Is a triathlon, with only two events, still really a triathlon?

Answer: No.

Mood: Depressed.

Body: Sore like after a car wreck.

So after 10 weeks of training in the beautiful and uncharacteristic sunshine at the Aquatic Park in Fisherman's Wharf and at the former Naval base Treasure Island, the San Francisco fog and rain finally rolled in, clouding what was already a gloomy day.

The 58,000 gallons of bunker fuel that spilled into the Bay last week caused race directors to cancel the swim portion of the triathlon that I, the reluctant triathlete, and 20 others trained our asses off to complete. It also desecrated a coast we have come to know quite intimately, which fouled everyone's mood.

For the last 10 weeks, we have learned to navigate through the Bay's choppy, sea-lion-infested waters, and even to appreciate its heart-attack-inducing cold. We have ridden our bikes into the Headlands where we are rewarded for the pain of the climb with mesmerizing views of our ocean-enveloped city. And we've run along its shores dodging police on horses and packs of Blazing Saddles bicycles carrying kamikaze tourists, breathing in its salt air. Every day that we trained we were reminded of what an amazing place San Francisco is and we felt lucky to live here.

So it was especially hard to get psyched up for the duathlon that reminded us of our injured ocean, instead of the triathlon we had trained for. It was especially hard for those of us who count the swim as our best event. For me, I was hoping for a large enough lead so as not to be totally humiliated in the run.

But alas.

We started the race barefoot to simulate the transition we would have made if we had swum. Our pack of 30-and-under women and (was it?) 40-and-over women took off running to our bikes, threw on shoes and helmets and clogged out of the transition area.

The bike was OK though I couldn't find my pace and I kept getting blown away on straight aways. I found myself zoning out and would shake it off every so often and remind myself to speed up.

It was a six-loop, 40k course with no drafting allowed, so the long stretches into the wind felt like biking underwater. But I wasn't breathing hard. I kept wondering if that meant I should be going much faster? When I racked my bike, my legs felt like stones. And in six miles they never did loosen up. The good news was my calf did not bother me. Instead, as I told Neva who was at least a mile ahead on the 3-loop run course as we passed each other, it was the "out-of-shapeness" that bothered me.

Because I wasn't running before I started the 10-week training program, and because the pulled calf kept me from running for the past five weeks, I never did build up to a point where even three miles felt comfortable to me. So a 6.2-mile tromp -- and my first run in over a month -- was expectedly difficult. The first four-miles felt better than the last four-mile run I had done, despite being smoked by attractive women in tiny bikini bottoms (how do they keep those from riding up?), not to mention all of my in-shape and also attractive friends in our group. The last two miles felt increasingly long and torturous and I had no kick left when the finish line finally came into view. It took me about 1:15 minutes to complete the run, which amounts to more than 11-minute miles. It was disappointing given that during our half-distance training tri, I ran three miles at a 9:30 mile pace. I couldn't even look at my coach who had invested so much time in me and in making sure I was as ready as I could possibly be for this race. Instead, I burst into tears.

The duathlon did not feel indicative of what I'd trained so hard for. It was disappointing. And it was painful. And it was frustrating. And despite all of this, I still want to do a full triathlon. The adrenaline of it is intense and addictive. The camaraderie is the best part. I am sad that I won't be able to complete a triathlon before I turn 30 despite trying my damnedest. But maybe, at 30, in my golden year, it will feel that much more incredible.