July 22, 2007
1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run
Prelude
On Sunday, July 22, I wake before dawn breaks – having tossed and turned all night, anxious and restless in anticipation of the day ahead. The nerves have plagued me all the week prior creating a nearly constant feeling of butterflies swarming inside my stomach.
Today is the day I have been working towards for over a year and for which I have been in some kind of training for nearly the same time frame – from research, strengthening, and physical therapy to address the back injuries that prevented me from participating in this event last year, to actual race specific training once my back was in good enough shape to handle the physical stress. Now the day is here. I’m nervous, excited and scared all at the same time. Will my back hold up? Did I train enough? Will the water be calmer than yesterday when Rich and Amy both battled thru 2-3 foot waves and strong currents for a very tough ½ mile swim on the sprint race?
At the race site, after the usual transition area set up and preparations, I squeeze myself into my new wetsuit – this being the first race of 26 prior triathlons to actually wear one – and make my way out the transition exit to find Rich. As we walk the mile down the beach to the swim start, he tells me how excited he is to watch me race, how well he knows I’m going to do and how proud he is of me. Over the months of training and the year and a half of pain, frustration and setbacks with my back situation, he has been unfailingly supportive and loving. For his tolerance and understanding of my craziness and emotional outbursts during the ups and downs of trying to understand and fix my back basically on my own as the counsel of every physician – specialist or otherwise – was to stop “abusing my body” with such rigorous activities – I can never appropriately or fully convey my appreciation. I think of the race ahead, his faith and belief in me, and I hope I don’t let him down.
As we near the swim start, Amy calls on Rich’s cell phone – I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but her voice sounds a little shaky like she’s almost close to tears as she tells me she’s just getting off the highway and promises she’ll make it to the start to see me off. I am so touched by her support and so very grateful that she will be here to see me race today. I tell her to be careful driving – even if she doesn’t make it to the start, I know I can look for her at the swim finish. She too has been an incredible support and we have been through so much together in our more than 10 years of friendship. I feel truly blessed.
Eventually, we get to the start and, after a good luck kiss, I leave Rich and make my way to the staging area. Lining up “on deck” behind the two waves in front of me, I look up and see Amy standing on the rocks scanning the crowds of neoprene clad bodies to find me. She made it! With the starting “gun” just moments away and two of my strongest supporters on hand, my nerves finally start to dissipate.
The Swim
The “gun” goes off and my race begins. The water is calm today and after the usual early jockeying for position amidst the roiling sea of churning arms and legs of the other swimmers around me, I find my space and my groove. I am not a fast swimmer, but a steady one. I can sometimes let my anxiety about the swim get the better of me, so I have changed my approach. I tell myself, “My swim time is my Zen time. Just be calm and enjoy it.”
After making the turn around the first buoy, sighting becomes easier as we are no longer heading into the sun. I count the orange buoys as I move steadily past them, knowing that when I get to seven, the next buoy marks the turn towards shore. When I feel my fingertips touch sand, I stand up and make my way through the additional 30 yards or so of shallow water. Running up the sand, I see Rich and he tells me I’m going great. Further up is Amy and as I pass her, she starts running with me towards the transition area giving me encouragement along the way. “I was slower than I wanted to be,” I tell her breathlessly and she tells me I’m still doing great regardless.
In transition, I thankfully get my wet suit off without any problem and, after putting on my bike shoes and helmet, grab my bike off the rack and run to the bike mount area. I consider the bike portion to be my strongest element so for me, bike time is go time. Now the race really begins!
The Bike
The course is pretty much flat and fast, if a bit bumpy with the uneven pavement, and I keep my eye on my bike computer to ensure I am keeping at least 21 mph or higher. My legs feel strong and I’m cruising along, passing other racers along the way and being passed with a bit less frequency. By mile 20 though, my back is starting to ache with an intensity I did not feel during any of my long training rides.
Just as I counted buoys on the swim, I start to break up the distance by focusing on timing my nutrition intake with the approach of each aid station – spaced 10 miles apart. As the miles pass, my back ache escalates, my legs feel the first effects of fatigue setting in and my pace starts to slow a bit. When the ache gets unbearable, I stand up off my saddle and do a mini back stretch that provides some relief.
As I try to get my mind off the ache and fatigue, the song “Manic Monday” pops into my head and I begin to make up my own, rather awkward, lyrics:
“It’s just another Sunday bike ride (whoa, whoa),
I can ride all day (whoa, whoa),
My legs feel great now (whoa, whoa),
And I’ll still have something for the run (whoa, whoa),
It’s just another Sunday bike ride….”
As the odometer creeps closer to 56 miles, I force myself to wait until I have just one more mile to go before switching the display to the trip clock. The reading tells me I may yet be in position to meet or beat Rich’s bike time from last year’s race. Woo hoo! I knew I could get close to his swim time, but would likely come in a bit slower and since there’s no way I can compete with his speed demon run pace, my only hope to come close to his awesome race performance from last year was to put in a good bike time.
Making my way down the hill into transition, I am excited about my performance on the bike, but from the heaviness creeping into my legs, am fearful for what it may cost me on the run. Getting back to my transition area to rack my bike, I see my carefully laid out Egel packets scattered across my towel with huge gobs of splattered gel everywhere. What the hell happened here? Did they just explode in the heat or did the racer racked next to me carelessly step all over them? I take extra precious seconds to find useable packets and to wipe the gel off my hat and race belt before starting off on the run.
The Run
Rounding the bend out of the run start, I see Rich and Amy and my spirits lift. They tell me I look strong and that I’m doing well, but with the fatigue in my legs come the initial pangs of doubt. Coming up on the first of two hills that Rich warned me about, I try to make it all the way to the top at a run pace, but with legs screaming, fall short and walk the rest of the distance to the top before resuming a run. At the base of the 2nd big hill, I slow to a walk again to reduce the drain on my legs. No more walking after this hill! Well, at least not until I hit these hills again on the second loop…
Making my way along the first loop, the mile markers for the second taunt me – my legs feeling at times okay but at others completely drained make me wonder if I’ll make it back this way again. I take another Egel and hope the effects kick in quickly. Between miles 3 and 4, I see Greg from masters swim coming towards me on his way to completing the first loop – it’s good to see a friendly face.
Coming up on the 2nd turnaround back towards the transition area, I see Rich and Amy again – they tell me I still look strong, but I feel like crap and really just want to cry. At this point, my dead legs have brought me to a pace that feels like a shuffle, a pain/numbness in my left toe that has been with me since the start of the run refuses to dissipate and I feel a painful blister steadily forming on my right foot. But I have never not finished a race – even though there have been many where I wanted to – and I am not about to start now. The only direction to go is forward.
As I trudge slowly past the photographer stationed at that nasty second hill, I hear his camera clicking away and tell him, “No pictures of walking!” Topping the hill, I run on and, after passing Greg for the third time as he makes his way the other direction towards the finish, finally hit the 10 mile mark at the last turnaround. Only 3 more miles to go!
On the way back, I pass some spectators standing along the sidewalk – music by Meatloaf blaring from their boom box – the same album as was playing the other three times I passed them. Aren’t they tired of that by now? The song playing is “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” – not a good song for this part of the race as I adapt the lyrics in my head to:
“And now I’m praying for the end of this race
So hurry up and arrive
Cause if I have to spend another minute out here
I don’t think that I can really survive…”
Definitely not good. Needing to go change songs quickly to enhance my frame of mind, I go back to my earlier chorus with a new adaptation:
“Just another Sunday long run…”
Coming up on mile 11, I fall into pace besides another racer – a gentleman with the age of 57 marked on his left calf. I strike up a conversation to take my mind away from the fatigue. I learn that over the last 20+ years he has competed in something like 200 triathlons including two trips to Ironman Wisconsin – one of which he finished and in the other was pulled off the course at mile 60 of the bike due to hypothermia brought on by extreme weather conditions. Incredible. What an inspiration. As we come up on the water station, he tells me he’s going to walk through it – yelling after me as I keep running, “You go girl!”
One more mile to go! Coming down the last hill, I see a woman holding a sign that reads, “Pain is only temporary.” Indeed! I grin and give her the thumbs up as I run past. I’m almost there.
Rounding the bend to the finish line and finding the last little bit of reserves to kick into a final sprint, I see Rich – smiling, clapping and yelling “You did awesome!” as I run past. Further up I see Amy cheering and clapping as well and next to her is Rich’s coach, Joe, holding up a camera as I pass by.
I cross the finish line and double over, completely spent. A volunteer takes me by the arm, hands me a bottle of deliciously cold water and as she walks with me asks if I need the medical tent. I tell her I’m okay and, after picking up my hard won finishers medal, go to find Rich, Amy & Joe.
The Finish
I am so excited to have finished – there were many times both during the race and in the previous months when I doubted I could do it. I am so grateful for the support of my friends and family, but most especially for Rich who has been through so much with me, never doubted me or questioned my need to find a way to keep racing and always knew how to pick me up when I needed it.
Final race time – 5 hours, 39 minutes, 51 seconds.
I have more races to go this year, but the half ironman was the biggest. I now look forward to next year’s challenge: Ironman Wisconsin. If this race was hard, I know that one will be exponentially harder, but I am excited to tackle it and take myself farther than it seems is possible. Better yet, I’ll be training for it and racing it alongside Rich – each of us supporting and helping each other through – along with the expert guidance of Joe.
I can’t wait -- for while the pain that’s surely coming will only be temporary, that victory, like this one, will be forever.
No comments:
Post a Comment