Race to the Start...

Race to the Start

I rise early to finish final preparations.  The sun is still creeping up in the sky, and the dew is dancing on every surface. One deep breath of the crisp morning air tells me fall is on its way, but summer is fighting it back, and still winning.

My nerves are already humming with anticipation as I review, for the tenth time, my list of items for the day. My usual checklist includes: suit, goggles, bike, shoes, helmet, sunglasses, running shoes, and hat. The rest I can do without. Today’s ritual is much the same as any other race day. Meticulously, I place each necessary item in the car, organizing, preparing, and keeping that huge ball of fire between my heart and my head in check-for now.

Although I’m usually on my own for race days, Hubby is coming with. Surprisingly, his presence holds off some of panic nibbling in the back of my brain. “What if I’m not good enough?”  “Am I ready for this?”, “Did I really pack everything?”  He’s excited to witness today’s events and hoping I’ll come out on top.

Backing out of the driveway, I take one last calming look at our home. That too settles me. No matter how amazing or how disastrous this day turns out, this is where I will return.  My home with Little Man, Princess, and Hubby.

We leave Cold Spring behind and start our journey south. Factoring in coffee breaks, bathroom breaks, and getting lost, we figure three hours should do it.

The trip meter whirls away the miles, and the prairies become glacier lands. Open, flat farm acreage morphs into rolling fields with corn rows planted around outcroppings of trees and rock. Farming is different down here. The hills are larger, and the forests seemingly more plentiful. We’re no longer able to head straight to our destination, as the hills and trees the ancient glaciers left behind force us to meander through roads cut into layers of rock and around unfarmable hills covered with gnarled trees. I take another look at the map. We’re still heading in the right direction and should arrive with plenty of time to spare.

A few miles deeper into the hilly scenery, my heart thuds, sending jangling reverberations up my spine and into my brain. Irritatingly, Hubby still loosely holds the steering wheel looking as if he hasn’t a care in the world.

Aren’t you nervous? I ask him.

No, why would I be. This is about you.

Because I’m nervous.  So you should be too.

I can’t wait to sit back and watch.

With a reassuring smile, Hubby puts the small argument to rest.

Thirty miles out, it’s time to make the phone call. I’m ready. I’ve been preparing for this since April. With uncertain fingers and a deep breath, and then another deep breath, I make the call. “We’re thirty miles out, and we’re running on time.”  

As soon as I end the call, my brain short circuits. This is normal for any race day, but hubby is baffled.  He’s never experienced a pre-race melt down.  I’m grateful that Hubby’s driving; at this point, it’s much safer for everyone. To calm my nerves, I text a good friend:

15 miles away

Hands shaking

Heart racing

Reminding myself to breathe

But not too much, lest I hyperventilate…

Pre-race jitters!!!

In that last 15 miles, I manage to lose my phone once, the directions twice, forget how many miles are left, tell Hubby we can save this for another day, and nearly hyperventilate.

Somewhat against my subconscious will, we arrive. Slowing down to pull into the small parking lot, gravel crunches under the wheels of the car. We ease into the parking lot and get a good look at where we will be stationed for a good part of the day. The beach is located close to the parking lot. The water seemed calm and clean. The hills surrounding us cast their protective strength over us making us feel insignificant, yet safe.

The bar, as they often sponsor such events, is thankfully  unpretentious. The building stands grey, the perfect backdrop for the riot of color that paints the mural that screams out and welcomes patrons at the same time. Out back, between the building and the beach, brightly colored picnic tables invite people to relax, take in the environment, and find some pretense of calm. 

We’re finally here.  I take a cleansing breath, crawl out of the car on unsteady legs, and find comfort in the sound of my feet crunching on gravel. Crossing the small parking lot to the quaint, local bar, my world turns surreal. I’m not here, but I am. I’m trapped, an observer in some crazy woman’s body screaming to turn around but not being heard.

Closing my fingers around the once-silver, dull and worn door handle, I look one more time at Hubby for reassurance, and pull.

At a small table to my right in a dimly lit room, two small women sit. Stepping over the threshold, they slowly rise- seemingly uncertain. Willing my feet to keep moving, I close the gap.

“Bev?” I ask.

Can I hug you?  She countered.

For the first time, I saw my biological mother, and she saw me.

The next seven hours are somewhat a blur. I know the food was excellent. The company was exquisite.  This day, I met not only my biological mother, but two half-sisters, a cousin, a niece, and a significant other. And it turns out that I am good enough, I am ready, and I really didn’t need to pack anything.