Marcus Aurelius once said that, "If you are distressed by anything external, the pain is not due to the thing itself, but to your estimate of it; and this you have the power to revoke at any moment."

Now, as smart and accomplished as Mr. Aurelius was, I'm going to respectfully disagree.

I think it's safe to say that I don't scare easily. Little things like airplane turbulence and spiders and ghosts get to me. But the big things -- the things that might make other people run for the hills -- just don't. I've hurled myself down Colorado mountains in Super G races at 40 miles an hour. My favorite show event involves jumping my horse over obstacles designed to look as scary as possible (for the horse). Racing down the landing of the Pine Mountain Ski Jump, being the first-ever person on a young horse's back, running a marathon, cliff-jumping in the Colorado backcountry, scuba diving -- none of these things ever really phased me.

The Ironman, though, has proven different.

With each of these other examples, I had both the power -- and duty -- to revoke my fear of them. Because with each, fear would take up valuable space needed by attentiveness, awareness, and composure.

But I don't believe that it's possible -- or at all prudent -- to revoke one's fear of Ironman.

It is, after all, a massive undertaking. Of time. Of pushing one's body to the limit. Of knowing when you're about to go just a smidge too far. Of perfecting nutrition, both sustained and race-day. Of learning about bilateral breathing, watts, cadence, stroke, stride, and so many other ins-and-outs of this experience.

Like a new romance waning into routine, it seems that the very thing that first drew me to Ironman is now the one thing that unnerves me: simply, its magnitude scares the bejesus out of me.

When I first watched the Ironman here in Madison, I was awed by the dedication of the athletes, at how much they had given up of their lives -- of themselves -- just to compete on this one, particular day. I was awed and inspired by how far they were willing to push themselves, by all they had willingly taken on. I watched athlete after athlete last year battle it out against the rain and wind in 50 degree weather, and for some inexplicable reason I thought, "I want to be out there. I want to do this. I want to see if I can."

Yesterday, though, I was at an off-campus meeting at a co-worker's house on Rutledge Street. She has a beautiful three-season's porch on the second floor that overlooks Lake Monona, and this is where we had our meeting. From 9 a.m. until 2 p.m., I had an impossible time concentrating on strategic communications plans, upcoming issues, backfilling positions, or the myriad of other things being discussed. Instead, I couldn't stop looking out at the lake. And it stared back at me -- grey, angry, and edgy. Its small swells, tipped in white, moved haphazardly across the surface, running into one another like an aquatic game of bumper cars.

I looked out across the lake. Tried to measure with my eyes just how far 2.4 miles would be. Imagined swimming 2.4 miles in even those small swells. My stomach seized up in panic.

Before yesterday -- or maybe last weekend -- I was most worried about the bike portion of the race. About blowing a tire, getting eaten alive by the course's famed hills, having to battle wind the entire way, and/or just plain old not being fast enough to finish before the cutoff (I've started having actual nightmares about that).

After finishing a 100-miler, though, my fears have switched to the swim. This was, perhaps, not helped by a conversation I had with my master's coach in which he questioned my ability on the swim (mainly, to do it quickly) and then turned to the other guy in our class who is training for Ironman and said, "But you -- you I have no doubt about. You'll do this in less than 1:15." I wanted to explain that I just wanted to finish the swim. I wasn't out to set any records. And with a 2:20 cutoff, I thought that I could probably breast-stroke half of it and still finish. That, of course, would not be ideal, but if worse came to worse, and all that. After coach's comment, though, I started to wonder if I wasn't in over my head...yet again. It was also not helped by staring at the angry lake for hours on end yesterday.

So, I took to my computer, and started reading people's race reports about the swim. They said things like "I got kicked, punched, and swum over, but found a space and settled into a good stroke," and "It was over before I knew it." Not helpful.

Next, I went to YouTube to watch some of the Ironman swims -- a sea of 2,000 sets of arms and legs all competing for the same space. All trying to get there first. All seemingly going much faster than the nice, relaxed pace that I had envisioned, that all the books talked about.

Then, I threw up.

It is a vicious cycle. The only way I feel centered is when I'm working out, hard. Only then do I feel like I have even a little, tiny grasp on this thing...like I can get the frantic feeling under control. But then I worry that it's too much, and come September, I won't have anything left or I'll be injured...or both.

Everyone talks about the Ironman as not being three disciplines (swimming, biking, and running), but four. They add nutrition as the fourth pillar. I think, for first-timers, I'd add a fifth: thinking. I've found that my psychological state can make or break a workout, and obviously, it's now starting to infringe on my training plan.

The thing that makes the Ironman different than almost any other athletic event is that you can't simply prepare and hope for the best, and console yourself that you will try your best and you will finish. Most people could walk the majority of a marathon and still finish within the regulation time. Most people can do a century ride and go into it with the attitude that they're in relatively good shape, and even if they end up coming in last, there will be other people near the end with them.

Not so in the Ironman. There are a million things that can go wrong, and being only moderately prepared can mean that you miss a cutoff time and your race is over. These cutoff times, in addition, are not generous. Two hours and twenty minutes for the swim, ten hours and thirty minutes for the swim/bike combined, and 17 hours overall. For the bike leg, you have to average more than 14.5 mph. For the normal person, this is quick going over 112 miles. Having your mind made up that you're going to finish, no matter what, does not mean that you can or will. In 2 hours and 21 minutes, or 8 hours and 10 minutes, all that you've worked or sacrificed for could be for naught. If you arrive at 17:01, after everything you've done and accomplished -- not only that day but the 366 days preceding it -- you risk not hearing those famed words, "You are an Ironman."

When you're standing on the inside of this experience, it's even crazier and scarier than it appears. I know that for a lot of first-timers, none of what I'm thinking or feeling is unusual. But that doesn't mean that I get to ignore it or brush it aside. I have so much into this race -- financially, physically, emotionally, and any other -ly that you could think of -- and I'm doing everything I can think of to do it right.

So, I've gotten myself a life/wellness coach to help me sort all of this out the next few months -- someone who is a triathlete, has done the Ironman before (in under 13 hours!), and has dealt with the rigors of training while holding down a demanding job and juggling other life requirements, and has professional training in coaching someone to a goal like the Ironman. Updates to come.