I am in the ass end of ironman training. It’s most volume of training, the most exhaustion, intensity, self-doubt and depression. It’s the howamIevergoingtodothis? stage. Top that off with the hottest, most energy-sapping heat to train in and hard, hilly(at least to me) terrain. It’s ninety degrees before dawn. Training is a matter of getting through it without heat exhaustion. Hills that would be no problem in cooler weather turn into mountains. I have to constantly monitor myself for signs of dizziness, headache or fatigue that can turn ugly. Fear creeps into my mind as I wonder how far I should go because it’s just that much longer to get home by myself if I am not feeling well.
My route takes me thirty three miles one way from home. It is suburban, but spread out and has stretches that do not have much in the way of water or ice if I get overheated. One section has nine miles of climbing without relief. It’s isn’t horribly steep, but it’s mentally challenging. Do I push myself and go a little harder? I usually err on the side of caution, which makes me wonder if I am training hard enough. Will I have enough speed to not DNF(do not finish) the race? How miserable should I make myself?
On a recent ride, I decided to start early at a pre-dawn five o’clock. I looked at the thermometer and it read ninety degrees. Really? Phoenix in June is dry, so in the early morning, it is actually cool or at least in the eighties. In July, the humidity rolls in and it never cools off at night. It’s utterly discouraging and makes me dream of a cool beach in California.
Riding pre-dawn is not too bad. The sun’s intensity is at bay and if I keep my sunglasses on, I can pretend that it’s still dark out. Not a lot of cars are out to annoy me. Rabbits run in front of me like they WANT to get hit. A family of quail with the little babies trailing behind the parents occasionally appears. This phase does not last long, however.
The rising ball of the sun gives me the evil eye. My route has hills because my ironman route does. Normally, in summer I would avoid them like the plague, but I need the training. I don’t see a lot of cyclists out. They are smarter than me. I start climbing upward and feel the heat stealing my strength. Having done the route before, I am accustomed to doing hills, but it seems more difficult now.
My route leaves town and I am out in a rural area. It’s treeless road. I suck down water, salt tablets, sports drink and sometimes pour water on myself. The air is pretty uncomfortable. I wonder if I should turn around rather than tackle the cruelty of Nine Mile Hill, which is exactly what it’s called, an unrelenting climb up. I push on, with the intention of ascending without getting heat exhaustion. It’s an intimidating prospect because there is very little out here besides a few houses.
I count off the street numbers from 178 to 114, at the blistering pace of ten miles per hour. I want to push harder, but it’s risky. I am hot and tired as it is. It’s probably 95 degrees by now. Other cyclists pass by me, but not too many. I wouldn’t be out here either, under other circumstances. My lack of speed torments me. If I can’t go fast here, how am I going to make the bike cut offs in the actual race? A decent bike rider wouldn’t have this problem, but I am slow. I signed up for this race to see if I could get through a hilly bike portion and I am still not convinced I can.
I finally crest the hill and now I am going downhill towards home. My plan is to re-stock with ice and cold water. The heat is pressing down now. I am still functioning. I wonder what people in their air-conditioned car think of a crazy bike rider out in the 100 degree heat. I just want to keep moving and not be stuck at intersections waiting for a light. It’s just that much hotter.
I make it home and get more ice and water to continue my ride. The sun is burning now. It’s a suffocating and oppressive blanket wanting to strangle me. I keep moving, but I am getting slower and slower. I survive. I endure.
Ironman training is hard, but this is ridiculous. Six hours biking on hilly terrain in 90-100 degrees. A mere 80 miles when the race will have 112. I am motivated by fear of not finishing and wanting to see what I am capable of. July’s hell will hopefully give way to triumph in August, but I have no illusions that it isn’t going to earned without a high price in pain, misery and every ounce of strength I have.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Sunday, June 12, 2011
DEUCES WILD OLYMPIC TRIATHLON
Some races are snarling beasts, throwing wind, heat, hills at whomever dares to engage it. Sometimes the beast is your body betraying you, with the stomach that revolts, the legs that fail or the mind that becomes weak. Sometimes, it’s benevolent and leaves your alone. I assumed that it would not be an easy race with the altitude and cold water and I was right.
This event is a triathlon festival in Show Low, Arizona, which is in the White Mountain area of the state at 6,300 feet altitude. It consists of an olympic triathlon, a half iron triathlon and an Xterra triathlon, all centered in the Fool Hollow Lake Recreation Area, a pine forested lake.. I was doing the olympic. Despite the altitude, the sun can be intensely hot. I have found that high altitude races can be a crap shoot. You can’t assume that you will go as fast as you would at lower levels, and the lack of oxygen presents special challenges.
I was nervous about the swim. At this altitude and with cold water, I wasn’t sure what to expect. Supposedly, some spots in the lake were 57 degrees, but it felt more like about low sixties to me. The air was warm, however, which helped the perception of comfort. I kept telling myself the water wasn’t that cold. If I said it to myself often enough, I might believe it. I was NOT cold. My wave went off and I swam slow to the first buoy, just as the wind picked up. It was coming from the south, so it was hitting me sideways. Great. I was concentrating on being calm. I thought or hoped it would be better swimming north and it was. I felt like I was flying on top of the water. It was an actual tail wind on a swim. I always seemed to be with swimmers that were struggling. I wanted this eternal swim to be over with. Going around the last turn buoy, I was fine, then the 16 m.p.h. wind with gusts of 25 m.p.h. hit head on. I was getting tired and cold and my brain decided that I should have a panic attack. I wanted a kayak to stop and rest , but they were occupied with other swimmers hanging on. I got it together and went on. I had to doggy paddle quite a bit to get my breath. The water was slapping me hard in the face, making breathing difficult without inhaling Fool Hollow Lake. Someone was side stroking near me and it seemed like a good idea, at least to breath without getting water in my mouth. Finally, I was relieved to make it to the dock. in 52:48. It was slow, but I didn’t care.
The bike was easy at first for the first ten miles because it was downhill. This break was not going to last and I was going to pay for it. The hills started coming and so did the wind. I was alone on the course and it felt like I was in the middle of nowhere, wondering if I had gotten lost in some obscure part of town. This race seemed epic with the windy conditions and the altitude and hills. It wasn’t a race, more than it was survival. The inclines were hell to climb. The beast was giving me a hard time. The scenery was nice with the tall green pine trees and the mountains. I could even see the forest fire smoke to the east. It would be a fun bike ride if I was with someone else, was going at a leisurely pace and if it wasn’t windy. In short, if it was another day.
I finally caught and passed people at the aid station. The wind had increased from 17-22 m.p.h. with gusts of 28 m.p.h. and I was going straight into it. I had a hard time eating and drinking on while riding. The last four miles, the cross winds were bad and I had to sit up to stabilize the bike. Total time was 1:46, which seemed like forever. Another mediocre split, but it was the best that I could do.
I came into T2 and tried to rack my bike on the bar, but the seat post came out. I stared at it befuddled for a second and someone came to help me. I dashed out to the run.
The run starts out on trails, then pavement, then an energy sucking uphill gravel road out and back in the middle of the run. I was totally exhausted at this point and had to walk in spots. I didn’t care about the run anymore. I was done and had resigned myself to the leisurely pace that results when I am totally wasted from the bike portion. I finally hit the turn around and speeded up going downhill. I stopped to use the restroom, not concerned about the lost time and continued on. Finally there was pavement again and another hill. I did a final dash to the finish line. Run was 1:15. Final result was a miserable 4:06.
I was surprised at how bad I felt afterwards physically. I didn’t hurt physically, but the wind and altitude sucked the life out of me. Fighting the conditions and not giving up seemed like an accomplishment to me. It’s great when everything goes right and I feel in control and I can go faster than I thought possible, but this day the beast was mean and made me work hard to earn the finish.
The Mastery of Fear
Fear can paralyze you or spur you to action. You can battle it or hold it back in an uneasy truce. I am afraid of many things. Anxiety is the cold knot in the stomach, the sudden jolt awake in the middle of the night, the heart pounding, the breathless heaviness. I am afraid of change. I am afraid of moving to another place. I am afraid of traveling. I am afraid of life in general. I am definitely afraid of swimming in open water.
Some people were born to swim. They take to the water like fish and love it. They naturally move efficiently and quickly. I, on the other hand do not. It took me years to even get a decent form and I am still not fast or even half fast. I am utterly without swim talent. The whole world seems to swim faster than I.
It took me a long time to even be able to swim in open water without a panic attack. I failed to finish the first couple of open water triathlons I tried because I would start swimming and once I got a little distance from the shore, the fear of drowning would overcome me. I would start hyperventilating, thrash around and feel even more out of breath. Maybe it was the primordial fear of suffocation and drowning. In deep water, I don’t like not being able to touch the bottom with my feet. If I get tired, I can’t rest by standing up.
Once I became more physically proficient at swimming, my mind was the thing I had to worry about. Getting through a swim required focusing at the task at hand, not thinking about the scariness of a vast body of water to travel through. The negative thoughts had to be pushed back. They had to be corralled until the swim was done, otherwise they would take over and paralyze me. This is true of fear in general. You grit your teeth and try to get through it, otherwise you are left with the depression of inaction and with a sense of failure for not having the courage to overcome the dread.
If I do something scary often enough, it becomes less frightening. Confidence comes from facing my fears and controlling my reaction. However, I don't always have control over what a swim will throw at me.
A lake or the ocean, as opposed to a pool, is a whole different animal. Pools are clear and clean with set boundaries. It isn’t far from one end to the other if I am tired. The ocean has currents, undertow and crashing waves. Weird things inhabit the natural bodies of water, which might have plant life, boat fuel, fish, ducks and jelly fish. Massive patches of weeds seem to want to ensnare a swimmer if they have the misfortune to pass through their tentacles. Lurking sunken trees, algae blooms, toe biting fish bite are other hazards. Human hazards are boaters and jet skiers that aren’t paying attention to where they are going. The water itself may be hot enough to give you heat exhaustion or so cold that your face stings and your face, hands and feet turn numb. Hypothermia is a possibility. Sometimes I have ended up in a med tent shivering violently after a bout in cold water.
Wind is another hazard. In a lake it churns up the water in random waves, unlike the ocean. The waves slap me around and hit me in the face when I are trying to breath. Choking on water does not add to my sense of ease. Stroking harder and faster is required. In a recent race, I had to swim against a 17 m.p.h. head wind in a high altitude lake. I couldn’t get enough oxygen and had a panic attack. The only way to get enough air was to hold my head above water, which is more tiring than swimming with it down. Fear overtook my mind and it had to be fought off. I actually shouted “help”, but the kayaker was occupied with other swimmers freaking out, who were hanging on to his boat. I stopped, calmed down and continued on. Fear has its place in self-preservation, but it is also dangerous if it prevents you from doing what you need to do to keep yourself safe.
I don’t always hate swimming in a lake or ocean. Gliding through the water at a relaxed pace is kind of peaceful as opposed to having to swim a set distance and having someone is timing you. Being near a shore reassures me and I feel safe. I can be as slow as I want and not worry about being the last one out of the water.
Even if I have a bad swim, I have a feeling of accomplishment when I finish. I controlled the fear, not the other way around. It’s a simple terror, unlike the rest of life. One outcome is death by suffocation, the other is getting to a fixed point eventually, which happens 99.9% of the time. The journey from one point to the other may be fraught with hazards and difficulties, but if I keep going, I will get there. Life is less certain and takes more faith that things will work out. More possibilities present themselves, good or bad, imagined or real, unexpected or not. Outcomes aren’t always known. Spouses may leave you, loved ones will die, the economy may tank and the safe, happy life you had will blow up. Still, fear can’t predominate one’s existence, because this stuff is going to happen anyway. It has to be beaten off and subdued so that occasionally joy and peace can inhabit the mind instead.
Some people were born to swim. They take to the water like fish and love it. They naturally move efficiently and quickly. I, on the other hand do not. It took me years to even get a decent form and I am still not fast or even half fast. I am utterly without swim talent. The whole world seems to swim faster than I.
It took me a long time to even be able to swim in open water without a panic attack. I failed to finish the first couple of open water triathlons I tried because I would start swimming and once I got a little distance from the shore, the fear of drowning would overcome me. I would start hyperventilating, thrash around and feel even more out of breath. Maybe it was the primordial fear of suffocation and drowning. In deep water, I don’t like not being able to touch the bottom with my feet. If I get tired, I can’t rest by standing up.
Once I became more physically proficient at swimming, my mind was the thing I had to worry about. Getting through a swim required focusing at the task at hand, not thinking about the scariness of a vast body of water to travel through. The negative thoughts had to be pushed back. They had to be corralled until the swim was done, otherwise they would take over and paralyze me. This is true of fear in general. You grit your teeth and try to get through it, otherwise you are left with the depression of inaction and with a sense of failure for not having the courage to overcome the dread.
If I do something scary often enough, it becomes less frightening. Confidence comes from facing my fears and controlling my reaction. However, I don't always have control over what a swim will throw at me.
A lake or the ocean, as opposed to a pool, is a whole different animal. Pools are clear and clean with set boundaries. It isn’t far from one end to the other if I am tired. The ocean has currents, undertow and crashing waves. Weird things inhabit the natural bodies of water, which might have plant life, boat fuel, fish, ducks and jelly fish. Massive patches of weeds seem to want to ensnare a swimmer if they have the misfortune to pass through their tentacles. Lurking sunken trees, algae blooms, toe biting fish bite are other hazards. Human hazards are boaters and jet skiers that aren’t paying attention to where they are going. The water itself may be hot enough to give you heat exhaustion or so cold that your face stings and your face, hands and feet turn numb. Hypothermia is a possibility. Sometimes I have ended up in a med tent shivering violently after a bout in cold water.
Wind is another hazard. In a lake it churns up the water in random waves, unlike the ocean. The waves slap me around and hit me in the face when I are trying to breath. Choking on water does not add to my sense of ease. Stroking harder and faster is required. In a recent race, I had to swim against a 17 m.p.h. head wind in a high altitude lake. I couldn’t get enough oxygen and had a panic attack. The only way to get enough air was to hold my head above water, which is more tiring than swimming with it down. Fear overtook my mind and it had to be fought off. I actually shouted “help”, but the kayaker was occupied with other swimmers freaking out, who were hanging on to his boat. I stopped, calmed down and continued on. Fear has its place in self-preservation, but it is also dangerous if it prevents you from doing what you need to do to keep yourself safe.
I don’t always hate swimming in a lake or ocean. Gliding through the water at a relaxed pace is kind of peaceful as opposed to having to swim a set distance and having someone is timing you. Being near a shore reassures me and I feel safe. I can be as slow as I want and not worry about being the last one out of the water.
Even if I have a bad swim, I have a feeling of accomplishment when I finish. I controlled the fear, not the other way around. It’s a simple terror, unlike the rest of life. One outcome is death by suffocation, the other is getting to a fixed point eventually, which happens 99.9% of the time. The journey from one point to the other may be fraught with hazards and difficulties, but if I keep going, I will get there. Life is less certain and takes more faith that things will work out. More possibilities present themselves, good or bad, imagined or real, unexpected or not. Outcomes aren’t always known. Spouses may leave you, loved ones will die, the economy may tank and the safe, happy life you had will blow up. Still, fear can’t predominate one’s existence, because this stuff is going to happen anyway. It has to be beaten off and subdued so that occasionally joy and peace can inhabit the mind instead.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Duathlon National Championship
I usually whine in race reports about how much I hurt, how depressing the experience was or how badly my results sucked. Most people who don’t race don’t understand why I would do something so unpleasant to myself. This event was none of those things. It was freaking MAGIC.
The duathlon was set in Oro Valley, Arizona, north of Tucson. Just doing a race somewhere besides the Phoenix area attracted me. After ten years of multisport I am BORED with the same venues. I jumped at the chance to do something new. It’s also a national championship, which means good swag and really serious competition from around the country. It had a definite “cool” factor. Placing in the top eighteen in my age group meant I had the chance of competing in Spain with Team USA. That wasn’t my goal, but it was a possibility with only twenty one people registered in my age group.
I felt kind of tired and unenergetic race morning. I had felt “off” all week and I was nervous about racing and hadn’t slept well. Somehow speediness seemed a distant concept. My bike rack spot was near the “run in” and “bike in”, which seemed like a good thing because sometimes my brain goes fuzzy after strenuous activity and I can’t find where my stuff is in transition. It was interesting that women my age were here from places like Oklahoma, Virgina, California and Colorado. Old gals rule. Some are very fast. To hell with slowing down with age.
I warmed up by jogging and checked out the nasty four to six percent hill that preceded the finish of each run. It looked like it was going to hurt. After someone sang an out of tune national anthem, we were off. The older people went first, which suited me fine. It felt hot already.
Most people got ahead of me, but I was concentrating on keeping a steady pace. The first mile was a slight climb and took about 9:30. Then we went down a hill and up it again. Then down a hill to a turn around, then up again to the hill. That hill wasn’t too bad, but it was work. I finished in about 29 something which was decent. I thought it was going to be a grueling affair and I wanted save my energy.
I dashed through transition and on to the bike. The bike course was rolling hills, but they weren’t too bad. The steep climbs were short. It was out and back, which meant I got to fly down the hills that I had previously crawled up. My legs actually felt O.K. I was kind of surprised that I felt that good. I thought, I am beginning the bike leg, which is usually the point where I start to hurt in a duathlon. HUH?! WHAT THE HELL? It was a little surprising. I didn’t want to push too hard because the course was fairly hard. I was downing salt tablets. There was a cross wind, but it wasn’t too bad. The first loop was about 41 minutes and 16.3 mph. OH. MY. GOD. An actual decent bike split, for me at least. This could be an great bike ride. I was kind of shocked. I thought I would be slower due to the hills. The second loop was a little faster. I had a lot of 60-70 year olds and even an 80 year old passing me. A little irritating. It was still fairly cool with the breeze, which was nice.
I finished and ran into transition. Racking my bike was hard because the rack was so high. I struggled to lift the bike high enough. I ran out and my legs were stiff, but not too bad. The first mile was a slow10:34, but then it was downhill and I made up some time. The two mile mark was 19:03. Finally, I was going uphill to the finish. All I wanted to do was break ten minutes miles in the second run, so I pushed at the end. It was definitely harder running the second run the same pace as the first run. Someone had a sign “Spain or bust” referring to the world championship. I gave a thumbs up. Cruelly, the rest of the way to the finish line was gravel, so I pushed to speed up. I finished the second run in about the same time as the first one-29:49. I had done it, a sub ten minute mile run.
I was left dazed at how well this race had gone. Usually, I secretly hope that I will exceed what I thought I could do, but it usually doesn’t happen. Something came together this day. Maybe it was the painfest I had at my last involuntary half ironman duathlon. Maybe it was the god awful five hour bike ride I had done last weekend. Maybe it was because it was the third duathlon I had done this year, when I usually only do one a year. Whatever it was, I felt extraordinary. It’s unusual to get a flow state, where I am at the right pacing, strength, training and venue all at the same time. I had been transported out of my usual anxious, depressed state of mind into a state of euphoria. This was an unaccustomed and long ago emotion that I hadn’t seen in a while-happiness and joy. I was going to hold onto it as long as I could, before it slipped back again into the darkness.
I started out the day going in one direction and completely turned and went in another. This experience went from an ordinary it will probably suck and be painful to UNEXPECTED POSSIBILITIES. I think I might go to Spain.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Butterfly Pavillion
I recently volunteered at the Desert Botanical Butterfly Pavilion. They had a variety of orange, white and black markings, like little flying jewels. One landed on a girl about eight years old and sat on her hand for ten minutes and she waited patiently until it flew away. My job was to answer questions and keep the butterflies from being stepped on when they perched on the ground. It’s a compact area with many butterflies, so they would not act as they would normally. Instead of avoiding people, they would land on them. At one point, I had eight on me. Their legs were kind of irritating on my bare skin and I had to resist the urge to brush them off. They seemed to like my white shirt and it was kind of intriguing to be a flower to them. It was soothing in a way to have them perched on me.
The butterflies makes me feel like I am part of the fabric of the natural world. Humans are part of the planet, but the connection gets lost sometimes when we construct artificial environments that separate us from the outside. We pave over ground, make ugly highways, build high rises, dams and otherwise alter the land, sometimes making it inhospitable and unlivable. Every time I go to the airport or have to drive the highway, I want to leave it as soon as possible. The thought of being stuck in such places is a nightmare. Their required functionality makes such soul sucking areas unfriendly and hideous to look at.
As an antidote to the pavement, people need gardens, parks and zoos. Flowers, plants, trees and butterflies have the form, color and softness that help us feel less alone and unconnected to each other. The world would otherwise be a bleak and uninteresting place. To hear and watch birds, to look at plants and observe animal behavior makes my petty worries disappear.
Butterflies are also amazing because they transform themselves. A caterpillar forms a pupa and the larvae inside dissolves and re-forms into the adult. It would be interesting to do this as a human. If I didn’t like my body, I could make a pupa and re-form it into something better. No dieting or exercise. The aching back could be gone. The flabby abdomen could disappear.
Even better, what if I could shed all my emotional baggage and start fresh. Old resentments, feelings of inadequacy, regrets and sadness could all go away. It would be a clean start. If only it was that easy. It would be nice to feel happy again.
Instead, I have to work on it bit by bit. I feel great one day and sink into depression the next. Telling myself positive statements takes repetition because it just doesn’t seem to sink in very quickly. I backslide, then have to move forward again. The old negative thoughts stick around. They don’t want to leave. They try to tell me that I’m not smart, that I can’t do things, that I will never amount to anything, that I am not talented. They keep me from going after what I want.
Patterns of behavior are even worse. I have to actually fight with them and they are resistant to change. One part of my mind wants to play it safe and the other part is miserable and wants to do something about it. I have to resist the urge to crawl into my hole and avoid the world, to try to connect with people despite my discomfort with exposing myself to rejection.
At least a caterpillar knows that it will turn into a butterfly. I don’t know if I will turn into what I want to be. The outcome is not guaranteed and it’s hard. The ideal career eludes me at the moment. Happiness with myself or with another person after being divorced is uncertain. Peace of mind and comfort with myself is not there.
I just have to bumble around from flower to flower, hoping that my antenna don’t fall off and that I get impossibly lost.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Marquee Triathlon Race Report
Sometimes, when I am in the middle of a race I wonder why the hell I am doing this. This race was an eight on a scale of one to ten for pain. Everything hurt, but at least the discomfort can be conquered. You grit your teeth and keep moving.
This race was an sprint, olympic and half iron. It was supposed to have a 1.2 mile swim, but it rained the day before and it was cancelled due to concerns about e coli. This seemed like it would be a good thing, but it was not. Not having a swim made the rest of the race all that more difficult. Swimming doesn’t require pavement pounding. For the half iron, another three miles prior to the bike was required, then a 56 mile bike and a half marathon. Sixteen miles of aching legs and tired feet.
The start was delayed due to a car accident on the highway. Then the inflatable start line arch deflated. This event seemed doomed. Finally, I got to start. This first run was fine, running around the lake. A great blue heron sitting on a wall watched the insane runners, probably wondering what was these fools were doing.
I ran back to transition, got through quickly since I didn’t have to deal with peeling off a wetsuit and rode out onto the bike course. Three miles into the course, my tire went flat. It was the first time ever in a race. What would be a half iron without something going wrong? The last one, I had hypothermia and camped out in the med tent for 38 minutes, the time before I had heat exhaustion and walked half of the 13.1 mile run. Of course it was the back wheel, so the deraillor, the thingy that changes gears on the bike was in the way. Glass was in a cut in the tire. It was the price of not checking the tire before the race. My extra time gained by not doing the swim was gone and now I had to worry about time cut offs. People whizzed by me.
I finally started out again and occasionally, I heard a thump, thump, thump from the rear tire. It wasn’t flat, but it felt wrong. It might be under inflated, but no one at the aid stations had a tire pump. Maybe it would not hold up the rest of the ride. I had no choice but to go on.
My legs ached badly by this time. I would straighten them to relieve the pain, but relief was only temporary. I ignored the thumping sound from the tire and had to hope for the best because I couldn’t do anything about it. The distant mountains had snow on them from the moisture yesterday, which was a nice, distracting sight. Being positive would be the only thing that would help at this point.
I finished the endless twenty eight mile lap and turned to start another one. The tire was still holding. The turnaround for the shorter races passed by as the route went on and on. The wind picked up and I had to fight that as well as my aching legs that wanted to stop. Passing by the sprint turn around meant about six miles to go. I was going to finish this thing. I WILL finish. Due to the tire change, it was going on four plus hours. On the way back, cars would suddenly swerve into the bike lane to turn around. Nice. I kept plugging.
Finally, the bike was done and it was time for the run. I had the best intentions to try and actually race, but the legs weren’t cooperating. I wanted to go hard, but it wasn’t going to happen. Birds hung out at the lake. Lots of swallows, coots, white egrets, oyster catchers, ducks and cormorants. It would have been nice to have wings so I wouldn’t have to use my complaining legs. It was thankfully cool and breezy to counter the misery.
Quitting wasn’t an option, but the pain was intense. Finishing is everything, no matter what because quitting hurts worse. Someone had a sign that said “think positive”. It was not so easy. I finished the first lap in an hour and fifteen minutes. If I could keep this up, my finishing time would be two and half hours, but my energy was flagging. Coke didn’t help much. I saw no one on the path until the last few miles. It wasn’t a good feeling knowing everyone else was done, a depressing sense of inadequacy. I ran by some girls smoking weed. That would have been nice to dull the pain. But up ahead, an aid station had beer. What the hell, a mile to go and my run was crap anyway. The beer was wonderful and ice cold. A first for me on a race course. It was probably the highlight of the race.
Looking at this race, in one way, if I compare my time to others, it’s a failure. It was a reality check of my limitations. If I look at it as doing the best I could under the circumstances, it was a success. It’s a matter of perspective. I changed a tire in the middle of a race, though not correctly or quickly. It’s external verses internal accomplishment. I have to keep reminding myself I am never going to win on the basis of external comparison
Fatigue makes me think negative thoughts. I didn’t really feel happy when I finished even though it was a tough race, because all I could think about is how slow I was and how much my body hurt. The hardest part of a race is to have a positive mental state, especially in the long, grueling ones. Thinking that I can do something makes it more likely that I will achieve the goal. It’s just much tougher than actually swimming, biking and running. My body I can control, but the mind is slippery and veers off on its own tangents.
This race was an sprint, olympic and half iron. It was supposed to have a 1.2 mile swim, but it rained the day before and it was cancelled due to concerns about e coli. This seemed like it would be a good thing, but it was not. Not having a swim made the rest of the race all that more difficult. Swimming doesn’t require pavement pounding. For the half iron, another three miles prior to the bike was required, then a 56 mile bike and a half marathon. Sixteen miles of aching legs and tired feet.
The start was delayed due to a car accident on the highway. Then the inflatable start line arch deflated. This event seemed doomed. Finally, I got to start. This first run was fine, running around the lake. A great blue heron sitting on a wall watched the insane runners, probably wondering what was these fools were doing.
I ran back to transition, got through quickly since I didn’t have to deal with peeling off a wetsuit and rode out onto the bike course. Three miles into the course, my tire went flat. It was the first time ever in a race. What would be a half iron without something going wrong? The last one, I had hypothermia and camped out in the med tent for 38 minutes, the time before I had heat exhaustion and walked half of the 13.1 mile run. Of course it was the back wheel, so the deraillor, the thingy that changes gears on the bike was in the way. Glass was in a cut in the tire. It was the price of not checking the tire before the race. My extra time gained by not doing the swim was gone and now I had to worry about time cut offs. People whizzed by me.
I finally started out again and occasionally, I heard a thump, thump, thump from the rear tire. It wasn’t flat, but it felt wrong. It might be under inflated, but no one at the aid stations had a tire pump. Maybe it would not hold up the rest of the ride. I had no choice but to go on.
My legs ached badly by this time. I would straighten them to relieve the pain, but relief was only temporary. I ignored the thumping sound from the tire and had to hope for the best because I couldn’t do anything about it. The distant mountains had snow on them from the moisture yesterday, which was a nice, distracting sight. Being positive would be the only thing that would help at this point.
I finished the endless twenty eight mile lap and turned to start another one. The tire was still holding. The turnaround for the shorter races passed by as the route went on and on. The wind picked up and I had to fight that as well as my aching legs that wanted to stop. Passing by the sprint turn around meant about six miles to go. I was going to finish this thing. I WILL finish. Due to the tire change, it was going on four plus hours. On the way back, cars would suddenly swerve into the bike lane to turn around. Nice. I kept plugging.
Finally, the bike was done and it was time for the run. I had the best intentions to try and actually race, but the legs weren’t cooperating. I wanted to go hard, but it wasn’t going to happen. Birds hung out at the lake. Lots of swallows, coots, white egrets, oyster catchers, ducks and cormorants. It would have been nice to have wings so I wouldn’t have to use my complaining legs. It was thankfully cool and breezy to counter the misery.
Quitting wasn’t an option, but the pain was intense. Finishing is everything, no matter what because quitting hurts worse. Someone had a sign that said “think positive”. It was not so easy. I finished the first lap in an hour and fifteen minutes. If I could keep this up, my finishing time would be two and half hours, but my energy was flagging. Coke didn’t help much. I saw no one on the path until the last few miles. It wasn’t a good feeling knowing everyone else was done, a depressing sense of inadequacy. I ran by some girls smoking weed. That would have been nice to dull the pain. But up ahead, an aid station had beer. What the hell, a mile to go and my run was crap anyway. The beer was wonderful and ice cold. A first for me on a race course. It was probably the highlight of the race.
Looking at this race, in one way, if I compare my time to others, it’s a failure. It was a reality check of my limitations. If I look at it as doing the best I could under the circumstances, it was a success. It’s a matter of perspective. I changed a tire in the middle of a race, though not correctly or quickly. It’s external verses internal accomplishment. I have to keep reminding myself I am never going to win on the basis of external comparison
Fatigue makes me think negative thoughts. I didn’t really feel happy when I finished even though it was a tough race, because all I could think about is how slow I was and how much my body hurt. The hardest part of a race is to have a positive mental state, especially in the long, grueling ones. Thinking that I can do something makes it more likely that I will achieve the goal. It’s just much tougher than actually swimming, biking and running. My body I can control, but the mind is slippery and veers off on its own tangents.
Wednesday, April 6, 2011
Ironman Revisited Part III
Part III
I started the run portion walking, and grabbed some food because I was ravenous. I finally got my legs to start running. The sun was an orange glow on the horizon. I had fantasized before the race about doing a great run, but the reality was that it was a slog. I didn’t think I had time to walk, so I ran slowly. The aid stations had lots of food, so I had soup, cookies, pretzels and coke. There were still a lot of souls out on the course in a death march as well. It was getting dark.
I didn’t think about how long I had to run because the thought was overwhelming. I was happy every time I passed a mile marker. I had until 10:15 to finish the second loop and until midnight to finish the whole thing. It was doable. Like the bike, the run had some desolate, soul searing, dark, deserted places. One area had signs up from family and friends to encourage the runners, but none of them were for me. It made me feel even more alone. The river bed in this area is dry and there is nothing to look at except some confused rabbits running around in the dark. The cement sidewalk is hard on the feet and my shins hurt. I didn’t want to think about the blisters forming on my feet. I ignored the despair trying to encircle my mind. I got through the bad spots by thinking about what the finish line was going to feel like.
It was a relief to get to the Mill Avenue bridge. At least I could see the lights on shore reflected in the water and the moving pink and blue lights on the bridge when the train went over the lake. I could hear the announcer saying “you are an ironman!” to the lucky people that had finished. I still had five hours or so to go. I went over the bridge and down to the lake path. People made it their mission to cheer us on and I thanked them, because it gave me energy. I didn’t care if I knew them because it provided a distraction from the pain. I didn’t know what was more painful-this race or a C-section. I think the C-section is, but not by much. I kept promising myself I would never do this again.
I ran over another bridge and down to the other end of the lake. A smell of sewage drifted by this unlit, dank area. I ran through Papago Park with a strange rock formation lit up by the generator light. I ran slowly up a hill past people wimping out and walking. I passed by an aid station with a pirate boat and another with a western theme. I liked the guys dressed as girls.
At this point I was running on mental power. Running at night when I was exhausted was surreal, like an altered state of mind. My body wanted to go home and go to sleep a long time ago. Surprisingly, I still felt coherent and functional. I finished the second loop before the 10:25 cut-off. The glimmer of hope of finishing grew stronger. At this point I could still finish the run even if I didn’t make the midnight cut-off, but I had at least a twenty minute leeway. I went by the turn off to the finish line. A lot of people had finished and I was still out there. The plodders were fewer and fewer.
I finally ran into my sherpa, which picked me up and made me smile. I had no family or friends to make sure that I at least got to my car after the race, but an old high school classmate volunteered for the job. He had made a sign for me, which cheered me up. It was nice to have someone stay out that late for me. Every friendly face out there was a boost.
Halfway through the last lap, I saw my coaches. They kept tabs on their athletes for the entire seventeen hour race. It was great to see some friendly faces. They told me to keep running. I picked up the pace a little. The goal of finishing was within reach, just a whisper away. The power was there. With a mile to go, I ran by someone I knew who told me “go be an ironman”. The feeling of elation was getting stronger. It was going to happen.
I finally made the left turn for the finishing chute. In contrast to the dark path I was running on, the lights were blinding. I had finally made it. Two years of heartbreak, self-doubt, pain and boredom had turned into triumph. Music was blaring, the rowdy crowd was cheering and banging the side of the bleachers. I had a blast high-fiving everyone I could, running to the finish line. It was time to celebrate. I thought I would be weepy when I finished, but I was too happy and tired to cry. I heard the announcer say “you are an ironman”. Now I know why I wanted this so much.
This was a high like no other. I had tested my limits, overcame them and accomplished something that I thought I couldn’t do. I had overcame doubts that I was physically capable of doing this distance because I was too slow or too old. I felt transformed into a different person after enduring the pain, frustration, boredom and exhaustion. It’s an incredible power to find in yourself that your mind drives you forward when your body is failing. I felt invincible.
I started the run portion walking, and grabbed some food because I was ravenous. I finally got my legs to start running. The sun was an orange glow on the horizon. I had fantasized before the race about doing a great run, but the reality was that it was a slog. I didn’t think I had time to walk, so I ran slowly. The aid stations had lots of food, so I had soup, cookies, pretzels and coke. There were still a lot of souls out on the course in a death march as well. It was getting dark.
I didn’t think about how long I had to run because the thought was overwhelming. I was happy every time I passed a mile marker. I had until 10:15 to finish the second loop and until midnight to finish the whole thing. It was doable. Like the bike, the run had some desolate, soul searing, dark, deserted places. One area had signs up from family and friends to encourage the runners, but none of them were for me. It made me feel even more alone. The river bed in this area is dry and there is nothing to look at except some confused rabbits running around in the dark. The cement sidewalk is hard on the feet and my shins hurt. I didn’t want to think about the blisters forming on my feet. I ignored the despair trying to encircle my mind. I got through the bad spots by thinking about what the finish line was going to feel like.
It was a relief to get to the Mill Avenue bridge. At least I could see the lights on shore reflected in the water and the moving pink and blue lights on the bridge when the train went over the lake. I could hear the announcer saying “you are an ironman!” to the lucky people that had finished. I still had five hours or so to go. I went over the bridge and down to the lake path. People made it their mission to cheer us on and I thanked them, because it gave me energy. I didn’t care if I knew them because it provided a distraction from the pain. I didn’t know what was more painful-this race or a C-section. I think the C-section is, but not by much. I kept promising myself I would never do this again.
I ran over another bridge and down to the other end of the lake. A smell of sewage drifted by this unlit, dank area. I ran through Papago Park with a strange rock formation lit up by the generator light. I ran slowly up a hill past people wimping out and walking. I passed by an aid station with a pirate boat and another with a western theme. I liked the guys dressed as girls.
At this point I was running on mental power. Running at night when I was exhausted was surreal, like an altered state of mind. My body wanted to go home and go to sleep a long time ago. Surprisingly, I still felt coherent and functional. I finished the second loop before the 10:25 cut-off. The glimmer of hope of finishing grew stronger. At this point I could still finish the run even if I didn’t make the midnight cut-off, but I had at least a twenty minute leeway. I went by the turn off to the finish line. A lot of people had finished and I was still out there. The plodders were fewer and fewer.
I finally ran into my sherpa, which picked me up and made me smile. I had no family or friends to make sure that I at least got to my car after the race, but an old high school classmate volunteered for the job. He had made a sign for me, which cheered me up. It was nice to have someone stay out that late for me. Every friendly face out there was a boost.
Halfway through the last lap, I saw my coaches. They kept tabs on their athletes for the entire seventeen hour race. It was great to see some friendly faces. They told me to keep running. I picked up the pace a little. The goal of finishing was within reach, just a whisper away. The power was there. With a mile to go, I ran by someone I knew who told me “go be an ironman”. The feeling of elation was getting stronger. It was going to happen.
I finally made the left turn for the finishing chute. In contrast to the dark path I was running on, the lights were blinding. I had finally made it. Two years of heartbreak, self-doubt, pain and boredom had turned into triumph. Music was blaring, the rowdy crowd was cheering and banging the side of the bleachers. I had a blast high-fiving everyone I could, running to the finish line. It was time to celebrate. I thought I would be weepy when I finished, but I was too happy and tired to cry. I heard the announcer say “you are an ironman”. Now I know why I wanted this so much.
This was a high like no other. I had tested my limits, overcame them and accomplished something that I thought I couldn’t do. I had overcame doubts that I was physically capable of doing this distance because I was too slow or too old. I felt transformed into a different person after enduring the pain, frustration, boredom and exhaustion. It’s an incredible power to find in yourself that your mind drives you forward when your body is failing. I felt invincible.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)