I’ve been winter-neglecting this blog again. This year I didn’t just forget though, I’ve had a rough couple months and training and racing felt really trivial. I couldn’t get it up to care about 2017, and I can’t say that that’s totally changed, but I’m going to make the effort because I love to race and I love to write, and I’ve been really moved by how many people have told me they read all about the pain and perseverance of my Ironman and so here I am again.

I don’t want to get too personal or political here, but suffice it to say I’m a professional Democrat in DC and I work in healthcare policy, so it’s been hard. I thought the world would be very different than it is right now and when I spend the day fighting to keep people insured and to expand access to healthcare – literal life or death issues – I feel a little silly expending energy caring about PRs and Training Peaks data.

That’s all I’ll say politically here. It’s what I do all day, and this is a tri blog, and most of my readers (hi Mom!) are probably hanging on here by a thread. Plus, it’s not the only thing mentally messing up my 2017 season. After a huge 2016 fighting like hell for and achieving big concrete goals – qualify for Boston and complete a full Ironman – it’s been difficult to figure out what this year should be about. In 2016 every pre-BQ run I imagined the thrill of crossing the finish line and knowing I’d be Beantown-bound. All summer during hours upon hours in the saddle, in the pool, on my feet, I heard Mike Reilly’s voice calling my name at the finish line. When training felt like dying and all I wanted was sleep, thirsting for those moments got me through it. I don’t have anything like that going on in 2017 – I think my Ironman was so miserable the m-dot withdrawal is just hitting now – so what on earth do I have to get out of bed that extra hour earlier for? What are my hard (and hopefully fast?) goals to make the effort worth it?

There’s the obvious one of actually running Boston, but with that race looming only two weeks away I haven’t been able to get my run to the place it was when I qualified 10 months ago. I’ve been treating this like, ‘look I qualified, now let me slowly jog in peace!’ But then Boston-bound socialites de media post their fast AF training days and I feel like maybe I’m not approaching this correctly. I’m excited for the race and think it will be inspiring to finally be there, I just wish I could have gotten my heart more into the prep.

I think this seasonal-athletic-affective disorder is starting to reverse itself though. As winter finally slinks away, as I learn to live with my job’s new realities, and as the first race of 2017 gives me a much-needed confidence boost, I’m picking myself up and recommitting to this sport. After all running and triathlon-ing are my (just-as-expensive-as-actually-seeing-a-doctor) therapy, and I need that sanity-saving release.

——————— Cherry Blossom 10 Miler Race Report—————-

So right, yes, the race. Assuming (which I should never do) that you’ve made it this far into my apparent-memoir. After being out of town for the Rock n Roll DC 13.1, which usually kicks off my season, I instead got things started with the Cherry Blossom Ten Miler. And thank the run gods it was pleasant and not a Potomac typhoon this year like it was in 2016 – I don’t know if my race psyche could have handled it this year.

I haven’t been feeling very fast and really wasn’t sure what to expect out of myself for this one. Since I’m two weeks out from Boston I threw a couple warm-up miles on to get to the start line, and figured these would give me a read on how my legs were feeling. They felt slow and heavy and so, in keeping with my stellar attitude this year, I gave up on the race before I even got started.

I got to the start area around 7:05am for a 7:30 start time, which was the perfect amount of time for my first pre-race porta excursion of 2017. (Pro tip: there were three tiers of potties but people only seemed aware of the first row so while those schmucks waited and waited I got right to business! [God I’m gross, sorry.]) I made it to my corral around 7:20am and squeezed into the middle of the crowd.

I was in the red wave, which was the first full wave behind the elite runners and handful of sub-elites in the yellow wave. Normally I would have bobbed and weaved towards the front of the throng but being the debbie downer that I am/was, I found the 8 min/mile pacer and pessimistically waited a few feet back assuming I wouldn’t even be able to hold anything in the 7s. I looked around and misanthropically noted the many people rocking purple and blue bibs, (as well as a tall man whose name I’m pretty sure wasn’t actually “Jennifer,”) and resigned myself to their company.

Just after 7:30am the announcer called our wave to the start. I trudged along passively with the crowd as I cued up my Garmin. Stepping glumly over the sensors I hit start, picked up my feet, and everything changed.

As I got going I felt great! The legs that had weighed so heavy and slow before the race (like immediately before as well as the five months leading up to it) were suddenly turning over they way I wanted them to and my old marathon pace of 7:50 which has been so tough to maintain of late felt easy.

So easy that I wanted to step on the gas. But through my pre-start Eeyore-ing in the corral I’d set myself up very poorly to get anywhere very fast. I moved to the sides but even the people there were slower than I wanted to be, and running onto the grass around the road was much harder work than running on the pavement. Not only had I started too far back (like seriously, grumpy Liz? You had to start behind the 8:00 min/mile crowd?) the corral-jumpers in their pastel bibs were of course running paces that would have been perfect in the waves to which they were assigned. (Sorry [not sorry] but this makes you an asshole.)

As we ran south of the Mall and out and back on Memorial Bridge, I averaged miles in the 7:50s and itched to break free. I wasted plenty of energy and added mileage weaving through the crowd until mile four when space and my pace finally opened up.

The sun came out but the temperature was still damn near perfect in the 40s, and miles 4-7 were truly some of the best I’ve ever run in a race. I kept my pace in the 7:20s minus two water stations, and for stretches I even held onto 7:10/15. Every time I looked at my Garmin and saw those numbers was a little adrenaline shot to my Nikes. I checked my heart rate and it was high but RPE-wise it felt exactly right for a ten mile race.

Running down Hains Point (miles 6-7) someone next to me exclaimed pleasant surprise that the cherry blossoms had miraculously survived the late March freeze. This observation got my head up and eyes off my wrist. I made a point to look around and appreciate the weather, the scenery, the greenery, and these fast and happy people who were helping me hold my pace.

Hains Point-ed (with me?) us back north and into a bit of a head wind around mile eight. I was also developing a small stitch in my right side which has been happening of late, I think a result of the six-week-long sinus infection that has really gotten in the way of my breathing. (Shamless sleeve-nose-blowing now rivals pre-race porta potty parties as my grossest run habit.) I was forced to slow down to around 7:50 for a few minutes as I breathed into my starboard oblique and made nice with the breeze. It was hard to be too aggravated remembering at this Point (still with me?) in 2016 I had to battle sustained 20mph winds to the dome.

When we got to mile nine I dug a little deeper and pushed myself back into the 7:40s for the last two miles and psyched myself up for the climb right before the finish line. When I got to that hill – around 800m from the end – my heart rate was high but I figured I could live in the 180bpm discomfort for 90 seconds. The worst thing is finishing with gas left in the tank, so I was happy to feel like shit as I crossed those final sensors.

My official time was 1:16:50 which is better than I thought I had in me today/this year. But it’s not a PR, and I think it could have been if I hadn’t wallowed in that pre-race pity-party and had instead staked a claim to the front of the corral. (I attacked this race the way I usually attack a swim; which is to say, I did not attack this race but admitted defeat at least twenty minutes before the National Anthem.)

All in all though, a slightly bitter but mostly sweet start to the season. Through 2016 training I felt like I’d made a new home for myself in the 7:30 range where I’d previously lived in the 7:50s. Recently I’ve been questioning that and wondering if at 33 I’d already stopped getting faster. Now I know I can actually hang in the 7:20s and I know I’m still improving. (I mean I’ve got a whole year till I move up to AG 35-39, c’mon!)  And once again Coach Josh has proven that I just need to trust him. (This is not to be read as any sort of promise not to fight him every step of the way.)

Scott and the hounds met me at the finish with a warm coat and kisses all around. We meandered the two miles back home as the sun came all the way up turning the perfect run weather into just plain perfect weather. My cousin Mike had come in from Annapolis to stay with us and run, so we all met up and put the calories back in. (Shhh, don’t tell but carb-free Mike even had some grits at brunch!) He and my cousin, Carol will be racing Boston as well and talking to him this weekend has gotten me more excited for the experience. (Plus maybe his race presence is good luck? I’m going to tell myself that.)

I needed today as a kick in the capris to buck up and be more positive about 2017. I still don’t have any big goals to hang my swim cap on, but I’ve got memories of a great kickoff race and the ego boost that yes, I can still go fast when it’s time. Jury’s still out on whether Boston will be “time” but it will be something and I can honestly say I’m looking forward to that something now.

 

 

 

The alarm went off at 4:30am but I was already awake. Between Ellen’s influence and my fear I’d been more thorough than ever the night before about laying out everything I would need, so I stumbled through my checklists and was ready quickly.

I felt strangely numb. Maybe panic is an exhaustible resource. Scott had made me a PB, banana, and honey sandwich, and I struggled to get some of it down, but apparently the apathy that had usurped the terror also came in belly boulder form. I nibbled what I could and we met Chris in the lobby at 5:15.

Transition was easy – we dropped our special needs bags, pumped our tires, and dropped water and nutrition with our bikes. That was it. We hit the portas and then got on the bus to the swim start. Once there we of course hit the portas again but my apathy stone was like a sort of Imodium and gastro-wise I felt ok. (That would change.) The baño lines were bad but not terrible and once through we hoofed it to the back of the swim start line.

Which was long. Chris and I hadn’t realized how early people apparently queue for these rolling swim starts. I’ve fessed up before about my preference for the back of the pack in the water despite really being middle of the pack in terms of swim pace. (Except when I’m the only one who doesn’t wear a wetsuit.)

(Oh! Wetsuits! The water was 82 degrees – so four-for-four on not wearing a wetsuit this summer. Even after buying a new sleeveless one from Roka. Next season I’m committing to hitting some chillier bodies of water.)

Anywhosie, we wound up way further in the back than even I would have preferred. Some people had gotten friends to hold their spots in line while they porta-pottied it so maybe next time I’ll Task Rabbit it. (I’m obviously kidding [Am I?]) At 7:20 we heard the muffled sound of the cannon sending the pro field on their way. No backing out now. (Or at least it would be very difficult to.)

We quickly began the long-but-not-long-enough shuffle forward. As we marched toward the moment of truth I forced a Gu down and chased it with some water. We were moving so swiftly the numb had no time to morph back to panic. We were also so speedy that I ended up having to strip out of my sweatshirt and flip-flops awkwardly on the move. I threw them toward Scott as Chris and I were funneled toward the ramp and waiting dock.

My endlessly good husband scrambled to scoop my things while snapping pics. Chris and I hugged and wished each other good luck and said goodbye for what would be thirteen hours.

The Swim

As we approached the dock I saw why the swim line had moved so fast. Rather than lining people up and sending a set number off every few seconds, people were just walking down and jumping in. As soon as you jumped off the dock your and your timing-chip-strapped ankle passed the sensor your race began. Every person would have 16 hours and 15 minutes to complete the next 144.6 miles. And given the forecast we all kinda knew this swim would be the best part of our day.

Part of the allure of IMChoo over other courses was the swim. Point-to-point and with the current the whole way it is one of the fastest swims in the Ironman race repertoire. The water was 82 degrees so despite the pre-dawn nip in the air it was warm once we jumped in. We were at the end of the line but the few hundred people who had opted to still wear their wetsuits were behind us – I had no doubt they’d be miserable.

Josh’s charge to me had been to take the first 100-200m a little aggressively to quickly find some room for myself. I followed his instructions, for the first time really confident in my ability to push the swim a little and still fall back into a comfortable pace. My swim has not gotten any faster this season – at 4’10” with T-Rex arms I may just not be built for this discipline – but I am noticeably stronger and more confident. I stepped on the gas to the first buoy and then settled into a comfortable stroke stroke breath routine.

I was happy and calm and stayed that way the whole swim. I’d started unintentionally far back and so was able to pass a good number of men and women as I went. This was a welcome confidence boost though I knew it was somewhat artificial given most of the race had beaten me into the water.

In the last third we passed under a series of bridges. I couldn’t believe how quickly and comfortably I’d gotten there. I started playing with the stroke stroke breath and sighting rhythm to challenge the monotony of swimming that long which helped keep my head in the game. I also did something I never do in a race and focused on my form – on really reaching for each stroke and letting my body rotate with each pull – almost as if I were working a catch-up drill. It felt great and as we passed under the last bridge and the end of the first leg was in view, the apprehension from Saturday had completely dissipated. This was going so well! I’d worked my ass off for this and I was prepared!

The exit was the only really crowded bit of the swim. The large mass of athletes had to narrow quite a bit to fit up the stairs and out of the water. People started swimming over me and as a miniature person I opted to just stand down rather than combat the aggression with more. Didn’t seem worth the minute or two I’d save by not backing off the exit to sustain a black eye or, ya know, drown.

There were rows of amazing volunteers thigh-deep in water pulling athletes up the stairs onto dry land. I was a little heady from over an hour in the water in cranium-squeezing goggles and swim cap so I let them fish me out and accepted the help in getting on my way.

Then it was up a shockingly steep ramp and into transition. Most people were walking but I’ve learned to use my run strength anywhere I can so I charged ahead picking off the walkers. I ran down the T1 shoot, grabbed my bike bag, and headed into the women’s tent.

I’d never experienced an IM changing tent – what a place! It was busy and volunteers were hustling all over trying to help who they could, but there were far more athletes than help at this point. I had swam in my bike shorts and sports bra, so I just had to dry myself a bit and pull my tri top, shoes, and socks on. After being unable to eat much earlier I was finally hungry – and had felt that hunger at various points of the swim –  so I sucked down a gu and some shot bloks as well as a good chunk of water before I headed out to find Koopa Troop. Miracle of miracles I had managed to pee three times while swimming so no bathroom break needed before hitting the saddle!

The Bike

I mounted feeling confident and not overwhelmed by the 116 bike miles that lay ahead of me. It was about 9:15am and still felt nice out as I casually rode the 11 mile stem out of town to the first of two 45 mile lollipop loops through north Georgia.

The first ten miles of the loop were home to the toughest hills. I heeded Josh’s race plan and focused on staying calm, not pushing too hard, and making it all about heart rate rather than speed. It worked great and I felt really good. I was actively holding back and my heart rate responded by living in the low 130s – right on target.

Around mile 24 we turned off this part of the loop onto Cove Rd and I was in awe of how good I felt and how quickly the miles were ticking by. Josh had helped me visualize the course in sections and I was already on the third section! I knew exactly what was coming on the course and I had just taken down the most challenging stretch with little exertion or fanfare!

Once on Cove Rd. I first made sure to eat another gu and shot blok and I had almost drained the bottle of Hammer Heed that was nestled between my aero bars. My nutrition plan was on track, the weather was still behaving, and my energy was high. I remembered Ellen’s advice to eat whenever you experienced feelings on the bike. I joked to myself, ‘does that count when you feel happy?’ God I was being a naive little asshole.

Feeling on top of my game I settled down onto my aeros, shifted into my biggest rings – front and back – and effortlessly rolled through the next ten miles. I continued to honor Josh’s admonition to hold back on the first loop and still managed to pass a good number of people. Chris flew by me looking strong around mile twenty and I was so pumped to see him crushing it. I waved him on and enjoyed the scenery and reflected on the fact that I was finally doing the thing I’d worked for so long to do.

The last half mile or so on Cove is a long descent followed by a very sharp almost-180 onto the antebellum appointed Hog Jowl Rd. I knew from reading race reports and from driving the course that I shouldn’t let myself fly down this hill too fast as that turn had the potential to wipe out anyone who got too speed-happy. I hate charging downhill anyway so I happily rode the brake and easily flipped the bitch onto Hog Jowl.

Despite the name I think the winding stretch along Hog Jowl is the prettiest part of the course. There are a few punchy hills but overall you get to ditch some of the elevation that’s been built up for almost forty miles. And there are ponies everywhere!

Shortly after turning onto this bit I pulled over in the driveway of a beautiful old farm and refilled my aero bottle with water. My handling skills aren’t great and it was easier and faster to just stop and take a minute to change the bottles out. I ate another gu and got back on my way, giving myself a mandate to finish that bottle of water by the time I got to special needs in 18 miles.

At this point the sun started to heat up and I noticed my heart rate beginning to creep higher despite my efforts to hold back and conserve energy. As the day warmed my body was working harder than I realized and even though I’d adhered thus far to my nutrition plan, by the time I rolled into special needs at mile 53 I was starving and in need of a few minutes break. And I was getting the first hints of gastro-rebellion as my stomach demanded real food and no more of the planned (and packed) gus and Heed.

Other competitors were showing signs of the same wear and tear, and special needs was a cluster of flustered volunteers trying to help a flood of more exhausted-than-expected athletes. Everything in my bag had already started to melt and I dug into my very messy PB&J hoping it was satiate my cranky stomach before things got worse. I ate most of the sandwich, half a honey stinger waffle, and a few bites of a Clif bar which I then shoved into my pocket. I swapped out my empty water bottles and gus for fresh ones and realized I was actually craving gatorade. The volunteer woman who had so patiently helped me – just holding my bag open next to me as I wolfed down my sticky haul of calories – assured me there was an aid station a few miles up the road where I could get an ice cold gatorade, and that my bag would be waiting for me here when I returned on the second loop.

I’d been thrown by how hungry and fatigued I felt coming into special needs, but I felt better as I pulled back out: just a few more minutes up the road I would stop for gatorade and a porta potty, and so soon I would be on the second loop! Yes I was getting tired but I was also halfway there so that was to be expected! Wasn’t it? Plus as I clipped back in and onto the course I saw that I’d been biking for 3:06 – and that included a few minutes at special needs and my earlier water bottle pit stop AND I’d been holding back the whole first loop. I was almost halfway and right on track to do around 6:30 on the bike.

I tried to take it easy the few miles between special needs and that next aid station so that my body could digest the influx of calories. Once there I happily got my hands on the cold gatorade I’d been dreaming about and filled my aero bottle with the liquid gold (orange.) There was a long line for the porta potties though and I didn’t have to go too bad so I decided to hold it to the next station.

I pulled back into traffic, made the left to start my second loop, and suddenly the day changed. Somehow the sun had emerged into full potency within a matter of minutes. After a mild-seeming morning it was instantly 100 degrees. As I pulled back onto the hilly first ten miles of the lollipop loop, I could feel the heat coming off the pavement at the same time I could feel it boring a solar hole into my exposed neck and shoulders.

Now the hills that had felt like nothing the first time around were spiking my heart rate no matter how much I slowed down. It was so hot and so uncomfortable. And there was now a headwind blowing north forcing us to work that much harder. I slowed down further and shifted into smaller and smaller rings on each incline but my heart rate wouldn’t come back down to the happy 130s of yesterloop.

I started to get angry. I hate wind so much. And why was it so hot? And why was this so hard? Oh no! I thought. Feelings! I remembered Ellen’s advice to eat those feelings but thought, how could that possibly be the issue right now? I just ate so much like twenty minutes ago and couldn’t possible have digested it all! Maybe I was just legitimately angry because this legitimately sucked. I mean, who can possibly not be angry with hot wind blowing in your face like this? I decided to compromise by downinng extra gatorade and promising Ellen’s voice in my head that I would eat something as soon as I turned onto Cove Rd.

My beloved Cove Rd! I fantasized about how great it had been on loop one and told myself everything would be ok again as soon as I got back there. It seemed to take forever, especially compared with my first lap, but finally I made that left, anxious for things to improve. I turned expectantly and rather than nirvana, I was met immediately by a headwind even stronger and more awful than the previous ten miles. Yes the kicker ascents smoothed out into easier rollers but as the terrain eased the wind and the sun both increased. And with the sun directly overhead now, the stretch of course that had been protected by large swaths of shade the first go-round was nothing but totally exposed blacktop. My heartrate was now in the perma-150s and I couldn’t budge it any lower. I also couldn’t imagine how I’d ridden this bit off my big rings the first time through – I was shifting lower and lower now and just trying to hang on to a decent cadence.

As promised I had eaten once I turned onto Cove, but I found that when I reached for a gu I just couldn’t. My stomach was turning on me and my high-density sugar snacks. Instead I munched on my Clif Bar praying the grains would soak up some of the angry in my belly. I was feeling intermittently like I would have to pull over and throw up – I wouldn’t have been the only one…

Around mile 73 there was an aid station and I stopped. The bathroom situation had grown more dire, and I was desperate to get out of the sun for just a minute. I pulled over and paused a moment to take stock of my surroundings. I began to appreciate how dangerous the day was becoming.

It seemed every one of my fellow cyclists had also pulled over. People were unclipping and collapsing. Bikes and athletes were lying everywhere under the trees. Volunteers were rushing around to tend to everyone. A woman next to me was crying and telling a volunteer that she didn’t think she could keep going. I was grossly comforted to learn I wasn’t the only one struggling, but I didn’t want to dwell in this blackhole of willpower so I swapped out my water bottles, ran into a  mercifully line-free porta potty and got back on my way.

I felt slightly revived, though the renewal didn’t last long. Pretty soon I was approaching the worst hill on the course. Before the long descent onto Hog Jowl there is an even longer grinder of an ascent. It had been the hardest part of lap one and I was doing all I could to not let my psyche spiral out before this second go at it. On top of the climb, the wind had grown in strength with the sun as we’d continued down Cove. I was afraid I would run out of rings between the wind and the elevation but I battled the bad thoughts by telling myself that this would be the worst part of the ride and it would be over soon.

That bittersweet affirmation worked and I was able to buckle and shift down and just get it done. Many others were less fortunate or gullible and simply unclipped and dismounted before even beginning to climb. I felt terrible for these folks, knowing how much I was hurting and that they must be hurting even worse. But I shook it off, put on my mental and physical blinders and just focused on tortoise-ing my way to the top. It worked and eventually I was cresting the worst climb of the day and heading back down the other side. I rode the brake even more than lap one to give myself extra time to coast and to coax my heart rate down. I was relieved to be done with Cove Rd. for good but couldn’t muster the energy to be excited about Hog Jowl. Resignedly I thought, well maybe the head wind will actually go away now but couldn’t get it up much more.

Fortunately the wind did stop working against us so much once on Hog Jowl, and even more fortunately there were the ponies again. I didn’t even care how weird I sounded, I greeted each of them outloud as I passed. And I tried to really take in the scenery to appreciate how objectively lovely it was. Anything to distract myself.

It worked for a little while but after a few miles I had to admit the bad physical shape I was in. The wind was gone but the sun was getting worse (I didn’t think it could get worse but I was wrong!) and I felt pretty out of it. My heart rate was a lost cause, and I was both starving and nauseous – an awful combination. I managed to get in one more gu and shot blok before my stomach closed up shop to that fake-food-race-fuel for good. I wanted to eat more but I could tell if I was skating a very fine line between calories in and calories right dafuq back out. I knew this from my own growing nausea and from the many people I saw pulling over to lose their lunch all over the side of the road.

I’d though that Cove Road aid station was scary but it was nothing compared to the seventh circle of hell that was Hog Jowl lap two. Athletes lying everywhere. Pulling off the road and just collapsing. Ambulances flew by in both directions at (all-too) regular intervals. The people around me who were still upright on their bikes were in rough condition and it seemed like any one of us could be the next to heatstroke out. I focused on drinking lots of water, popping salt tabs, and getting back to special needs when I would have more non-gu food available. I just had to get to mile 98 and I could finish that sandwich and grab another Clif Bar.

I let myself slow even further to a pace that would have been embarrassing under any other conditions and eventually I was riding back into Chickamauga. I knew I was just about at special needs! I rolled through the town grateful for the spectators out cheering (even they too looked like uncomfortable, disheveled puddles) and waited for the oasis that was coming.

It never came. They had packed it up and left by the time I rolled back through would-be special needs on lap two. I was devastated and my mind and body deteriorated rapidly. I told myself desperately that I just had to get a couple more miles to that next aid station. They would have gatorade! Which sounded terrible. And bananas. The thought of which became my guiding light north star. Even though what I really wanted was an orange. (My probably-losing-it mantra became, “My kingdom for an orange!”)

As I had gotten hungrier I’d also been feeling increasingly ill. And my heart rate had continued to climb. I figured there was no way my body was actually digesting the food I’d put in with how hard it was working against my tachycardic efforts. There was a long descent before the next aid station and I hoped that maybe it would give me a chance to get my heart rate under control which would hopefully get the pile of calories sitting uncomfortably unabsorbed in my stomach moving. Right before that descent I pulled over for a few minutes to give myself a little extra digestion cushion.

As I unclipped and my feet hit the pavement, I realized how dizzy and sick I was. I’d known I was in bad shape but couldn’t fully assess while I was moving. Now, standing on the side of the road the full force of my condition became clear (well I was very fuzzy) and I wondered very seriously if I should stop. In this barely-hanging-on state I knew I was susceptible to falling, to literally just passing out off my bike. The thought of dropping out broke my heart though. (Probably not hard to break i its hummingbird state.) I’d wanted this for so long. (To finish – not this pain -all evidence to the contrary I’m not this masochistic.) I didn’t know when I would be able to train for a full next – I really didn’t want to put my husband (ok, or myself) through this again in 2017.

Luckily I’d pulled over in a shady spot and a few minutes of just standing, hydrating, and breathing helped clear my head enough that I was pretty sure I could make the next aid station. I waited for a break in the very slow-moving bike traffic and remounted. Within a hundred feet I was coasting down the long descent and I again rode the brake stretching out the exertion-free time. I felt more with it when I pulled into that aid station around mile 104 and after refilling my aero bottle with gatorade and choking down a banana I decided I could carry on the 12 miles back to transition.

Within a few minutes I was hooking a right away from the lollipop loops and onto the straightaway back to town. I felt really mixed emotions. I was pretty sure I’d be able to finish the bike at this point, but I couldn’t imagine running a marathon. I was so happy to be working my way down through single digit mileage but this part of the highway was long and exposed. The heat was shocking and I couldn’t get comfortable. I could only ride in aero for a few minutes because my neck hurt and it made me feel dizzier. Again I just let myself glide home at a very reserved pace despite the mostly flat terrain.

Finally, on the verge of tears I was back downtown and coming around the bend to transition. As I rode up to the dismount line I saw Scott and my mom. It was an instant adrenaline kick. Then I heard my dad running up ahead through the crowd with his camera  shouting for me.

I don’t know if my family had any idea how bad it had been out on the course, I wondered how much news spectators were getting about the carnage, the people passing out and dropping out, the terrified volunteers trying to hold on. I tried not to betray how rough I felt as I swung myself out of the saddle and handed Koopa off to a volunteer. I was both happy to see Koopa go and incredibly grateful to that little Cervelo for getting me through. I always anthropomorphize my bikes (and car) but I think I projected extra life into him in that moment.

As I made my way into the changing tent I was handed a glorious cup of ice. Between that, the respite from the sun, and the giant fans in front of which I found a seat, I felt better quickly and the marathon ahead of me didn’t seem so terrible. In the end my bike time had been 7:28, so my sub-12 goal was already gone and my sub-13 was also floating away out of my reach. Fuck it I thought as I refocused my sights on just finishing. I decided to take my sweet time in transition to get my heart rate under as much control as possible.

With the help of another patient volunteer I changed my socks and sports bra, got my shoes, hat, sunglasses, and race belt all comfortably affixed, and crunched on some pretzels. The volunteer told me that the bike course had been 97 degrees with a heat index of 105. I felt validated by this information – I had been sure we were in the triple digits – no wonder it had been so hard.

By the time I exited T2 (almost 11 minutes after entering it) I couldn’t believe how much better I felt. Everyone was walking out of transition but I jogged out feeling strong and finally able to feel good about being done with the swim and bike and onto my strongest discipline.

The Run

I saw Scott and my parents again, and my parents’ dog Lasso who’d made the trip from Atlanta, which was another boost as I set out on the marathon. Spectators yelled for me as I was just about the only one running and I couldn’t believe everyone around me was walking. Wow, I thought. I’ve totally got this!

Then I hit the first of many hills and instantly my heart rate was in the 170s. Just as instantly I regretted my cocky run out of transition. Those people walking around me had been on to something. And like always, had probably understood the elevation chart better than I. Watching those numbers get higher I felt like I should slow and at least walk up the hill, but there were so many spectators right there and they were all cheering for me for running so I didn’t want to let them down. Once I crested that beast and jogged a few more meters away from my fans I slowed it down to a walk to urge my BPM back to something survivable.

I decided to try alternating a slow jog till my numbers got too high and then walking. But in a flashback to Nations Tri 2013, I could only run about 20 seconds before I was back over 170 and had to walk. So I scrapped that plan and decided to time it instead: three minutes running (jogging) and one to two walking. And I tried to run in the few places there was shade, though they were few and far between for the first (of two) loops.

My run-walk approach was uncomfortable but functional for a few miles, but with no relief from the still triple digit heat index my GI issues came back in no time. I’d felt so revived after a few minutes in the transition tent but apparently the fuel I’d tried to take in on the bike still hadn’t digested. This may be fouler than my constant porta potty talk but my stomach was sloshing and gurgling, and every few steps carried beat a deep-seated nausea further into my gut.

And speaking of porta potties! There were a few at every aid station, i.e. every mile. Which reminded me I hadn’t gone in a while. Like, over five hours a while. Despite all the fluids and calories I’d been taking in, nothing had come out (besides being the sweatiest I’d ever been) in way too long. So I tried stopping at one of the johns. If nothing else sitting down out of the sun for a moment sounded good.

And that’s all it ended up being. Closing in on six hours without bathrooming and my bladder was empty. So I’d probably sweated out all that water and gatorade and heed, and as for the solid calories, they were definitely sitting undigested and radiating nausea through my overburdened belly. Reluctantly I gave up on the brief refuge of the porta potty and headed back out to walk/jog. I made a point to take a cup of ice and a cup of water at each aid station, and tried nibbling some bananas and oranges too – happy to at least see some real food after my body had rejected gus on the bike. I did also dip my toes back in the supplement water with a shot blok, which I chewed twice and immediately spit up. Prit-ty smoooth.

So the miles walk-jog-dragged on. But they were ticking down until around eight when my right knee – one of my few leg joints that hasn’t caused me issues previously – began aching. After everything the day had thrown at me this mystery pain really upset me. I’ve been injury and mostly pain-free this season. And I earned this healthy season dammit! I tried to ignore it that every footfall ached a little more and was successful in my denial for a while. Miles ten through thirteen, as I shoved all the discomfort and potential damage I was doing to myself to the back of my peabrain were some of my best (least embarrassing) of the marathon.

Those miles took place on the north side of the river from downtown and were chock full of steep hills. I walked the uphills and ran the downhills which definitely made things worse on my knee but the strategy did give me a chance to bring my heart rate back to earth.

I managed to jog the whole last mile to the halfway point and special needs stop where volunteers were quick with my bag. I’d changed my socks after the bike but I’d been dousing myself in water and ice at every aid station for thirteen miles and my feet were soaked. I was so excited to change into dry socks again and to sit for a minute.

Big mistake. The socks were not a mistake – they were heaven-sent. (Or previous-night-check-list-making-with-Ellen-sent) and I sadly-but-gratefully offered my first-half socks up as a sacrifice to the (apparently-dickish) Mdot gods. (You don’t get the things you leave in your special needs bag back after, so the socks I changed out of were goners.) Jesus with the rambling; the mistake was sitting down.  As soon as I did my knee threw in the towel. When I stood back up in my delicious dry swiftwicks, my right knee screamed in opposition.

Shit. I knew it was bad. I couldn’t just banish this pain to the back of my mind and run through it. This pain was loud and angry. There were spectators everywhere cheering athletes onto the second loop of the run, and I tried to jog to please them and show my appreciation, but after a few steps I had to stop and just walk.

And so I walked. And the walking was slow and dull and gave me no distraction from the fact that my stomach was still in agony, I was dizzy from the GI issues and heat that had barely abated despite the approaching sunset. I hadn’t peed in seven hours, and 13 miles remained between me and the finish line. I started doing the math of how slow I could go and still finish in the 16 hours and 15 minutes I was allowed. I realized I could walk the whole thing at around 18 minutes a mile and still get it done, but six more hours out there on my feet sounded like a torture I wasn’t sure I could endure.

I walked miles thirteen through sixteen. No jogging at all. Just walking. I tried to shuffle quickly and keep my pace around 17 min/mile but my knee screamed the whole time. Finally I stopped at an aid station to seek medical help and I experienced an unwelcome epiphany like when I had stopped on the bike: oh wow. I’m in really bad shape! I was dizzy and heady, and wasn’t sure  I could seek out a medical volunteer without slurring my words. I didn’t want to get pulled from the course at this point – if I quit it would be my decision-not some official – so I dug deep and concentrated hard as I asked whether there was Advil or KT tape around.

I was kindly directed to the last tent at the aid station where a woman after whom I’d name my first-born if I could remember her name offered me the desired painkiller, “but no more than three because your kidneys are already struggling!” She then had a helluva time taping me because I was so sweaty and salty – it took several attempts to get any adhesive to stick – but she was dogged about getting me to the finish line and eventually devised a wrap-around system that seemed to hold.

As I got back on the course I worried because the pitstop had taken at least five minutes – jeopardizing my ability to walk the next ten miles and still finish. But strangely the act of focusing on someone and having to make words had helped revive me, and I felt a little more chipper as I got back to race-walking home. And at this point the sun had almost set all the way. Being rid of that beastly fire-torture orb was a major boost.

Within a minute of my KT-tape-Advil revival I was set upon by a guy from the salt tab tent. He was apparently a DC Tri guy and started naming names of teammates to prove his legitimacy before handing me a plastic water bottle filled with some sort of pink and slightly-fizzy drink. Having named a bunch of people I know and look up to, he said that they swore by the stuff, that it was full of amino acids and other things? I dunno, maybe I wasn’t as revived as I’d thought. I tried to explain to him that my knee was the issue, not my nutrition, but realized that no, my nutrition was a dire mess too. So I took the bottle and thanked him.

I took a cautious sip and that ish was salty and strong. Eek. Maybe a bad idea but I took another sip and kept walking. And within less than two minutes, my stomach shifted noticeably. What in the hayyyle. I tippled again a little bigger swig and again my stomach started to move – this time to the point I worried I might not make the next porta in time!

I can’t call the way the contents of my stomach were suddenly on the move comfortable, but after hours of no digestion or signs of life of any kind, I welcomed this development. And with the tape for support around my knee, within a few minutes of leaving that aid station and after several miles of walking, I felt strong enough to jog again.

Very slowly I picked up my feet, and my knee hurt but it held out. And my stomach gurgled precipitously, but it held too. And so I jogged all the way to the next aid station, by which point my stomach was on the mend to the point I actually felt ready to put some new calories in. I took my ice and water, but also a cup of chicken broth, and for the first time in over eight hours, something tasted good. The broth was warm and salty and I swear I almost cried when I tasted it and didn’t immediately wretch. I considered a second cup but didn’t want to push it. I walked through the aid station, took another sip from my mysterious pink magic water bottle, and got back to my jog.

By mile 19 the Advil seemed to have kicked in – or maybe it was a placebo effect or maybe it was the tape, or the adrenaline of getting closer to the finish. I’d begun averaging ten and 11 minute miles and was elated to do so, (how the speedy had fallen) and with the NSAID on my side I was able to drop into the 9s in places. I was so far back in the field and people were in such rough shape that just holding a 9:45 for a little while took me flying past dozens of people – even the other folks who were still maintaining a jog.

Everyone I passed shouted encouragement. Exhausted, emotionally fatigued, physically destroyed, and triathletes still muster positive words and energy for their fellow athletes. It meant so much, I definitely got a little teary eyed absorbing their well-wishes and echoed them right back.

As my race improved some I wondered about Chris. He had passed me looking strong around mile 20 on the bike. As my day disintegrated I hoped he was having a better go of it – especially because (and I hate to admit this) I got him into this mess. Halfway between miles 20 and 21 the route heads back over the bridge into north Chattanooga. I was feeling “good” on the bridge when I approached someone walking in a DC Tri Club kit. Oh no. It was him. I slowed to a walk by his side and all we could do was laugh at how awful a day it had been. It had been so hard and not the day either of us had hoped for, but at least we were able to laugh at it – even with five miles to go.

At the mile 21 marker I convinced Chris to jog with me just to the next aid station which was up a steep incline maybe .2 miles away. He was a great sport and dug deep to join me in a run. At the aid station we each had cups of broth – we’d both found much needed digestive relief in the warm salty goodness. I offered him some of my pink magic mystery drink and he laughed as that DC Tri guy had also offered Chris a bottle – he was sherping our whole team from that aid station apparently. Chris had turned him down but now sipped a little as I extolled its virtues in bringing me back to life.

We walked up the longest, steepest hill of the run together. When we got to the top Chris told me to run ahead, that he’d be ok and wasn’t worried about finishing. I’d been on a roll – my first of the day – so I hugged him goodbye like I’d done so many hours earlier when we jumped into the river for the swim. ( Back before we knew what would be waiting for us on the hot dry land.) I ran down the backside of the big hill we’d just walked up and settled into a pace around ten minutes a mile.

For the last few miles I just focused on staying the course – not pushing too hard but working to maintain a steady jog. I still walked through the aid stations – and around mile 23 I successfully used a porta potty! I’d only drank maybe a fifth of the mystery bottle but whatever was in there was effective in small doses! I considered keeping the bottle with me to try and reverse engineer its contents later – but then I remembered that I’m completely incapable of such a feat of culinary chemistry. It had done its job and I didn’t want to carry anything anymore so at the aid station around mile 24 I tossed it. I threw back one more broth and ice water and buckled down for the last push.

It was almost 10pm on a Sunday but there were people lining the streets throwing parties in their front yards cheering for the athletes. These Chattanoogans were everything. I hope the people of that city realize how appreciated their encouragement and support was by everyone still slogging up and down those hills. As I was one of the few competitors still trying to run I got extra love from the revelers and I just smiled and tried to shout thank yous where I could.

I had to get back up and down that big hill before I’d get to run back over the bridge and home. At this point I was so close, so even though every single person was walking the hill, I picked up my feet and ran up. “Ran” up. It counted though! I told myself this running thing is supposed to be where I shine. Where I redeem myself. And I’ve never shied away from hills before, so with two miles left and 142 already done why not just run. Or “run.”

Yes with two miles to go I realized I’d already gone more miles than most Ironman races call for in total. I kind of already was an Ironman! I expected to be mad at the race organizers at that point but I was too close to the finish to be anything but ecstatic. I got up and down the last big hill, ran the few blocks to the bridge, and joyfully swung that left back across the Tennessee River.

People lined the bridge cheering and celebrating and my head was on a swivel as I tried to take it all in. These last few minutes were what I’d been dreaming about for months and years. As I got halfway over the river I could see and hear the finish line festivities. I could hear Mike Reilly calling people’s names. It became hard to catch my breath as the confidence of ‘yes, you really are going to finish’ took over my whole body.

Running off the bridge I had half a mile to go. (144 already down!) I picked up the pace – I couldn’t manage a sprint but I grabbed a nine minute mile and compared with the previous 25 miles of walk-running I felt like I was flying.

While training and preparing I hadn’t known what to expect in the last bit of the race. I’d seen the videos of people crawling in and a big part of me expected to be in equally terrible shape after a day of performing hard. Instead I’d crawled through most of the day and this was the best I’d felt in over ten hours!

I ran past a few people, but even those in the worst shape were wringing it out of their bodies to jog down the last stretch.  We cheered for each other. One woman I ran by called out, ‘We’re really doing this! We’re going to be Ironmen!’ She was limping but getting it done, and she was crying but it was (at least mostly) not in pain.

Coming around the final turn I could see the chute. There were so many people. It was overwhelming. I thought about all the hours I’d spent in the saddle, the mornings and nights in the pool, the miles on my feet, that had gotten me here. Every time I’d cursed my alarm, every bad ride or run when I’d wanted to give up and just enjoy my weekends, all the months of feeling totally exhausted: this moment was what it was all about. Wanting this had gotten me through all of that. And now I was here.

I drank it all in and smiled and let the tears roll down my cheeks as I pushed forward. To my left someone was calling my name. My parents! They were cheering and yelling for me and I was so proud and grateful to have them there. (At a much later hour than I’d originally told them to expect me!)

A few seconds past my parents I saw Scott jumping and cheering. He tried to snap some pictures and then ran ahead to get some more. I smiled and waved and cried and kept going.

Soon I was on the black carpet a few meters from the end. I smiled the biggest smile of my life. I owned the tears. And I heard Mike Reilly say those most beautiful words: Elizabeth Westbrook: You. Are. An. Ironman!

Passing under the arch I slowed to a walk and happy-ugly cried while a volunteer put my medal over my head. I was immediately swarmed by other concerned volunteers who asked whether I was ok, needed medical or an IV or anything else. The volunteers are always incredible but this batch had had a really hard go of it for this race. After hours of people dropping like flies (or like ants on the bad end of a sadistic kid with a magnifying glass) they were on edge and being extra cautious. I took stock of my condition and told them, no, I was actually (somehow) ok. They gave me my finisher’s shirt and hat, some water, and I found my way out of throng to locate my parents and husband.

I was absolutely disgusting – the grossest I’d ever been – but they all hugged me enthusiastically. Then Scott proved once again why he’s the greatest race-spouse of all time when he produced clean clothes and flip flops from his backpack – even though I’d forgotten to ask him to bring me fresh clothes. I managed an awkward change in a porta potty (and successfully bathroomed again!) and rejoined my people.

Sadly my parents had to get on the road pretty quickly – it was after 10pm and they had a two hour drive back to Atlanta with one dog to get home to the other two. We hugged goodbye and I tried (probably failed) to tell them how much it meant that they were there.

A few minutes later Chris finished the race and Scott and I went to find him. We had both gotten it done. In some of the most difficult conditions imaginable. We learned the next day that the DNS/DNF rate was 40% – second highest in the history of all Ironman races. I’d had so many moments during the race where I wanted to quit and thought I should quit, and questioned my preparedness. Knowing it was a bad day for everyone I was sad for all who didn’t get to finish, but vindicated that my training had in fact been everything I needed.

My overall time was 14:26:56. Two and half hours slower than my sub-12 goal but zero disappointment here. It just means I’ve got something to work for next time. Yes, I said it. Next time. (Just not next year. And not below the Mason Dixon Line.)

 

 

A little over two years ago I wrote my first piece on this blog about having to drop out of Ironman Louisville 2014 – the first full I trained for. I wrote from my parents’  home in Atlanta the day of my would-be race while simultaneously watching the IM Louisville live feed and throwing myself a weepy pity party. (And my father said, Let there be Sangria! [That is to say I was drinking.]) I rambled through my first piece about my bike accident and the physical trauma that had forced me to drop out of the race, as well as the difficult decision to let that goal go at least for a while.

And today I get to write about coming back from all that, training better and harder than I ever have, overcoming some of the worst conditions of any race day ever, and finally getting to hear my name followed by those four glorious words: You are an Ironman!

I’m going to get more detailed and honest about the experience than anyone probably wants in a paragraph or so, but before I do allow me to wax emotional about how happy I am, how amazed I am at my itty bitty mini-person body and what it can do, and also how acutely I feel the effort in every itty inch of that bitty body now – two (three by the time I actually hit “publish”) days out from the race.

The “race.” The slog really. The challenge I didn’t know I’d prepared for. Inhumane temperatures 20 degrees hotter than the average  high for Chattanooga on Sept. 25th. So much more unbearable (and slower) an experience than I expected (wanted) it to be. And now as hindsight comes into focus it’s that much more rewarding.

Oof. That was mushy wasn’t it? Let’s get down to the nitty gritty way-too-much-information format to which my dear readers (hi Mom!) are accustomed. (Conditioned.) (It’s like the blog form of Stockholm Syndrome.)

Impressionable Chris, elite Kona-pro Ellen, and I all signed up for Chattanooga 2016 back in the fall of 2015 because it’s a popular race that sells out quickly. (Oh the folly of [multisport] man.) Shortly thereafter Ellen sent us her hotel information and commanded Chris and I to book rooms there for at least the Thursday before the race through the Monday after. We did as we were told and I’m so grateful to Ellen for guiding us noobs through this. It meant we ended up with hotel rooms a few blocks from the action and for the appropriate number of days – and it was all taken care of so far in advance that we didn’t have to think about any of it again until race week.

The Thursday before the race, Scott and I loaded up (Mini Cooper) Yoshi and headed south to Chattanooga. We’d deprived ourselves of This American Life and RadioLab for months to make sure we had good road trip listening (and downloaded Aziz Ansari’s Modern Romance on Audible!) so the drive was pretty enjoyable. (NPR podcasts. If you weren’t sure how to classify me in my non-tri moments let this be confirmation that I am a DC cliché.)

On the way down I felt mostly good with intermittent gut-punches of oh-shit-I-remember-why-we’re-on-this-roadtrip. When we crossed the state line into Tennessee: gut punch. When we entered Chattanooga to find three Ironman billboards lighting the 27 southbound into the city: Gut JabUppercutPUNCH. (Yeah I actually know that jab and uppercut are types of punches but it sounded better the way I wrote it.) We arrived at the incredibly convenient Holiday Inn & Suites Downtown around 8pm, met up with Chris for some dinner, and then tucked in pretty early.

On Friday morning Scott and I had amazing biscuits and gravy at a place I’d read about called Maple Street Biscuits. Scott was instantly in love and for the rest of the trip asked when could we go back. (Answer: Monday.) After that we went to race check in which had to be done Thursday or Friday – no Saturday check-in! That was new to me and another reason Ellen is one of my Ironman heroes.

After check-in we got to hit the merch tent! I’d been saving my dollah bills all summer and not buying (almost) any new workout gear because I knew I’d want all the Ironman things! I got new shirts, towels, water bottles, so much! Only complaint is that by Friday morning they’d already sold out of the smallest sizes for some of the cutest items. (Oooooh maybe they have the sweatshirt I wanted online…but come on IM! People who work out this much are often pretty bitty!) Chris and I also got in a Normatec session before leaving because you should never pass up an opportunity for some time in the squeeze-squeeze sleeves!

Friday afternoon Chris, Scott, and I all piled into Yoshi to drive the bike course. We escorted Ellen slowly out of town as she was actually biking a good chunk of it and then took off trying to use the less-than-helpful cue sheet provided in the Athlete Guide. The cues didn’t include mileage between turns so it was very confusing comparing their vague directions with Google Maps.  At times I realized I was paying more attention to trying to navigate than to what the course actually looked like. I tried to refocus and really see all the ascents, descents, and terrain. After having to walk part of a climb at the Rev3 Poconos 70.3 I didn’t want to be surprised by a hill ever again.

My fears and embarrassment were generally assuaged by the drive despite our navigational challenges. People call it a lollipop course as you ride an 11 mile “stem” mostly straight out of transition before two 45 mile loops, followed by the stem (and change) back to T2. We just drove the loop once and from the air conditioned comfort of Yoshi it was really beautiful. Rolling hills as advertised with idyllic farm backdrops replete with cows and horses. (Yay ponies!) When we got back to the hotel I was feeling really good about the bike. I’d been oscillating between excited and terrified, and I felt solidly in the excited camp after seeing what we’d be facing for 116 miles on Sunday.

I was in a jolly mood so I made dinner rezzies at an Izakaya I’d read about (food options should be researched as much as courses and elevation charts, right?) and then headed out to a YMCA for a short swim. (I remember when a mile swim was not short!!) Ellen had let me know that the local Y – conveniently around the corner from the hotel – was letting Ironman athletes in for free. Sure enough they welcomed me into their really nice facility and I joined a number of other racers – obvious due to our neon green wristbands – in the pool.

My good mood continued through a shockingly good meal at the ramen place/Izakaya, Two Ten Jack. Highly recommend to anyone who finds themselves in Chatty with some free eatin’ time. Back at the hotel full and happy I made plans with Chris to get our assigned bike/run shakeout bricks over with in the morning. Then I floated off to bed feeling happy and confident about what was coming.

Saturday morning Scott drove Chris and I out on the bike course a few miles down the lollipop stem. We just had to do 20 minutes on the bike and ten running so Saint Scott dropped us at a gas station where we unloaded our antsy dual Cervelos. We took off cycling and my hubz drove a little over five miles up the road to wait for us which ended up being almost exactly 20 minutes – perfect!

He’d parked Yoshi on a (no outlet)  side street and Chris and I were able to just drop our bikes by the car, switch into sneakers, and run up said tiny Deliverance deadend. Our run ended up only being seven minutes, but it also included a helluva a hill into (and quickly away from!) banjo territory so that seemed sufficient. (By the way, the bike course takes place almost entirely over the state line in north Georgia, so really I was listening hard for the dueling strings to begin…)

With our shakeout brick taken care of early we had the rest of the day to hit an athlete briefing (optional but really, you should always go,) eat lunch, pack our bike and run bags, and drop those bags and our bikes at transition. As we wrapped this last errand it was about 3pm. And it was HOT. Mid-90s-feels-hotter. No shade in transition or on the way back to the hotel, and as we sweat just walking those few blocks my confidence from Friday began to pool at my feet and melt into terror.

The forecast for Sunday had been creeping up all week. The average high in Chattanooga on September 25th is 80 degrees. By Saturday afternoon the forecast for the next day was 95. And as we ambled away from dropping off our bikes and bags, my phone said it was only 92. And at 92 it felt bad. And 3pm – that was about the time when I would (hopefully) be heading out for the marathon. In that moment I couldn’t imagine having to run 26.2 miles in such conditions. The panic set in like a small rock in my gut, and it just snowballed the rest of the night.

At the hotel Ellen gave Chris and I some last minute pointers and a pep talk. One brilliant bit of wisdom was on the bike to literally eat your feelings. As in, if you feel anything, it means you need to get some calories in. If you feel sad or angry or whatever, put some GD food in your face. This advice would come back…

Then Scott and I bid adieu to Chris and grabbed Yoshi to head to Whole Foods for the last items I’d need the next day. We planned to pick up dinner at the hot bar there, but it wasn’t appetizing, so instead we drove around the neighborhood by WF (north of and directly across the Tennessee River from downtown and transition) looking for pasta. I knew a good chunk of the run took place in this part of town and noted how incredibly hilly it was. I’d read all about how climby the run course is but wow. That terror pebble grew like the Grinch’s heart nearly busting out of my gut.

We ultimately found a restaurant called il Primo which was understandably chock full of people rocking neon green wristbands. It was the perfect pre-race spot. Italian but not too authentic – this sounds critical but it’s EXACTLY what I wanted. I wanted plentiful pasta options that would be tasty but not too rich. il Primo really delivered and the place was also cute and had great service. I would 100% go back for a pre-race meal or any meal – maybe just wine! (I was beyond jealous of the people around me enjoying big scrumptious [calming] looking glasses of red grown-up juice!)

I put down what I could of my yummy carby orecchiette considering my tummy terror rock was taking up a lot of what should have been food space. We returned to the hotel and I was basically panicking by the time we got back to our room. I had to pack my special needs bags and, per Ellen’s instructions, I also made a checklist for these bags and for the morning. These pre-race rituals meant thinking step-by-step through everything I could possibly need the next day which made it all so real. So scary and SO REAL.

When I was sure I had everything set to go, and after Scott made me a PB&J to try and get a little more food nestled in next to my belly panic boulder, I tucked myself into bed around 9:00pm. The alarm was set for 4:30.  I turned off the light, closed my eyes, and waited.

And nothing. No sleep. Just panic. Just rock-solid terror. Just a growing sinkhole in my stomach. It expanded as the minutes tick. Tick. Tocked by and quickly one and then two sleepless hours had brought me that much closer to zero dark Mdot.

No of course I didn’t have an analog clock in my hotel room. I’m building the tension. Just in time to say, that about wraps up part one of what clearly needs to be two posts on Ironman Chattanooga 2016! I mean look how gratuitously long this already is and it’s still hours away from the cannon going off. I can’t possibly expect someone to read this whole story in one pop, and (at least as far as self-indulgent race blogs go) this story’s a good (painful) one! There will be legitimate drama and plot coming at you readers (I love you, Mommy!) in Part 2 so stay tuned. I’ll try to actually write it this week…

 

In July 2015 I raced the NYC Triathlon for the first time – an olympic distance race. It was dangerously hot the whole morning and after slogging through really hard conditions for almost three hours, I remember being wiped the entire next week. I was hungry and tired and totally depleted for days.

This May I raced the Mountains to Beach Marathon running from Ojai to Ventura, California, scoring my first Boston qualification after years of working for it. I couldn’t run for over a week after and in fact ended up taking five weeks off running when I started to develop another stress fracture in the wake of that effort. Again, depleted for days and on the mend for weeks.

Massive physical endeavors take an incredible and unexpected amount out of our bodies. I’m shocked every year by how long it can take to bounce back from a big day of swimming, biking, and/or running. Training for Ironman Chattanooga the past few months has meant the kind of work that has previously left me sidelined (and starving) for days every single week.

Every weekday morning the alarm goes off at 5:15 (depending on where I’m going sometimes 5:20 or 5:23 even – I’ve got my pre-workout routine timed down to the second) and every Saturday and Sunday it goes off at 5:45 or 6 at the latest to announce somewhere between five and seven hours of work.  There have been weeks on end working out in conditions hotter than NYC ever got. And so many miles heaped upon bones and muscles making a morning spent on just a marathon seem like an easy day.

With weekends that put previous race day efforts to shame for their sheer duration and mileage now the norm, every week I feel worn down in a way I used to only feel a couple times a season. I’m starving. All the time. Right now included. Despite eating my weight in Thai food earlier, followed by three face-sized chocolate chip cookies. (And half a bottle of rosé.)

And I just want to sleep. Past 6am. Anywhere. Any time. Right now most definitely included. (Definitely right now. I don’t want to keep watching my Trojans as they are throttled in the first game of the season. Plus I’m currently draped in large sleeping dogs who seem to really have the right idea.)

Some days have been objectively enjoyable with beautiful backdrops, good company, and a capable body that makes me feel powerful. Most days though – at least most long weekend days – have been really hard. Physical and mental tests.

Today I rode 85 miles in miserable wind that has literally made its way inland from a hurricane off the coast of Maryland. I rode most of it alone meeting up with Chris every so often and mentally bargaining the whole way, trying to convince myself that it’d be ok to quit early because the wind is bad and even dangerous and I was sick yesterday so maybe I shouldn’t even be out at all and my legs were tired even when I started and wouldn’t it be better to just let them rest and recover and 65, 70, 75 miles are totally respectable distances. I think this mental repartee is as crucial to training as the physical miles: it’s very easy to convince yourself to let yourself off the hook during a training day – creating the headspace and strength to power through when there’s no one really holding you accountable makes you that much stronger when things inevitably get dark come race day.

So today hurt. I yelled at the wind out loud without shame, (mucho expletives) as I’ve been known to do. I yelled at a couple people who were riding or running on the narrow W&OD trail like total a-holes. (Share the road, folks! And when I yell, “on your left” that is not a cue for you to move left!) I let myself wallow in the grumpiness but tried to remind myself too that this is all my choice; and how lucky I am to have that choice, to be physically and fiscally sound enough to do this with my time.

And while I was in real and perceived anguish the whole ride, I got it done. I didn’t let lazy Liz convince resolved Liz to throw up her hands a minute or mile early. (Of course I didn’t – I’m nowhere near solid enough to be riding with no hands! [I’m working on it, Josh!])

Now I’m exhausted, and I’m literally considering ordering a pizza at 11pm. But I finished those 85 miles thinking, yeah my legs and my head could do 31 more. And I finished five run miles thinking I could do that four more times. And I’m walking just fine. And tomorrow I’ll get up and strength train and swim. And Monday I’ll get up and run many more miles. And swim again. (And Tuesday I’ll be back at work spending my lunch reading Ironman race reports, crying as each author describes that moment of crossing the finish line, hearing their name called in the culmination of all their painful [totally optional] work.) This insane, stupid, ill-advised, masochistic, selfish, marriage-jeopardizing, expensive, privileged, sometimes-enjoyable journey has been such a gift. And whether I finish or not it’s almost done.

So all this rambling is to say thank you to my friends, family, husband, dogs, and my own body for all of this. I feel like every muscle has been marinated in lactic acid and then wrung through a meat grinder, but I’m still walking. I’m surviving mostly unscathed the kind of work that has taken me out in years past and even when I’m at my most miserable I’m totally in awe of this progress.

In 2013 I did my first half Ironman in Augusta, Georgia, and I couldn’t walk for days. Or shower without squealing in pain from the many unfortunate places I’d chafed raw. This year I raced 70.3 in the Poconos without much thought, and walked away relatively unscathed. I even taught spin the next day and ran the day after that without issue. I don’t expect to be in such good shape after Chattanooga (I’d be disappointed if I were) but I can see and feel how far I’ve come and I’m almost over that finish line. Thank you to everyone – ankles included- who’s joined me on this journey. I’ll be less sleep-deprived and calorie-insolvent soon!

*Post obviously written Saturday night post ride-run brick. Opted to publish Sunday once the rosé haze had subsided…

Ironman Chattanooga (or IM Choo tri-colloquially) is Sept. 25th. Conventional wisdom dictates scheduling a half iron distance race six to eight weeks before a full iron, which led me to the Rev3 Poconos Half on Aug. 7th. (Ok, the most conventional of conventional wisdom probably advises never signing up for 140.6 [144.6 at IM Choo] expensive miles of multisport torture. [What ever happened to Sundays spent sleeping in and reading the paper?])

I’d been toying with either Rev3 Poconos or a half outside Asheville Aug. 6th. The latter was a lot further away from DC and would have meant a much pricier, dog-free, car-heavy weekend, but I have wanted to check out Asheville for a while. I was struggling to decide between the two when a couple things happened: my car suddenly needed thousands of dollars of work done, making money a bigger issue, and I volunteered at the Rev3 Williamsburg half and olympic, where I got to see how fantastic their team is and races are.  Plus volunteering there got me a discount on a future Rev3 race so in the end the decision was pretty easy.

Making things even better, I found a hotel 10 minutes from the race that was dog-friendly, so not only could husband/sherpa, Scott come, but also dire wolf/cheer-pup Birkin as well! We dicked around a little longer than planned Saturday morning and got on the road a little after 11am, getting to the race site at the Shawnee Inn & Golf Resort near East Stroundsberg, PA around 3:45pm. Packet pick-up was a breeze and with the day already winding down things at the expo were pretty quiet. Things were so chill that I felt emboldened to bring my bike, Koopa Troop, in to have the on-site mechanics change out my skewer for me. I felt silly asking but my wheel-dropping incident has me paranoid about my set-up! They were understanding about it and didn’t charge me a thing.

I did a little expo shopping (raiding) and then stuck around for the 4:30 “mandatory” meeting. It was not nearly so mandatory as in NYC where they don’t let you pick up your packet until you have a stamp to show you attended. I’m sure plenty of people skipped in Poconos but I think the meetings are helpful. Organizers impart good tips about the course and any race idiosyncrasies. It was especially helpful for this race where we’d be sharing most of the swim, a lot of the bike and all of the run with folks doing the Olympic distance so we’d have to be on the lookout for half-specific signage. More than that this was a two-transition race which can get confusing. It helped to have the logistics laid out very clearly, including explanations of all the different types of gear bags in our packets!

After the not-mandatory-but-really-I-recommend-attending meeting we drove the 3 miles to T1 to rack Koopa. The swim would start next to T1 and end about a quarter mile downstream. Then we would bike out and back around 56 miles, during which we would pass T1 to get to T2. The run would then be two six mile out and back loops finishing next to T2. I set Koopa up in the sweet ground racks and left my helmet and gloves as well – no rain in the forecast and less to carry in the morning!

After the quick set-up Scott, Birk, and I drove the easy few miles to the Budget Inn and Suites in East Stroudsburg. I was so happy they were dog-friendly; it makes a huge difference to be able to include Birkin in the race weekend. He has a blast being outside all day, we don’t have to put him through the stress of being without us overnight, and I am happy that Scott has his best friend for adorable, face-kissin’ company while I’m out on course for hours on end.

The Budget Inn was obviously not high-end but it was actually nicer than I expected. Our room was very clean and well air-conditioned. And best of all there was a restaurant onsite that made pizza! Easy pre-race carbing without having to go anywhere.

By that I mean, I didn’t go anywhere. After eating Scott however was very kind and went to a Walmart a few minutes away to get bagels and bananas for breakfast. (I only patronize Walmart when out of town for races and there are no other options. Otherwise this bleeding heart tries to limit her shopping to places that allow employees to unionize and take lunch breaks!)

While Scott bought things I should have brought from home I prepped for the morning. Going through my tattoos and bags I was blown away to find a personalized note wishing me well not only the next day but in Chattanooga – one of many ways Rev3 goes out of its way to welcome people more than any other race organization!  I also got sucked into a really juicy Law & Order SVU which kept me up too late. At 10pm I finally tucked in for the night.

The alarm went off at 4:30am and I cursed Detectives Benson and Stabler for their late-night magnetism. (I’m just kidding, Olivia! I didn’t mean it!) We were out the door around 5:10 and at T2 a few minutes later. While Scott circled around I quickly set up my running shoes, race belt and nutrition, and hat for a run that seemed a long way off. I was done quickly making me feel like I was forgetting something. I ran through the transition in my head a few times and when I was around 45% positive that I wasn’t forgetting anything I went and found Scott.

He drove me over to T1 where I set up my bike shoes and water bottles. Organizers announced that the water temperature was 76.8 degrees, aka wet suit legal but even warmer than NYC. The air was a lot cooler than New York though and it seemed like everyone was suiting up. I hated going against the crowd – especially without Bunks there to bolster the decision. I knew I would be really hot in my (full-sleeved) wetsuit in water that warm but watching everyone walk out of T1 with their suits made me feel like they knew something I didn’t. Scott supported the decision to swim in my kit since I’d been comfortable that way in cooler water so I finally decided to heed my own advice and past performance and ditch the neoprene.

With that decision reluctantly made and both transition areas ready to go I had about twenty minutes to just hang with my two and four-legged dudes. Leading up to this weekend I had been uncharacteristically blasé and non-basket case-y. Coach Josh said it was awesome, but I was a little disturbed by my nonchalance. Approaching that day as just IM Choo training had made me so chill I’d gotten us on the road late the day before, I’d stayed up too late, and I was still only kind of sure that both transition areas were stocked with what I’d need. The silver (stomach) lining was that my stomach had behaved itself as my brain managed to hide the fact that there was a (pretty long) race coming up.

But as Scott and Birkin and I stood outside between T1 and the swim start my stomach looked around and said, ‘oh holy shit! Are we at a race?! Nobody told me! We only have like twenty minutes to PANIC NOW!’ Three line-free porta visits later my belly seemed satisfied with the last-minute havoc it had wreaked and it was about time to get in the water.

I kissed my dudes goodbye and shuffled down the boatlaunch ramp into the river for the in-water start. It was chilly for a minute and I wondered if I’d made the right decision, but then the gun went off for women 39 and under and there was no time to dwell. As the sweleton (seriously we’re making this happen) took off I quickly found myself dead last in the wave. Swimming is my well-documented weakness but not THAT weak! I usually still manage top third or at worst half! I freaked out and got really discouraged – my head went places that it shouldn’t be going until at least a couple hours into a race. (Ironman – half and full – is a lot of time to be left alone with your thoughts.) Then I realized that everyone else had the benefit of an all-over-body neoprene floatie. Of course they were outmoving me. Again I kicked myself (no one else around me to kick me) for skipping the wetsuit but my ego rebounded from the initial shock of being left behind.

Apparently in addition to the equipment handycap, a lot of women in my wave had gone out too hot, so over the first long (against the current) stretch I picked off a couple which assuaged my ego further. And speaking of “too hot” (how smooth was that? *eyebrow wiggle*) within a few minutes I found peace with my decision to swim in just my tri-kit. The water was really warm and I imagined how uncomfortably hot I would have felt in my suit. I think for IM Choo I might rent a sleeveless suit to have that option if the water is warm. I’m going to want the benefit of the added speed, but my full-sleeve suit is toasty.

A little before the halfway point the swim course hooked a hard right across/with the current and then right again to swim home fully with the current. I heeded the “mandatory” pre-race meeting advice of finding a center lane to avoid the river grass in the shallower water by the shore. (Plus I learned at NYC this year to always take a path as close to the middle to ride the current in a river swim.)

The water was so clear I could see the bottom as I swam. I’d never experienced that in a race and it was fantastic. More fantastic? I had a serious breakthrough during the swim. No, it was not a speed-related breakthrough – my wetsuit-free time was pretty embarrassing. It was bigger than that.

I peed! WHILE swimming!

I’ve had a mental/maybe physical bloc about peeing in action and keep exiting the water with a full bladder. As I swam with the current I slowed down a bit and concentrated. It took a all my will but finally, it happened! (Gawd this is way too much information, isn’t it?) Whatever, I was so happy. Before exiting I even peed a little more! (When it rains it pours! [I’m referring to both my urinary breakthrough and how needlessly intimate this blog is getting.])  It added even more time to my already-slow swim, but when I ran up the ramp to T1 it was worth it because I didn’t need a porta-break!

The run to T1 was long – though not as ridiculous as in NYC. And Scott and Birkin were there waiting and ran next to me the whole way. The crowd and organizers loved it and were cracking up at my giant, happy, tongue-out dire wolf.

I’m not sure where the sensors all were for transition but based on where I think they were Garmin says it was 3:36 from out of the water onto the bike. I’m pretty happy with that considering the long run and that we had to pack up everything from T1 into a bag that would be picked up and trucked to T2/the finish.

Heading out onto the bike course I knew we started up hill but I wasn’t too nervous because Conman, I mean COACH, Josh had said it wasn’t too hilly.  Maybe I should be flattered he thinks I’m a better biker than I am but the first ten or so miles were absolutely brutal. And probably because of my too laid back approach to this race day as a training day, I felt really low energy. Usually I’m all nerves and adrenaline heading out on the bike but I was just lethargic and moving much more slowly than normal – even given the uphill terrain.

And it was uphill and demanding – despite my best efforts to act like it was blah, whatever. In the glow of Josh’s calming lies and my own chillaxing, I wasn’t expecting the course to be as hard as it was so I wasn’t working to pick up maximum speed on the couple downhill bits to get up the many uphill ones.

Maybe four miles in I was in a pack of four or five other athletes when we rounded a corner and came face to face with a total wall of a “hill.” I heard several expletives escape the mouths around me. At least one person dismounted right there and started walking. I tried to pick up speed in the remaining space before the uphill would begin but it was pretty much a lost cause at that point.

I headed uphill and started shifting down furiously. I was able to pass a few people – some on bikes, some walking bikes – and almost had a collision with a woman who wasn’t going to make it and had decided to clip out in the middle of the road halfway up, slowing my already painful climb further.

I got about 85% up and was getting to that point where you have so little forward momentum and no remaining small rings and so the only place to go is down. There was a small flatter ledge so I popped off the bike and ran it the final bit to the top. So embarrassing but less so than if I’d gone down and caused a pile-up. I need to learn to read an elevation chart because I could have summited in my pedals rather than on my feet if I’d known to accelerate into that turn before the hill.

I clipped back in at the top and immediately we were flying down the other side. I’m still too nervous a rider to enjoy breakneck speed descents and I totally ride the brake these days when it’s really long or steep. Here the road was also pretty rough and pocked so I was especially nervous. I didn’t let myself pump the brake too much though, unsure what mountains awaited. Fortunately, while there were a few more miles of tough climbing, nothing so drastic as that wall.

Eventually we were able to get off that road and onto a nice smooth stretch of highway. The middle thirty some miles were wonderful – just really pleasant riding. The road was closed to traffic, it was well-kempt in most places, and the rolling hills were challenging enough to be interesting, but never painful. The race was also far less crowded than NYC. I thought it was perfectly populated: it wasn’t lonely but I never felt my pace confined by too many people.

We rode an out and back past the aid station at around miles 15 and 31. I stopped at the second to refill my aero bottle which took maybe a minute, then back on the road. Somewhere in the mid-40s we had another short out and back where we were sharing the road with the olympic course. It started to get hilly again and I knew I was going to have to climb up the ass side of that wall from earlier soon. When I did hit with about eight miles to go I was at least more prepared – and it wasn’t as bad from the back.

The descent  was worse though.

I clutched my brake the whole way down. I knew I could get up the remaining hills without conserving all the speed and it was so long and steep and potholed that there was no way I was going down full-steam. Conferring with braver riders later everyone I talked to said they had done the same – mostly because the road was too rough to trust at that speed.

With three miles to go we past T1 and headed over some shorter-but-steeper rollers. The road for those last miles was in the worst condition of the day. Potholes and unavoidable cracks the whole way back in. We also shared the final mile with the run course, which was a little disheartening. I knew I wasn’t putting up very competitive numbers and it sucked seeing a lot of people out running while I was still on the bike.

Over the course of the ride I drank a bottle of Hammer Heed, a bottle of water, and had two gus. I should have brought one more gu or maybe some shot bloks as I got a little hungry in the final stretch and was out of calories.  I got off the bike with tired climby legs pretty whooped from my ride.

Looking back I acknowledge that this race was named for the mountain range in which it took place, so the fact that less than half of it was brutally hilly is actually pretty kind of the course designer. I’ll try to be more cognizant of obvious hints like, this race is named after mountains when evaluating the likely terrain and elevation of a course from now on.

Once again guestimating the timing mats my Garmin logged a 2:07 T2. It was easy to locate my rack as organizers had designed T2 to exactly mirror T1 which was great. The floor racks also had our names on them which I’d never seen before and was so impressed by. I easily found my spot, changed, and was out.

As I exited T2 I checked out my overall time: 4:14. My goal had been to go sub-6, and still not in peak run-shape I had hoped to average somewhere in the low 8s for my run. Seeing how much time I’d eaten up with my slow swim and my walk/ride bike leg I realized my run was going to have to be much faster than I’d planned it. But still I thought, I can turn in a 1:45 half marathon without too much trouble – I just had to average an 8 minute mile. Totally doable.

And here again my inability to read an elevation chart and naiveté about mountain racing bit me hard in the glutes.

The first mile was pretty relaxed. I was getting my post-bike legs back so I let myself run it in the low 8s. There was a little climbing too which slowed me but I thought, that’s fine, I can make up for that. In the end that 8:24 for mile 1 ended up being my fourth fastest of the day.

The run course was BRUTAL. For the half it was two 6-mile out and backs, most of which was shared with the olympic. The first mile and a half was on the road over those same punchy rollers that had concluded the bike leg. Then we turned right onto a gravel path and ran three miles through the park. It was beautiful, and a lot of it was shaded which was a gift, but the gravel slowed everyone down, consciously and unconsciously. With my osteopenia, any not-road or track substrate makes me nervous to roll an ankle so I backed off a little. I was starting to realize I wouldn’t crack six hours.

If I hadn’t been sure about missing my sub-6 as soon as we hit the gravel, the epic hill at mile two and a half definitely hammered it home. There’d been a lot of climbing already, but suddenly I was staring down  the steepest descent I’d ever seen in a race. I pulled my glasses off so I could see the contours of the path better, and slowed almost to a walk. This was not the kind of hill where you try to make up time – it was the hill where you prayed not to break an ankle or tear something. And as an added mind-fuck to the physical challenge, given that this was an out-and-back there were people walking up it and I knew that hell loomed soon…and twice.

I got to the bottom with my bones in tact – at least as in tact as mine ever are – and tried to pick up the pace again. About half a mile later there was a much-needed aid station next to the olympic turn around. I gulped down several cups of water and gatorade – I was starting to feel really dehydrated and calorie-depleted – and kept going. The half turn-around was still a quarter mile away. A quarter mile straight uphill to be more exact.

We crossed a little bridge and immediately there was a hill almost as steep and long as the one I felt like I had just walk-jogged down. (I walked in the bike and run courses, huh?) I managed to run up and passed some walkers on the way. It hurt and it was ugly but I made it. At the top I just turned right around and went back down. It wasn’t quite as bad as going down that first cliff, but still too steep and uncertain in the footing to make up any real speed. I crossed the bridge and passed back through that aid station grabbing more water and gatorade and began to steel myself for the climb I knew was coming.

And it sucked. I managed to technically “run” the whole way but it was so steep it was almost physically impossible to run it. I knew at the top there’d be a flatish mile where I could recompose myself and just focused on that. Once at the top I focused on breathing to bring my heart rate back down some as I ran back out to the paved portion.

Speaking of heart rate – my monitor didn’t work at all during the run. It was so frustrating. Although I’m sure I was in the 180s almost the entire time so maybe it’s better I didn’t know. What the strap around my chest did succeed in doing was to chafe me raw in the center of my bottom ribs. I think it was from dumping ice and cups of water on myself at each aid station. I’m not really sure what to do about it when I have to go twice this distance and will really want those metrics in Chattanooga.

That’s September Liz’ problem though. Back on the run course I finished loop one in an uninspiring 57 minutes. As I headed to the turn around I saw Birkin and Scott. Scott hadn’t realized it was a two loop situation so he was shocked to see me and at first must have thought I was absolutely destroying the run. I told him I was hurting pretty bad. He said, ‘but you’re almost there!’ I broke the news that in fact I was not almost there and had to do that dreadful loop again. He and Birk ran the turn around with me and as far as they could back out. At least I was more than halfway through it when they bid me adieu again.

And at least the run course was a little short, so each mile marker hit a minute or so before my garmin dinged. That bit of relief really helped get me through the second half. I ran this loop pretty identically to the first. Getting gatorade and some more calories in I actually felt physically a little better, though my pace doesn’t really show it. At the end of the first loop I began getting nervous that I wouldn’t even go sub-two in the run, but with some more fuel I was able to pull myself back together so that I knew I would at least hit that mark.

While the gatorade did revive me, so many liquid calories started to wear on me and gurgle unpleasantly in parts of the second loop. I made another note to myself to up my solid calories on the bike and on the run. I again walk-jogged the big hills. Most people just walked them so I was proud to keep the run facade going there, and as I passed walkers they shouted encouragement to keep running. (By walkers I do not mean zombies to be clear, just fellow athletes who were walking and while in pain, not technically undead.) I love that about triathletes – every race the bike and run bits are peppered by words of support from total strangers. This run was so challenging that people were high fiving all over on the out and backs (and joking that this was swim-bike-hike instead of run.) It’s incredible how that human kindness and care can overwhelm the physical pain of the moment.

Once I was off the gravel and back on the pavement with two miles to go I tried to pick it up a little. Mile 12 was one of my fastest for the day and I felt like I could hold it to the end. With less than half a mile to go I saw Birkin and Scott again. They jumped in the course with me. Birkin was so happy and adorable galloping next to me with his tongue hanging out, and athletes and spectators cheered for him. I on the other hand was in agony. Scott encouraged me on and ran next to me, but I didn’t have the energy to respond. He could tell I was just about out of gas and stayed by my side despite my silent treatment. I was glad he understood and stayed with me.

At the finishing chute he and Birkin ducked to the side not realizing they were allowed to run up it with me. I again had nothing left to spit out that explanation so I just charged ahead knocking out my only mile in the 7s for the day.

I finished the run in 1:54:04 (slight negative split) and 6:07:47 overall. Eight minutes slower than my goal. It was just a training day though and I hadn’t approached it as anything more than that, so it was hard to feel too disappointed.

At the finish line a volunteer draped a cold, wet towel over my shoulders and back which felt AMAZING. It was a little after 1pm and I had finished feeling feverishly hot so that towel was a life-saver. It was also a large, legit towel and not just a dinky hand-cloth which made a huge difference in bringing my body temp down.

I paced a little as Birkin and Scott caught up to me to encourage the lactic build-up to flush out of my legs. While I paced the finish area Birkin got his own medal from some amazing volunteers! (I know they were good people because my usually anxious, shy pup warmed up quickly and started loving on them.)

There were a few ice baths which I’d never tried, but I’d also rarely been that overheated. I grabbed a seat on the rim of one and daintily dropped one leg at a time in. I found it really hurt my toesies (maybe from my Raynaud’s syndrome) but that it felt especially good on my upper legs. My glutes were absolutely thrashed from all the climbing so I (less-daintily) dunked my ass and thighs in while keeping my feet resting on the trough rim. It was not a lady-like position but it felt life-affirming.

After a few minutes (as much as I could stand) I re-soaked my towel in the ice water and then waddled my frosty wet self to the Normatec tent for some compression recovery. Ten minutes in the squeeze squeeze sleeves revived me to the point where I could walk like a regular human, so it was time to indulge in some calories.

Rev3 did a great job of providing athletes with a serious spread (meat and veggie lasagna, chicken, veggies, fresh fruits, breadsticks!) and a really good IPA from a local brewery. (I forget the name! So sorry – it was so much better than the mainstream light beer available at most races!)

Scott, Birk, and I hung out for an hour, my dudes taking advantage of the beautiful park setting, before gathering my things and heading home. Organizers did an incredible job getting everyone’s things from T1 and had hung up our numbered gear bags on hooks next to T2. Scott easily found my stuff while I grabbed Koopa Troop. There was plenty of parking at T2* and so we were back on the road to DC in no time.

*Organizers also worked hard to make the day smooth for spectators. Scott had driven me to the race start/T1 and then seen me off on the bike. Then he had to drive back to T2 to wait, but he had plenty of time to do so before they closed the road to cars. What the brilliant planners did to accommodate sherpas/spectators was to make the three miles between T1 and T2/the finish one way until I believe 8:30am so that everyone could wish their athletes well at the start line and welcome them at the finish line. I am so impressed with how smoothly Rev3 managed to direct a two-transition race.

So in conclusion, Rev3 is a fabulous race organization and I am so coming back for more with them next season. Scott and I also loved the Poconos and kept remarking on how nice it would be to do a long weekend there so maybe next year we’ll make a real vacation out of it!