowly chipped away to pass a third person. All while 12 people passed me. I was relishing this new race experience because usually I’m getting passed endlessly. The legs were feeling surprisingly good and I was flying. 

At Mile 12 of the 19.5-mile course, rain began. “No worries, I’d rather have a light rain with clouds than 2016’s full sun and heat that roasted me on the run,” I thought. Then the rain became a deluge at Mile 14. It felt like having the pool’s big bucket dumping on me endlessly. I couldn’t see very far in front of me, the road was puddling and I couldn’t feel the bike’s tires on the pavement. “So just like Louisville 2018, slow down on the turns and be grateful there are no  hills today,” I told myself. 

All the volunteers at the turns in those last 2 miles were urging us all to slow down. One yelled, “Turn! I said turn!!!” at me. I barked back at him with, “I am turning.” My brain noodled on that exchange the rest of the bike. Did I really look that scary and out of control? Shrug, time to dismount.

T2

God bless the first-come-first-served racking. I love racking right by the bike out/in. In the short walk with my bike, I unclipped my helmet. After quickly tossing the bike on the rack, I flopped down in the muddy grass to swap bike shoes for running shoes. Grabbed my race belt, handheld bottle and hat. Then I was trotting through the muddy grass to the run out. 

THE RUN

D’oh, the legs really did work hard on the bike. It took them about 5 minutes to feel engaged in running. They quickly became stiff and aching. Told myself to keep going and the legs would come around, that there’s no time to ease into it when you have only 4 miles to run. That first mile I focused on getting a Spring down and drinking my nuun. That helped revive the legs a bit.

At the aid station, I told a friend volunteering that I had asked her to throw water on me while I was running, not while I was riding. She quickly got 2 cups of water and threw them on me. I took a cup of water to my left ear and the other one up my left nostril. My response: Good one!!

I was delusional by Mile 1.5 and didn't understand how a tri friend who started 3 people ahead of me was now behind me on the run (simple enough, loop run course). I couldn't for the life of me figure out how I passed him during the swim. Then he passed me on the run with a “Nice work, Jennifer.” Off he went into the finisher chute while I followed the signs for Lap 2. 

The legs felt like they were running up hills. That achy, throbbing quad feeling. I even told an athlete passing me, “Who put these hills here?” She was not amused. 

Lots of shoutouts from friends and strangers. I kept asking myself, "How do they know my name when I don't know them?” When a tri friend passed me like I was standing still, he said, “Good work, young lady.” In my head I yelled his name and gave him a high-five. In real life, I was huffing and puffing and could only hold my hand up to acknowledge him. Then I saw his age on his calf and thought, “67…I want to be like him in 20 years.”

In the moments when I wanted to walk, I reminded myself that walking would not fix the heavy, aching legs and I shifted my mental focus to how my form felt and really following through on from foot strike to push off.

And then it was over. I looked up to see the finish chute. I ran as hard as I could, but the legs had nothing left to burn. A guy passed me and I had no kick at all, nor did I care. I had given the race my all. I had emptied the tank. 

THE FINISH LINE

Since joining a tri club, I’ve never been a person to race and head home asap. I hang out at the finish area. I talk with friends and watch for others to come running toward the finish. I cheer everyone on. I give high-fives. In short, I am obnoxious. I waited for my athletes and friends to finish. I commiserated with them about their race experiences. I’ve missed these people, this wonderful St. Louis triathlon community.

When I went back to transition, I found my bike one of only a handful still racked. God bless the breakdown crew for leaving our bikes racked and our gear under them. 

It was only after getting everything loaded up in the car that I actually looked at my Garmin. I knew I completed the same course in 2016 in 2:38. I surprised the heck out of myself. A course PR by 28 minutes!! 2016 me said, “You don’t know me.” 2021 me said, “I do know you. We’ve grown, friend.”