It's official. I made it. Finished. Survived. Endured. Slogged. Persevered. The tents and stanchions are down, the bleachers gone, ice melted and streets swept. Ironman Coeur d'Alene is in the books, and I did it. It's been a few days, and the experience is starting to congeal in my mind as I look back.
Official race description? Brutal. As I mentioned in a previous post, we all knew it would be rough, with a forecast of over 105 degrees, but Sunday was downright punishing.
First, Ironman is different in not just the race distance. Most other races, you have to bring everything in to transition on race morning and stake your own postage stamp size space for all of your gear...ALL of your gear. However, I dropped Gary off in transition Saturday night, and he slept comfortably next to all the other bikes. My swim-to-bike (T1) and bike-to-run (T2) gear bags were also left overnight (minus the snacks...I didn't need the squirrels getting to them). All I had to bring in on Sunday morning at 4:00 were my snacks and frozen water bottles. Such a deal!
At the race start, I stood on the beach in my self-seeded 1:00 to 1:15 finishers group, looked up at the sky and, with tears of joy, I prayed. It was such a glorious morning, and I was so grateful to have gotten this far. I prayed for everyone involved with this day, because I knew it would be difficult -- more difficult than a "normal" Ironman race (probably best not to think about that statement). As the cannon went off, I found myself in a river of people flowing into the lake. Spotting my own open patch of water, I dove in and began my two lap, 1.2 mile loop. The water is crystal clear, and most of the way I can see straight to the bottom. I went wide on the loop to avoid the spin cycle created by the swimmers nearest the buoys, keeping an easy pace and thinking only about how much I enjoyed the swim leg of triathlon. I knew that once I was out of the water, the day would get decidedly worse, but I wouldn't allow myself to think about it.
In transition, I motored up the hill, and just took my time. My coach said he'd rather see a long T1 just to make sure I had everything for the bike rather than rush out having forgotten something. I got dressed, sunscreened up, and eased Gary out for a lovely morning ride. The bike course followed two out-and-back sections, and then repeated those sections, riding past Transition multiple times. On the first chunk, the route goes through town and along the lakeshore. The views were breathtaking and the temps so far quite manageable. Then back again through town, where I heard Dave shouting after me, "GO HEATHER!! WAY TO GO, BABY!!" He wondered if I had heard him, and I had to reply, "are you serious?" It made me smile all the way out of town.
So, next out to highway 95, where the hills came into play. The first, Mica Hill, was on the tough side, but a decent workout. As the air temps were still pleasant, we descended the back side of Mica like some kind of orbital re-entry. Then, just as I'm enjoying the downhill, it's back UP and out past the turn around point at Setters Road. This second out-and-back was around 21 miles each way. On the way back, it started warming up. I was mostly just taking it easy and making mental notes because I knew I would see it all again in a couple of hours. One thing I noticed on the first lap was that there was no water station at the top of Mica hill. In fact, the next water station was at the top of the NEXT hill. This...well, you'll see.
Okay, so I'm coming back into town to start my next lap, when due to errors on the part of the three people involved (yours truly, included), I knocked a fellow athlete off his bike. I stayed upright, luckily, but I almost took out a volunteer who overestimated her water handoff abilities. The other rider was pretty shook up, having come completely off his bike, but in the end was fine. I stopped to make sure he was okay. When I saw him get up and ultimately pass me, I was relieved. I would hate for that incident to knock him out of the event. I shook it off and started lap 2. The next loop out on the lakeshore road was still pretty, but heating up. Coming back through town, there was Dave again -- btw, I never saw him, but I couldn't mistake the voice -- yelling, "GO HEATHER!!!" The spectators I was passing heard him cheering and started cheering the same thing! It was so awesome!!
Out on 95 again, and it became a suffer-fest. The temperatures were well over 90, and I'm guessing they were climbing over 100 as I began my second ascent up Mica hill. This is when I noticed something was going wrong, and deteriorating fast. Although I had kept up my nutrition/electrolyte/hydration plan, the fluid in all my bottles was the temperature of my morning coffee. I started getting side stitches, feeling dizzy, wobbly and nauseous. Before the race I versed myself in the warning signs of heat illnesses, and recognized very quickly I was exhibiting the first symptoms of heat exhaustion. I was able to pull off the course, safely stop and get off my bike. The cramps were so bad, I couldn't stand up straight. When I tried, I would get lightheaded. I was joined for a few minutes by another woman who was obviously struggling, and if I asked her if she needed anything, she told me she had...get this...the flu. Ummm...wah? Well, she got back on her bike and kept going. Whatever.
So I told myself, I had lots of time to finish the race, because I had been making decent time up until this point. A motorcycle volunteer pulled over and asked how I was. When I explained my symptoms, he encouraged me to sit in the shade and offered to call medical. Although I wasn't ready to quit, I figured it couldn't hurt to have them give me the once over. Steve, as it turns out was awesome. Helping me laugh, encouraging me to have a snack, offering me a nice volunteer shirt to sit on and get my head back into the game. SAG showed up and asked if I was done. No, I wasn't. I just needed some COLD water, instead of what was now close to the boiling point on my ride. Jennifer and her daughter Melissa gave me two small water bottles to dump on my neck, back and arms, and suddenly, I was right as rain. At that point, I made two decisions. I needed to focus on keeping my core body temperature down, and just ride to the next aid station to freshen up all of my bottles. I was not done. Before I left my shady spot halfway up Mica, I was replaced by another athlete, who decided he needed the break, too. Remember this guy, because it gets scary.
Here's the problem. The next aid station was still a 15 minute ride away. The temperature was steadily climbing and I felt at times as if I were riding through a sauna. About a mile out from the aid station, the guy who stopped at my last rest stop had passed me again. Then when he had gotten about 500 feet in front of me, he stopped, got off his bike, and LAID DOWN IN THE ROAD. I mean, there was automobile traffic 6 inches from where he laid down. People who are lucid, don't do this. As I passed him, he sat up again, and asked how far the aid station was. I told him and made a mental note to inform the next race official/medic/SAG to go get him.
When I finally arrived at the aid station, they were completely out of water and ice. All they had was gatorade. Let that sink in, folks. It's well over 100 degrees, and they were completely out of water and ice. The guy? He got to the aid station and completely collapsed. Passed out, literally. The Fire Department was there as was the ambulance, so help was immediate. When I took a mental step back, here's what I saw: seasoned veteran triathletes who were nearing a state of shock and mentally broken, some volunteers doing the best they could to take care of the riders that came through, and other volunteers just as broken as the athletes. One was almost in a state of panic. Her fearful attitude was infectious -- toxic to the already charged atmosphere of the situation. The Fire Department had taken an ambient heat measurement on the pavement of 147 degrees. Other athletes have described the scene as carnage. I can't disagree.
So, for the second time in an hour, I took a deep breath. I plunged my arms, my headband and my neck into whatever melted ice was sloshing around in the wading pool filled with warm gatorade bottles, dirt, sweat and road grime. I didn't care. My first thought was, "this is actually getting dangerous. Is it time to stop?" That thought died before it was fully formed. I let go of the finish line for the moment, and thought, "No. Just get to the next aid station, then see how you feel." I got on my bike and took off, moving as fast as I safely could for the 10 miles to the last aid station at the turn around. They had water, but they were running out fast because of the conditions at the previous station. I knew if I had enough water to keep my arms and neck wet, and gatorade to keep me going, I could then make it to the NEXT aid station before going back up Mica.
If you were following my times, THAT is why I had a split time of well over 2 hours on that stretch. I was fine, played it smart, and kept moving. I made it point to keep "smelling the roses" because regardless of the temperature, the view was still spectacular. On the way back in, I met "snot-rocket" Erin. I admired her phlegm shooting prowess. Seriously. It was a sight to behold. Then the guy who embraced the suck but kept everyone positive. As I leap-frogged him repeatedly, he always had a smile and encouragement. The last I saw him, he had pulled over to help another struggling rider. Then at the last aid station before the last ascent was Shawn who had let go of any time goals, was smiling, laughing and doing his best to put a good face on an awful situation. And it was his first Ironman, too. We high-fived and sent each other off... Less than 10 miles to go. At one point on this last stretch of road, I thought, "I'm actually looking forward to going for a run!" It was as if I just needed to go for a rejuvenating, meditative fun session, just me and my shoes and the road. It was almost surreal, and it brought a smile to my face when I thought, "I get to go running!"
I made it back into transition, where I promised myself to take my time, cool off, and change before I started the marathon. When I had everything I needed, I sunscreened up again, and headed out for 26.2. The hard and scary part was basically over. Alexander and I had crossed paths on the bike, and we exited transition together. He was a machine though. Friendly, but it didn't look like he'd broken a sweat all day. Fresh as a daisy, and I resented that a little. It's a good thing he was nice, otherwise I might have tripped him.
And I'm off on my run. It's another two lap out-and-back course, but this time it's all along the lakeshore and through the neighborhoods. At least once on every block, a resident either had their sprinklers on for us to run through, or they were actively standing out there with garden hoses, spraying us down to keep us cool. Given that it was still well above 90 by the time I hit the run course, this was desperately needed. I ran as much as I could, feeling fresh after the bike, but walking as much as I ran.
At each aid station, I filled my arm cooler sleeves with ice and water. I was soaked for most of the first lap, which powered me for the first half marathon. Run aid station 5 had an alien theme. It was like walking into a party in Roswell. The high energy and fun made you forget for a little bit that the next section was straight uphill. As I walked/ran, I kept a really good pace -- under 13:00 minute miles overall until I ran into Mark at the last aid station before town. He walked with me as I decompressed about the horror show on the bike ride. Then, a block away, I saw a familiar figure walking across the street. Dave had been waiting for me to come back through, and I ran a sub-6:00 interval to him and threw my arms around him. The three of us chatted for a block before I left them to finish the first lap.
I turned around, ran back past the guys, and started out on my second loop. It was getting cooler, my legs still felt fresh, and my only thought was, I'll finish if I take one mile at a time. I took in the beauty of the course and started thinking about the journey to get here. Running now more than I ran, I knew I would make it. My thoughts shifted to managing the fading light, as I needed to dry out from the sprinklers before I got cold. It was still hovering around 80, but getting dark. Each aid station buoyed my spirits, and I'm smiling and laughing with my fellow athletes and the volunteers.
The last two miles were back through the neighborhoods in the twilight. Many of the spectators had turned off their sprinklers and some were packing up to go inside. It was quiet. Calm. Peaceful. Just me and my feet, which were aching, but the joy I felt at that moment almost surpassed what I would feel only a few minutes from now. A teenager was sitting with his skateboard in front of his house, told me I got this. I smiled at him, thanked him and said, "you are a lucky guy to live here." He smiled back, and said, "Right?"
The crowd was getting louder, Mike Reilly getting closer. As I made the final turn onto Sherman street, I had six blocks all downhill to the bright lights and red and black carpet. Running straight down the middle of the street, I couldn't help but grin from ear to ear. I couldn't go any faster if I tried, but I didn't feel any pain. Only joy bursting from every pore. Sherman was lined with spectators, and I swerved to high-five a whole block full. As I hit the mat, I'm shreiking at the top of my lungs, bounding across the finish line overwhelmed and almost in disbelief at what I had just done. I am an Ironman.
This was a smart race. Not fast, but I knew it just couldn't be. I was smart, and I recognized the angels that lifted me up to keep going. I had to revise how I looked at this race. It became about survival rather than conquest. Of the 2,012 athletes who signed up for the race, 1,700 checked in. 100 or so of those Did Not Start. Of the remaining athletes who toed the start line, about 370 Did Not Finish. Twice I thought I would DNF. My heart breaks for those who didn't get to cross the finish line. I got to know several people, and most of them DNF. At the risk of sounding callous, and downplaying a far more serious condition, I can only compare it to survivor's guilt. Other athletes were far more prepared than I, in far better shape. How could little ol' me get through this race? I don't need anyone to answer this question, I just find it interesting how each of us handled the day.
In all the Monday morning quarterbacking, the bike station snafu got the most criticism, although I have to say I am not surprised that aid stations were running out of supplies. I felt that instead of ordering MORE ice and water pre-race (which obviously didn't do anything if you can't get it to the people that need it), there needed to be at least one more aid station in each direction on the bike. Otherwise, this race was perfectly run given the conditions. I'm disappointed that the weather did not cooperate with my plan, as I believe I could have finished 90 minutes faster given ideal conditions. That, however, is not the point of Ironman. You accept the conditions given to you or you go home.
I enjoyed my time out there. I loved the training process, but the cost is so very high that doing another one seems impractical. Like I said in an earlier post. I would love to experience this again, but I would have to think long and hard about what I would have to give up to do so. Is there another 140.6 in my future? I honestly don't know, and frankly that is not a decision I would make for a while. Would I go back to Coeur d'Alene? In a heartbeat, yes I would. For now, I will relish what I was able to accomplish, and bask in the gratitude for the unfailing support of everyone -- all of you -- who got me here.
I got my medal, and I'm thinking of painting flames and a pool of lava on it. I'm happy with my experience, and will always cherish my time on this journey to becoming an Ironman. The highs and lows of training tempered me and made me stronger. I can honestly say that this is the hardest thing I have ever done. The race itself wasn't, but the road to get here was. I now know I can go at least this far. Some athletes feel the need to do at least one more, because the first one may have just been a fluke. I think I understand that, but I have a hard time agreeing with it. One hundred forty and six-tenths of a mile under your own power, even once, does not just happen. I'll never say never about Ironman 2, but I'm not rushing out to sign up for my next Ironman branded event.
I am an Ironman.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Tuesday, June 30, 2015
MY SUPPORT CREW
Behind every athlete is a team of people cheering them on.
I have such a team. Some of them have t-shirts, some ring cowbells, and some hand out water and ice. I want to dedicate this post to those of you who have tirelessly supported me on this journey. You were there when I withdrew from Ironman Boulder, letting me cry and talk it out. You were there when I crossed the finish line in Coeur d'Alene. You were there for everything in between. Whether you thought I was crazy, or stupid, or driven, or committed, thank you to all who followed me, prayed for me, and encouraged me along the way. Without you, none of it has meaning. It means the world that I can share my experience with you.
I will post a race recap in a few days...I'm still reeling from such a huge experience.
So, I'd never heard of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho until I started following the Ironman circuit. This idyllic town of 44,000 or so is a resort destination for so many water sports, outdoor enthusiasts, and of course, triathletes. It is picturesque and quiet until 3000 athletes and their companions descend upon it. Imagine Estes Park or Lake Geneva, and you have a good idea of what it looks and feels like. However, I'm still not sure WHERE exactly it is. It could be the post-race fog I'm in, but it just seems like it's a world away from anywhere. I think it's in Northern Idaho...about 45 minutes from Spokane, but that doesn't help me much either.
So in this quiet and quaint town, live AVID Ironman supporters. If they are not volunteering for the event, they are out on the streets and highways cheering on complete strangers from their front lawns and driveways. I can't tell you how many people had their sprinklers on and pointing into the streets. Many took their garden hoses and doused runners as they came by. Some had fun music playing from their home sound systems loud enough to get us pumped up. There was even a local band at one of the aid stations. Given the heat out on the bike course, some folks were out there all day standing by the side of the road cheering us on...it was hard enough for the athletes out there, but these folks were HARD CORE! Others would load up their cars and drive up and down the highway honking their horns and ringing cowbells out the window as we slogged our way up each and every hill. So to the people of Coeur d'Alene, I say thank you for sharing your town with us, for your hospitality, and for your gracious support of so many people you have never met. I've never felt more welcome anywhere.
As if the residents were not enough, then you have the volunteers. Many of these people are locals, but many more are athlete supporters who don't want to sit around and wait for something to happen all day. In spite of the previous paragraph, triathlon is not much of a spectator sport ("Here she comes....and there she goes...wanna go get lunch?). Simply put, an event of this size does not happen without an army of people to make sure the athletes get through the day. Here is what the athlete sees: kayakers and paddle boarders guiding the swimmers through, transition help ranging from wetsuit strippers to sunscreen smearers to someone who quite literally helped me hook my bra, because I couldn't after swimming for 2.4 miles. Bike Aid stations. Run Aid stations. The guy on the motorcycle who sat with me while I recovered from the early signs of heat exhaustion. The ladies in the sag wagon who gave me ice cold water -- I think it's because of these last folks that I figured out the secret to finishing. The CDA tri team who was out there shoving ice in places I didn't know you could shove ice. They ran behind me so I wouldn't stop! The bike aid station guys who took running starts to hand water bottles to cyclists at 10 miles an hour! The finish line support that included someone to take of my timing chip so I didn't have to lean over and pass out. The police, fire, and rescue crews! Nuff said on that. The kids who sacrificed their voices and perhaps some of their dignity running after me with my special needs bags, water and bananas. Every time I race, I declare a "Hug a volunteer day." Many are surprised by this, but all welcome it...until later in the race when who knows what I smell like. This is just what the athlete sees, and it barely scratches the surface. I could truly spend an entire post on how awesome these people are...
Social media is full of support. The page titled, "You know you're an Ironman when..." is mostly funny insights on the weirdness of this tribe. For example, you know you're an Ironman when: 6:00am is sleeping in; a two and a half hour bike ride is considered "recovery"; you just had lunch an hour ago, but you are starving again. Most of these funny ones are kind of my quote of the day calendar. They make me smile, motivate me, or otherwise remind me I'm not alone. The Coeur d'Alene Facebook page is more specific to this years race, and really helped me through training. By following this group, I got insight on the course, the water, the roads, and just had support through the hardest part. One person in particular, Jim, was hilarious. His sense of humor through the rough times got me to the other side. Many others offered us first-timers advice (when we asked for it), and props when we needed it. Unfortunately, many of my favorite people from this page DNF'd, and my heart just breaks for them.
Now, it seems strange to be grateful for someone who was just doing what I paid him lots of money to do, but Coach Kirk Blackmon really did help me through this. Every athlete knows what works best for them. Asking advice from ten different triathletes will yield ten different answers. While sometimes this is valuable, other times its just overwhelming. Captain Kirk helped me sift through all of this to help me find the right solutions for me. When I got frustrated before spring break and before taper, he reassured me I was in the right frame of mind. It means I was actually working hard enough to be ready for my day. Kirk did not give me a one size fits all plan. He paid special attention to the fact that I am a very strong swimmer, and weak cyclist, and an average to slow runner. My plan was based on mileage not hours...something rare in triathlon plans. Coach kept me going when I hated to do it. Being accountable to someone makes a big difference.
My "fans" are all of you reading this right now. If you cheered for me, prayed for me, "liked" a post or otherwise supported me, thank you. It's funny, but there were a couple of times when it got tough and when I thought of all of you rooting me on, I kept me going. So thank you for the prayers and the kudos. I never went into this looking to impress anyone, so if I ever came off as sounding arrogant, I apologize. You have all been so supportive, even if you couldn't wrap your head around why someone so seemingly normal would do such a crazy thing. I am so grateful to you for every bit of encouragement.
Then there are those of you who went above and beyond. Julie, you rode with me up Lookout and several other times since. You ran with me and chatted, keeping my mind off the crazy fast pace. Jim, thank you in hindsight for planning that route. I wasn't happy at the time, but after Sunday, I've had a change of heart. My brother Chris has been to several races, and even rescued me from my own horrible navigation skills...I might have made it to the Kansas border if it hadn't been for you...
Mark, if it weren't for you, I may not have done an Ironman at all. It wasn't something I would have ever put on my radar. Thank you for opening that door. Thank you also for talking me in off of so many ledges as I had bad training days, I freaked out about race day, and offering advice when I asked for it. I simply would not have done it without you.
To my wonderful man, Dave. You sat next to me as I committed to the race. You let me cry when I got overwhelmed, you encouraged me from start to finish, you even bragged about me. You played with Soren when I need to get in a big workout. You were right there when I crossed the finish line. From beginning to end of this phase in my journey, you were with me every step of the way. Some have said about Ironman athletes, "if you are still in a healthy relationship, you didn't train hard enough." I wholeheartedly disagree. If you are still in a healthy relationship after an Ironman, never, EVER let them go. I COULD not have done this without you.
To my awesome boy, Soren. I needed to train for an Ironman just to keep up with you! You inspire me to want to be around for a long time. As the Captain of my Support Crew, you led the way to 140.6. You have me back now, kiddo. Thank you for being so patient with me when I was so tired and cranky and sore. I love you to the moon and back, buddy.
I have such a team. Some of them have t-shirts, some ring cowbells, and some hand out water and ice. I want to dedicate this post to those of you who have tirelessly supported me on this journey. You were there when I withdrew from Ironman Boulder, letting me cry and talk it out. You were there when I crossed the finish line in Coeur d'Alene. You were there for everything in between. Whether you thought I was crazy, or stupid, or driven, or committed, thank you to all who followed me, prayed for me, and encouraged me along the way. Without you, none of it has meaning. It means the world that I can share my experience with you.
I will post a race recap in a few days...I'm still reeling from such a huge experience.
So, I'd never heard of Coeur d'Alene, Idaho until I started following the Ironman circuit. This idyllic town of 44,000 or so is a resort destination for so many water sports, outdoor enthusiasts, and of course, triathletes. It is picturesque and quiet until 3000 athletes and their companions descend upon it. Imagine Estes Park or Lake Geneva, and you have a good idea of what it looks and feels like. However, I'm still not sure WHERE exactly it is. It could be the post-race fog I'm in, but it just seems like it's a world away from anywhere. I think it's in Northern Idaho...about 45 minutes from Spokane, but that doesn't help me much either.
So in this quiet and quaint town, live AVID Ironman supporters. If they are not volunteering for the event, they are out on the streets and highways cheering on complete strangers from their front lawns and driveways. I can't tell you how many people had their sprinklers on and pointing into the streets. Many took their garden hoses and doused runners as they came by. Some had fun music playing from their home sound systems loud enough to get us pumped up. There was even a local band at one of the aid stations. Given the heat out on the bike course, some folks were out there all day standing by the side of the road cheering us on...it was hard enough for the athletes out there, but these folks were HARD CORE! Others would load up their cars and drive up and down the highway honking their horns and ringing cowbells out the window as we slogged our way up each and every hill. So to the people of Coeur d'Alene, I say thank you for sharing your town with us, for your hospitality, and for your gracious support of so many people you have never met. I've never felt more welcome anywhere.
As if the residents were not enough, then you have the volunteers. Many of these people are locals, but many more are athlete supporters who don't want to sit around and wait for something to happen all day. In spite of the previous paragraph, triathlon is not much of a spectator sport ("Here she comes....and there she goes...wanna go get lunch?). Simply put, an event of this size does not happen without an army of people to make sure the athletes get through the day. Here is what the athlete sees: kayakers and paddle boarders guiding the swimmers through, transition help ranging from wetsuit strippers to sunscreen smearers to someone who quite literally helped me hook my bra, because I couldn't after swimming for 2.4 miles. Bike Aid stations. Run Aid stations. The guy on the motorcycle who sat with me while I recovered from the early signs of heat exhaustion. The ladies in the sag wagon who gave me ice cold water -- I think it's because of these last folks that I figured out the secret to finishing. The CDA tri team who was out there shoving ice in places I didn't know you could shove ice. They ran behind me so I wouldn't stop! The bike aid station guys who took running starts to hand water bottles to cyclists at 10 miles an hour! The finish line support that included someone to take of my timing chip so I didn't have to lean over and pass out. The police, fire, and rescue crews! Nuff said on that. The kids who sacrificed their voices and perhaps some of their dignity running after me with my special needs bags, water and bananas. Every time I race, I declare a "Hug a volunteer day." Many are surprised by this, but all welcome it...until later in the race when who knows what I smell like. This is just what the athlete sees, and it barely scratches the surface. I could truly spend an entire post on how awesome these people are...
Social media is full of support. The page titled, "You know you're an Ironman when..." is mostly funny insights on the weirdness of this tribe. For example, you know you're an Ironman when: 6:00am is sleeping in; a two and a half hour bike ride is considered "recovery"; you just had lunch an hour ago, but you are starving again. Most of these funny ones are kind of my quote of the day calendar. They make me smile, motivate me, or otherwise remind me I'm not alone. The Coeur d'Alene Facebook page is more specific to this years race, and really helped me through training. By following this group, I got insight on the course, the water, the roads, and just had support through the hardest part. One person in particular, Jim, was hilarious. His sense of humor through the rough times got me to the other side. Many others offered us first-timers advice (when we asked for it), and props when we needed it. Unfortunately, many of my favorite people from this page DNF'd, and my heart just breaks for them.
Now, it seems strange to be grateful for someone who was just doing what I paid him lots of money to do, but Coach Kirk Blackmon really did help me through this. Every athlete knows what works best for them. Asking advice from ten different triathletes will yield ten different answers. While sometimes this is valuable, other times its just overwhelming. Captain Kirk helped me sift through all of this to help me find the right solutions for me. When I got frustrated before spring break and before taper, he reassured me I was in the right frame of mind. It means I was actually working hard enough to be ready for my day. Kirk did not give me a one size fits all plan. He paid special attention to the fact that I am a very strong swimmer, and weak cyclist, and an average to slow runner. My plan was based on mileage not hours...something rare in triathlon plans. Coach kept me going when I hated to do it. Being accountable to someone makes a big difference.
My "fans" are all of you reading this right now. If you cheered for me, prayed for me, "liked" a post or otherwise supported me, thank you. It's funny, but there were a couple of times when it got tough and when I thought of all of you rooting me on, I kept me going. So thank you for the prayers and the kudos. I never went into this looking to impress anyone, so if I ever came off as sounding arrogant, I apologize. You have all been so supportive, even if you couldn't wrap your head around why someone so seemingly normal would do such a crazy thing. I am so grateful to you for every bit of encouragement.
Then there are those of you who went above and beyond. Julie, you rode with me up Lookout and several other times since. You ran with me and chatted, keeping my mind off the crazy fast pace. Jim, thank you in hindsight for planning that route. I wasn't happy at the time, but after Sunday, I've had a change of heart. My brother Chris has been to several races, and even rescued me from my own horrible navigation skills...I might have made it to the Kansas border if it hadn't been for you...
Mark, if it weren't for you, I may not have done an Ironman at all. It wasn't something I would have ever put on my radar. Thank you for opening that door. Thank you also for talking me in off of so many ledges as I had bad training days, I freaked out about race day, and offering advice when I asked for it. I simply would not have done it without you.
To my wonderful man, Dave. You sat next to me as I committed to the race. You let me cry when I got overwhelmed, you encouraged me from start to finish, you even bragged about me. You played with Soren when I need to get in a big workout. You were right there when I crossed the finish line. From beginning to end of this phase in my journey, you were with me every step of the way. Some have said about Ironman athletes, "if you are still in a healthy relationship, you didn't train hard enough." I wholeheartedly disagree. If you are still in a healthy relationship after an Ironman, never, EVER let them go. I COULD not have done this without you.
To my awesome boy, Soren. I needed to train for an Ironman just to keep up with you! You inspire me to want to be around for a long time. As the Captain of my Support Crew, you led the way to 140.6. You have me back now, kiddo. Thank you for being so patient with me when I was so tired and cranky and sore. I love you to the moon and back, buddy.
Friday, June 26, 2015
QUE SERA, SERA
Taper is over. I have reclaimed Gary from transit, and I am sitting in a hotel a couple of miles from the Athlete Village. With a cup of bad hotel coffeepot java, my head is swirling.
The CDA Facebook page has been abuzz with rumors of canceling, shortening or altering the race because of the heat. Some of those rumors came true, some are still just that...rumors. One thing that has changed for sure is the start time of the race. As of right now, Officials have moved the race up one hour, so transition opens at 4:00 AM, and I'm in the water by 6:00. This is fine, because I won't be sleeping anyway, but this really only benefits the pros, who will be finished before it gets really hot. For folks like me however, one hour time difference still puts me on the run at the absolute worst time of the day. It's not up to me, but moving the race up an hour seems a little pointless when you are talking triple digit temps.
Another bit of news that has come up just this morning is that race officials will wait until Saturday night to make the call on shortening the race. See the full story here. The thumbnail sketch: It's not just about the athletes. It's about the volunteers, spectators, and (contrary to what some athletes think), life in general that is still going on outside of the race. The idea of shortening the race has some athletes completely pissed off. To them I say this. Get. Over. Yourself. Yes, we have all put countless hours and dollars into this sport, and yes, if they shorten the race we will all be a little disappointed and frustrated. But frankly, it's not just about you. Sorry, not sorry. I'm not worried about the athletes in this heat. I'm worried about my traveling companions/support crew, and the rest of the volunteers. I plan on not only hugging volunteers, but emergency responders as well. Yes, EMS will "just be doing their job," but that doesn't make them immune to the heat.
My take is this: It's completely out of my hands. If they shorten the race, I will feel very complicated emotions, including (but not limited to) disappointment, frustration, relief, and then a sense of "well, what next." But no matter what, I can't do anything about it, and complaining will not fix it. I'll cry and laugh, but hopefully not complain.
It's all over but the shouting. The weather report for Sunday includes a heat index of 108. You read that right. Depending on what websites you look at, the range is from 102 to 108. Ugh.
This season, I have not had much of a chance to train in hot weather like this, or even close to it for that matter. The warmest bike ride I ever did was a pleasant 85, while the warmest run came in around 90. We've had a cooler spring than normal, with snow coming well into May. The hottest it's been in Denver is 95ish, and that coming only during the last few weeks of training, when the hard stuff was over anyway. So training for race day conditions? Lacking somewhat.
Racing in the heat of the day in the middle of summer is uncharted territory for me. When I'm not training for an Ironman, I avoid the heat. I hate running in the hot, so I run first thing in the morning during the summer. If it's hot, Gary stays on the trainer. I do a lot of swimming. This time though, I don't have a choice, and I don't quite know how to handle it. Everyone and their hairdresser has opinions on how to beat the heat, but the general consensus is, "don't try anything new on race day!!" Ok, by that logic, then I shouldn't be racing, because 108 will be very new for me. Very new indeed. I shouldn't try salt tabs, that will keep my fluid and electrolytes in check. I should try the new are coolers I found, because I never trained with them...I'll have you know I'm going to do whatever I can to stay cool!
This season, I have not had much of a chance to train in hot weather like this, or even close to it for that matter. The warmest bike ride I ever did was a pleasant 85, while the warmest run came in around 90. We've had a cooler spring than normal, with snow coming well into May. The hottest it's been in Denver is 95ish, and that coming only during the last few weeks of training, when the hard stuff was over anyway. So training for race day conditions? Lacking somewhat.
Racing in the heat of the day in the middle of summer is uncharted territory for me. When I'm not training for an Ironman, I avoid the heat. I hate running in the hot, so I run first thing in the morning during the summer. If it's hot, Gary stays on the trainer. I do a lot of swimming. This time though, I don't have a choice, and I don't quite know how to handle it. Everyone and their hairdresser has opinions on how to beat the heat, but the general consensus is, "don't try anything new on race day!!" Ok, by that logic, then I shouldn't be racing, because 108 will be very new for me. Very new indeed. I shouldn't try salt tabs, that will keep my fluid and electrolytes in check. I should try the new are coolers I found, because I never trained with them...I'll have you know I'm going to do whatever I can to stay cool!
The CDA Facebook page has been abuzz with rumors of canceling, shortening or altering the race because of the heat. Some of those rumors came true, some are still just that...rumors. One thing that has changed for sure is the start time of the race. As of right now, Officials have moved the race up one hour, so transition opens at 4:00 AM, and I'm in the water by 6:00. This is fine, because I won't be sleeping anyway, but this really only benefits the pros, who will be finished before it gets really hot. For folks like me however, one hour time difference still puts me on the run at the absolute worst time of the day. It's not up to me, but moving the race up an hour seems a little pointless when you are talking triple digit temps.
Another bit of news that has come up just this morning is that race officials will wait until Saturday night to make the call on shortening the race. See the full story here. The thumbnail sketch: It's not just about the athletes. It's about the volunteers, spectators, and (contrary to what some athletes think), life in general that is still going on outside of the race. The idea of shortening the race has some athletes completely pissed off. To them I say this. Get. Over. Yourself. Yes, we have all put countless hours and dollars into this sport, and yes, if they shorten the race we will all be a little disappointed and frustrated. But frankly, it's not just about you. Sorry, not sorry. I'm not worried about the athletes in this heat. I'm worried about my traveling companions/support crew, and the rest of the volunteers. I plan on not only hugging volunteers, but emergency responders as well. Yes, EMS will "just be doing their job," but that doesn't make them immune to the heat.
My take is this: It's completely out of my hands. If they shorten the race, I will feel very complicated emotions, including (but not limited to) disappointment, frustration, relief, and then a sense of "well, what next." But no matter what, I can't do anything about it, and complaining will not fix it. I'll cry and laugh, but hopefully not complain.
The only thing I have no control over is the weather. If I could, I would request a high of 70 degrees, partly cloudy. Maybe 75, if there were afternoon showers (about 3:00, so after I'm off the bike). I am not an evil scientist with a weather controlling death ray, therefore, I get what I get.
As of now, the race distance has not changed. There are triathletes out there that will call BS on me when I say this. I have no expectations on my finish time. 16:59:59 is my ideal. My coach thinks sub-14. I thought of sub-15 at minimum, but 13:30 as a lofty goal. I have friends have their own ideas on how fast I will finish. I'm not listening to any of it anymore, because only one problem needs to come up arises and those aggressive time goals are obliterated. One flat tire will add 15 minutes (or more) to my time. I will have to use the restroom (it's a long day, and I hope to stay hydrated). The heat alone will push my run pace a full minute per mile slower at the very least. I just want to finish.
Don't get me wrong. I'm looking forward to running/staggering/crawling up the red carpet surrounded by locals screaming and cheering for complete strangers, and I will for a brief shining moment feel like a rock star, in every way imaginable...both positive and negative. Positive, because of all the people screaming for me, and negative because I will feel like I was on an all night bender.
It could be 9:00 pm or 11:59. I don't care. Do I want to finish as fast as possible? Of course I do. But I also want to savor the day, enjoy myself, and close the book on this phase in my life.
Friday, June 19, 2015
POSER?
DISCLAIMER: What you are about to read is not really how I feel all the time. What follows is a representation of a disease called jealousy...a symptom of poor self-esteem. And not just mine. You could take the word triathlete and replace it with runner, yogini, businessperson, parent, spouse. We each have demons, and sometimes they pop their heads up when you least expect them. What I believe is that I am a dedicated triathlete. I will follow my own path, and do what I think is right for me. What follows is not a pity-party, just observations about how we can fall victim to our own perceived short-comings...emphasis on the word "perceived". I believe I am the best triathlete I can be, and most days, that's all that matters.
However one thing became very clear as I continued my voyage to 140.6. There are some hard core triathletes out there. I learned something else, too. I am not one of them. For every one of you that has complimented me on my dedication to this sport (first of all thank you), there are people out there who are so over the top for triathlon, they are already up the next hill. I mean this literally, and as a metaphor. These are the folks to crunch more data per workout than I will in a whole season. They custom order their nutrition and know their way around their bikes.
Jealousy is a terrible companion, and nowhere in my life have I felt its presence more than when I look at other triathletes. We all have our own methods and our own ways of doing things, but when I get close to other athletes, my demons of poor self-esteem come niggling back. I have to wonder if I'm just not enough...not __________ enough: fill in the blank (skinny, fast, fit, strong). I don't notice all the time, but when I'm out on the bike or running for hours at a time, I notice. I notice when someone passes me up a hill (which happens a lot). I notice when I see someone running toward me on the path and she looks more like she's flying than running. I notice at the pool...maybe my shoulders could be stronger, or I try to out swim the guy in the lane next to me. I notice when someone has the audacity to look like they are enjoying themselves when running in 90 degree weather.
Bike envy is the worst. While Gary is a great bike and has served me well, he is an entry-level Time Trial bike. I added a few components to make him fit better, but there are few bells and whistles. When I go to race expos or set my bike up on transition, bike envy is the first thing that hits me. I feel like I brought my tricycle. It's made a bit worse by the pictures on the aforementioned Facebook pages that make me sometimes want to hide my little bike. It just feels like I don't belong next to someone's $6000 Shiv with Razr wheels and custom solid carbon fiber frame. And it's likely that this is their "race only" bike. A lot of REAL triathletes have at least two bikes. One road bike on which they do the bulk of their training, and their TT bike that they have to get special permission from the Smithsonian to use. I can barely afford to keep one bike...and he's lucky he's not wearing concrete shoes.
Training is another way in which I differ. Although I followed my coach's plan almost to the letter, I did one 100 mile ride. I slogged through hot, long runs, and every minute of it sucked after a while. When I fire up my computer and check the CDA training page, for every one of me who is complaining about the heat and/or duration of their runs, there is another who can't wait to get out for their 3rd century ride of the season, or pile on hours of brick runs.
And time goals. Going into this season, I had an idea of how long it would take me to finish. I'm not even going to recap those, because frankly, it doesn't matter. The one thing I have no control over will make any time goals practically unattainable. The weather is going to be in the mid-to upper 90s on race day. Finishing is the only goal I care about (finishing without a trip to the medical tent is even better), and I'm throwing out all other time goals. I don't know, does that lessen my credibility as a triathlete?
And time goals. Going into this season, I had an idea of how long it would take me to finish. I'm not even going to recap those, because frankly, it doesn't matter. The one thing I have no control over will make any time goals practically unattainable. The weather is going to be in the mid-to upper 90s on race day. Finishing is the only goal I care about (finishing without a trip to the medical tent is even better), and I'm throwing out all other time goals. I don't know, does that lessen my credibility as a triathlete?
Then there's the "one and done" philosophy. I have this misperception that anyone who subscribes to the idea of doing one full distance race and calling it quits isn't really a "serious" triathlete. Unfortunately, there are actually people out there who believe that. I have a few choice four letter words for those people. Look, I get it. The IM community will tell me up and down that once I cross that finish line, I'll want to do another one. And another after that...and after that. I can tell you right now, that if I cross that finish line, yes. I may want to cross another IM finish line. Sure! Sounds like fun!! Crossing the finish line is not the issue. It's the 5 months of training before that I'm not crazy about. So much of my life has been put on hold to get this done. I miss my crazy, diverse life, and giving all that up for a second IM finish is not important to me. Sorry, not sorry.
I won't say never. Because maybe I'll come to a point in my life when it makes sense to do another Ironman, but frankly, I cannot come up with what that would look like. I just want to get this one done and go back to enjoying the training. I want to enjoy races like Run Disney, easy sprint and Olympic triathlons, and maybe another 70.3 or two next year. But another full distance? Not feeling it.
My bike is average. My riding is middle of the pack. I'm a terrible climber. I freak out when I go over 30 miles per hour downhill. I am a slow runner. I walk more than I run. I despise running after 10 a.m. I carry a few extra pounds, drink a glass of wine on occasion and eat ice cream after my really long days. I don't have $20,000 worth of bikes and cycling gear. I don't have an M-Dot tattoo, and I may not get one. I don't like spending hundreds of dollars a month on coaching, massages, race nutrition and replacement gear. I don't want to train for 5 months at the expense of singing in church, going out to movies, playing with my kid, quilting, or visiting my family.
Because of all of this, some may see me as a poser. A wannabe. Maybe I am. But since my opinion is the only one that matters, I don't think so. I'm as ready as I'm going to get, and I'm not looking back on this training season wondering if I've done enough. I plan on running my race, my pace. I will get passed repeatedly, likely even lapped. I don't care. In 9 days, I will hear someone call out "Heather Jergensen, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN." And I will scream, cry, jump for joy, and collapse in a heap. Because in that moment, I won't be pretending. It will all be real.
Saturday, June 13, 2015
TAPER -- THE BLESSING AND THE CURSE
It's finally here! The long awaited taper. This is the time when I get to drop much of the training volume and intensity while my body repairs itself. This is the time when my muscles absorb what they've learned in the last 5 months and get ready for June 28th. This is also the time when I go out of my mind with race-day weather obsession, fear of not actually being ready, and boredom.
This time through the taper period is different. I'm chalking it up in part to the distances I've covered, but also that maybe I trained well. I am very surprised by my lack of motivation to get out for even short workouts. I'm winded going up the stairs. My quads scream at me out of fatigue, because they are very comfortable on the couch, thank you very much. I've lost quite a bit of my appetite, which for a while, made no sense.
Here's some perspective, though. Since I began training with my coach in mid-January, I have ridden over 1800 miles, run over 410 miles, and swam almost 60 miles. Even typing that, I have to shake my head in wonder. The last 6 weeks, I have recorded progressively longer bike rides than I have ever completed. One week I hit 65, then 70, 80, 90, then finally, my first Century+ at 101. My training volume each week was over 13 hours on the "recovery" weeks and over 19 on my hardest weeks.
So it goes without saying, I suppose, that my first week of taper is a little rough. I simply can't get enough sleep, and I feel constantly dehydrated. Evidently, though, this is normal. If you are training right, the first week into taper SHOULD feel like this. Imagine my relief, because frankly, I thought I broke myself.
For me, the hard part is getting in some of these workouts now that my son is on summer break. Between his swim team, a waterpark visit and some significant heat followed by significant rain, I've had to juggle more of my training schedule than I have all season. And that right there, makes me glad that I dropped out of an August race a year ago.
Looking ahead, I'm 15 days out from Ironman Coeur d'Alene. Next week, my taper gets better with further reduced volume and supposedly a bump in energy, which means I might have some extra brain power to catch up on the blog. I have 60 miles left to ride before I drop Gary off at the bike shop to ship him to Idaho. There is an open water race I'll do next Saturday, and it may be my only chance to get in a lake swim before the Big Day (you should see my new 2XU wetsuit though...it's really fast).
So am I ready? Well, if I'm not, there is nothing I can do about it now. What's done is done, and here is what I've learned. The physical challenge of training for a 140.6 mile race is nothing to sneeze at, but my mental toughness is the muscle that has grown the most. There were days I hated my bike, didn't want to lace up my kicks, and not even a swim workout sounded appealing. But I went, sometimes griping all the way, sometimes enjoying the work. But every time, I got stronger, just because I went. I looked only at one workout at a time. I stayed in the moment, and didn't look ahead to the next 6 mile run loop. My mantra with every breath was "one mile at a time." And I did it. I got through this training season. I got through lots of rain, followed by lots of heat. I feel good about the season, and feel ready enough to finish in 16:59:59.
Today, I have friends who are participating in IMBoulder 70.3, and I'm excited for them. I wish them well, and will cheer them from afar (because somehow I have to get in a 16 mile run myself). I'm glad I'm not doing that race this year, but hope to do it next year. All the best to you, Casey, Jim and Julie -- enjoy the day!
This time through the taper period is different. I'm chalking it up in part to the distances I've covered, but also that maybe I trained well. I am very surprised by my lack of motivation to get out for even short workouts. I'm winded going up the stairs. My quads scream at me out of fatigue, because they are very comfortable on the couch, thank you very much. I've lost quite a bit of my appetite, which for a while, made no sense.
Here's some perspective, though. Since I began training with my coach in mid-January, I have ridden over 1800 miles, run over 410 miles, and swam almost 60 miles. Even typing that, I have to shake my head in wonder. The last 6 weeks, I have recorded progressively longer bike rides than I have ever completed. One week I hit 65, then 70, 80, 90, then finally, my first Century+ at 101. My training volume each week was over 13 hours on the "recovery" weeks and over 19 on my hardest weeks.
So it goes without saying, I suppose, that my first week of taper is a little rough. I simply can't get enough sleep, and I feel constantly dehydrated. Evidently, though, this is normal. If you are training right, the first week into taper SHOULD feel like this. Imagine my relief, because frankly, I thought I broke myself.
For me, the hard part is getting in some of these workouts now that my son is on summer break. Between his swim team, a waterpark visit and some significant heat followed by significant rain, I've had to juggle more of my training schedule than I have all season. And that right there, makes me glad that I dropped out of an August race a year ago.
Looking ahead, I'm 15 days out from Ironman Coeur d'Alene. Next week, my taper gets better with further reduced volume and supposedly a bump in energy, which means I might have some extra brain power to catch up on the blog. I have 60 miles left to ride before I drop Gary off at the bike shop to ship him to Idaho. There is an open water race I'll do next Saturday, and it may be my only chance to get in a lake swim before the Big Day (you should see my new 2XU wetsuit though...it's really fast).
So am I ready? Well, if I'm not, there is nothing I can do about it now. What's done is done, and here is what I've learned. The physical challenge of training for a 140.6 mile race is nothing to sneeze at, but my mental toughness is the muscle that has grown the most. There were days I hated my bike, didn't want to lace up my kicks, and not even a swim workout sounded appealing. But I went, sometimes griping all the way, sometimes enjoying the work. But every time, I got stronger, just because I went. I looked only at one workout at a time. I stayed in the moment, and didn't look ahead to the next 6 mile run loop. My mantra with every breath was "one mile at a time." And I did it. I got through this training season. I got through lots of rain, followed by lots of heat. I feel good about the season, and feel ready enough to finish in 16:59:59.
Today, I have friends who are participating in IMBoulder 70.3, and I'm excited for them. I wish them well, and will cheer them from afar (because somehow I have to get in a 16 mile run myself). I'm glad I'm not doing that race this year, but hope to do it next year. All the best to you, Casey, Jim and Julie -- enjoy the day!
Wednesday, March 25, 2015
BRAIN. DOESN'T. WORK.
As it's been almost two months since my last post (and I would have liked to have made this a weekly thing), I thought I would update you on my journey. I haven't quit, but in short, I've thought about it.
It's an early Spring Saturday morning, and I'm recovering from yesterday's 3 hour hilly ride, my coffee and my laptop nearby, girding myself for a 2 hour run. The last two months have been rough, with the last ten days being downright brutal. Not because of the aforementioned workouts of the past couple of days, but rather because of a lot of short intense training sessions.
At first, Captain Kirk's training plan gave me a pass on my swims. "Try to do them, but if you have to miss a workout, skip a swim." Okay, so my philosophy became that my swims were a reward for good behavior. That good behavior was that I got on the bike or ran that day. Although my training weeks have averaged 10 hours, it's the intensity for which I was not prepared.
Each workout had a strict purpose: whether it was determining Threshold Rates, T-paces, or max heart rates, every session required a short warm up followed by repeated intervals of one type or another. My swims included longer and longer intervals at faster and faster paces. My rides on the trainer focused on Heart Rate, speed intervals, and Functional Threshold Power (FTP is basically how fast can I go for how long without my heart exploding). My runs were long, All Out intervals, with many, many miles of long runs.
All of this isn't so bad if I have an "easy_______" sprinkled into the plan here and there. But they were almost nowhere to be found. In the last 8 weeks, the short, easy workouts can be counted on one hand with fingers left over.
What this means is that not only am I taxing myself physically, which is of course expected, but my mind is constantly counting something. Whether it's laps in the pool, sets of speed intervals, or minutes until my recovery period, my brain is focused solely on the workout, my legs, my lungs and anything and everything that hurt.
Yes, I am training for a big event. But the problem I'm having is that nowhere in my schedule is there time for a meditative, relaxing run. As I've stated before, running is my recharge, but only if I get to process my world in the rhythm. I just need to get out the door and hit cruise control. If I have to "embrace the suck," every single time, then it becomes not fun.
So the result is this: I am as tired physically as anyone would expect. That's a given. But the mental and emotional toll this is having on me? I'm simply not prepared for it. After weeks of all the physical exertion and the mental juggling, I am worthless to the point of being reduced to a blubbering mass of tears. I am right about where I was when I made the decision to drop out of IM Boulder. With every breath, my only thought is, "I'm so tired." And I'm really tired of that being my only thought.
It came to a head when I took my dog to the vet, and the words "cancer" were uttered. When I came home, I looked at my training plan, saw a 90 minute high-cadence ride (make my feet move faster and faster), and I said..."Nope." All I wanted to do was lay down and cry. So I did. I skipped the workout, which is not going to make or break crossing an IM finish line.
My coach and I had a conversation about how mentally drained I had become, and if this is normal. The Captain actually told me something very encouraging. Kirk said, "if you weren't feeling like this, I would be afraid that you weren't working hard enough. This is the toughest part of the training, in addition to the last few weeks before the taper. You are exactly where you need to be as we get ready for the next phase." Yes, this actually IS encouraging. It means I'm actually doing this right...somehow.
Let's face it. I'm not injured, I'm eating right and I've gained about 10 pound of muscle...mostly in my quads. I have to wear my fat pants, because my strong gams won't fit into my skinny jeans. However, knowing that I'm on the right track and this mental fatigue is to be expected makes me feel a bit better.
So I embrace the suck. I make peace with the fact that although it's rough, it will get a bit easier mentally. I move on and mix it up a bit but getting my bike off the trainer, find a new running route, or mix up my pool sessions by just going at a different time of day.
No, I haven't quit. And I'm not going to. The next phase of training is less intensity, but longer hours. I'm fine with that (she says before she's even seen the schedule). But in the meantime, I have a dive vacation, where Captain Kirk has ordered me to not work out at all. Let myself recover, take in a spiritual recharge, and come back fired up for the last 14 weeks of training.
Now where are my shoes?
It's an early Spring Saturday morning, and I'm recovering from yesterday's 3 hour hilly ride, my coffee and my laptop nearby, girding myself for a 2 hour run. The last two months have been rough, with the last ten days being downright brutal. Not because of the aforementioned workouts of the past couple of days, but rather because of a lot of short intense training sessions.
At first, Captain Kirk's training plan gave me a pass on my swims. "Try to do them, but if you have to miss a workout, skip a swim." Okay, so my philosophy became that my swims were a reward for good behavior. That good behavior was that I got on the bike or ran that day. Although my training weeks have averaged 10 hours, it's the intensity for which I was not prepared.
Each workout had a strict purpose: whether it was determining Threshold Rates, T-paces, or max heart rates, every session required a short warm up followed by repeated intervals of one type or another. My swims included longer and longer intervals at faster and faster paces. My rides on the trainer focused on Heart Rate, speed intervals, and Functional Threshold Power (FTP is basically how fast can I go for how long without my heart exploding). My runs were long, All Out intervals, with many, many miles of long runs.
All of this isn't so bad if I have an "easy_______" sprinkled into the plan here and there. But they were almost nowhere to be found. In the last 8 weeks, the short, easy workouts can be counted on one hand with fingers left over.
What this means is that not only am I taxing myself physically, which is of course expected, but my mind is constantly counting something. Whether it's laps in the pool, sets of speed intervals, or minutes until my recovery period, my brain is focused solely on the workout, my legs, my lungs and anything and everything that hurt.
Yes, I am training for a big event. But the problem I'm having is that nowhere in my schedule is there time for a meditative, relaxing run. As I've stated before, running is my recharge, but only if I get to process my world in the rhythm. I just need to get out the door and hit cruise control. If I have to "embrace the suck," every single time, then it becomes not fun.
So the result is this: I am as tired physically as anyone would expect. That's a given. But the mental and emotional toll this is having on me? I'm simply not prepared for it. After weeks of all the physical exertion and the mental juggling, I am worthless to the point of being reduced to a blubbering mass of tears. I am right about where I was when I made the decision to drop out of IM Boulder. With every breath, my only thought is, "I'm so tired." And I'm really tired of that being my only thought.
It came to a head when I took my dog to the vet, and the words "cancer" were uttered. When I came home, I looked at my training plan, saw a 90 minute high-cadence ride (make my feet move faster and faster), and I said..."Nope." All I wanted to do was lay down and cry. So I did. I skipped the workout, which is not going to make or break crossing an IM finish line.
My coach and I had a conversation about how mentally drained I had become, and if this is normal. The Captain actually told me something very encouraging. Kirk said, "if you weren't feeling like this, I would be afraid that you weren't working hard enough. This is the toughest part of the training, in addition to the last few weeks before the taper. You are exactly where you need to be as we get ready for the next phase." Yes, this actually IS encouraging. It means I'm actually doing this right...somehow.
Let's face it. I'm not injured, I'm eating right and I've gained about 10 pound of muscle...mostly in my quads. I have to wear my fat pants, because my strong gams won't fit into my skinny jeans. However, knowing that I'm on the right track and this mental fatigue is to be expected makes me feel a bit better.
So I embrace the suck. I make peace with the fact that although it's rough, it will get a bit easier mentally. I move on and mix it up a bit but getting my bike off the trainer, find a new running route, or mix up my pool sessions by just going at a different time of day.
No, I haven't quit. And I'm not going to. The next phase of training is less intensity, but longer hours. I'm fine with that (she says before she's even seen the schedule). But in the meantime, I have a dive vacation, where Captain Kirk has ordered me to not work out at all. Let myself recover, take in a spiritual recharge, and come back fired up for the last 14 weeks of training.
Now where are my shoes?
Monday, January 26, 2015
SECOND CHANCES
Sometimes we get second chances. Sometimes we are allowed to make up for past mistakes and try again having learned from those mistakes.
18 months ago, when I signed up for Ironman Boulder, I made some mistakes.
First mistake was, I signed up for the wrong race. Those of you following this blog may remember I had lots of choices and weighed all the pros and cons. Ironman British Columbia, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Coeur d'Alene (Idaho) were all on my list until they opened a Boulder event which would take place in early August. I thought I could manage the training during the hot summer months and be a stay-at-home single mom at the same time. I was wrong. After having signed up, I dropped out halfway through my training. Doing so shattered my confidence. On my bad days, I felt like a quitter. On my good days, I knew I had made the right decision for me and for my son. But I spent the next several months thinking that and Ironman finish is still sitting out there teasing me, calling me...
Another mistake I made was not hiring a coach. I have great training partners. Their support and enthusiasm got me through some tough workouts, but I needed a bit more accountability than that. Although I was following a plan through the training peaks website, a one-size-fits-all prescription for crossing a finish line wasn't cutting it. The plan did not provide coach support designed to meet my needs, strengths and weaknesses.
Third mistake: I severely underestimated the time commitment. I spent just as much time training as I did stressing out about getting in said training. The hours on the bike alone overwhelmed me, and I simply could not get my training to comply with my circumstances. My training would fall apart if I had a long ride planned and then it snowed, or my son had to stay home with the flu. The biggest training days seemed to fall victim to life happening, and I had no contingency.
I could go on and on about the mistakes I made...overtraining too early in the season, overcommitting to other things, being over-confident...the bottom line is that I had myself a huge slice of humble pie back in May. I curled up in my own little world, felt sorry for myself for a bit, mad at myself for a long time, and just fed up with how I could have made such mistakes. So, I took a couple of steps back. I re-evaluated not just my athletic goals, but many others goals and dreams as well, and I came up with a solution. First things first...Get 'er done. Just go do an Ironman, and get it over with -- but do it better this time. In 10 years, it's unlikely I'll be physically capable, so I want to do this while I still can.
It took months to warm up to this idea. Part of me wanted it. It was out there waiting for me, and I just had to follow the call. But when I started to get comfortable with committing to a race, I would get so far as the IM web page, then balk. Just freeze, talk myself out of it. This happened repeatedly for weeks. I was paralyzed and couldn't commit. I had all the arguments for signing up. "You know you are going to do this." "Register before it sells out." "This is the right race." I couldn't do it.
At one point, I finally asked myself, "what is my problem?!" My own answer surprised me. I was terrified. What if I can't actually do it? What if I build it all up again, and drop out...quit...again? What if I don't really have what it takes to finish an Ironman season? I realized that my fear of failure...or at least feeling like I had failed was keeping me from making that leap. I get it... in my athletic life, I am not a failure. I do get that. But, sometimes the mean voices make me forget all I have accomplished so far. Once I figured out how to shut those voices up, the idea of signing a registration form didn't seem so scary.
So I finally sat down and filled out page after page of registration information and I think somewhere along the line I signed over my first grandchild to the Ironman corporation, but I can't be sure. But it happened.
So did I learn from my mistakes?
Well, this time, the race is in Idaho at the end of June (not Boulder in August). All the hard training will be done before school is out and the weather gets too hot. Also, Coeur d'Alene is beautiful. A fellow athlete put it to me this way, "even if you have the worst race day ever, the scenery might just be enough to distract you from that."
This time I did hire a coach. I need someone who will write a prescription for me: a competitive swimmer who loves to run and hates to ride. I need a guide to help me adequately train for my weaknesses (read: biking) and keep me from over-training my strengths. Enter Coach Kirk Blackmon. I call him "Captain Kirk." I get my orders from Captain Kirk. There are so many fun things I can do with that! I have live access to him through e-mail (sub-space), and a monthly phone call (hailing frequencies open...yeah, okay that's enough of that for now), and my training schedule, designed by my coach takes my athletic level and circumstances into consideration.
Lastly, the time commitment hasn't changed. But there are things I know I will have to let go this season. Probably won't ski much this year, and any traveling I do will include serious running miles, but the race date is already working in my favor, and I have a coach to help me through when I'm feeling overwhelmed. I've had to re-tool my budget for a few months, but manageably so as long as I am smart about where my money goes.
So it's done. Mark your calendars for Sunday, June 28th, 2015. I will be in Coeur d'Alene. Flights and hotels are booked. I'm going. It's happening this time.
I do not feel the excitement and anticipation around this event as I did when I signed up for Boulder. In fact, I'm quite apprehensive and cautious, and that is probably a good thing. My tangle with my own limitations and humility put all of this in perspective. Ironman is not a given, but I have a second chance at my first attempt. It's not often we get a "do-over" and I don't want to blow this one.
Wish me luck.
18 months ago, when I signed up for Ironman Boulder, I made some mistakes.
First mistake was, I signed up for the wrong race. Those of you following this blog may remember I had lots of choices and weighed all the pros and cons. Ironman British Columbia, Wisconsin, Arizona, and Coeur d'Alene (Idaho) were all on my list until they opened a Boulder event which would take place in early August. I thought I could manage the training during the hot summer months and be a stay-at-home single mom at the same time. I was wrong. After having signed up, I dropped out halfway through my training. Doing so shattered my confidence. On my bad days, I felt like a quitter. On my good days, I knew I had made the right decision for me and for my son. But I spent the next several months thinking that and Ironman finish is still sitting out there teasing me, calling me...
Another mistake I made was not hiring a coach. I have great training partners. Their support and enthusiasm got me through some tough workouts, but I needed a bit more accountability than that. Although I was following a plan through the training peaks website, a one-size-fits-all prescription for crossing a finish line wasn't cutting it. The plan did not provide coach support designed to meet my needs, strengths and weaknesses.
Third mistake: I severely underestimated the time commitment. I spent just as much time training as I did stressing out about getting in said training. The hours on the bike alone overwhelmed me, and I simply could not get my training to comply with my circumstances. My training would fall apart if I had a long ride planned and then it snowed, or my son had to stay home with the flu. The biggest training days seemed to fall victim to life happening, and I had no contingency.
I could go on and on about the mistakes I made...overtraining too early in the season, overcommitting to other things, being over-confident...the bottom line is that I had myself a huge slice of humble pie back in May. I curled up in my own little world, felt sorry for myself for a bit, mad at myself for a long time, and just fed up with how I could have made such mistakes. So, I took a couple of steps back. I re-evaluated not just my athletic goals, but many others goals and dreams as well, and I came up with a solution. First things first...Get 'er done. Just go do an Ironman, and get it over with -- but do it better this time. In 10 years, it's unlikely I'll be physically capable, so I want to do this while I still can.
It took months to warm up to this idea. Part of me wanted it. It was out there waiting for me, and I just had to follow the call. But when I started to get comfortable with committing to a race, I would get so far as the IM web page, then balk. Just freeze, talk myself out of it. This happened repeatedly for weeks. I was paralyzed and couldn't commit. I had all the arguments for signing up. "You know you are going to do this." "Register before it sells out." "This is the right race." I couldn't do it.
At one point, I finally asked myself, "what is my problem?!" My own answer surprised me. I was terrified. What if I can't actually do it? What if I build it all up again, and drop out...quit...again? What if I don't really have what it takes to finish an Ironman season? I realized that my fear of failure...or at least feeling like I had failed was keeping me from making that leap. I get it... in my athletic life, I am not a failure. I do get that. But, sometimes the mean voices make me forget all I have accomplished so far. Once I figured out how to shut those voices up, the idea of signing a registration form didn't seem so scary.
So I finally sat down and filled out page after page of registration information and I think somewhere along the line I signed over my first grandchild to the Ironman corporation, but I can't be sure. But it happened.
So did I learn from my mistakes?
Well, this time, the race is in Idaho at the end of June (not Boulder in August). All the hard training will be done before school is out and the weather gets too hot. Also, Coeur d'Alene is beautiful. A fellow athlete put it to me this way, "even if you have the worst race day ever, the scenery might just be enough to distract you from that."
This time I did hire a coach. I need someone who will write a prescription for me: a competitive swimmer who loves to run and hates to ride. I need a guide to help me adequately train for my weaknesses (read: biking) and keep me from over-training my strengths. Enter Coach Kirk Blackmon. I call him "Captain Kirk." I get my orders from Captain Kirk. There are so many fun things I can do with that! I have live access to him through e-mail (sub-space), and a monthly phone call (hailing frequencies open...yeah, okay that's enough of that for now), and my training schedule, designed by my coach takes my athletic level and circumstances into consideration.
Lastly, the time commitment hasn't changed. But there are things I know I will have to let go this season. Probably won't ski much this year, and any traveling I do will include serious running miles, but the race date is already working in my favor, and I have a coach to help me through when I'm feeling overwhelmed. I've had to re-tool my budget for a few months, but manageably so as long as I am smart about where my money goes.
So it's done. Mark your calendars for Sunday, June 28th, 2015. I will be in Coeur d'Alene. Flights and hotels are booked. I'm going. It's happening this time.
I do not feel the excitement and anticipation around this event as I did when I signed up for Boulder. In fact, I'm quite apprehensive and cautious, and that is probably a good thing. My tangle with my own limitations and humility put all of this in perspective. Ironman is not a given, but I have a second chance at my first attempt. It's not often we get a "do-over" and I don't want to blow this one.
Wish me luck.
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