DNF

Madison Wisconsin
September 10, 2006

Preface

Beginning is the hardest part.

I’ve been sitting here looking at this blank screen for an hour now at least, and have decided that this is true. Though, I suppose this counts as a beginning, stumbling in or not. It’s words on screen. It’s progress. So it must.

Right?

My first thought now is that many things changed for me over the course of 133.4 miles, but one thing remained the same. At this point in my life, I can honestly say I have never been this utterly grateful for my life and for everyone in it, and I should have been. Endurance sport has given me this.

I think of all the people who helped me get to the starting line, of all the people I’d both met and never met who pulled me along that course by shouting my name and calling and sending e-mails. And of all the people who wanted nothing more than to catch me as they watched it all fall apart.

Yes, grateful, I still very much am.

The next thing that occurs to me is that growing up I heard countless times about what I stubborn kid I was, and how I would never just learn a lesson the easy way. “Tracy, the stove is hot, don’t touch it.” “Tracy, don’t date that guy, he’s a jerk.”

But I had to know for myself. I don’t know why. But I know I never forgot once I found out. And I guess I'm just made that way.

Well, at this point I have to tell you, I don’t know how this story ends because it’s not written yet. I'll figure it out as I go; that's usually how it works for me.

Heh, though you know, at least now I do know how this story begins, which is significant progress from where we started at the top of the page.

So... it counts.



The Swim

(Please note: Because this will be a very long story, I'm breaking it up into sections. The swim, the bike, the run, and the part that really mattered: the people who made all three possible. For now, the swim...).

Starting to filter into the water, the very beginning of the swim just before the cannon.

I’ve seen the sunrise hundreds of times in training for Ironman. And each time I imagined how it would feel to see an Ironman sunrise. But on September 10th, it never came the way I’d anticipated. And rather than the masses of roaring people or larger than life Gatorade blow up bottles, or thousands of people in wetsuits on the edge of Lake Monona, it’s when the sun never came out that I knew I was really at Ironman. There, even the most basic and proven things like the sun coming up everyday are unpredictable.

Because of this, I don’t know that one can ever be “ready” for Ironman. On the other side of the starting line now, it strikes me as trying to plan to have kids. You’ll never be financially sound “enough” or stable “enough” or ready “enough”, you just have to jump in as ready as you can be, and then you find your way. And I think that must be what makes it so special and exciting. Both having kids and Ironman... and really, any other life changing commitment you make.

The wind was strong, and my fingers and toes were cold as we shuffled into the water. Sara and I stood next to each other the whole way down into the water trying to come up with last minute motivating mantras for the day. "...just a long training day... Prozac patches, 10 minutes to the other side...total calm...total calm...total calm..." Someone took our picture as we clasped opposite hands just about heart level and looked at each other with the same, "...yeah, it's really here and so are we..." expression.

In a distant loudspeaker voice, I heard some instructions about tucking our chips under our wetsuit legs. As I bent to do that after hugging Tri-mama who was standing alongside us with the spectators, I heard, "Tracy!!!!" Sara blew me a kiss and waved as she was moved along by the school of people all around her in the water. I had the feeling like we were saying goodbye at an airport, that she didn’t want to go, but knew it was time. We both knew we’d see each other again, so it was OK. "Good luck!" was the last thing I said, and that was the last time I saw her on the course for the day, but not the last time I thought of her by far.

“FIVE MINUTES!!!!! WHO WANTS TO BE AN IRONMAN TODAY!!!???”

The lake rumbled like the sky hopes to on its most audacious of days. I looked out over thousands of wetsuits in front of me, turned to see dozens more filtering in after me, and everywhere else, camera flashes and flailing arms and not one scrap of uncovered concrete. All I could think of with my heart in my throat was how alive I felt, and how in awe I was to be part of something so raw and so epic. It occurred to me then that there is nothing like Ironman because there is nothing like people who want to become Ironmen, and nothing like the people who love them regardless of if they do or not.

“ONE MINUTE!!!! YOU ALL ARE AMAZING!!! YOU ARE GOING TO BE IRONMEN TODAY!!!!”

The Monona Terrace during the entire swim.

And instantly, over top the echo of the loudspeaker voice, the cannon.

Crowds of people roared under a blanket of flash bulbs and adrenaline provoking anthem music, which was muffled every other second as I put my face in the water. ...today, I put my face in the water... Soon Monona Terrace, the crowds, the loudspeaker voice, were all out of my range of senses. And that meant I’d swum half a mile. ...today, I swam half a mile....

Along the way I was glad for every open water swim horror story I'd lived through and learned from, glad I remembered, because on this swim I’d been hit in the head several times, had someone grab onto my ankles several times, kick me in the face once, and shove me by the rib cage several times. The latter offender I dubbed “bad attitude guy” because he kept broad-siding me, yet felt apparently offended by the collision enough to actually shove me. I knew he was an anomaly in the water, and had to be suffering a lot in order to act like that. He broke an unspoken code that you just don’t break in an open water swim, and you don’t break it because you’ve been there, and you know. So, because he couldn’t have really been a triathlete, he became for me any negative force that would try to put its hands on me that day, and I swam away. Faster than him.

Still relativel early on during the swim.

The first loop of the swim course went very fast. 1.2 miles in 40 minutes by my watch (but only because I calculated it by the time from the start, I’d forgotten to set my stopwatch in the excitement). I was absolutely beside myself with unrefined and unadulterated joy. Never in my life could I have imagined navigating through thousands of people, hunting out buoys without Forrest Gumping the course (somehow getting turned around in the wrong direction like earlier this year), and all through growing choppy water and rising waves. ...if I make a 1:20 swim I am going to lose my mind...

The second loop was another story. People were hanging on boats, on buoys, coughing and I even saw a few people throwing up (and swam extra fast past them!). Something was wrong.

Almost immediately the lake seemed like it suddenly started breathing under me, and it became obvious that the current had either shifted or just plain picked up. Suddenly I was catching face-fulls of wave. Cold, solid wave. ...the rip...

Thanks to Mark Peters for forwarding me this pic he took. The water was... well, you can see.

I’ve only felt a lake breathe under me once before like that, on a Steelhead training swim last year. I was pulled out in a rip current and had to find my way out, not even realizing at the time that I was in. I learned that day that sometimes you just have to listen to the water, and it will tell you what to do. And because I’m me, it would have to be a rip current to teach me so that I wouldn’t forget.

I switched breathing from the right to the left, and tried to time my stroke under each little lake breaker just like I’d learned that cold pre half-Ironman day. Once I got synched up, it was a little fun to be carried up and set gently back down. As I approached Monona Terrace again, heard the roaring people, the loudspeaker voice, the anthem music and saw the flashing cameras, I put my face in the water on an off breath, and actually giggled with pride. This was the best swim of my life. Thank you rip current. Swim time: 1:49 (I think).

I couldn’t stop smiling after the swim. I think I was a little disoriented because Tri-mama and Tri-Daddy actually had to tell me how to straighten my arms so they could peel my wetsuit off of me. And then I ran up the helix without it like some kind of naked little kid all excited to be “free”, still smiling my fool head off. I was just amazed at how good I felt, and that, I won't ever forget.

“Tracy!!! Your wetsuit!!” “Wil!! Get your wetsuit girl!!” 100 voices from 200 directions before one got through to my language input center.

...Oh my God!! HA!!! Whoops..... Tri-daddy handed me my suit, cap and goggles (which I instantly and obliviously dropped).

But 50 feet later against a backdrop of supportingly amused voices yelling, “TRACY!!! Wil!!! Iron Wil!!! Your goggles!!!” and then, “Tracy! Here! Come on girl, heh!! Hey, ok, there ya go...just remember I can’t do this on the bike for ya!!!”

Tri-daddy had run me down... again... and handed me my goggles. We both laughed as I headed to T1.

I never expected such a personally incredible swim in such horrible conditions. I never expected to feel so good after having gone so far. I never even realized that I’d broken my toe until today, the second toe on my left foot. It felt that good to be alive that day. It felt that good to not know what to expect from Ironman.



The Bike – Preface

For a second, I thought the rain was ironic. And when it didn’t stop, I knew it was.

How many thunderstorms have I ridden through since this all began? How many times have I picked fights with them, and how many times have I been chased down? Somewhere in my subconscious, and probably also conscious mind, I can only figure my rationale as this: win or lose, what a hell of a thing to say of my life that on more than one occasion I’ve engaged such a thing as a storm. I mean, if you’re going to pick a fight, pick a fight.

Perhaps a little metaphysical, but that’s the way I view the world. And it works just fine for me.

I’ve learned that storms are like any other impassioned element out there - unyielding, often proud, even arrogant, and absolutely insubordinate. I find them easier to navigate if I can somehow personify them, and frankly, life is just plain old more interesting for me this way.

A person like this then, monumentally bigger and stronger than me with an attitude and too much to drink. How would I deal with them? Confront them with aggression and ego, with pride and chest beating? No. Absolutely no. That approach, much as it would get me pummeled, almost got me drowned in Lake Michigan. Of this, I learned how to humble my inner Odysseus. I never forgot, and never again have I had a problem with waves or rip currents.

Though, that approach was not yet beaten out of me entirely. I’ll always find a way I guess, and maybe part of me figured that on the bike I could still be cocky. That attitude got me shattered in a thousand pieces on an unrelenting 80-mile frigid and stormy ride....took me a week to collect all the scatterings and put them back together again. But I did. And of this I learned that no one who aspires to be great ever succeeds alone. Everyone needs help. Including me. I never forgot, and never again has a storm needed to break me.

Looking back on this training, I notice that most of my fears and challenges have always been associated with water. The open-water swim. Torrential rainstorms. But I’ve realized that I only feared or was challenged by these things because they could and would wash away all the covering up I’d tried to do of all the insecurities I’d collected... too much pride, fear of failing, being a slave to numbers...in the water, they filter down front and center and wait to be addressed.

You are forced to look at yourself, your non-perfect self, and accept everything about who you are as is. You deal with your hang-ups, improve where you can, learn to forgive, rely upon, and trust yourself, or you simply don’t get home. This is just one of the hard lessons endurance in the elements has taught me.

Over the course of the last two years, I’ve learned to be humble, to have respect for distance and elements and to take nothing for granted. I’ve grown. I guess that’s the way I see water now. It helps me grow. And so of it, I have nothing to fear.

Now that you know all this, you’ll understand when I tell you how I felt during my 112-mile ride on September 10th, 2006.



The Bike

It started as a mist. A coating. But by the look of the skies, like skies I’d come to appreciate over the last year, I knew that the mist was just a base layer for what was to come.

This would build. It would churn overhead time and time again until on some ecological plane enough would be enough, and it would all fall out of the sky with a sort of resolute impatience for not having done so sooner.

But in the meantime it would rain. Lightly at first, and then steadily, just enough to soak into your bones and set you adrift inside yourself if you let it. Those who for one reason or another found themselves carried away in the current, as I had on my 80-mile training ride through the exact same kind of storm, would not finish this leg of the course. Many others would not finish for different reasons beyond their control, I just knew I didn’t want to be one of either sorts.

I won’t ever forget what it felt like on that 80-mile ride to see the drops collecting on the edge of my helmet and decide, finally decide, as if it were some kind of long term NATO negotiation, that it was, in fact, useless to keep shaking them off. I’ll never forget having to adapt to their presence even though they shot off rounds of OCD in my head. After miles of downpour and cold, I’d been worn down to the point that I had to focus my energies on other things. I had to let little things like this go, or I wouldn’t make it home. And of this I learned that in the end, surviving and surmounting boil down to very simple choices like this.

When I saw the drops begin collecting on the edge of my helmet on September 10, I smiled remembering the 80-mile ride yield. I smiled remembering that I’d learned to pick my battles. And I didn’t notice the drops again after that.

(To the right, one of the rollers, not one of the three big hills on the course) The hills of Verona had drifted slightly in my memory from my training ride this past summer. I knew they were long and big hills, but I knew the hills that my coach prescribed for me in Michigan were also long and also big. I knew I’d ridden 50, 75, 50, 112 miles over these hills, eight giant climbs instead of the six Wisconsin housed, over and over again, weekend after weekend in the heat, in the rain, in headwinds, in perfect weather. I’d been to the edge of nausea, over the edge of tears, doubt, fear, and frustration and I’d gotten to the other side of every imaginable circumstance. And I never forgot.

So at mile 40 when I felt suddenly incredibly tired after over two hours of soul-soaking rain and headwinds, and just before reaching the translucent in my memory hills of Verona, I remembered my hills. I remembered my fears. And I remembered that I didn’t have them anymore.

I ate a quarter of a banana, a quarter of a power bar, and drank about 4 ounces of Gatorade at the water stop I’d come to, used the restroom, and decided I guessed it was time to remind myself what all the fuss was about.

Before long, my coach jumped out into the road and chased after me... “... you’re looking awesome! Are you eating and drinking?”

“Yep.”

“Looking good... looking good! Keep it up, yeah baby, you’re going to be an Ironman today!”

It was the first time I’d seen him since we’d all arrived in Wisconsin, while he was running along side me I saw him take a coach's quick inventory as he looked me up and down, processed, then looked at me and smiled. He looked at me like he was proud. And that, I will never forget.

Almost every hour I saw Simply Stu and my husband somewhere on the bike course. They’d drive from point to point, Stu encouraging everyone while running up and down the hills (and these were not 'go in your backyard and play King of the Mountain on' kinds of hills by the way...). He was electric with Ironman, and his enthusiasm was contagious.

My husband snapped pictures, shouting, “...she’s STILL smiling!!!” as I passed, but it was impossible not to with how much appreciation I felt for them being out there all day for me like that. It was impossible not to while seeing the streets lined with people cheering, soaked through, but cheering and genuinely excited to be part of everything.

“...Nice smile Iron Wil!! You got this!!!” “...Keep going! Come on! Come on! Get up the hill!!!”

Random voices like the rain falling down to me as I started up the first of the three big hills of the Verona loop. I’d have five more climbs after this one. ...this is the beginning...

As I slowed with the incline, my glasses fogged almost immediately, so I had to take them off and hold them in my teeth. I was thrilled to discover the added “wooden spoon” benefit of doing this as my quad muscles were thumped straight out of bed.

... this is the hill I thought would never end, ‘...it’s a beautiful day in the neeeighborhoood.... a beautiful day in the neighborhood....’ 6.4 mph.... hey, why am I behind you? Hahahahaaaaaa haahaaaaaaaa.... does this hill ever end? ‘Nope’. @*#&!..... ‘it’s a beautiful day in the neighborhoooood.....’ haaa haaaaaa hahaha haaaaaa ....

“WIL!!!! YEAH, WIL!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Two other riders flanked me up the first hill, the one to my left, “Yeah! Wil, we’re almost there.... come on kid...” ...‘kid’....hehe...

Whispered voices from other volunteers, “...dig deep, you got this... come on, come on....”

I smiled. On this hill, the first hill, I learned I could smile while biting down hard on my sunglasses. And that, I will never forget.

“THAT’S what I’m talkin''bout Willis!! GO ON!! You got this!!!”

And before I knew it, I was at the top, about to go down hill very, very fast. ...heh hehhh hehehe...whheeeeeeeeeeeeeee....

The second hill was like the first, but the third, the biggest and longest, the one that had been newly covered in fresh loose gravel during our summer training ride, came out of nowhere. I’d forgotten where it was on the course and it came up sooner than I’d expected. Sara and I and some others had our tires slip trying to get up this hill when we were out in July, so then we walked our bikes halfway up. That meant today, on September 10, Ironman, we’d never done this hill. I thought about her as I started the climb. And I knew she was fine. I wondered if she thought about me then, and if she knew like I did about her that I would be fine too.

"Climb Decatur hill until you want to puke, then climb it three more times and you’ll be fine for Wisconsin...","...if you can do 112 miles on this course, you’ll have done a harder course than Wisconsin. Remember that and you’ll be fine.”

My coach’s words came out of closets in my head. I remembered that I did climb that hill so much that I did want to puke. That I climbed it three more times and then instead of wanting to puke, in fact, just died for a little while at the top. But I also remembered that this meant at the top of that last climb, I was immortal for at least a minute or two, and because of that I was fine. And that, I didn’t forget.

“YEAH! Way to smile! This is the top! This is the top! You made it!!!!!!! YEAH Iron Wil!!! ”

...wowwww.......

...whhheeeeeeeeeeeeeeee......

Soon I saw Robby B. and his wife cheering like crazy... “Yeah TRACY! Lookin’ good!!! Lookin’ good! You got this, you got this!” and he high-fived me. I smiled for miles because of that.

The winds picked up, what was a breeze became a gust, and the strangling sound of my brakes around the sharp turns (which for some reason were always at the bottom of hills) made me hold my breath for several seconds.

Around mile 60 I stopped at the special needs station, ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and cursed myself for not putting dry socks in my bag. I had roughly 50 miles yet to ride, and about four hours in which to do it. ...time to go...

“Tracyyyyyyyy!!!” Whizzzzzzzzzz...

SLS blurred by at some God-awful mph to my standing still self. I smiled again... “Hey youuuuuuu!!!” as it was lost in her jet stream ...good, there she is... now Sara....

I noticed that I couldn’t bend my fingers anymore to shift, and instead had to do so with the palm of my hand in basketball lay up flip fashion. My hands were starting to really swell and I didn’t know why, I hadn’t taken anymore e-caps than normally, and suddenly it seemed like I had to go to the bathroom a lot, every 20 minutes or so, but I just figured it was because of drinking so much. My left knee started to hurt a little, as did my left wrist. The cold and the rain and the wind were trying to sink in.

Soon I saw Stu and my husband, “Hey!!!! You’re awesome!!!” my husband yelled while Stu walked backwards on the side of the street, smiling like a proud big brother and holding up a sign, “...Scooper truck, Mommy!...” A floodgate opened, and with the tidal wave rush there was just no extra space for wind or cold or rain to pull up even a footstool anywhere inside of me. ...all right then, let's go to the city...

Downtown Verona was flooded with spectators lining each side of the barricaded street. I’d been waving the whole day, saying hi, saying thank you to everyone, but this place was intoxicating. A group of elementary school kids huddled together clapping and cheering, “...gooooooo Ironpeople!!!! tee-hee... giggle giggle... tee-hee...woo-hooo!!!!”

I smiled and yelled to them as I approached, drunk on this town and the people who’d come out for all of us, “Hey you guys... you can yell louder than THAT can’t you!??? Hehehehehehe!!!” Laughing like most drunkards do.

They exploded in cheers and squeals and started jumping up and down with laughter. The crowd that wrapped around them laughed in unison, clapped and cheered along with them, and I thought I’d split clean down my center with happiness. I will never forget that feeling.

I was very excited to catch packs of riders, because on the second loop there were lonely patches I didn't remember from the first. But I guess that’s what happens when you’ve ridden 80-odd miles in the rain and wind and cold. Several of the spectators had gone, there was no one on the second of the three big hills, but even Stu and my husband were gone for a while. And of course this should have been the case, because I needed to cross this line alone.

81 miles... 82 miles... 84 miles... 87 miles.... same kind of rain. Same kind of wind. Same kind of cold as that storm that broke me. But it couldn’t reach me this time because I wasn’t picking any fights. I just wanted to pass through, and this time I knew that there were so many things that were not up to me. I was grateful for each flat tire I didn’t have as I saw so many struggling with theirs. I was grateful for every 2-second lull in headwind, or 5-minute let up of rain to light instead of pummeling. I took nothing for granted, and felt grateful for all of the support I'd had thus far.

But at mile 90, the sky just collapsed. An ocean of rain came down and the wind picked up as I passed through a clearing, crop and cattle fields to either side. A gust of wind hit me in the chest and I was surprised at my reaction. I smiled. Shook my head, laughed and said aloud to myself, “...this is just soooooo wrongggggggg ..... heheheheheheh...” I think sometimes, when so much is out of your control, laughing is the only thing you really can do. And interestingly enough, it’s exactly the best thing you could do.

The water station at mile 100, what I thought was surely the last, was being packed up and no one was handing anything out. This made me a little nervous and I checked my watch. I still had an 90 minutes. Plenty of time to go 12 miles. So I thought.

I was a little upset that the volunteers were packing everything up, the whole thing was reminiscent of Steelhead and those last five miles. Plenty of time left on the clock, but... abandoned. ....what, I don’t count?...I’m not good enough if I don't finish in the top 10% ? It tapped on my windows, but didn’t break anything trying to get in. At that moment as it fell off the back of my bike, I hoped I’d crossed the finish line of that fight for good.

The last 12 miles, I thought of another sign Stu held up while my husband shouted encouragement to me in the pouring rain at the top of some ridiculous hill, “...I bring my own weather with me...” I love that Faris Al-Sultan quote, and laughed at the irony of the whole thing, considering my fascination with thunderstorms. ...man, I sure did, didn’t I?...

7 miles left to go...4..... 3... 2....I saw my husband taking a picture of me ahead on the corner.

“Hey!! You better haul ass....”

What? Wh? Omg, it’s true.... the course cutoff IS 5:30...

All throughout the day I added the time I’d saved from beating the clock on the swim to my potential bike time. I thought I had until 6:00 or 6:30. But I didn’t. I only had five minutes to get in, still well over a mile away from the top of the helix and T2.

I saw Stu a few minutes later....he ran with me, “Tracy... listen... you’re going to make it, but you need to haul ass, ok? Ok...go.... GO...."

I never considered what would happen if I didn’t make the cut. I just knew I had to. Looking back on it all now, it’s puzzling that I didn't wonder then. Never during the day thus far had I ever considered 'what if I don’t...?' not once. I suppose it just wasn't the time.

I passed riders who rode leisurely and I shouted, “Hey, come on!! We only have five minutes!!!” and they picked up. At the helix, I had no concept of time gone as I looked at the faces of the dozens of spectators lining the sides. I gauged by their reactions that I still had a chance.

“WIL!!!!! OMG! GO WIL!”

“Come on! All the way! You can do it!!!”

“Where’s the mat? Where’s the MAT!?"

“Go to the top, at the top!!!"

"GO WIL! GO!! Hurry up!! HURRY UP!!!”

Static. Screaming.

I don’t think I breathed, at least I don’t remember breathing.

People lined and cheered, but it wasn’t until I got to the top that I saw it. Saw them. There must have been hundreds, and if there weren’t there might as well have been because I saw hundreds, real or not. I heard hundreds. I felt hundreds, and it was the end to every anthem movie ever made.

“Get off your bike!!! Clip out!! CLIP OUT!!! Get across the mat!!! GO!”

“Get her bike! Hey! Her bike! $#%! her shoe is stuck! Get her bike!”

“Wil don’t fall! OMG get her!"

"Get across! Get across!!”

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-B-b-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

And I heard that roar again. The one from the swim, from the ones answering that they wanted to be Ironmen today. And that’s all I heard. That’s all there was. Hundreds of people in every direction all looking at me. Helping me. All smiling, some crying, all cheering for just me.

Just me?

Oh my gg....thank you...oh my God....

And I will never forget that moment as long as I live. I will never, ever forget.

(Bike: 8:28:02. One minute and 58 seconds before the cutoff.)



T2

(I was originally going to just include this with the run segment, but what happened in T2 really needs its own post.)

The shift in air, or more specifically, in air temperature and the lack of it hitting me in the face at 20 mph, brought me to my knees in T2. I didn’t know I’d even fallen until three volunteers ran back up to me, and one was very familiar.

“Wil! Oh my God! Here, come here. I got you. Get her bag, it’s right… there, it’s there! Oh my God I was so worried about you! Do you have dry clothes?” It was Siren.

I’d worn my Hammer tri-suit and arm warmers on the bike. Didn’t think I’d need a jacket or vest in the morning, as the weather seemed like it would be just fine. Cool, a 30% chance of rain, anything but torrential the way it had been. Fortunately, in my morning dry clothes bag I still had the warm up pants and long sleeve t-shirt I’d worn before putting on my wetsuit. They would have to do, so I nodded yes, and somehow pantomimed that they were not in my T2 bag. The next thing I knew, they just magically appeared. Siren had somehow never left my side, but had left and returned having found them.

I looked around the room and noticed it was shaking up and down, really in every direction just slightly. I thought something was wrong with my eyes so I rubbed them, and in doing so noticed my hands were shaking so badly that they blurred before me. …whoa….

I looked down and my dry clothes were on my body, but I don’t remember putting them on. More Siren magic I assume. She asked me what I wanted to do, and I told her, “...r r run…”

“That’s my girl….” and I could hear the smile in her voice.

But I was, uh…. not quite ready yet. Still shivering uncontrollably, I looked around the room again, and saw women huddled against the walls wrapped in foil blankets and layers of clothes. They had blue lips, chattering teeth, and were shaking like they were being shaken by some invisible force. …. Oh my God…. what the…

A few of the volunteers I noticed were crying, hands to mouths as they stood and looked around the room. They were a little blurry for me, but I could tell they were upset by the state of so many athletes. I hoped they weren’t crying because of me, and I tried to shiver less.

“If you’re going to run you should have a garbage bag, it’ll help…” Siren walked me in the direction to get one, and once we arrived another volunteer asked me what I needed, as Siren had looked away for a split second to help someone.

“What do you need hon? What can I do?”

“B b bb bbaggggg….”and I pointed, my hand shaking in front of me.

“Oh…. Here… here… come here…” Siren magically made a hole appear in the top of the bag and put it over my head, taking care not to slide my hat over my face….…when did I put my hat on? She fastened the garbage bag around my neck with a hair tie she pulled from her hair.

“Here, this will keep the rain out.”

I wanted to thank her for the note she left in my T1 bag, but my mouth just wouldn’t make words and I was getting frustrated with all of the shaking. I jumped up in the air a foot or two in an attempt to shake the shakes, and just wound up scaring the living hell out of Siren, who could have only thought that this was turning into some kind of grand mal seizure or something.

“Whoa! Are you OK?”

And here, I remember smiling. “F f finnnne…. Ssorryyy-yy. Ffrusttrated w with sh shakkingg.”

As we walked toward the door, she asked suggestively, knowing I wasn’t ready to leave, “What do you want to do? Sit down? We’re not supposed to let you go out still shivering.”

I bit the inside of my cheek to try to hinder it, but it didn’t work very well, “Bbb- babpphhh…. Bath rrr oom??" …oh my God, again? (I learned from Sara after the race that all this having to water the flowers ever 20 minutes was in fact one of the first signs of hypothermia).

“OK, I’ll take you to the porta-potti outside...”

I looked at her like she'd just told me that she was actually really a man, “Hhuuhh!? Outtt ssiduh!??”

“I know, oh trust me, I know, but that’s the only place we’re allowed to let you go.”

“Ohhhh.. that-t’s ss-ssssssooo wr-wrong…”

And she laughed, and I said it again, hoping she’d laugh again because her laugh was helping me warm up. And she did, so then so did I.

“I know… I know…I’ll be right here for you when you come out.” And she was.

As I came out of T2 I heard the crowds were cheering again, and I started to run, hoping that I remembered to thank Siren for taking care of me, and I’m sure I still only know the half of what she did.



The Run

“You’re awesome!!!!! You don’t know how happy I am to see you!”

I remember hearing my husband say this, but in the way that you remember your third grade classroom field trip to the planetarium. There, but only because you remember everything surrounding it as it happened, not so much because you remember being particularly involved or part of the happening; kind of an outsider in your own memory like that.

He and Stu had gotten back to the run course in time to see me come out of T2, teeth still chattering be damned biting the inside of my cheek to stop them. The rain hadn’t let up much, but enough so that the drops didn’t hit my eyelashes anymore to interfere with seeing. I was glad, because that was just annoying.

I ran about five minutes before I heard, “Hey!!!!!! Oh man, I was calling DJ every two minutes to see if you’d clocked in... AWESOME! You feeling OK?”

“I’mm m ok..”

“You’re cold, that bike was wicked. Don’t take this plastic off, you’ll warm up with this pace. Make sure you just eat and drink - every water stop, don’t let up...”

I nodded and smiled at my coach, who had run out from the sidelines. His wife and another of my local tri-club teammates cheered me on.

“This is the home stretch baby! You’re doing great! You’re going to be an Ironman today!!!” I laughed as he hugged me, then grabbed both sides of my face and kissed me hard on the cheek before running back to the others. I felt like I was back in my anthem movie again.

Before very long I saw Stu walking towards me. My neither-state had worn off enough by this point and things were less surreal, so I very much noticed the concern with which he asked me, “How ya doing?”

“I’m OK, I think I’m OK... cold...” I laughed and coughed, and in doing so made the plastic bag crinkle underneath my ears. “Sara got in?”

“She got in not too long before you.”

“Good... SLS?”

“She got in around then too... they’re both in.”

I don’t remember how I knew, but I knew that the guys racing with us had gotten in before we did, so learning that Sara and SLS had also made it in was a huge relief.

“Good... good...” cough....cough...

The cough was the catch in the throat kind, set off by too deep a breath of cold air. It flirted with some congestion I’d developed, and once wooed, they both teamed up and caused a relentless fit just before the first water stop. There, I drank some water and Gatorade, ate some pretzels, I think a piece of power bar, and a quarter of a banana. This was apparently a bad idea.

About five minutes later, the coughing really confounded the apparently lost food and liquid trying to find its way to a comfortable place in my stomach. I got light-headed and hot under the plastic bag covering, so I took off my warm up pants and long sleeve t-shirt. Then I was too cold, so I tried running again. And this was apparently a bad idea.

Let’s just say within the next 9 steps, that food and liquid didn’t have to worry about trying to find a comfortable spot anywhere inside of me anymore. But I felt a little better, the light-headed feeling was gone, and I didn’t feel too hot or too cold. In fact, I didn’t feel anything at all in my left arm, which I didn’t quite understand. There was a sharp kind of pinch in my left shoulder blade, and I assumed it came from tensing so many muscles all at once in T2 when I was shivering... pinched nerve? Probably... just stretch... This helped a little.

I ran most of mile two, three, four, and five, fueling and “de-fueling” at every stinking water stop... ok, this is stupid.. I’m not drinking this much.... but at the 10K mark, something happened.

Something inside that was more than physical. More than a sloshy stomach. More than throwing up again two more times before mile 9. I worried about the clock, but not in the way I had when trying to make the cut for T2.

Then it was only about time. Impersonal and not hunting me. It was time that wouldn’t define me because I didn’t consider what would happen if I didn’t make it. I just knew I had to. But now, here, in the middle of the pouring rain, icy wind, and being inside out of myself, it was somehow more personal. It somehow stuck to me more because I wondered for the first time that day what I would do if I didn’t finish before 17 hours. And I was terrified. My race dragon had found me.

All day long it tried, but it wasn’t until that moment, halfway to mile 8, and after having thrown up the second time that I lit a torch out there to check my watch, calculate my pace, do some math, and doubt. Bright as day well into the night.

Four-and-a-half hours left, eighteen miles to go? At this pace, 90 minutes to go 10K? Times three? Factor in more fatigue? Maybe? Oh totally. No. But maybe? No? God... what if it’s no...

I ran another almost half-mile before I threw up again, did more math and figured myself right back into a numbers dungeon. I calculated weeks, days, hours, miles, yards, paces, mph - it was a sea of math, adding up all the time that would have been for nothing if I didn’t break a piece of plastic tape in the four-odd hours I now had left. And I couldn’t bear the thought of that. Stu’s encouraging voice came back to me from the bike course, but it was attacked and corrupted by the kettle of numbers that encircled it the second it entered my head again.

"Do you have any idea how many people are following you!!?”

Oh my God.... they’re all watching this... but they won’t understand... they’ll just see those letters...

I couldn’t even take a sip of the chicken broth at mile nine. The smell of it made me instantly nauseous and I couldn’t stand the idea of throwing up again.

For the next two miles I walked because the sloshing around in my stomach not only made the nausea worse, but it started to hurt with the footfalls, and because that’s all I was concentrating on, that’s all I felt. Go away... go away....God get off of me...

It’s funny what happens when you first let it in - the idea that you might not make it. That feeling hunts you the entire time you’re out there, it circles above and one by one picks off those who doubt themselves. It’s not discriminating. It doesn’t care about what you do for a living, what your situation is, or about how bad you want anything. It only cares if you have left all of your fears on the other side of the starting line, because if you haven’t, it will reach down into your guts and pull whatever they might be right out of you, hold them before you with all umbilicals dripping and still pulsing, and make you face them. This is Ironman. And at mile 9 of the marathon, it found me.

I was afraid of the cutoff. Still. Afraid that it defined me. More numbers, like all of the rest of the numbers throughout my life.

...135 lbs... 190 lbs...129 lbs... 142 lbs... 145 lbs... size 8... size 14... size 16...size 6.... top ten percentile.... 4.0 GPA... first place... only first place....8 hours...17 hours.... 6 hours.... 26.2 miles.... 140.6 miles.... 70.3 miles.... 2.4 miles in 1.5 hours....112 miles in 8.5 hours.......or else.....

Go away... go AWAY! GET OFF OF ME!!!!!!

All right! All right! I see...OK?? Now get off of me.

Mile 10 I ran. It hurt, but I ran. Not for the sake of running. Not to finish. But to get away. I didn’t like what I saw. I didn’t like being a slave again after having come so far. It made me angry and resentful, but there was no one to be angry at or resentful about except myself, and that made it all worse.

Throughout this journey, at various times, I've been afraid of the distance. I covered it. And then I wasn’t. I've been afraid of the pain. I lived through it. And then I wasn’t. And all of these battles have taught me that there are no combatants greater than the ones you conjure in pursuit of your own personal growth. That it’s only through their defeat that you ever succeed. That there is no way around them except through the wall of them. And that this is a fight to make festival of all other fights, so all other fights, I’ve learned not to fear. I’ve learned that I am the only thing I have to fear in the arena. That I am the monsters I make and the weapons of self-doubt and judgement I give them to use against me. And finally, that seeing this, that finally believing this, is the first step in defeating them.

I thought I learned my numbers lesson at Steelhead. I thought I stopped the clock there. I thought I buried that insecurity and false self-definition. But I didn’t. I just ran from it. I made the race cutoff despite wrestling with that kettle of numbers pecking at me, so I didn’t learn. I never learn unless I burn myself. And then I never have to learn that lesson again. It has to scar so I remember. And then I never forget.

Mile 12. I heard the finish line, I was close. I had three hours. I could make it. I started to believe again. I couldn’t eat or drink anything because I didn’t want to throw up anymore, the sloshing hadn’t stopped, but I didn’t care. I remembered the sign in the grass with my name on it, and my name in lights on the message board, I saw Stu and my husband soaked but smiling at various intervals, and it was enough. So I ran.

The finish line pulled me in like gravity. Nothing hurt. I smiled.

“IRON WIL!!! YOU ROCK!!!”

“BRING IT ON IN WIL!!!”

...this is what it will feel like.... all the cheering... the loudspeaker... the lights... omg... it’s almost here... I can do this... I think I can do this... three hours... I have three hours almost, it’s about 9:15... I have 2:45? Can I make it in 2:45?

BeeeeeeeeeeeBbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep....

13.1! HA!!!

But it was too late.

Just because you get away after breaking the law doesn't mean you're not still guilty. It doesn't mean you don't still have to pay.

“Excuse me... excuse me wait....”

I stopped on the other side of the mat and looked at the man in black standing there talking to me.

“I’m sorry, but you’ve just missed the half-marathon cutoff. It was at 9:00.”

“Whuh-......?”

“I’m sorry, but I’ll need to take your chip now.”

“But...I...buh...”

“DARIN DAVIS!!! YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!”

“I...C..Can I stay?”

“SHELLY BAKER FROM DETROIT! GIRLY, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!”

“I’m sorry? What was that?”

“Can I stay... out here? Do I have to go?”

“BRIAN ...the Bry-man from the dairy-land! CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!”

“You can stay on the course, but you won’t be an official finisher.”

“DENISE MEIJER FROM MICHIGAN, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!!!”

He bent down and cut my chip out.

“Do you want your strap?”

"OH HOW SWEET IT IS TO BE AN IRONMAN THERESA PARKER!"

I took it, mostly because I couldn’t leave it there. No more heartbeat, but just the same... you can’t just leave it there.

I walked away from the finish line. All those who thought I was finishing before were still cheering.

I didn’t breathe, at least I don’t remember breathing.

About five minutes later my husband walked up along side me, having seen the whole thing, though I didn’t know it at the time. He didn’t say anything, and if he did I don’t remember it because I don’t think I was there enough to listen. I just walked. We just walked. Stu appeared in the street like he had all day. He and my husband had been out there with me since 5:00 in the morning.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as my shock finally shattered. I held the strap in my hand. In my left hand with three fingers and my thumb. It wasn’t until then that I felt how much it hurt. Deep and low, and not instantly sharp, but building with intensity until it became sharp, and then stabbing and then lasting and then fading. And then starting all over again. In waves like that. For three more miles.

“They took my chip...” I cried. Sobbed cried. Looked down and saw the blood so had to admit it was really happening cried. There was nothing to say. No words were enough. Sometimes you just have to cry.

After a mile I was angry. At myself. And in a sobbing scream I said, “Was this all for nothing!? None of this mattered!? All that time and money and getting up early all for nothing!?” My husband protested, but I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to be touched or comforted or soothed. I just wanted to get through feeling like this as fast as I could, so I tried all the doors inside myself to see which one would let me out. And after another mile of this, of these waves of starting, rising, stabbing, lasting and sliding pain, I found myself having to do something with this breech born glistening, beating fear of mine all wrapped up and set on my chest.

“Believe me, I understand.” Stu said.

“It’s ok...I think it’ll be ok... that was a hell of a swim huh? So many people got sick... but it was the best swim ever for me... it was... it really was...”

“And that was an awesome bike finish...” my husband said.

“Yeah that was awesome... oh my God it was so awesome... all those people... and I felt good and strong even though it was cold. I said hi to everyone you know? There were these little kids all chilly and cheering and I said, ‘Hey guys! You can yell louder than THAT can’t you!?’ and they all exploded and everyone there did too... they were cold too but they were so happy....”

I was babbling... but I was better... I was happy.

“That was my finish line at T2... oh my God, the whole day was worth those 15 seconds... the whole entire day...”

We all walked on Stu, my husband and I. They’d have walked with me for as long as I wanted to go. I believed that then and now. Drenched and cold too, just like all of the other spectators and volunteers. Just like me. But we were all out there, all the thousands of us, and all the thousands upon thousands more who were following "their athlete" from around the world. I was "someone’s athlete.” A lot of someones. And I will never forget that.

Stu’s cell phone had been ringing all night with concerns for me. It rang several more times there on the run course as he stopped and asked another official about the half-marathon cutoff time. It wasn’t in any rules any of us remembered reading. The official confirmed it all, and the final loose ends were tied. Stu put his hand on my shoulder as we walked in a pocket of silence after that. “You know, we’re really in the same boat now.

“Next year....” he said.

“Next year....” I said.

The crying stopped. It was over. It was time to sleep, time to recover, time to go home. The physical pain from the exertion of the day caught up to me after a while, mile 19 I later learned. And I was all right. I just had one more thing I needed to do out there that day.

“Where do you want to go? The finish line area is that wa-”

“Oh I don’t want to go there.... can we go around? I don’t want to see that. I can’t go there. I can't go there yet.”

Stu took us around the side.

“CAROL BURKE!!! YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!!!!!!!!”

It singed, I have to admit. Like all the medals I saw reflecting in the race lights. Like all the finisher t-shirts I saw back in the transition area. Like all the finisher hats I saw the next day in the lobby of my hotel at breakfast and at registration for IM 2007. Like every “Congratulations on an awesome finish!!!” wish I had to return (and some I still have to) because Ironman Live reported that I'd officially finished in 15:06. But looking back, I would have worried if it didn’t hurt. I wouldn’t want to forget, and if it didn’t burn like that, I just might.

Back in the transition area, Stu brought me to Sara.

“Hey there Ironwoman!” I said softly, smiled and felt tears warm my face again. Then, like so many other times before we had a whole conversation right there without saying a word. We hugged and cried for I don't know how long. I'd stopped worrying about time by then.

“I’m so proud of you...I’m so happy you made it... oh my God I’m so happy you made it.....”

In my ear she sobbed too, “Because of you... 10 minutes through the Prozac patch...heh heh...10 minutes...”

“No way...you did it... you did this... I knew you’d make it... I knew you would....”

And I couldn’t talk anymore after that. Neither of us could. It floated up beyond words again, and we both knew that this is what Ironman does. That this is what Ironman is.

It’s people. Strangers who become friends. People who thought they were alone, but who start out on this quest and find that they aren’t, and for as long as they’ll believe this they won’t ever have to be.

Ironman isn’t about time. It isn’t about cutoffs. It isn’t about are you good enough or bad enough or tough enough. Unless of course those are your own straggling personal demons that still need to be exorcised. It’s about training your way through the open sea of yourself. About learning to swim, to ride, and to rundown the obstacles that would prevent you from reaching all the horizons you dare set out after.

Ironman is not the summation of crossing a tape after 140.6 miles. It’s a process of getting to the point that you’re in the position to be able to say that you can give trying to do so your best damn shot, and actually believe it. Crossing it then makes it that much sweeter. And I will, because I know that I can.

This is what my DNF taught me, and it sticks inside of me like all the rest of things that ever really stayed with me throughout the course of my life, because this lesson has one thing in common with every one of those. It’s came the hard way. The only way. At least for me. And every step I take on my way to the other side of the tape in 2007 and thereafter, I’ll listen, and I’ll remember.

I’ll listen like I listened to the stove when I was six, and I’ll remember. I’ll listen like I listened to the rip tide, and I’ll remember. I’ll listen like I listened to the storm on that 80-mile ride, and I know that I’ll remember.

So, what’s the final lesson of my DNF? What does it tell me?

It tells me that numbers don’t own me. Not anymore. And that if I bring such fear and false judgement of my own self-worth out on the course again, it will rip it out of me again and dangle it before me, insisting that I will not pass until it’s dealt with. I think I’ve made my peace because I had to be force fed just like I always do before I’ll really digest a lesson.

It tells me that I've conquered many other challenges on my way here, and that I'm better for them. It confirms for me me that people are amazing and selfless and caring and good, and that I'm not alone.

And in this way, in this ridiculous, amazingly, potent, passionate, surreal, and perfectly prescribed for me way, the DNF tells me, “Do Not Forget.”