(Part 1 of x number of Parts, where x equals I have no idea how many)

Guess who finally got the X-Ray she’s been threatening to get for several months??? I’ve alluded to my busted ankle in several posts of late. (Maybe all posts? I’ve only done three so…) Anyway, some backstory I guess is helpful. Flask back to just over a year ago.

In August 2013 I started getting intense stabby pain on the outside of my left ankle – the kind of pain you know is no good. I think most of us can tell the difference between pain from a little over-exertion that simply calls for som ice and foam rolling verses the pain that calls for a full orthopedic work-up. So the latter kind of pain struck a year ago August, and heeding my body’s call, six weeks later I booked a visit to a sports orthopedist specializing in foot and ankle injuries, a.k.a. my new best friend (who shivers in terror every time I make an appointment.)

Long story medium, it didn’t take long for Dr. McBestie to diagnose a stress fracture and order me into a “boot”. The date of that diagnosis was September 20-something-or-other. The Augusta 70.3 I’d been preparing for all summer was September 29^th. You do the math. (No seriously, you do it. Did you see the algebra I wove into the blog subject line? Eek.) So I said, ‘Give it to me straight, doc, when you say it’s broken, are you saying I won’t go sub-2 in the run portion of my half ironman this weekend?’ My bestie blinked at me and muttered something to the effect of, ‘I ****ing hate triathletes’ and walked out of the exam room.

But he came back! (They always do.) And we made a deal: I could do the race, (only because he knew from experience [and from me explicitly telling him I was doing it no matter what] that he couldn’t dissuade me,) but if I felt the ankle getting any worse – and he promised I would know, oh, yes, I would know – I would quit, and I had to come immediately back to be fitted for a boot upon my return to DC. I told him not to worry, that I’d pop some Advil before the bike and he countered that Advil in fact weakens the bone and he insisted I do the race “full pain”. I conceded to his ridiculous drug-free demands and I think we actually shook on it.

That weekend I did my first half iron and had a blast. Scott drove down with me, my folks drove out from Atlanta with the dogs, the day was perfect, and I really can’t say enough about how great that race is. It is 100% my favorite race and I am very bummed to be missing it this weekend. I ran it much slower than originally planned, especially taking my sweet time on the transitions and the run. My first couple miles running clocked at a 7:46 average but luckily I realized – and Scott warned me – that I was going too fast for the ankle so I took it way down and did my slowest 13.1 ever. No matter, it was awesome. And, as promised, I came back to DC afterward and got fitted for a boot.

Usually boots excite me. I have an entire closet dedicated to them in my apartment – and my apartment is only 712 square feet. (Sorrynotsorry, Scott!) But McBestie was sneaky, and when he said boot, appaaaaarently he was not talking sexy over-the-knee, or spunky ankle booty, or even solid work-horse day-to-day Michael Kors equestrian. Nope. He meant a Frankenstein air boot.

And so I spent last fall in a monstrous boot. I had to cut back to lifting and swimming and gave up teaching all my classes except one bootcamp. (Haha! Oh my god I never made that connection till just now! So good!) I did try to satisfy my vanity by matching my air boot with the aforementioned MKs and booties. At one point I even tried pairing it with my sexiest Louboutin pumps. (Funny story: turns out, one Louboutin is somehow more uncomfortable than two.) On Marine Corps Marathon day I cheered friends on from the sidelines hobbling  around the course trying to bury my jealousy of those racing on healthy legs. I felt like I was atrophying until I finally got the all clear from Dr. McBestie a few days before Thanksgiving. Turkey Day morning 2013 I took my shiny new-again ankle out for my first run since Augusta and it was glorious. I promised myself I would never take health and training for granted.

And ya know what? I haven’t. I feel fortunate every time I get to run and sweat and push myself. Yet here I am again, after an already difficult summer, in pain and broken. This time the pain is on the other side of the same bum ankle. It started in mid-July, so, in honor of my body-conscious timeliness, today (September 25) I finally went back to Dr. McB. We talked, they X-rayed, we talked some more, and yeah, looks like another stress fracture, though I’m going in for an MRI next week to confirm because, there may be other stuff too. And YEAH, he ordered me back into the boot.

As my bestie tried to get away from me, I tip-toed into the how-far-and-fast-can-I-run line of questioning. He cut me off, and, not-so-happily demanded, ‘What? You want to do Marine Corps Marathon or something?’ I confirmed, ‘that and the Army Ten Miler.’ ‘Go get the MRI, he said. ‘Then we’ll talk.’

Which is not a no per se. Right? More next week…

Going into this year’s Nation’s Tri, for the first time ever, I felt strongest about the swim. As discussed in length last post, I hadn’t been exactly diligent putting time in on the bike, and my previously and likely again-broken ankle has turned running lit’rally into an exercise in pain management. So basically I’ve been left with planks, push-ups, and swimming over the past eight weeks. (Two of those things I enjoy. [Hint: Not swimming.])

Combining my want of bike-run preparation with my first-time-ever swim preparedness, and given the summer I’ve had, it should come as no surprise that come race day, the swim portion was cancelled.

For the second time in four years pre-race storms had washed an amount of raw sewage into the Potomac that was deemed just too much raw sewage to swim in. (Insert any number of jokes about the Potomac’s raw sewage levels on a normal day.) And here I was thinking if I contracted giardia from the swim (as Nations Tri participants are known to do), (my dog,) Birkin and I could have something extra to bond over!

I received notification via Facebook while transition-area-bound on the race shuttle at 5am. The news let loose a wave of emotions. I think I was happy first. No swim?! That’s the dream! Then sad, because it’s the last race of an already much-truncated and disappointing season. Then sadder still because Scott surprised me with a brand new wetsuit the night before the race. Then happy because brunch would come 27-29 minutes sooner than expected. Then terrified because the bike portion would come 27-29 minutes sooner than expected.

I set up my bike and running gear as the sun came up. It was a perfect morning, and without having to shimmy into my wetsuit I had a few extra minutes to savor being back in a pre-race transition area. Prepping alongside thousands of other excited, anxious athletes from all over the world and repping diverse skill levels is one of the best parts of the day. I don’t know if it’s the endorphins, but triathletes are ridiculously friendly. Strangers help each other with last minute bike adjustments – one of my bike rack neighbors patiently held Koopa Troop while I filled his tires – and offer extra food and gear freely.

I overheard people discuss the cancelled swim. Some were happy, others, especially the few for whom this was the first tri, were disappointed. Everyone agreed it sucked worst for the swimmers on relay teams. Eventually we were all kicked out of transition. I made my usual barefoot trip to the porta-potty (which I’ll never get used to) and lined up. We’d be running up the swim ramp in our swim groups to simulate the full day of events as much as possible, and as a member of the DC Tri Club (woot woot!) I was in one of the very first waves. It was odd and a bit anticlimactic to be sprinting into transition without swimming but I had little time to think about it as I pulled on my cleats and helmet and headed for the bike course.

It was only five days after my first post-crash ride and it was my first time clipping back into the pedals. I could feel my heart pounding against my new, aero helmet. (Why did I buy a helmet that would make me go faster?!) The bike course was two large loops and then an out and back on the 14^th St [Read: WORST EVER] bridge. Thanks to the DC Tri Club-granted privilege of an early start, the first loop was very quiet. It gave me time to get my bearings and settle into a quick but comfortable pace around 21-22mph. I had already resolved not to ride on my aero bars knowing I hadn’t had enough time back in the saddle for that yet. To get comfortable I sang showtunes and urged myself on out loud with a, ‘good job, Liz!’ every few minutes.

When I hit the second loop the course had started to fill up, and just like last year, I encountered a disturbing number of rude and aggressive riders. (There are dangerous cyclists in every tri, but Nation’s seems to attract them.) People drafted off of strangers, passed on the right, and one winner tried to get around me on the tightest U-turn of the whole course. If I hadn’t seen his shadow and moved he would have clipped me and caused who knows how large a pile-up.

Fortunately the first loop had given me a much-needed confidence boost and I got through loop two in good spirits. As I followed signage back towards transition I even had a little chuckle at the expense of people who still had another loop to go. My ego trip didn’t last long though. As I coasted past transition I wondered why the course wasn’t ending yet. And then I remembered: The *%#@ 14^th St Bridge.

By far the worst part of the day was that death march up the bridge and back. There were tiny, lethal piles of gravel everywhere springing flats for numerous riders. Every ten yards or so there were jagged metal seems that, when traversed on a road or tri bike, rattled the brains like an unwanted etch-a-sketch. The worst was the wind. Combined my bike and I top out at maybe 125lbs. Also known as nothin’ at all to an angry gust of wind. Several times the wind hit me so hard I thought for sure I was going swimming after all. My speed dropped into the teens and I switched from singing to loud cursing. With each big gust I screamed, ‘F*** you, wind!’ and tried to peddle a little harder. I wondered whether screaming expletives could result in a penalty but decided if passing on a U-turn didn’t merit reprimand, a few well-deserved meteorological castigations did not either.

Eventually that hell came to an end and I hustled to make up some mph back to transition. I reracked Koopa as quickly as possible, shoved my feet into my running shoes, and stuffed my pocket with shot blocks and energy beans. I set off on what is usually my happiest, fastest event, wondering how my ankle would hold up.

Last year in the run bit of Nations I bonked hard. The bike course had been so packed with crazies I had completely forgotten to fuel, and I’d started with a later swim wave (which we had actually swum) so it had been 90+ degrees when I hit the run. This year I made sure to fuel on my bike (yay Heed! [Product placement? I can haz sponsor??]) and had the advantage of the DC Tri Club early wave,  so it was much cooler and I felt energized for the run. However my ankle was once again busted. I tried to find a happy medium between (figuratively) painfully slow and (literally) painfully fast. I made note of my time at each mile marker and was holding steady just under 8:30. The miles ticked by quickly and were a lot of fun surrounded by mostly other DC Tri Clubbers.

Coming into the final stretch I saw Scott and Birkin. I called out to Birk who saw me and tried to leap into the race. Scott kept him on the grass and the two of them ran alongside me. The site of our overjoyed dire wolf tugging at the leash gave the athletes around me an extra padded kick in the chamois to turn it up a notch, and together we all sprinted the chute towards the finish line.

I collected my medal and met up with my two dudes. It felt good to be done for sure, but this finish lacked the sense of accomplishment that usually accompanies completing a tri. Not swimming made the morning feel more like an epic training brick with a thousand of my closest friends. Looking at my race receipt (2:19 total) I was both happy and a little deflated: if we’d swum this probably would have been a solid PR.

As I collected my third dude and headed home with my supportive little family I made myself focus on the most important part of the day: I had found joy on the bike again. And confidence. And some speed! Averaging 19:10 mph by my calculations (which are assuredly slightly off) is better than I had hoped for. And that first loop had been exactly what I needed to rediscover some peace in the saddle. Even the close calls with other riders and the river below the Bridge weren’t enough to dislodge that mental and physical harmony. Also, I continue to be amazed by how fast my little Koopa Troop is and I can’t wait to see what he can do as I continue building confidence heading into Ironman 2015.

It’s bittersweet to say goodbye to this emotional season. I had some lofty goals and I have to just exhale them out and be happy with what I did get done. I’ve still got the Army Ten Miler and, ankle-willing, the Marine Corps Marathon waiting for me in October. Then probably a short break for either surgery or a more time in the air boot (or both?) before M-Dot 2015 says to get moving.

Written Sept. 1 – posted Sept. 2 – because – job.

They say when you fall off a horse you have to get back on. Oh they, the mysterious and universal arbiters of all that is good and recommended. As a youngin’ growing up on and around horses I adhered literally to this old adage. I fell off a lot. I even practiced falling off to hammer the tuck and roll into my instincts. I started riding at the age of three and rode every single day with only a handful of exceptions until my twenties. Being on a horse was so second-nature that getting back on was never scary, even after my worst falls.

As a kid riding (and doing stupid things while straddling a 2 ton animal) I sustained four concussions, a broken arm, broken rib, broken nose, I once hit my head so hard I bit halfway through my lower lip and swallowed half a tooth – ever had an exposed nerve? It sucks – and over the years I broke every toe at least once and a handful of fingers. I fell off in the show ring and got back on in front of pitying spectators to finish my rounds; I fell off in the woods on fox hunts and got back on in front of impatient huntmasters (no easy feat when I was rocking less than four vertical feet ); and when my right arm was in a cast I rode one-handed or sans reins for months till it healed.

All this is to say that getting back on the horse has never been a challenge for me.

Getting back on the bike has been a different story. Clearly not all saddles are created equal in my psyche.

Today was my first ride since the crash. I’ve been hammering out miles on my trainer and teaching 3-4 spin classes a week, but so far I’d chickened out on actual rides. With Nations Tri looming large six days away today seemed like just the day to egg up and take Koopa Troop back out.

I recruited Scott (he said I can use his real name in this blog – it’s Scott!) to chaperone the first date back with Koopa Troop because I was terrified to be left alone with my dear new tri bike. (What would we talk about?!) After a shamefully late wake up which I rationalized to myself as my body still recovering from Mountain Time, scapegoating the weekend spent in New Mexico (more on that another time) I was able to procrastinate the ride further with three hours of our new TV addiction, The Strain. (You may think we don’t need another zombie show, but you’d be wrong.) Finally Scott gently but firmly said it was time to face the asphalt. I pissed and moaned as I pulled on some chamois, filled up water bottles, and superstitiously moved all my bike gear from the bag I’d used on crash day to a new bag.

When we got out to Yoshi the sky was hinting none-too-subtly at its intention to rupture and I took this foreboding shade of grey as an opportunity to rain more excuses down on poor, totally suspecting Scott. He deflected expertly suggesting we at least drive down to Hains Point to see if the skies would clear up. Begrudgingly grateful for his unyielding loyalty to my ambitions we loaded up Yosh and arrived at Hains Point just as the sky made good on its promise to open.

Sitting in the parking lot of the HP golf course we cranked up NPR and waited it out. The storm wore itself out furiously and quickly and moved on. Under the promise of a rainbow – I shit you not, a freaking rainbow – I got back in the saddle again.

My heart was racing as I swung my leg over and stepped down on the right peddle for the first time. I’m sure I looked like a wobbly child who’d moved from training wheels to very expensive real bike way too quickly as I literally practiced starting and stopping.

Scott and Birk trotted behind me the first slow, spasmodic mile. Once I felt a dash more secure (more secure, not actually secure secure, mind you) I headed off around the three mile loop on my own. I was embarrassed each time I glanced down at my bike computer clocking me at a blistering 12-13 mph. But I told myself just being on the bike was the first step (rotation).

I did three loops and change for a ten mile ride. After the first few miles I kicked it up and played with different gears (HP is pancake flat so the shifting was completely optional) and cranked the speed up a bit. I had a few miles that were back in my 17-19 mph wheelhouse. (A wheelhouse that is shockingly easy to hit on my sweet, sick Koopa Troop.)

What I did not do was clip in or ride out on my aeros. This presented some challenges as the shifters are at the end of the aeros, so I had to constantly reach out and back to change gears. Even those brief instances taking my hands off the bars were enough to ratchet up the heart rate though so I left it at that.

After I rejoined the dudes where they were sunning themselves in the golf course parking lot, I ran a quick mile to jog my legs’ memory of the bike-to-run transition. The busted ankle (more on that another time too) squawked a bit but in the 90+ degree heat I was able to put in an 8:07 mile and satisfy myself that of all the things that can and probably will suck on Sunday, hopefully the run will be a little bit of redemption.

Scott then took his turn to run while I hung out with KT and Birk. I did push-ups and tricep dips honoring the weirdo that I am while Birkin found something smelly to roll in as we waited for our better third. Then we three rank musketeers (ranketeers? musky-teers?) loaded back into poor Yoshi and headed home where we each had much needed bath time. (Each except Yoshi, I’m sorry dear lil green dinosaur! Your time is coming, I swear!)

In bed now I feel pretty good about the day, just in that it happened and that I put in a decent brick workout and forced myself back on the bike. But I’m also really sad about how scared I am, and shocked by that fear. Last night I lay awake anxious as hell to be riding again, and today I had to order myself out of my own head with every slow, passing mile. Before the crash I loved to ride, and now that joy has been replaced with near-paralyzing fear. I learned to ride a bike as a kid from my dad (seriously more about THAT one day) but really I picked up cycling as an adult, so that second nature instinct thing that led me easily back into the saddle every time I fell off my horse just isn’t there.

This crippling hesitation to cycle again is new to me, but I think it’s maybe a big part of what triathlon, and ultimately completing Ironman, is all about: obviously it’s a physically demanding sport but it’s the mental game that’s hardest. It’s finding ways not to let yourself off the hook; finding that one fiber that wants to go on when every other fiber of your being shrieks to go to brunch. I’m still developing and honing my tricks and tools to keep pushing it. One such trick/tool I employed today and have to my embarrassment been caught using in races past is singing showtunes while I bike. (Today’s tour included selections from In the Heights – homage to my Washington Heights-born pops perhaps?) This is actually a trick I used to keep my horse in high school calm in the show ring. (He was as afraid of squirrels as I now am of biking, much to the detriment of my physical well-being.)

As great and mortifying as my singing may be, the more important and foolproof trick or tool is a support system. Be it two or four-legged I’ve got that in spades. Scott and I started dating as I was discovering this silly, wonderful, stupid sport and both my dude and my races challenge and nurture me in a pretty phenomenal way. Now I’m waxing wa-ha-hayyy more sentimental than I ever meant to on this blog, but it’s been a humbling part of this journey, and I know I won’t make it to the M-Dot finish line sometime next year without that support. So here’s to regrowing that strength and joy on the bike, and to never forgetting that there’s a really hot guy (and adorable dog!) who keeps picking me up when I fall. No matter how bad I smell.