Go, Gwen, Go (eBook)

NANCY

In May of 2009, a few weeks before my daughter Gwen’s University of Wisconsin commencement, I took a seat at the Fayetteville, Arkansas, NCAA track finals. My husband Joel, older daughter Elizabeth, and I, traveled 700 miles from Waukesha, Wisconsin, for a celebration and farewell. We were saying goodbye to Gwen’s collegiate running career. To three years of track stadiums and cross-country courses. To five-kilometer races in sun-baked summers, and six-kilometer ones in snowy Novembers.

The final meet concluded more than a sports season. It capped a life season. For Gwen, it ended competitive sports and for us, it ended cheering, pom-poms, and spring breaks with a college kid at home. We celebrated too: Gwen’s record-setting track wins and All-American cross-country victories, her graduation with an accountancy degree, and her first job at a Big Four accounting firm. We reveled in Gwen’s accomplishments and hoped for one final triumph. In the battle of emotions, pride shoved nostalgia aside allowing only joy and hope.

ELIZABETH

A few days before the meet, Gwen called me from her apartment. She lived in a rented house on Mifflin Street where hardwood floors moaned in the Wisconsin winters. Charming and perpetually dusty, the two-story structure stood guard each spring during a thirty-thousand-person block party. Uninterested in the bash, Gwen favored its proximity to campus.

She said, “I have a few minutes before class. I’m just on the bed with my feet up. You have time to talk?”

“Yep.”

“I’m packed and ready to leave for Arkansas. I have some leg pain still, but it’s my last meet so I’m going for it.” Gwen rarely admitted to pain, so her mention of injury suggested its significance.

“I’m sure you’ll do great, Gwen.”

“And after, I’m going to Europe. That will give it time to heal.” Gwen had planned a post-graduation backpacking trip, but it seemed unrealistic she could heal while traveling.

“You’re okay to run?”

“I want to finish as an All-American. But really, I’ll be happy to help the team and get some points.”

“Either way, Mom and Dad and I will be there. It should be fun.”

“I’m excited to see you guys.”

NANCY

Gwen asserted her place on the outdoor track, toe grinding tar at the 5K start line. Five feet, 10 inches tall, 125 pounds—she towered over girls built closer to the ground. Her dark curls bobbed in a ponytail. She looked fatigued in yesterday’s preliminary race, but her results qualified her for finals. The previous night, an ice bath flushed lactic acid from her calves, and a therapist massaged her muscles. Today, the best finishers would be All-Americans. And experts called Gwen a favorite. The gun went off. Gwen reacted last. Her slow-motion start allowed competitors to charge forward.

“She’s always slow at the beginning.” Joel held a thumb on his stopwatch. “She’ll be fine.”

I wasn’t worried yet. A negative-split runner, Gwen saved her speed for the back end of a race.

Elizabeth shielded her eyes from the sun, squinting to see across the track. “She looks tired.”

None of us was surprised by Gwen’s position, but she didn’t have her usual energy. Then a minor hitch became a limp, and Gwen tipped sidelong with each step. After only one kilometer, she stared at the back of 15 jerseys. At the 2.5-kilometer mark, she hobbled to the side and withdrew. It was the first time I saw her drop out of an event—stoic and unemotional in public, she specialized in pain and manufactured miracles to finish every contest.

By the time we saw her an hour later, an orthopedic boot shackled her shin. I mourned the loss of her final race—it seemed a heartsick way to close a career, without even crossing the finish line. I learned later Gwen suspected a stress fracture but refused x-rays for fear of the truth. She willed her way to finals, but the pain won out.

ELIZABETH

As we exited the stadium, Gwen limping in her boot, a woman approached. She looked official, her identification tags on a lanyard. “Gwen, do you have a minute?”

Gwen introduced us to Barb Lindquist from USA Triathlon’s collegiate recruitment program. Barb had noticed Gwen’s swim and run background as she searched for potential triathletes. “That was a tough race—I’m sorry to see you’re injured. Give it some rest and you’ll heal quickly.”

“Thanks.”

In high school, Gwen and I confided in each other about basketball, track, and swimming. Now, she made decisions with college coaches and this was the first I heard about triathlon.

Lindquist, 40ish, fit, and tan, smiled. “You should consider triathlon—swim, bike, run.”

Gwen shifted the weight of her backpack and seemed ready to leave. “I can’t do a 10-hour Ironman.”

“This isn’t Ironman. It’s Olympic distance. Only a two-hour race.”

Gwen leaned on her healthy leg. “I don’t have a bike.”

“We’ll find one for you and get you a coach.”

I wondered what this recruiter saw in my sister, an injured track athlete with little success on the University of Wisconsin swim team.

“I have a job lined up with Ernst & Young. I’ll be doing tax accounting 40 hours a week.” Irritation crouched behind Gwen’s words.

“You can try it in your free time, and we’ll help you get started.”

“I’ll think about it.”

After Gwen shook Lindquist’s hand, we continued walking. I wondered why Gwen hadn’t mentioned triathlon and what Lindquist’s proposal meant for my little sister.

NANCY

After Lindquist offered her business card and retreated, Gwen confirmed her disinterest. “She keeps calling and emailing, but I’m too busy to even think about it.” Gwen committed her summer to studying for the 14-hour CPA exam—324 questions in auditing, business concepts, financial accounting, and regulation.

But Lindquist, a former Olympic triathlete, knew about determination and persistence. In phone calls, she suggested Gwen explore triathlon and decide later if she had potential. In emails, she promoted USA Triathlon, coaxing and cajoling. “We need gifted athletes like you in our program.”

I knew Gwen was flattered but that she lacked confidence. Passionate about swimming, Gwen joined the University of Wisconsin swim team, confident she would thrive in Division I athletics. But she plunged from high school MVP to collegiate afterthought, not once swimming an NCAA finals meet. Fresher in her mind were three years of collegiate running that ended with a stress fracture.

Gwen told me what she said to Lindquist. “I know how strong you have to be to succeed at the top. I don’t have that kind of talent.”

Lindquist sweetened the prospect with confidence in Gwen’s abilities. “Gwen, on paper, you are stronger than I was. And I was an Olympian.”

Gwen began to succumb to the allure of competition, of exploring potential, of pushing limits. She started to believe perhaps she could perfect her swimming, leverage her running, and pick up cycling. Perhaps the whole could be more than the sum of swim, bike, run. Perhaps she could be a world-class athlete. Perhaps triathlon was the winning formula to amalgamate her talents and reveal a champion.

Several weeks after graduation, Gwen said, “Yeah, Mom, I’m thinking about giving triathlon a chance. I always planned to work out in my free time, so if I’m running anyway, I suppose I could add a few swim workouts and pick up the bike.”

I understood Gwen’s reasoning. Why not gamble a few hours every day? On the income/loss sheet, her gain in fitness would surely justify the hours invested. And I trusted her judgment—always sensible, she would continue working while she trained.

Gwen had one experience with triathlon. It was a bucket list item for eighteen-year-old Gwen and her Waukesha South High School track teammate, Maggie Lach. Neither knew anything about the sport, but in 2004, when a local group sponsored a one-hour super-sprint, Gwen and Maggie registered.

On a hot July morning, Joel, Elizabeth, and I gathered on Wisconsin’s Pewaukee Lake beach to cheer. “Good luck, girls.”

“Meet us at the finish line?” Gwen pulled a swim cap over her ponytail. “Maggie’s going to wait for me after the bike, and then we’ll run...