Steelhead

(Note, the actual date of this race was August 6, 2005)

The Arrival

It was a beautiful day. I just knew it was.

Between 3:45 and 4:00 a.m. the cell phone alarm, the alarm clock, the wake up call and my watch alarm meant that it was just about time to find out for sure. No sooner did I sit up in bed that the race nerves started to collect in the pit of my stomach. Two balance bars and some water were no match, however, so it seemed that I was stuck with them. And really, that was fine with me because it meant that all of this was real – it was race day.

Around 5:00 my husband loaded up the car and we drove to Jean Klock Park. It was a long drive even though we were there in five minutes, and upon arriving I noticed instantly that it was different than all of my other race sites - even the marathon. There was another kind of energy here.



The parking lot emanated U2’s I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For, and I found that all too appropriate a song just before the biggest race of my life thus far. Looking out the car window, my knees bounced and I didn’t blink, it was all so beautiful.

Heading to the transition area was surreal, the smell of paint marker, the bikes, the clanging gear and the layers of chatter mixed in with the music and the announcer’s instructions. There were iron machines and weekend warrior moms and dads, all there for the same race, but for so many different reasons. I was hypnotized as I entered, alone. Only race participants were allowed in the transition area, so I kissed my husband, took a deep breath, and willed my feet to move in as near the same general direction as remotely possible.

"This way…right over here…bike…OK, you’re good…shuttle busses are bording…welcome to race day!!...here you go…10 minutes… ‘I still haven’t found what I’m looking for’…"

“Wil!”

And then it all flooded to the background.

“Hey!”

One of my awesome training partners, Shelley, found me about four seconds after I entered transition, which was a good thing because I felt like I was about five years old and lost in a department store. There were so many shiny things and so many impossibly perfect people.

Smiling, she helped me set up my transition area, and having her there was doing wonders for my nerves. This was just a training race for her – a long workout pit-stop on her way to Kona in a few months. How could I not know that everything would be OK standing next to her? I imagined the day that I’d wake up in the transition area of a half-ironman and be that cool, that unshakeable. She stayed with me the entire time, and I wondered if she knew how grateful I was, or how much security she gave me. I caught myself staring at her from time to time, in total awe of her laid back state. She was a rock, and in the absence of all other ability to concentrate, I knew one thing, I felt OK because she never left my side.

"Shuttle busses to the swim start are here. Athletes should begin bording."



We borded the bus, and my knees started bouncing again.

It wouldn’t be long now.


The Pier



I didn’t know if I’d ever seen anything so beautiful before. The sky was an amazing pink and purple, and the waves crashing on the shore beneath the solar eclipse shadowy light stopped my breathing for several seconds. I was just beside myself with excitement.

There was a certain peace coming off of the water, the kind that old rivals feel when they’re too old to be rivals anymore. I smiled and a breeze brushed the hair from my face, as I looked out on the pier, the beach, and what would soon be the sunrise. No one was immune to the energy of it all.



Shelley and I put on our caps while we tested the water. It was warm and perfect and it curled around our ankles like a cat left alone for the workday. The sky was little girl pink and cloudless, and as I looked up, I remembered the different moods of this lake - the ones that I’d met when I came to it as someone else so many training swims ago. I remembered the thunderstorm skies and the icy water, the pummeling waves and the shrinking shore. But that was not the lake that greeted us today, and I was not the girl who’d been here before.



"Racers, the first wave will be heading out in ten minutes!"

We climbed onto the pier to watch our other training partner, VM, head out in the first wave. He was cool, relaxed, and ready, and soon he was off. Sooner still he was out of sight, part of the pink and purple sky and the happy cat water - I knew that he was going to have an amazing race.



Wave after wave went by, and I’d been looking everywhere for my friend, and teammate, Running Guru Dave. Along with so many, he’d been pulling me out of race trees for so long, and it had become something of a good luck charm to see him at some point during a race. This was also his first half-ironman, a training race for Ironman Florida later this year, and he had the same Shelley cool about him. I hoped to see one more time before jumping in the water, but with all of the identical wetsuits and swim caps, I wasn’t hopeful.

Just then, just before I’d given up on finding him, he emerged out of the wetsuits with that same soothing, “it’s gonna be ice-cream” smiling expression, and big bear hug. I knew that if I had any doubts that this would be a good race, they were washed away then… “You’re gonna be awesome, kiddo!” And seconds later...

Splash! Soon he was chasing VM on the horizon.

Then, standing there with Shelley, something amazing happened. In all of the chaos and adrenaline everything stopped for just a minute. I almost started crying because in that moment when the sun peeked over the trees I knew that everything would be fine. No matter what the race had in store for me, everything would be fine. I’d been forgiven my audacity by the waves, and now by the sun, and all of those sufferable training days were to be laughed about on the front porch, rocking back and forth on the swing with lemonade. It was truly a beautiful day.

Shelley’s wave was next. She was still cool and still amazing. We hugged tightly and I wished her luck. Her song was playing as she lined up on the pier, as the announcer counted down, “15 seconds!” My heart pounded as I watched her fold her hands against her lips, close her eyes and steel herself. She didn’t need any reassurance, but standing there watching her invoke the triathlon gods was so inspiring and I couldn’t help myself. This race was a technicality for her, and she had nothing to fear. “five seconds!”

“Kona, Shelley!!”

She smiled, waved and blew me a kiss, and then…

Splash!

I watched her chase those who had gone before her, and I realized that I was next and up there alone, but not really alone. I smiled knowing that there were so many people in so many places thinking of me.

“…wave six! three minutes!”

“…we’ll all float on, even if things get heavy….all float on…”

And I looked at the sunrise one last time.

Splash!


The Swim

The water rushed around my ears and whispered all sorts of giggling messages before I resurfaced after jumping off the pier. Relax, you have plenty of time, plenty of time out here… and I started to swim. I watched the beach until I couldn’t watch it anymore because the sun had risen to the point that it was too bright to look toward the beach. I had to do what I’d never had the courage to do on any other training swim. I had to look out to the horizon and watch the waves rolling in. I had to prepare for them instead of turning away and adjusting on the fly, and I was nervous.

But the water was warm and it purred all around me, I shouldn’t have been afraid. My ear plugs were soon washed away, and I knew that this was because I was supposed to listen more carefully to what the lake had to say to me. As soon as I understood this, I was calm again, and the big waves picked off the swimmers around me. They fell back or shot forward, but they were cleared from my path, and I swam without panic, without fear, and for the first time, with complete trust for the water.

I weaved in and out of the buoys, but never got caught up on a course for Wisconsin, as I had in previous training swims. Out there, I thought of all of the things in my life that brought me to this point, all of the support, all of the disappointment and heartache, all of the sacrifice and doubt all this time. And I realized that I was grateful for all of it. That in spite of all the negative things or negative experiences, I was better for going the way that I did. I was stronger for having been pummeled by the waves just as I’d lowered my guard to them time and time again. I was more patient, more forgiving, and more flexible all around. I was finally happy in the water, and I think that it was happy to have me there.

It was peaceful like this for quite a while, and then I felt the energy surging through the water. Just as I’d been a bunch of bees in a jar jumping off of the pier, the adrenaline began to pump again as everything grew a little louder closer to shore. I felt the gears shift, and tried to prepare for the chaos that I knew was soon to come.



Before very long the final buoy appeared and the officials in the last boat cheered me on. The beach was just ahead, and I couldn’t believe that I’d already arrived. I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t out of breath, and I felt as if could have kept going for another hour (I suppose this means that I should have/could have swum faster!). As I got to my feet I looked out at the cheering people on the shore, and I’d never felt so alive. I couldn’t stop smiling as I looked down at my watch – 59 minutes (though my official final time was 1:03:18), and I was happy with that.

Some women at the shoreline smiled at me as I waved to my husband. What they said kept me company for the rest of the day, "Go on, girl! Go on! Now THAT'S how you get out of the water! All right, girl...it's all right...".

And it really was.

They're laughter and cheers echoed in my ears, as I started to take my wetsuit off on the semmingly 10K, uphill, sandy run that was the journey to the transition area. I made it about halfway before I couldn’t stand running in the wetsuit anymore, and I quickly pulled it off (which wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be) and walked the rest of the way to T1.

To my bike.

Relax, relax, deep breaths…you’re almost there.


The Bike

T1 was six minutes and 41 seconds, the fastest 10K I’ve ever run. I was excited to get on the bike and head out for a nice long ride, time to clear my head, to think about the swim and what I’d resolved within myself. Time to see what this course was going to be like on my own, without my training partners. But they were out there somewhere, too, and that set my mind at ease.

The weather was amazing. I don’t think that there has ever been such a perfect day, let alone such a perfect race day. There was a light breeze and not a cloud in the sky.

I remembered one of the initial hills from training on the course earlier in the summer, but I was in store for several new additions as construction (I’m guessing) called for an alternate bike route. But I was fine with the new hills. Somehow along the line I’d learned to adapt, really adapt and apply a formula for the long haul, something that I’m convinced came into play the instant I stopped being afraid of what was out there for me.

I learned my gears well over the last several months, and it became a simple matter of listening, of anticipation and of planning. I stopped fighting for speed at the beginning of the bike leg, something that had done me in on training rides in the past. I learned that 15 mph was fine, even necessary for a little while, and that I would make it up later when the course was more favorable. I learned that it was OK to slow down a little now and then. Though, it was so hard at times because everyone was passing me, and soon I was all alone out there. Let them go, race your own race. You’re not out here for them…

But, as past training rides had taught me, if I didn’t go around 15 mph in the beginning, I would go 15 mph for the rest of the race, so I accepted it, and held my pace. I picked my battles instead of picking fights with things that I was no match for, like the wind, the sun and the hills. Better to make allies of these things if I was to manage my way through them. I learned my place in the grand scheme of it all, and I slowly started to feel my way around this race.

Before I knew it 20 miles had gone by, I wasn’t tired, I wasn’t lost, it was a great day. Around mile 25 there was a huge climb, and I saw it coming. I tried to build momentum on the slight decline that preceded it, but it didn’t help very much and it was a grind to get up the hill. At the top, it was flat as far as the eye could see. Recover, breathe, and get ready to go fast! Just then,

“Drop into those aeros, you have a headwind!”

I swear it was Lance.

The sleekest man I’ve ever seen rode up next to me and started a conversation. I could only stare, and I felt a little silly, but he was chiseled out of stone and riding the most beautiful rocket launcher I’d ever seen. He smiled a big white, teethy smile as he rode up next to me.

“I’m not racing, don’t worry about the blocking card.” He read my mind. Of course he wasn’t racing, he’d have been finished already, not there dusting along beside me!

I managed to let something that resembled, “that was quite a hill!” spill out of my mouth, and he nodded.

"Yeah, it was a grinder. You know, this course looks flat, but it’s actually on an incline for the first 20 or so miles. It should even out here soon and you’ll get some speed under you. Have a great race, you’ll be all right.”

By then it was time to turn, and he fell back with the race officials. I don’t know if I said anything, if I could have said anything. I'd hoped that I at least said, thank you, but I was so shocked by the impossibility of it all. I’m sure that he was either a professional triathlete, or someone who just dropped in for that patch of road, just to tell me that it would all be all right, to float away and then disappear.

Mile 30, I passed someone and smiled, “How are you doing?”

“Tired, you?!”

“Yeah, me too!”

But I lied. I had to lie because I couldn’t tell her the truth. “Hey, I’m great, not tired at all, and I’ll be passing you now. Have a nice day!” That would upset the balance somewhere and I’d get mine for it. So, I let the lie blow over to her on the wind and offer some bit of comfort.

And then I passed her.

Soon I was passing a lot of people. There were rolling hills but nothing like before. They were easy to recover from, and as I looked down I noticed that I was cruising at 24 mph. I let lies blow over to several people, watched them smile, and then passed them. This kept up for about 10 miles, and I started to believe that I had a right to be out on that course, first season or not. It was a rush to feel competitive and to excel. I had a taste of it, and that was all I needed from this race.

Mile 40 slipped onto the road instead of falling out of the sky like it had in the past. There was no Prozac patch, I waited for it but it never came. I never lost hope, never wished for the end, a few tootsie rolls and some peppermint tic-tacs offset a wave of nausea around mile 48, but then it was the home stretch and nothing bothered me. I backed off the last five miles, and some of my chasers caught up to me. We all gutted out the last of the climbs, and looking back maybe I should have pushed instead of backed off at the end. I wanted to make sure that I had something left for the run, some insurance. I was only competing against myself this time, after all.



Soon it was back to Jean Klock, spectators were about and perfect strangers cheered me in. God, it was a beautiful day.

My time was 3:31:51 - right on schedule.

Just one more thing to do out here, then.


Halfway There

T2 topped out at 2:23. There was quite the haul to the bike rack, so I didn’t beat myself up. I decided early on that transition time was going to be about getting from one side to the other and that would be all.

My legs felt good running out, like I hadn’t been riding at all (I suppose that means that I should have/could have ridden faster!). I was learning that this race was all about finding my parameters, and I was fine with that. The run was welcomed after the three-and-a-half hours on the ride and I decided to start out less modestly than I’d anticipated.

The first few miles were gone before I knew it, and I couldn’t believe that I’d been moving for five hours. I felt too good to have been moving for that long. I was also elated by the sight of so many orange and yellow excavator trucks, as my three-year-old son gets all excited upon seeing them. "Mommy! Scooper truck, Scooper truck, Mommy! I could do nothing but smile listening to that dance around in my head. It was adrenaline, and I kicked up the pace a little, deciding to push it and see how far I could go.

I saw Shelley again around mile three, her mile 10. She was in pain, her ankle having done its best for her. I wanted to ask her a million questions about how she was doing, to encourage her even more to keep going, but I didn’t want to break her momentum with too much chit chat. I told her to hang in there, that she was awesome, and more importantly, that she was almost done! I felt helpless beyond that, and she smiled through her grimace as she encouraged ME on before she turned to finish those last three miles…I kept her expression in my sights for the rest of the run, she was absolutely amazing.

Things were going very well until mile eight. It wasn’t too hot, there were plenty of people around smiling and offering encouragement, but then a breakdown happened. I stretched my leg and a charlie-horse drilled through my hamstring. It was fine after a few minutes of running, but it would prove to be the catalyst for the struggle that was imminent.

For the rest of the run it twinged a bit, just enough to remind me that it was there. It wasn’t real pain, it was a suggestion of pain, and of weakness. Fears flooded in and I slowed way down. I was only out here to finish, after all. Getting caught up in being competitive, letting my plan disintegrate and losing my focus were all stair steps that took me down to my ground floor. And I’d have to climb all the way back up if I wanted to finish this thing at all.

I was soon reminded of the important things in life, I was soon humbled and returned to where I’d started – out here to finish, out here to have fun and to prove to myself that anything was possible, even in a first season. But this wasn't over, I would lose a little more faith before I reached the finish line.

The course ran over the drawbridge, twice, as a matter of fact. Approaching mile nine, the guard rails came down and the drawbridge went up. I was appalled and in utter disbelief. This is a half-ironman!!! How can this be happening!? A race official rode up behind me, he informed me that the city granted permission for the race to go on uninterrupted by the rising drawbridge until 2:00. It was 2:10. I had to wait 5-6 minutes for it to go back down, and my time would not be adjusted. I was angry.

Two miles later, on the other side, the same thing happened. I was beside myself, but there was no race official there to complain to. I just had to swallow it, and realize that there was a reason, there was something that I was supposed to learn out of having 12 minutes of my race stolen from me. I was wrapped up in spit and fire about the whole situation, and couldn’t wait to tear into someone at the finish line about it.

But all that extra time settled me, surprisingly, and I realized that I had to go through there before I could really cross the finish line of this race. It was never about the time, it was about being alone out there with it. And alone out there, I wasn’t. A woman who had been running behind me back at mile five reappeared. Her name was Frieda, she had three kids, she was 45 and this was her first half-ironman, too. She told me everything that was supposed to be going through my head, but had been tangled up and hog-tied by my competitive ego at the beginning of the run.

“You know, that’s not fair with that bridge, but you go on, you know – you go on and it’s all right. We’ll be all right, girl.”

And it really was. We ran together for a little while longer, I got some steam back and she insisted that I go on. “You’ll be all right?”

“Yeah, girl, I’ll be all right. Go on, girl, go on!”

And I ran ahead. The water stations were self-serve at this point, the cone trucks were coming to dismantle the course. It seemed as if I was alone out there, but I wasn’t. I had a bleacher of friends and family cheering for me inside of my head, hundreds of messages ringing in my ears, and they all said that it would be all right. And it started to be.

But it wasn't until I passed the construction zone, and heard something whispering to me that I truly understood.

Scooper truck, Mommy, scooper truck...

I started crying as I said it aloud over and over and over again. Scooper truck, Mommy, scooper truck...Scooper truck, Mommy!!

Tears streamed down my face, and I didn’t really know exactly why I was crying at the time. I wasn’t in a lot of pain, and surprisingly, I wasn’t completely exhausted. But I felt abandoned and forgotten, and I think that’s because I’d left myself in T2. I’d left the confident, humbled and patient person I’d become back with my bike, with my friends and with my family.

I’d lost the ability to see the waves coming, to adapt. But the insult more than the injury reminded me that I needed to respect the distance, as well as myself for who I had become, and to be happy with my progress.

You’ll get there eventually, this is only halfway – you’ll be all right. I’ll watch out for you...

...Scooper truck, Mommy, scooper truck!! Scooper truck, Mommy!! Mile 12 marker…Scooper truck, Mommy!! Scooper truck, Mommy!!

Mile 13, I saw the participants of the kids' triathlon biking by – four and five years old, just like my daughter.

Stop crying, stop crying, stop crying…look at these little kids, “Good job!!! Good job, guys!!!” Stop crying, stop crying…Scooper truck, Mommy, scooper truck!!Scooper truck, Mommy, scooper truck!!

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. 2:59:44



My husband, Shelley and VM were there waiting for me at the finish line. Shelley handed me a Gatorade, and she smiled. I looked at everyone and couldn’t even speak because they looked so proud, and I hoped that they could read my mind – that they could hear all of the thank-yous that were tripping all over themselves in there. My leg started to knot up then, probably from the sudden stop, but I really didn’t care. I had my family, my friends, and I was halfway to where I was going.

7:43:55 -- It was all right.



And it was a beautiful day.