YOU GOT THIS
MULTISPORT RACERS AND GUIDES
NOT LONG AFTER an early November sunrise, I stood on a narrow stretch of sand at Morro Bay’s Coleman Park and focused on the challenge ahead of me. I was about to swim 1,500 metres in the chilly Morro Bay water, bike 40 km along the Pacific Coast Highway, and run 10 km, half of which was on the beach. Worried about my fitness, I silently reviewed the details of my big training days: 35 pool workouts, two ocean swims, a half-dozen twohour indoor bike sessions, and a half-marathon road race. Waiting among a couple hundred wetsuit-clad bodies, I probably looked like any other triathlete. But I wasn’t. I’m blind and could only race with the help of my two guides, Hillary Trout and Geof Chiapella. Giving up their day for me, Trout guided for the swim and bike legs, and Chiapella for the run.
“We have 10 minutes before the race starts,” Trout said. “Let’s go get wet.”
With Morro Rock looming in front of us, she took my elbow and we waded into the 14 C water. It only took 30 seconds before my feet felt like someone lit them on fire.
“Get your face in the water,” Trout half suggested, half commanded. Having done this race before, she knew what she was doing. Still, I was reluctant to follow her instructions. “Nope, not ready yet.”
With little time to futz around, she promptly splashed some water in my direction.
“OK, OK.” After all, I thought, the race was a reminder of the things I could do, not the things I couldn’t. I braced myself for a punch in the face, submerged my head in the frigid water, and counted to five before coming up for air.
“Are you numb yet?”
I understood the point of the question and submerged my head a second time. Numbness was a natural anesthetic and by the time the race started I felt no pain.
Endurance athletes who volunteer to guide for those with disabilities tend to be kind and generous people. Guiding is a selfless act, especially for experienced athletes who want to test themselves on race day. Besides being good natured, those who guide are usually excellent planners and sharp problem-solvers. Having raced with Trout before, I knew she had both attributes. During our pre-race discussions, she expressed concern about the swim leg: “The swim course gets congested. I’m worried we’ll be separated if swimmers get between us.”
We talked about using a tether. But I’m not comfortable swimming while tied to another human being and quickly nixed the idea. Aware we might have to deal with the issue in the water, she expressed another concern: “You need to practice sprinting for 30 seconds in your pool workouts. If we get stuck in a current and I tell you to sprint, you’re going to need to go as fast as you can. Otherwise, we’ll be adding unnecessary distance to the swim.”
On race day, we never found ourselves split apart. But there were times when I could feel myself stuck in an eddy. I popped my head out
of the water, heard Trout tell me to sprint and stroked as hard and fast as possible until lactic acid crippled my arms. Besides navigating our way through the eddy pools, the tidal current kept pulling me off course. When Trout tried to get my attention, and couldn’t because my face was in the water, she swam around me and shoved my shoulder until I was pointed in the right direction. Along with her quick, simple and effective decision-making ability, Trout also provided encouragement on the swim course. Once, when I paused and treaded water,
she sensed the qualms I was having and yelled, “It’s in your head, your body can do it!”
She was right, I just needed to keep trying. I fought off the negative thoughts and reminded myself my guides gave up their day for me. Quitting was not an option. Counting my strokes, I regained momentum. And with Trout’s guidance, I swam my fastest time ever for a 1,500-metre course.
Although Trout and I met when I was training for a marathon, once I discovered she was a triathlete, I immediately started looking for a tandem bike to rent, and local races to enter. We started with a sprint distance triathlon held at Lopez Lake. After completing the shorter distance, we committed to training for a longer race. Since Trout was dealing with a
foot injury, Chiapella stepped in to guide on the run. He and I had done dozens of training runs together, so he was a natural fit.
Like many triathletes, I experience my share of pre-race anxiety. While I embrace all aspects of triathlon training, I’m less in love with race day. As I organized my gear in a spot next to the tandem bike, I asked myself a litany of questions. Did I train enough? Did I do the right type of training? Did I over train? Do I have the right socks with me? A lot of triathletes can relate to my experience. But being blind adds an extra layer to my anxiety. Thankfully, Trout and Chiapella are sensitive to my discomfort and do what they can to put me at ease. For example, I’m always uncomfortable when I’m in a new place for
the first time. This is true for any aspect of my life, whether it’s a new airport, restaurant, movie theatre, or race course. Though Trout’s instinct is to take life in stride, she took the time to walk me through the entire bike staging area and down to the swim start, all the while pointing out curbs, metal barriers, and rocks and ruts to avoid when we entered and exited the swim. This allowed me to make a mental map of the area and helped reduce my anxiety about what was ahead.
Trout and Chiapella both love to race. Their mental approach to participating in endurance events is simple. If it isn’t fun, don’t do it. The same goes for why they guide. When I asked Trout why she volunteers, she told me, “I do it because you want to race, and I want to race. So, we race. The bonus to me is that we get to have fun in the process. If it isn’t fun, it probably isn’t worth doing.”
For me, racing with a guide is like having a teammate to share the experience with. My guides often push, pull and cajole me to be strong, to be better. And we get to laugh, tell stories and suffer together, depending on the day. Racing with someone at my side is one of the few times I can escape the burden of being blind.
When Trout and I came out of the water, she not only stripped off her wetsuit and gathered her gear for the bike ride, but also kept an eye on me. As soon as I peeled off my wetsuit, she handed me a bottle of water so I could wash the sand off my feet. When she saw I was done, she handed me my sneakers. Then I grabbed my helmet and gloves, and she took the tandem bike off the rack.
“Ready?” she asked.
“Yup.”
“Helmet, gloves, water?”
“I think I’ve got everything.” I said, knowing
I had the biggest grin ever on my face. “Let’s do this.”
We ran to the mount line and straddled the bike. Then Trout called out, “Three, two, one, go.”
On cue, we simultaneously pushed on the pedals and raised our butts to our seats. The force of our legs propelled the bike forward, and we were on our way. Our transition time was excellent, going from the swim course to the bike course in under four minutes.
Having always been a strong rider, the bike leg is my favorite part of a triathlon. Long before I became visually-impaired, I spent many weekends riding through the rolling hills of northern Connecticut and western Massachusetts. Trout is also a strong rider, and I looked forward to seeing how fast we could push the pace. Navigating as if she rode a tandem bike her entire life, Hillary steered us past the vehicular traffic on the local streets to the Pacific Coast Highway. Although the right lane on the highway was cordoned off for the race, we hugged the shoulder wherever possible. The sun, and the effort from pedalling, slowly chipped away at the chill that settled
“For me, racing with a guide is like having a teammate to share the experience with. My guides often push, pull and cajole me to be strong, to be better. And we get to laugh, tell stories and suffer together, depending on the day. Racing with someone at my side is one of the few times I can escape the burden of being blind.”
inside me from the swim. We chatted, drank fluids, and enjoyed being out in the open air. We even passed a handful of racers. Then, as we approached the turn-around point, I got nervous because we had to cross the highway with traffic moving in both directions.
“Is it okay to cross?” Trout asked a volunteer directing racers.
“Yes, you can turn anytime.”
Hillary looked back over her shoulder. “Wow, not OK to cross,” she yelled as a car whizzed by.
Freaked out by the confusion, I pleaded, “Stop, let’s just walk the bike across.”
“No, keep pedalling.” Her voice firm, she reminded me: “I’m the one in charge right now.”
I pedalled and kept my mouth shut, and Trout safely guided us across the highway. Though it’s difficult to cede control of the bike to anyone, riding on the back of a tandem is one of the few times I feel normal. It’s a wonderful experience and my soul fills with warmth every time I think about it.
Trout and I faced strong headwinds for the first 20 km of the bike leg. But once we turned around, that same wind was at our back. Needing less effort to maintain our speed, Trout described the expansive ocean views. Just before we returned to Coleman Park, she yelled out our bike time. It was one of my fastest for the 40-km distance. As we entered the area with the bike racks, Chiapella was there waiting.
“I got the bike,” Trout said, her way of urging us to get going on the run. I ditched my helmet, gloves, and hydration vest. Then I clipped my number belt around my waist and grabbed my baseball cap.
“Ready?” Chiapella asked.
“Yup.”
Leaving Trout behind, we settled into my painfully slow run pace. Barely 10 steps into the run, Chiapella described our route to me. “We’ll cross the street and run on the sand for a couple hundred yards, then get back on the paved bike path, go behind the high school to a dirt path, then get back on pavement through a neighbourhood.”
He paused and took a breath. “Then we run back on the beach.”
It was 10 a.m., and a hot and exposed run course awaited us. I struggled to maintain a positive attitude as Chiapella guided me through the sand. It was a soul-crushing way to start the run, but I stifled my complaints. Chiapella is one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, and I didn’t want to make the guiding experience miserable for him. We’d done a number of hot and hilly training runs together, and I’d struggled through many of them. But he always stays with me. After the race, I asked him why he guides. He warned me his answer was cliché.
“Going on a trail run or racing with you gives more meaning to my own running. It makes me happy to play a small part in helping someone else reach their goals.”
To put Chiapella’s willingness to guide for a slow runner like me in context, he’s one of the faster runners in the area. He recently finished ninth in a particularly difficult 50 km trail race. After that event, he told me how watching me face the daily challenge of living with a visual impairment gives him motivation to press on when he’s being challenged. He added: “The determination you show when you are pursuing your goals motivates me when I’m pushing through my own tough run.”
While my 10 km run wasn’t pretty, and I needed several walk breaks, Chiapella and I finally made it to within a 800 m of the finish. That’s when my heart sank. I needed to make my way through another two-hundred metres of soft sand.
I heard Chiapella say, “You got this.”
Those were the same words I’d heard so often on our training runs. Hands on knees, one foot in front of the other, I slogged my way to the bike path for the final stretch. That’s where joined us, and together we crossed the finish line. I’m always thankful when I meet people like Hillary Trout and Geof Chiapella. Because of them, I was able to set a lofty goal and then achieve it.
Because of their kindness, I can thrive.