Race Day Lead-Up
I registered for the inaugural Ironman Virginia 70.3 (IMVA) or the race formerly known as Rev3 Williamsburg just before it sold out in the fall. Originally I wanted nothing to do with Ironman buying out the race that introduced me to Rev3 and refused to sign up, even as more and more Speed Sherpa friends threw their names in. When Tiff decided to make it her first half iron distance though I had to join. So I registered thinking I would be heading into the race fit as hell after Boston and a heavy winter training block.
Instead I broke my hip, spent the winter on crutches, and blah blah blah. I held out hope for a while that I might be able to finish it but when I was still relearning how to walk in March I knew it was unlikely I’d be running 13.1 miles on May 5th. A Rev3 teammate who was dealing with a shoulder injury and thus unable to swim agreed to be my run legs. Then Ironman, being the faceless soulless corporation they are said no-go to that, and I was left to either DNS or DNF all by myself.
If Tiff hadn’t been running I would have absolutely dropped out and not gone down to Williamsburg at all. Some people suggested I volunteer at the race but I volunteer at a ton of races and didn’t really feel the need to volunteer for an organization that was treating me so poorly in my time of need. In the weeks leading up to race day I just stayed focused on my recovery, working hard at physical therapy twice a week but also taking things slow. I tried not to put any pressure on myself to be some sort of “ready” on race day, figuring I would just see how much of it I could safely finish come May 5th.
When I ran my first mile in over half a year only three weeks before race day it was abundantly clear that finishing was not in the cards. My PT said whatever my run mileage was up to that first week in May would be what I was allowed to do in Virginia. I kept hoping I’d get to 6 miles by then but as of blog publication in mid-June I’m still not there yet. Come race week I was up to four miles running at a time, and I’d done two bike rides outside, the longest being 45 miles – 45 slow and painful miles. I thought my cycling and swimming would have been in a better place but I’d had to come back slowly in both those disciplines as well so going into “race day” I just wanted to finish the swim and the bike in one piece, and then maybe try a few miles of the run if I felt up to it.
That was the tentative plan when Tiff trained down to DC on Friday afternoon. I hoped I’d get to do some or even most of the race and that I wouldn’t hurt myself further (or embarrass myself). Mostly though I hoped it would be a big weekend for Tiff. She’d been working so hard all winter, and especially after the disappointment of Nations 2018 being cancelled, I wanted her to have a great first Iron weekend.
Race-Day Eve
We loaded up my Mini (Yoshi) and were on the road by 9am Saturday morning. We arrived at the race site around 12:30 and immediately were set upon by Rev3-turned-Speed Sherpa bff Clarice. The three of us picked up our packets and did a little retail damage before Tiff and I went out for some 20 min bike-10 min run openers.
The three of us made it to the Historic Powhatan where most of Speed Sherpa was staying for the team picture. It was great to goof around with the team for a bit and meet several new Sherps and while I still had no idea what sort of “race day” I’d be having, I was happy I’d come down.
Afterward we three amigas checked into our own insanely nice suite at the hotel and Tiff and I convinced Clarice that she should just spend the night with us rather than sleep at home in Virginia Beach an hour away. (Our suite was 2 bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and slept 6 comfortably!) I was over the moon getting two of my favorite people in the world together and, not surprisingly, they hit it off.
We opted to dinner at Paul’s Deli, Clarice and I fondly remembering the pizzas from Rev3 Williamsburg last year. What we failed to remember was that they were insanely thick crust and massive, and that we didn’t each need an individual large pizza, plus garlic bread, plus salad, plus chicken parmigiana. (The myriad servers who took our orders also could have warned us as much but we were acting pretty cocky about how much food we could put away and the staff was probably excited to see the wings melt off our gastro-hubris.)
During dinner my hip began talking to me, and I didn’t dig what it was saying. I didn’t like that it was speaking at all. After 20 slow bike minutes and 10 slow run minutes it shouldn’t have had anything to say and if it was protesting after a lowkey half hour of work how was it going to react to (some/most of) a half ironman? I forced down deep dish pizza and stewed in silence, angry at my body – a feeling with which I’ve become well-acquainted.
After a trip to Publix, during which my hip kept up its unwelcome blabbing, we returned to the sweet suite – leftovers in hand – to get down to the real and final business of laying out the next day’s race gear.
Following a brief Youtube tutorial Tiff KT-taped my right shoulder together, because why wouldn’t I be also dealing with painful swimmer’s shoulder? As she patiently and generously tried to put me back together again I felt ridiculous. My hip was still recovering, my fitness was garbage, and even my upper body wasn’t in a good place. I finally said outloud what I had been thinking since dinner: I was strongly considering a DNS – not starting at all. I wasn’t ready for a single part of the race. Plus the forecast was falling apart with thunderstorms predicted all day. I would be unprepared AND miserable.
By the time I put words to my hesitations I had probably 75% already decided not to start. Clarice and Tiff were understanding and supportive either way but encouraged me just see how the morning felt. We put everything in ziploc bags to protect against the next day’s rainy forecast. This included nutrition, multiple pairs of dry socks, bike gloves, a headband, and a phone charger for after the race.
Race Morning
It was as fun as 4:30am can be getting ready with Tiff and Clarice. I was still grappling with whether I would be starting, but I didn’t want to dwell outloud on it and impact their big days. Clarice was chasing a podium and 70.3 Worlds Qualification and Tiff was tackling her first ever half iron distance. I cared a lot more about their days than my own.
We dressed, made coffee, and obsessed over the weather which still called for all-day thunderstorms and even flooding. Tiff was impressively zen about it having trained through the New York winter in all sorts of cold and wet and remarking that it actually took a lot of pressure off the day. The girl has endurance sports in her blood and I’m calling it now: in the next year or two she’s going to utterly dominate her first full iron.
Wanting to go out in the first swim wave, around 5:20 Clarice hit the road. Tiff and I were ten minutes behind her, and despite some traffic getting into the race site and parking, we all arrived with sufficient (if not plenty of) time to ready our racks in transition and hit the swim.
I zombied through set-up still unsure whether I was going to start. Since I wasn’t planning on “racing” even if I did decide to start I didn’t do much transition prep. I pumped my tires and porta pottied and otherwise left everything sealed in my hopefully watertight tri-bag. In addition to all my ziplocs my bag was filled with towels and even my bike and run shoes. It was pretty nice not worrying about laying it all out in the quickest most accessible way; if I decided to follow through with the swimming and biking and running, I would take my time digging out whatever hopefully-dry accoutrements I needed.
After porta-pottying (there were plenty in transition and lines were not bad) I grabbed my wetsuit, swimcap, and goggles, and Tiff and I headed to the swim start a quarter mile or so walk away. We chatted and I tried not to think about what was coming. I was going through the triathlon motions and yet still not committed to starting. Case in point, I realized I’d left my heart rate strap in DC and normally would have had a mini (or maxi) panic attack about it, but just shrugged it off deciding if I went through with some of the race I’d just go off rate of perceived exertion – with the goal of keeping the exertion low.
It was a half mile or so walk to the swim start so I had plenty of time to make a choice one way or the other but I unenthusiastically and indecisively trudged along unsure whether to start the race or not. Even as Tiff zipped me into my neoprene – no easy task with all the lingering crutches weight – I wasn’t convinced I was going to be doing any swimming, biking, or running. But squeezed into my wetsuit I followed Tiff to the self-seeding swim line and pulled my swim cap on. Not that I ever aggressively seed myself in the water, but that morning I was particularly unassertive as Tiff and I slipped into the line in with what I think was the 40 minute or so crowd – a time I would normally be quite disappointed in…if I decided to swim.
Swim
There was no great sign from the universe or moment of clarity to dissuade me from starting the race and so I shuffled forward with Tiff and the crowd around me. Just before the dock we were told to pair off which was great. I got to walk two-by two with Tiff and try to impart any last minute encouragement I could. (My ambivalence did not extend to her race.) The swim entrance was efficient and uneventful, we just stepped off the low-sitting dock into the water and we were off. No time to panic or think too hard – perfect for a first time iron-er (Tiff) and perfect for someone who was still considering bailing even as her feet hit the water (me).
Rather than yield completely to that apathy and sink, I began to swim, if irresolutely, as I stepped off the dock. The water was 74.1 degrees, so squarely wetsuit legal, but warm enough that I was nervous I’d made a mistake in bringing my longsleeve wetsuit. (And starting.) Once we got moving though the temperature and my sleeves were actually quite comfortable. (To be fair, I was not exactly exerting myself so my body temp was not exactly climbing.)
While I wasn’t really exerting myself, I did feel solid and confident the first couple hundred meters. I’ve had some good swim workouts while rehabbing my hip – swimming was the first thing I was greenlit to do after all. I hadn’t done any long swim workouts, which had me a little apprehensive entering the water – as did the taped-together shoulder – but I really felt like I’d made some gains in the last few weeks. My shorter intervals had gotten markedly faster – faster 100s and 200s would totally translate into a faster 1.2 miles, right? Well for 500 or so meters it felt like yes.
I was focusing on rhythm and form and my shoulder was holding. For a few minutes I shrugged off my earlier apprehension and felt confident I’d get this swim done and done decently well.
The swim course is sort of an L-shape following the shoreline 1200m west before hooking a hard left for 800m south to the exit. Somewhere about halfway down that first stretch a man swam up onto my legs, which, ya know, whatever, that’s how tri swimming goes. He backed off and I continued on, until two strokes later when the same guy was on top of me again. Again he backed off and I felt a little grumbly but still not a big deal. Then suddenly he was there a third time and this time not backing off – he seemed like he was just going to try to swim all the way over me because he apparently couldn’t find his way around a tiny woman in a quarter mile wide river. That or he really doesn’t get that drafting usually doesn’t include assault. This time I kicked hard catching him a few times in the chest and arms before he backed off. At one point he whacked my bad hip and then I really started flapping my legs hoping to do some (light) damage. I would say he was the second most aggressive swim-douche I’ve encountered in my seven seasons of tri-ing, though I may have been particularly sensitive to anyone making even accidental contact with my hip.
After the aqua-pugilism I struggled to get back into any sort of rhythm. I started to feel tired and defeated, and my goggles which had fogged up almost immediately upon entering the water were really starting to make me crazy. I couldn’t sight at all which was hampering my already-discombobulated stroke. I was having to periodically stop completely to squint through the fog for the next buoy and to confirm that I was still swimming on-course.
Around halfway through I pulled them off and tried to defog the useless little lenses but within a few strokes they were totally opaque again. After this I tried every few minutes to defog and readjust, and my will to continue waned with my pace. By the last 500m I was barely moving forward. I considered breast stroking or doggie paddling.
I tried so hard to find my form again, focusing on my kick which has gotten SO much stronger since starting at Swimbox. Around this time my left quad started seizing strangely. I think I’ve taken this left leg for granted while rehabbing my right hip, and I can tell from how sore that left quad was the day after the race that indeed it’s bearing the brunt of the work. It’s a good reminder not to let myself get or stay imbalanced during this ongoing recovery. I’m sorry left leg! I’ll do better by you and I appreciate you!
As I finally, arduously, reached the exit dock I was so miserable and disappointed in myself that I had pretty much decided to DNF before even trying the bike. Hitting my garmin I saw a swim time of 39:55 (official time was even worse – 40:21) and thought, ‘yeah, I’m done with today.’
T1
Longest transition report ever to celebrate the longest transition ever!
Organizers had towed in a long low dock to make swim exit easier, which was good because the bottom of the river there is such soft (naaaasty) mud you can’t actually stand in it to pull yourself out of the water. Volunteers were offering their hands but I eschewed the help probably out of grumpy disappointment in my poor swim performance and awkwardly hauled myself out of the mud, sort of sommersaulting onto the dock. I was immediately embarrassed but perhaps my grumpery was for the best as one of the volunteers grabbed Tiff and yanked her out of the water so hard she banged her right knee hard into the gangplank and it swelled like a sportsball of some kind within a couple hours.
Speaking of Tiff, as I looked up from my embarrassing dock tumbling routine there she was. I called out to her and was thrilled to see she was grinning and totally in the game. She said something I didn’t quite catch as she ran ahead.
It was a long haul to transition, and under normal race circumstances I would have sprinted it to make up time. Most people around me at least jogged in but I just walked. And slowly. I tried a few run steps here and there, my race ego struggling to make sense of all these people passing, but I didn’t want to push it and was pretty sure I was about to DNF anyway. I did gladly accept help from some of the wetsuit strippers lining the chute, and once disrobed I kept walking.
I then spent 18 minutes wandering transition trying to feel out my hip and decide what to do. I leisurely bathroomed and chatted up some rackmates who one by one left me to bike. It was raining steadily at this point, and over the course of those 18 minutes the rain got markedly heavier.
Around minute 14 I decided I couldn’t stomach the idea of 3.5 hours slowly plodding and potentially hurting while the weather continued to disintegrate. I decided to quit and not even try to mentally and physically tackle the ride. A volunteer was leaning on the fence nearby and I told her I wanted to DNF and asked what I do. She didn’t know and said I should go ask some of the volunteers by the run out chute. I had put on my bike shoes before making the decision to call it quits, so I went back to my rack to put on sneakers before finding a more senior race official. (Yes I had been wondering transition aimlessly in bike shoes; no I didn’t porta-potty in them – for that I went barefoot.) When I went to take my shoes off though, something in the back of my head and my heart wouldn’t let me. I couldn’t fathom in my physical and mental shape going 56 waterlogged miles, but I could less fathom quitting. I think I audibly groaned as I gave in, pulled my bike off the rack, fished some gloves out of my bag (hey raynaud’s friends!) and headed toward the bike out.
Again I walked, and not with purpose but with every hesitation, waiting for any reason to throw in the towel. I second-guessed myself the whole way, trying to find the will to quit. But somehow I suddenly found myself grimly and wetly passed the mount line throwing my leg over the saddle and clipping in for who knew what kind of soggy misadventure. At 17:58 it was by far and away my longest (and most fraught) transition ever.
The Bike
Somehow in 7 seasons of triathlon-ing I’ve never had a bike in real rain. I always get the 100+ degree days, but I’ve avoided the downpour days. I’ve done some wet practice rides, but I was really intimidated for 56 race day miles in the rain. And the forecast called for a lot of rain. On the uh, bright side, this was the perfect race in which to brave wet conditions for the first time as the only goal was to finish as much as I safely could. I wasn’t trying to PR, or podium or even maintain a certain pace. Quite the opposite really, I was trying to keep myself as slow and relaxed as I could.
Going in I was thinking if I maintain a 16mph average overall I’ll come in right at 3:30 and that isn’t terrible. Then there I was in the saddle, in the rain, and not mentally in the race at all, and I wanted to be done sooner than three and a half hours. With the rain and the early course crowding I sat up most of the first five miles hovering between 16 and 17 mph. I was letting people pass me who I normally would not and hanging back and staying lowkey. I started to feel proud of myself for getting out there and I was happy to see the rain wasn’t an issue. I knew enough to avoid the painted roadlines and any metal like manhole covers or grates, and otherwise it was no big deal. I thought to myself, ‘at some point it’s going to rain at a race that I’ll care about a lot more than this one, and I won’t panic because of today.’ That alone made the day a victory.
The first 15 miles went by really quickly and mostly uneventfully. The outside of my hip felt achey through some of it but knowing how psychological a lot of the recovery pain is I powered through and by mile ten it had mostly shut up. The first aid station was at mile 15 and I was feeling a little hungry and concerned that I didn’t have any sort of nutrition plan and had only brought two gels and some shotbloks. I was already feeling proud of myself for getting out on the bike and I decided to push the bike milestones a little further.
I am embarrassed to say this but I usually fully stop at bike aid stations* rather than stick my hand out to grab things from volunteers – I’m that suspicious of my bike handling. I decided today was the day to change that. (I still stopped at the halfway point station because I can’t open a bottle of gatorade, open my aero bottle, and refill said aero bottle with said gatorade while riding. Also I’m in terrible shape and wanted to stand upright on the solid earth for a few minutes halfway through.) But pulling up to this first station I called out what I needed – a gel – grabbed it, ate it, and rolled on through. It was no big deal but it felt like an accomplishment. (I think I’m really overcoming my lack of confidence rather than lack of handling at this point but the anxiety remains.)
*This is only an issue in half and full iron distances, otherwise I can carry what I need and feed myself, I promise.
I had averaged 17 mph over the first 15 miles and had felt really easy-breezy the whole way. (Wet too, but ya know, breezy.) Miles 15-25 I did closer to 18mph and with the influx of calories and riding high off my impressive (remedial) bike handling it felt like nothing. The rain was coming down harder now, my feet were feeling a little chilled, but I just tried to see it as more learning that would pay off in later races.
At mile 21ish we crossed active railroad track followed immediately by a tight righthand turn onto Route 60 where we would spend almost 15 miles. I’d been really apprehensive about the tracks – how slick they would be or how bumpy. I didn’t want to spin out or lose my water bottles or get stuck there waiting for a train which organizers warned could happen. This very technical obstacle was heavily manned by volunteers and I made sure to slow down and put my tires perpendicular to the tracks. It was definitely stressful but as soon as it was done I was thrilled to have overcome a strange new bike challenge. Yet another thing to feel proud of.
That pride gave way to frustration as Route 60 was in terrible shape; I found those 15 miles to be the least enjoyable part of the bike. I was handling the weather, but this stretch of “pavement” pushed the limits of what a tri bike could or should handle. Ironman had changed the old Rev3 Williamsburg course I think to deal with permitting and accommodating three times the participants that we saw with Rev. I’d been really concerned about how crowded the roads would be and how the area’s drivers would react as they had been aggressive in places the past two years. Ironman was able to block off lanes here on Route 60 and I didn’t find cars to be as big an issue this year, but the roads themselves were rough. I found it hard to ride in aero at all with wheel-rattling seams in the road every ten feet or so.
I started to get hungry and fade hard around mile 25. A wave of exhaustion hit me really suddenly and I had the strongest urge to pull over and take a nap. I was almost to the halfway mark and started thinking, maybe now is the time to DNF. There was a halfway point aid station coming up and I couldn’t believe how suddenly this fatigue had set in. It wasn’t muscle fatigue, it really just felt like I couldn’t keep my eyes open and needed to get in a REM or 10. I’ve never experienced it in a race and the the thought, ‘I probably have Lyme Disease’ definitely crossed (and lingered on) my mind. It was that bizarre.
The halfway point aid station sat atop a little climb and I decided to stop there, swap out my gatorade (as explained above) and give myself a few minutes to feel out my ability to continue. As I refilled my aero bottle I chatted with a volunteer who was so kind and encouraging. I told her that ten weeks before I was relearning how to walk and now I just needed a few minutes rest. She cheered me on and her enthusiasm, plus a little break and a banana revived me, and I decided to give the second half of the bike a go.
I think I spent maybe four minutes at the aid station before pulling back into traffic. It brought my average for miles 25-30 down to 14.8mph but I was really unbothered by it. I was feeling good from a little break and some extra fuel, and continuing past the halfway point newly determined to finish the bike I felt pride wash over me.
Pride and rain and a chill. I had been remarkably comfortable riding in the rain, even as it picked up throughout the first half of the ride. I didn’t feel cold, I definitely didn’t feel hot, and minus a brief burst during which it did pour pretty hard, I didn’t think about the weather much at all. Stopping for a few minutes brought my heartrate down and as I got going again, the air moving across my wet arms and legs and toes especially felt newly chilled. I worried for a few miles that the stop had been a mistake and that I wouldn’t get comfortable again, but by the time I was ticking away miles 30-35 I felt better. (Self-manufactured) crisis averted.
Miles 30-40 were generally pleasant and uneventful. There were some tight technical turns which I enjoyed, some more crappy roads which I did not, and mercifully we got off Route 60. My lack of fitness was definitely wearing on me even as I continued to try and ride lowkey, only averaging a little over 16mph. I felt like I’d already overcome so much to be 30 and then 40 miles into a bike ride – the rain, the road conditions, my physical and mental lack of preparedness – so I very deliberately shook any negative thoughts away. I wasn’t out there to ride fast, I was out there just to be out there and to celebrate that after a really terrible injury I was getting to use my body again.
I knew miles 40 through 50 included the trickiest, most technical riding of the day as well as more craptastic roads but I was feeling up for the challenge. Right after mile 40 we emerged from the woods and a particularly bumpy bit of riding to traverse the Little Creek Reservoir. It was idyllic entering this clearing next to the water and I felt a sentimental and emotional until I noticed a dead otter on the shoulder of the road. I could have done without that, but I’ve also read the Vox article from a few years ago about how otters are “necrophiliac, serial killing fur monsters” so I wasn’t too bothered. (And if you clicked on that link you’re welcome for ruining otters for you too.)
Once past the water-weasel cemetery we were back in the woods and faced the biggest climbs of a mostly flat or rolling course. At mile 42 we hit a downhill that wound itself around a large curve so that no one could see what was coming, and between that, the rough road, and the rain, everyone rode their brakes a little too hard. Rounding this long curve all of a sudden the descent gave way to a sizable ascent. People around me made the abrupt decision to abandon whip. Every last athlete I could see unclipped and dismounted to walk the climb rather than get halfway up, lose steam, and tip. I wasn’t having it though. The day had become all about improving my handling and tackling challenges so I gathered as much speed as I could, quickly shifted down, and began to climb. It was arduous and I felt my lack of fitness acutely as I labored to breathe and to work my leaden legs, but slowly I passed all the walkers and found myself at the top of the hill, still in my saddle and thrilled with myself. The people on foot cheered me on and I carried their good will with me as I crested the little peak and the road leveled off.
At mile 48 we repeated the whole episode with riders around me again mostly bailing on a climb while I muscled through. Once again I was ecstatic with myself and my body. After each successful summit I cried a little bit, grateful to be outside moving my legs. After months of resenting my bones, battling depression and self-hatred, I finally felt proud of this body and happy to be living in it.
Hell I welled up with gratitude at numerous points throughout the whole bike ride. The rain kept my sappy secret every time I teared up but truth is I was in my feelings the whole 56 miles. A few times I realized it was from Ellen’s old adage that if you have feelings on the bike it means you need to eat something, but really it was one of the most emotional races I’ve ever done, rivaling the New York City Marathon and full Ironman for sheer sentimentality.
I got through the bad roads and zigging and zagging of miles 40-50, actually enjoying that section the most for its technical challenges. I only averaged a bit over 16mph but I was feeling positive about my performance. At the final aid station around mile 44 I again tested my handling calling out for more gels as I rolled through. At this final station they hadn’t pre-cut them though so then I had to open it and eat it which may not sound like a big deal but I didn’t wear my post-braces retainer as a kid and as a result my front teeth don’t touch and opening things with my still-crooked chompers requires some unbecoming side-mouth-gnawing. It was ok though – just one more bike handling obstacle to conquer!
Over the last six miles we turned back toward transition and I was feeling exhausted but elated. The rain had mostly trickled off and I dropped a mini hammer averaging 18mph coming home. I have rarely felt more proud of myself or accomplished as I did turning right back down the hill into transition.
Ultimately I turned in a 3:19 which was just under 17mph and included a 3 or 4 minute pitstop at that halfway point aid station. With the exception of a few minutes of low blood sugar thanks to riding with basically no nutrition plan I felt good and aerobically untaxed the whole way, so if that’s my untrained, recovery, laid back baseline time I will absolutely take it.
T2
At 12-and-a-half minutes T2 wasn’t quite as leisurely as T1, but all told I spent over 30 minutes in transition during the race. That is something! Is it something to be proud of? I dunno. I half expect organizers to see those results and reach out to check on me at some point. When Ironman is putting together their points for their All World Athletes next year maybe they could consider some unorthodox categories like, most apathetic, or most time spent wandering the racks mid-race.
T1 was shorter than T2 but otherwise pretty similar. I felt out my hip, I porta pottied – in shoes this time – met some people who all left me for the run, and ultimately if not decisively I opted to try run-walking one 10k lap of the 2 lap course. The biggest deciding factor was that I would get to see Tiff in action and cheer her toward her imminent first 70.3 finish line. Despite my apparent cycling success I was terrified that the run would be too much and thwart my recovery. But I also had my PT’s blessing for the one lap, run-a-mile-walk-half plan I’d come up with and so I headed out.
The Run
I walked to the run out chute and reluctantly picked up my feet into a jog. I was PETRIFIED that any step might be my last EVER, but my hip felt ok even as I traversed the overgrown grassy quarter mile leading to the out and back paved run path. People lined the run chute and their cheers were a welcome distraction from my hip-obsession. I couldn’t help smiling through my terror as I picked my slow way up to the main course.
The run was almost identical to the old Rev3 course – two 10K laps up and down over the big bridge and then out and back on a mostly-flat, mostly-shaded bike path. The setup allows for maximal interaction with other competitors and I couldn’t wait to see teammates out on the trail. (Though Clarice had already long-since finished absolutely destroying the day with a 2nd place AG and 4th OA finish – sorry to miss her but not sorry that she blew the race away!)
I checked and rechecked my watch as I ran up to and over the bridge waiting to hit the one mile mark and obediently drop to a walk per my PT agreement. My legs felt clumsy but the rain had had stopped and left the day cooler than I’ve ever experienced in Williamsburg, and I was holding a mid-9 pace while climbing, dipping into the low 9s and upper 8s as I ran down the bridge. My effort felt really measured and easy as was the plan.
One mile in my watch buzzed and I saw I’d done a 9:11 which felt right on target. I was supposed to start walking, but as I slowed I really just wanted to keep the jog going. I decided then and there to amend the run-walk equation I’d agreed to with my PT and do 1.25 miles running, .25 miles walking. I was feeling too good and decided to push the envelope a little bit.
At 1.25 miles I did walk per my new agreement with myself. It was mentally hard to make myself walk, as I didn’t feel like I needed to. Nothing was hurting and I found walking while others ran around me to be more of a mindfuck than I’d expected. Still I forced my feet down until I hit a mile-and-a-half, then eagerly picked them back up. Running down the rest of mile two I clocked that second mile at 10:24.
Though I didn’t like taking those walk breaks I stuck to the revised plan. It made for interesting socializing as when I was running I was fast enough to pass a lot of people, but many of them passed me right back when I slowed for my quarter mile walk interludes. As we leapfrogged I made friends with people. One wonderful woman in her 50s or 60s wearing a fascinator hat like she was casually enroute to a royal wedding, started shouting, “see you soon!” every time one of us passed the other. (I wish I’d thought to memorize her bib number!)
I got to see Tiff and Erica and Peyton and others out on the run course just like I’d hoped. Most of them were a lap ahead of me and all were working a lot harder than I was. Each time I passed a teammate was a jolt of joy that made me think about how I’d almost quit before I even started. I was so happy I had followed through with the swim and the bike and this version of the run.
While I ran I I tried to keep my pace right around 9 mins/mile. It was tough because I was having a great time and felt so good and untaxed. Almost every time I looked at my Garmin I found that I’d dropped down into the mid-8s and had to pull the pace back. I was happy that even with the quarter mile walk breaks I was still maintaining averages in the mid-10s. My ego was smarting from having to walk at all and from the impending DNF and I don’t think I could have stuck to my walk-run guns if my mile pace averages had crept over 11 mins.
Somewhere around the turnaround I started thinking, ‘I could easily handle another lap of this…’ I didn’t want it to end. I didn’t want to have to find an official and DNF. I wanted the finish line. I was doing the math and at that walk-run rate I could finish the half marathon in 2:10 which seemed really reasonable. My hip hadn’t made a peep since mile 10 or 15 of the bike and I just wanted to stay out and see the whole day through.
But I also really didn’t want to finish this race at the expense of the rest of my summer and my recovery. I could not decide what to do as miles four and five clicked easily by. Around mile five I heard a woman say, “great! Only 8 to go!” And that shook something loose for me. I was feeling good but I wasn’t even halfway thru the walk-run and my bones could turn on me. I remembered my orthopedist’s warning that at some point I’d start to feel good in training and that was the danger zone – when I could go too far and set myself back months. It wasn’t worth it.
Approaching the bridge and closing out my sixth mile I decided to stick with my DNF. I had already pushed myself by running more and walking less than planned, and that seemed sufficiently edgy. I was sad my day was about to be over, but so proud of myself and I wanted to be there when Tiff ran down that chute toward her first 70.3 finish line. I gave myself permission to run the rest of the way to the halfway point – and to enjoy it – where I would hand in my timing chip and end my day.
But first I had to get up and down the bridge once more. When I’m in good shape hills are a run-strength and lack-of-fitness be damned, I decided I wouldn’t back down from this one. My heartrate climbed as I did but I charged ahead and started picking people off. While I’d enjoyed myself through the whole walk-run, I had felt uncoordinated. Now, for the first time in months and months of recovery, I started to feel like a runner again. Hills just get my legs working right, and for a few amazing minutes my cadence and stride all fell into place. I had this existential moment where I literally thought, ‘I’m me again.’ I’m so glad I went through with the day for that fleeting feeling moment alone.
All too soon I was over the top of the bridge and running back down and toward the turnaround where I would have to throw in the towel. I wanted to keep going but I knew I was making the right choice. There was an aid station at the halfway mark – 6.6 miles – and I alerted one of the volunteers that I was dropping out. She radioed it in to organizers and while we waited for them to radio back and confirm me, I got to talk to some of the young high school women running the aid station.
Turned out they were all on a cheerleading squad. A few of them told me they wanted to cheer in college and I got to tell them my husband had done that. A couple said they wished they could do something like this half iron but didn’t think they ever could. Then I got to tell them how just ten weeks prior I was relearning how to walk and that while I didn’t get to finish I did get to be out there and they absolutely could do it too. I hated having to stop, but I loved getting to talk these girls – it is no surprise that the kind of teenagers that make the time to volunteer for a bunch of strangers on a Sunday were wonderful to spend a few minutes with.
Post-Race (DNF)
Eventually my DNF was worked out and I relinquished my chip and walked away from the course. My final time (per my Garmin) over those 6.6 miles was 1:05:48 which I felt pretty good about all-told. I made my way to the finish line, still awash in a mix of happy pride and DNF disappointment. I found a spot 100 feet or so from the end to cheer on Tiff and other teammates as they ran in. After a few minutes Josh and his daughters – two of my most favorite littles in the world – found me and we got to cheer our people in together.
When Tiff approached my goal was to scream so loud I’d almost embarrass her. She looked so proud of herself and getting to witness (and scream at) her triumph I was finally fully onboard with my DNF – if I’d continued on I would have missed her big moment. One she finished, she, Clarice, and I found each other and got to raid the athlete food tent together. The biggest victory of the weekend is definitely that two of my favorite people are now friends, and as long as they never cut me out as the embarrassing DNF-ing third wheel I hope we can all continue to race together. (Maybe when Clarice gets her pro card she’ll let Tiff and I tag along as her pit crew!)
Eventually we had to call it a wrap on the weekend. We returned to transition – where I had spent oh so much time that day – and collected our bikes and belongings. We had to hug Clarice goodbye but with plans to all be back together at Escape the Cape in New Jersey. Tiff and I got on the road and the ride back went as not-terribly as can be hoped on I-95. We closed out the weekend with Thai food and Game of Thrones and all was well with the world. (Although all was not well with Westeros. #BrienneDeservedBetter)
