The Race of Her Life

THURSDAY AND FRIDAY: I spent the final training days trying to put into practice the techniques Corcoran had taught us. I was able to keep my blood sugar relatively stable or quickly make a correction. If I had any questions—about athletics or diabetes or both—an answer was always close by. "Whatever your skill level, this is a safe place for people to come and learn," says Corcoran. "People come out of their isolation and into their community and they flourish." Friday we had a practice run-through of Saturday's main event: a mini-triathlon. Supermini. Tongue-in-cheek mini. Swim the length of the pool, circle the parking lot on the bike and run about 150 yards. But competitive juices started flowing early.

SATURDAY: Mini-tri day. Although many of my fellow campers were getting up early for one final morning workout, I opted to sleep in for fear of depleting precious energy that would be better spent beating everyone. And to be honest, there was some performance anxiety. But then I joined a relay team with Dan, a swimmer, and, Rose, hell on wheels. I was the natural-born sprinter (really). The race began and within minutes we took the lead. Rose tagged me and I was off on the final leg. With victory a tasty 10 feet away, I sensed another runner catching up. I lost focus. I lost my balance. I wiped out, hard. Sporting bloody knees, hands and elbows, I quickly figured out that the moment might only be salvaged with comedy. I crawled in dramatic fashion over the finish line, as if the grueling race had left me totally depleted. I got my laugh and, even though I was beaten to the finish, a plastic gold medal. Sweet.

© 2007