There was a small park at the bottom of the hill, between the main road and the lake and I sat on the edge of the sidewalk at the entrance.

We decided that Victoria would cycle back to the swim start, get my minivan, drive back and we could load me and both the bikes in. Then we would drive straight to the Emergency Room. Or we would drive back for Victoria's car and I would drive to the hospital myself, since my right leg was fine. I had locked my keys in my van but told Victoria where to find the spare set. They were tucked into a Velcro pouch under the bumper on the driver's side. Victoria raced off on her bike and I sat, a bit shivery and subdued on the sidewalk and waited. One lady, driving past, stopped, reversed and kindly gave me some tissues and the antiseptic cream and band-aids out of her first-aid kit. 20 minutes passed before Victoria returned. She wound down the window and, pleased to see her, I asked cheerfully "Whose van is this?"

"What do you mean, whose van is this?" she replied puzzled.

"Well, that's not my van. So whose van is it?" I asked, a little puzzled myself. I pointed out that my van was eggplant purple and this one was cranberry red. And this one had a storage box on top. And it had Oregon License plates. Victoria was horrified.

"This is not your van? This is not your van! Oh my God! Oh my God!" The color drained from her face as she realized I was not joking. "But the key," she said desperately holding up a single key that was tied onto some wire. "I found the key under the bumper on the driver's side."

I got the giggles. Imagine two similar vans parked in the same car park with spare keys hidden in the same place. What a coincidence. I reminded her that my key was in a Velcro pouch not tied to a piece of old coat hangar wire.

She had just "stolen" a van.

As she realized what she had done, Victoria reached for her cell phone. "I've got to call the police!" So she dialed 911. The words flew out of her mouth in a panic. "I've stolen a car and I didn't mean to and I want to give it back but I don't want to be caught in it!" The controller was very calm, and put her through to the local police where Victoria explained everything again in a fluster. The words tumbled out of her. I could only hear her side of the conversation but could work out what the policeman at the other end of the phone was asking. "I want to report a stolen car. I don't know, can you hold? Gill, what make is it? I don't know, can you hold? Gill what's the license number? Seattle. About 10am. Well I stole it. But I didn't mean to. I'm in it now."

By now I was laughing so much I was crying. I had one hand over my knee and the other wiping tears away. At this point, I saw two of the girls we had met at the swim start, cycling along the road. Seeing that I was crying and my bike was buckled, they slowed down to help but oddly, did not stop. In fact, the girl at the front cycled past me but was still looking in my direction when suddenly, she too fell off her bike into the middle of road.

I leaped up from the sidewalk and, hobbling like the Hunchback of Notre Dame, went to help her up. "Are you okay?" I asked but still, she did not speak. Seeing the confusion, Victoria still in the stolen car, watching this from the open van window, cell phone to ear, broke off from her confession to the police. "Excuse me," she says to the women lying on the ground "but is this your car?"

The woman was cycling along and as she past us, she thought to herself, "That looks like my car. It even has a top box like my car. The license plate says GWN 125. "It IS my car!" and at the point she fell off her bike. It was indeed her car

So we all introduced ourselves and explained about the fall and the gash, the key, and the police and that we were in a quandary as to what to do. Sherri, the owner of the "stolen" car, thought it was fine to take her van and drive to the emergency room! We assured her that we'd rather return her van and take my van but since we had now reported her van stolen and given the police the license number, we may be stopped on the way back to the car park. Or she may be stopped later on. Sherri and her buddy decided they would continue their cycle. Victoria and I would drive Sherri's van plus the bikes, back to the car park. We'd leave her key inside her van, under the front seat, lock the van and go to the hospital from there. And that's what we did. We waved them away and as I got in on the passenger side, there was Sherri's purse on the floor between the seats, and, as she was cycling in her swim suit, all her clothes on the back seat. But she had cycled on, trusting that our mistake was genuine and confident that we would return her car as we had promised to.

We got to the Emergency Room and my knee needed 7 stitches. All that training for one event and now I was not going to be able to take part. I knew the important thing was the journey and not the destination. I knew I had set a goal and worked hard towards it. I knew I was much fitter now than I had ever been and that the exercise was not wasted. But I had talked four friends into doing the Danskin with me and now I wouldn't be crossing the finish line with them.

The following week I rested. I didn't swim because I couldn't get the stitches wet; couldn't cycle because I had to keep my knee straight and just walked every day because running was uncomfortable. On Friday, Victoria and I met for what would have been our last training session before the race. Victoria had brought a present (YOU GO GIRL! Socks and cap) and a card with a brilliant quote from Mark Twain.

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

So I decided to do the race. We got on the bikes and went for a gentle cycle. I figured the worst that could happen is the stitches would burst.

On the day of the race, lined up at the swim start, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sherri asking about my knee! She had as much fun telling everyone the story that week as we had. It was a great day. The atmosphere was amazing. The camaraderie and energy and support of so many women was that day was electrifying and inspiring. I fell in with a lady called Ellen, who was going at my pace, and we chatted the whole of the run and crossed the finish line together. I knocked 5 minutes off my swim time and nearly 5 minutes off my bike time from the previous year and my stitches didn't burst. And all my friends know that the short, steep road that connects Lake Washington Boulevard to the I90 is called Seven Stitches Hill