This Thing Called Ironman
Friday, August 31, 2007

Posted by Erin 9:29 AM 3 comments

Race Numbers Are Up!
Thursday, August 30, 2007

BIB NUMBER		FIRST NAME	AGE	SEX		DIVISION	CITY	ST/PROV
102		ERIN	31	F		W30-34	MADISON	WI

I'm taking a quick break from vacation to announce that race numbers have been assigned (thanks for the heads-up, Xt4!). That means that the actual race is right around the corner. Wahoo!

My dad keeps asking me (over and over again) if I'm nervous (mostly, it seems, because he is nervous for me). And I keep saying no. Because I'm not. I'm excited, plain and simple. All of the hard work is done, and that -- the hours that I've put in -- is the only thing under my control at this point.

So, watch for #102 on September 9th. More details to follow on how to track my progress that day. For now, I'm off to eat Thai food and drink a glass of wine by the pool.

Posted by Erin 3:38 PM 1 comments

Plus One
Monday, August 27, 2007

This weekend, thanks to some creative scheduling (or rescheduling) of workouts, Chief of Stuff and I made a round-trip-plus-some journey to Kansas City to pick up the newest member of the clan, Newton Clarence.

The trip itself was uneventful: eight-some hours to KC, a quick stop off at the house of the Missouri Vizsla rescue coordinator's house (who, in a bit of Vizsla trivia, turned out to be the daughter of the first Vizsla owner/breeder in the U.S., Frank Tallman), and then a few hours northeast to Iowa City. We finished the trip on Sunday, stopping in Madison only to pick up our bikes, and then continuing on to Iron Mountain so Newt could meet his new fur-brother, Leonard, and fur-cousin, Nolan.

Thankfully, the two have hit it off, and Newt is adjusting well. He's such a sweet little guy, and looooves to play fetch (which his new grandpa is completely impressed by, given Leonard's complete and total ineptitude for the game). So far, we've discovered that, while Newt's a pro at fetch, he doesn't understand keep-away -- Leonard's game of choice -- one iota. Perhaps they'll come to an understanding eventually...

Today, my mom and her friend took Leonard and Newt for a five-mile walk around Lake Antione and reported that Newt did splendidly.

Meanwhile, I fought my way through serious chop for two miles, and followed that by a miserable 10-mile run. I didn't pay close enough attention to my nutrition during the day, I think, and a breakfast of scrambled eggs, three tiny pieces of minimalist pizza, and a mojo bar does not a three-hour workout make. Needless to say I got it done, but it wasn't pretty.

I dropped off my bike this morning at the local shop and it was all rarin' and ready to go by tonight, so I have one more semi-tough workout to make up tomorrow, and then it's on the home stretch to Ironman, complete with a week's vacation with nothing much at all planned other than some working out and relaxing (and maybe some poolside evening-out of the weird tan lines I've developed this summer) in Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

After that, the hardest thing that remains is figuring out what to do with the two (or three, if Nolan comes) dogs during Ironman day...

Here are some pics from Newt and Leonard's first day together (#1: Leonard and Newt, #2:distinguished Newt, #3: perplexed Newt, #4: my mom and Newt...and if somebody -- anybody -- can tell me an easy way to format pics on blogger, I'll be forever indebted. Dear god, I've just spent half and hour trying to just get them all to line up in a row, and don't even get me started on how I tried in vain to get captions next to each.)

Posted by Erin 6:49 PM 10 comments

In Case This PR Thing Doesn't Work Out
Friday, August 24, 2007

Reading September's Outside magazine last night, I came across the article "Swim. Bike. Run. Shoot. Kill." in which the author writes about how the Navy SEALS are targeting ultra-distance athletes like Ironmen in their recruiting these days, and in doing so, have upped their graduation rates.

The reason? Endurance athletes, specifically triathletes, are equally comfortable on land as in water, and moreover, have a much higher tolerance for pain and discomfort than the average non-Ironman SEAL candidate.

Alas, despite what G.I. Jane led us to believe, the SEALS still don't take women into their ranks.

I can't provide a link to the article, as Outside doesn't post theirs electronically, but if you can get your hands on a copy, it's an interesting, engaging read.

Posted by Erin 9:07 AM 0 comments

My Favorite Thing About This Morning Was NOT My Open Water Swim

It was actually the amazing egg and cheese breakfast sandwich I just ate. But, I get ahead of myself.

I was up early (for me) this morning to get in a swim in so as to free up my evening a bit for some Friday Night Fun, and I just did not want to go. Unlike other mornings, today, it wasn't the being up early-ish that got me, it was just how terrible it looked outside.

I've been putting this swim off the past few days, largely because whenever I got my gear together to head to the lake, it would start storming and phrases like "Severe T-Storm Warning: Dane County" or "Flash Flood Watch: Dane County" would scroll across the television screen (oh, and to pile on, the Y's pool is closed all week). Call me a wimp, or what you will, but being in the middle of a lake in those conditions is not training I was eager to tough out -- better safe than sorry, as they say. (As Xt4 mentioned, it has, indeed been a "craptacular" first week of taper, weather-wise).

As I brushed my teeth, I could only think of how much I didn't want to swim this morning. Eventually, I got me out the door with the promise that it would feel great once I got in the water and just got started. Because that's always how it works.

Or, almost always.

First off, it was miserable out. All dark and threatening-looking, with rain that swayed in intensity from a mist to big drops. The water and sky over Lake Wingra blended together into one, large sheet of depressing or sinister (depending on how you looked at it) grey.

Next, my wetsuit finally pulled on, I tried zipping it up. Stuck. In the exact couple of inches where my arms just don't reach on my back. And no matter how I contorted my body or flailed about on the picnic table by the lake, there was no budging the zipper, and no reaching the stuck section. To make matters worse, there was no one around -- not one single, solitary person -- who could un-stick my wetsuit zipper. I considered driving to Chief of Stuff's house, only blocks away, to enlist his help. But then I thought of what the neighbors might think of a girl standing on his porch in a wetsuit at the crack of dawn, and reconsidered.

Finally, I saw two joggers approaching and ran over to the road, oblivious to the mud now coating my feet and the bottom half of my neoprene-covered body. Thankfully, they weren't scared away by the crazy woman running toward them, and helped me out.

Once in the water, I settled into a good rhythm. My swimming feels as though it's gotten exponentially better in the past couple of months. Not necessarily a lot faster, mind you, but better. My form is more streamlined and I've got a better pull (as evidenced by the fact that my fingers and pad of my palm is sometimes sore after a longer swim). In general, I feel like I'm cutting through the water, more powerfully but also smoother.

Today was like that, too. Until a seagull started circling me like I was a dead seal. Lower and lower. Swooping down, seemingly right at me, just a couple feet above.

Back into a rhythm. Until...not much later, I felt my hand brush something. Not something weedy or woody, but something scaly and big. I screamed underwater, and choked on the murky water. And I swear that scaly thing, or perhaps a friend of the scaly thing, tried to take a nibble on my right toe as I passed by, too.

And then, as I turned around at the half-way point, I saw a few little scaly things floating belly-up in the water. Perhaps they had been caught by the fishing line that I soon found myself tangled in, perhaps they had died a natural fishy death. Either way, I couldn't have been more over being out there in that water.

I'm not usually fearful of what I can't see in the water. But today? Different story altogether. It was just too much. The seagull and fish and fishing line and dead, dead fish. And I did what any rational, mature, 30-something would do. I let my mind race over all of the nasty things held by that murky water that may or may not be out to get me. Maybe there were snapping turtles, or leeches. Or a pet alligator that some college kid had gotten tired of and dropped off earlier in the summer. I raced back across that lake, trying to outswim all that I couldn't see like I was in a sprint tri.

The original morning's plan was to do an across-and-back twice. But I have quite a few long swims scheduled for next week, and there was just no way that I was going back out into that water, so I called it a morning ... but not before spotting another handful of dead fish washed up on shore and stepping in a giant pile of goose shit, barefoot.

In all, it was enough to make me think I should've stayed in bed.

Posted by Erin 7:25 AM 2 comments

Copps, 10:45 p.m.
Thursday, August 23, 2007

Last night, I was exhausted. It was one of those days where I started looking forward to going to bed around two o'clock yesterday afternoon.

I was also stah-ving after my two-hour interval workout (on the trainer...bleh) -- even after leftover carbonara and a piece of quiche. And, at 10:45 last night, I found myself in the most curious of places -- Copps grocery store -- trying to fulfill the most curious of cravings.

All of the things that I've craved during this time of Ironman-training -- lots of diet Sprite and chicken, just to name a couple -- last night's was by far the weirdest craving I've ever had: cereal.

Seriously, who craves cereal? I'm not even normally a cereal eater. I have a box of Smart Start in my office that dates to November 10th of last year. Since then, I haven't gotten desperate enough, even at work, to have more than one bowl (thinking of, I should probably toss it).

So, at 10:45 last night, long after I should have been in bed, I decided that I would not, could not get to sleep without a bowl of cereal, so I went in search of.

But I was not prepared for what I found.

I'm one of those shop around the outside of the store types. I rarely venture into the middle aisles, save for the need to pick up toilet paper or chicken broth (and yet, somehow, I still manage to not eat as well as I should). And being a non-cereal eater, I never have a reason to hit the cereal aisle.

I had initially been leaning toward Lucky Charms. But then I started scanning the boxes. Coco Puffs, chocolate Lucky Charms, organic Raisin Bran (and regular), Eggo bites, chocolate-peanut butter Pops, smoothie-flavored, Fruit Loops, some Cinnamon mini-buns variety. I could keep going, endlessly. And for a while, I did. Up and down the aisle, taking it all in, trying to narrow things down.

I was overwhelmed. You see, as a kid, my sister and I were not allowed to have sugar cereal -- at all. King Vitamin was the only thing close that my mom would allow into our house. But it had a medicinal name and tasted a bit like sawdust, and only if we got really desperate would we ask for that (eventually, when we were in high school or thereabouts, she relented and bought Oh's once in a while). Our other standard choices? Homemade granola, Grape Nuts, and my personal favorite, Fiber One.

The cupboards of my best friend growing up, Pam, were the exact opposite of at our house, stocked with Fruity Pebbles, Kix, Frosted Flakes, Sugar Snaps, Crunchberries, and an array of other sugary goodness. She wasn't always nice to me back then (Pam learned to share slowly, although she did bequeath to me her very first, which became my very first, horse -- the beloved Sir Chet), which included her announcing on a weekly basis during our sleepovers that I wasn't "allowed" to have either Crunchberries or the fruity pebbles. Those were hers. Once in a while, she'd relent and let me have a bowl of the Fruity Pebbles. And I think like a mouse trained on intermittent reinforcement, that's why I kept accepting her offers of sleepovers. I wondered more than once if our friendship would survive once I was old enough to buy my own sugar cereal. (Update: it has -- I'm heading to Iron Mountain to help throw her a baby shower next week)

But I digress. So here I was, in Copps, trying in vain to pick out one kind of sugar cereal. I had gone in thinking Lucky Charms, but here were all these choices. And there, on the bottom shelf, was the one cereal that had always been banned from me -- both by my mom and Pam -- Crunchberries.

I didn't know what to do. Back and forth. Back and forth. Eventually, I decided on both, and then headed to the dairy section to grab some milk. (Nope, I don't buy that either)

Checking out, I looked down and felt a wave of guilt wash over me. I could just feel my mom's tisk-tisking presence, and it was dead-on. For so long, I had felt cheated out of a right of childhood. I could only watch the new blue or green or purple flavored cereals being trotted out every week on Saturday morning cartoons...I could never hope to taste them. But there in my grocery bag were two boxes of just what I had always wanted, and now, I wasn't so sure I wanted them.

Thinking about the complete lack of nutritional value contained in those boxes, I wondered if I might be better off just downing a bowl of ice cream. And I said, out loud, "I can't imagine buying this stuff for my kids." I had a sudden and unexpected flash of respect for my mom -- the woman who made her own granola, fed us stir fry night after night, and asked for tofu in the Iron Mountian IGA long before tofu went mainstream (I'll never forget the look on the stockboys' faces that day). I'm not sure if it's straight-up guilt that's been drummed into me or a solid respect for nutrition -- or both -- but either way, it's served me well.

I went home and enjoyed 1.5 bowls of Crunchberries. And although it seems like a waste, I'm guessing the other box and three-quarters will likely see the same fate as my Smart Start.

Posted by Erin 12:04 PM 8 comments

Dog Days

*Disclaimer: non-IM-related post*

*Disclaimer #2: seeing as though Ironman is nearly upon us, there might be a slight uptick in on-Ironman-related posting to come (he-he!)*

I seem to be one of the only people, as far as I can tell, that I know who is as horrified/intrigued with this whole Michael Vick situation as I seem to be. It's like a train wreck. And every time you try to look away, something else happens.

There's just so many levels on which to be horrified/intrigued, though.

At the very basis is dogfighting itself. As a dog owner/lover, it is outright impossible for me to understand how someone could look in the eyes of an animal that has its full trust in you, only to turn around an torture it by forcing it to fight to the death, electrocuting it, or body-slamming it against the ground repeatedly. And when you see video of these poor pits afterwards, they're all love and kisses -- cuddling up to the shelter workers, wagging their tails at passersby. These dogs would love nothing better than to crawl in your lap; they're just conditioned to fight other dogs (and to kill the occasional cat). Even those who are lucky enough to survive and end up in shelters aren't all that lucky -- most are put down as soon as they're no longer needed for evidence in a particular case, as they just can't be reconditioned. This violation of trust between an animal who has no say over its life and a person who should know better is, at its core, horrific.

But it also makes you wonder. How do people get into this? What is the initial draw? How does an activity so base and violent seemingly get so many people involved -- people who can often afford better forms of entertainment. And how did it go unnoticed for so long?

Another level of being horrified/intrigued rests with my interests in public relations, which in this case, has been an utter debacle from the very start. Los Angeles attorney Harland W. Braun told USA Today, "Second to injuring children, injuring pets is the worst. It's hard to know how to spin it."

Here's a start: you don't.

But most involved in this case came late to that party. Take Falcons owner Aurthur Blank, for example, who said, "As we move ahead [we] need to respect the due process that Michael is entitled to." And then there was Commissioner Roger Goddel, who said that Vick would face "significant discipline" if found guilty ... even though he later admitted that the 18-page indictment against Vick contained details that "turned [his] stomach." Translation: do what you want; just don't get caught.

And now, today, on Today, the NAACP has joined in the media circus. R.L. White, president of the NAACP's Atlanta chapter, said that, "We stand by the characterization that Vick has already been tackled. There's no need to keep piling on him," and that "Michael Vick has received more negative press than if he had killed a human being." Sorry, come again? Since when is media attention surrounding a federal indictment and guilty plea by all involved considered "piling on?" And I'd go out on a ledge to assert that what Vick did was worse than "killing a human being" -- he did not just shoot a dog, or hit one with his car. Rather, he was systematically bred and tortured dogs for years for entertainment and as a money-making venture. When people do those same things, we call them serial killers.

White went on to draw a parallel between Vick's crimes and hunting -- a parallel that other pro athletes have also started to beat the drum on of late. Earlier this week, New York Knicks guard Stephon Marbury said: ''We don't say anything about people shooting deers [sic] and shooting other animals, you know what I mean? From what I hear, dogfighting is a sport. It's just behind closed doors.'' Read Chicago Sun-Times columnist Greg Couch's interesting take on this emerging defense here.

One of the most brazeningly-honest assessments of the situation was by ESPN's Jemele Hill, who said this about Vick: "Let his prison sentence send the message that continued allegiance to street culture successfully keeps young black men frighteningly behind in American society." That itself, though, is a whole additional issue altogether.

There's just so much sad and wrong with this case on so, so many levels. But there are silver linings that will hopefully come about eventually as well. It might just be the wake-up call that leagues like the NFL and NBA have needed for a while now to see that players' off-field behavior can have a big effect, not only on impressionable youngsters that look up to them, but on the teams' bottom line. Perhaps it will be a break in the fight against dogfighting that law enforcement seem to so desperately need. And maybe, just maybe, it will be a life lesson for the guy who has referred to himself as "Superman" and is quoted as saying, "Regardless of what I go through, people are going to love me, man. So it’s all good.”

In the meantime, it's been reported that Vick trading cards and figurines bearing his likeness have been turned into chew toys, and Vick jerseys anonymously donated to the Atlanta Humane Society have been turned into pet beds and used to mop up kennels.

Seems about right.

Posted by Erin 8:27 AM 5 comments

Rx
Wednesday, August 22, 2007

So, just got back from (fingers crossed) my last one of these:

And my doctor, great guy that he is, had these pearls of wisdom to pass along. They seem common-sensical, but given how Ironman can totally screw with your common sense, I thought I'd share for any and all tapering in preparation for IM-Moo right now.

1. You'll be sore after the race for days...or, perhaps, weeks. REST. Don't try to run or bike. Try not to swim. Just try to enjoy your newfound free time as best you can.
2. Ice anywhere and everywhere it hurts -- not just the day of or day after, but for the next week.
3. Stretch, stretch, stretch.

And one other interesting tip that I've finally gotten what is (I believe) a sufficient answer on: no Advil during the race unless you're absolutely positive you're well hydrated enough. "I would hate to see you in the ER the day after with bloody urine and kidney failure," he said.

Woah. Nothing like "bloody urine and kidney failure" to put the fear of god into you. Am rethinking the Advil plan...unless it's 65 degrees and partly cloudy, and I've been drinking my Gatorade and water like a champ.

Posted by Erin 1:24 PM 2 comments

So This is What It's Like

You can tell taper has started. Last night I made dinner for the second night in a row. This, my friends, hasn't happened since I-can't-tell-you-when.

Usually, my schedule goes like this: wake up, sometimes run/swim, head to work, duck out as early as I possibly can without calling attention to myself, head home and change, bike/run/swim until it's dark out (or well after it gets dark, as is often the case), and then (about 9:30 p.m. or so) start thinking about dinner, which usually involves Taco Bell (yes, really -- I rotate between the taco salad and the grilled stuffed burrito), Noodles, a frozen pizza, a fried egg sandwich, or a quesadilla . And I wonder how I've actually gained weight through this experience...

In any case, Monday night after finishing my brick, I whipped up a little Greek salad and Parmesan-and-Italian sausage-stuffed chicken breasts.

Last night, my friend Patrick was in town. We met up for a quick (or, for me, not so much) 5-miler to catch up before he had to head out to his aunt and uncle's for dinner, joking about how things sure have changed -- years ago we'd be meeting up for happy hour; now, our social event is running together. But I like this change, and it was so good to see him even for such a short time. You can get some good visiting done during a run, and we did.

Afterwards, I ran to the store, picked up a few provisions, and was back at home and in the kitchen by 7 pm.

With a little Michael Massey for background music, Chianti to sip on, and some help from Chief of Stuff, I chopped, sauteed, and concocted my way to -- if I do say so myself -- what was a pretty good Carbonara.

For anyone who's made Carbonara knows, there are two main challenges. First is finding an actual Carbonara recipe. The ones that tell you to use bacon, or use an Alfredo/cream base? Frauds. Run away from them. The second challenge is that Carbonara, no matter how closely you follow the recipe, turns out a little bit different almost any time.

Here's the recipe I used this time, from the Italian Stallion, Molto Mario. It's a little variation -- presentation-wise -- on how I normally make Carbonara, but I'd highly recommend it.

Spaghetti alla Carbonara

Ingredients:

1/2 pound guanciale (or pancetta) Salt 1 pound dry spaghetti 1 cup Parmigiano-Reggiano, grated 4 eggs, separated Black pepper, freshly ground

Directions:

• In a 12- to 14-inch sauté pan, render and cook the guanciale until it is crispy and golden, 6 to 8 minutes. Do not drain the fat from pan and set aside.
• Bring 6 quarts of water to a boil and add 2 tablespoons salt. Cook the spaghetti, until tender, yet al dente. Drain the spaghetti, reserving the pasta cooking water.
• Reheat the guanciale in the pan with the fat and add approximately 1/4 cup of the pasta cooking water. Toss in the cooked spaghetti and heat, shaking the pan, until warmed through, about 1 minute. Add the grated cheese, egg whites and black pepper and toss until fully incorporated.
• Divide the pasta among 4 warmed serving bowls. Make a nest in the center for the egg yolk. Gently drop an egg yolk into each serving, season with more freshly ground black pepper and grate additional cheese over the top. Serve immediately.

Just a caveat or two (or five):

1. I use bucatini instead of plain 'ol spaghetti. Why? I don't know. More interesting, and I really like how bucatini behaves in this dish -- no clumping, and the ingredients mix with it more evenly;
2. I'd make it 5 whites instead of 4, and add 4T of whipping cream to give the "sauce" a smoother texture (cut the pasta water down by just a bit if you do this);
3. I would mix in a cheese with a bit more bite with the Parmigiano-Reggiano, like Parmesan or Asiago;
4. I've never tried the egg yolk in the nest of Carbonara as a final presentation, but it works. It cooks a bit from the hot mixture, and pools eventually on the bottom of the bowl so that you can sop it up with the noodles as you eat. Yummm (promise);
5. And finally, I garnish with fresh chopped Italian parsley to give the dish a little color.

The end result should look something like this (with a little parsley on top if you're doing it my way, of course):

"So this is what my life used to be like..." I pondered as we were sitting down to eat. CoS asked if this was a preview of things to come. I sure hope so, I told him.

Until, of course, I start spending hours at the barn each night. But that's another bridge to cross altogether.

Posted by Erin 7:58 AM 4 comments

Premature Tapering
Tuesday, August 21, 2007

Yesterday was my last major workout of the season. And even as I sit here typing those words, I can hardly believe it. Thinking back to starting this training in earnest last September, the time seems to have both crawled and flown by all at once.

In any case, because of weekend travel plans, I took the day off of work to get in the final double-brick: 4-hour bike, followed by a 2-hour run, followed by a 2-hour bike, and an hour run.

When I turned on the television before I got out of bed yesterday morning (as is my habit, to check the weather and all), the bottom left-hand side of the screen hosted a flood watch/warning map, of which Dane County was a part. They were also predicting thunderstorms throughout the day. Ugh.

After being hit with atrocious weather on both of my 100+ mile rides this summer, as well as a few others in-between, and for both of the marathons I've done (The first was 97 degrees and organizers called the race two hours earlier than scheduled because of not having enough medical personnel to treat the collapsing runners. The second involved temperatures in the high 30's and whipping winds. Both were in May in Wisconsin), I decided that I didn't want nor need to subject myself to a monsoon for a double-brick.

So I hauled my trainer, bottles of Gatorade and water, bike, blackberry/phone, and Clif blocks/bars down to the workout room in my condo building because I don't get cable TV and the workout room does.

I had hoped to binge on all the shows I never usually get to watch -- mainly, any of those on VH1, E!, the Food Network, or MTV. But for the first two hours, I was sorely disappointed. VH1 had back-to-back-to-back episodes of Flava of Love 3 (Seriously?!? Three seasons of this show? Unbelievable). E! was doing a special on the cast members of Friends, which I'd already seen. The Food Network was all desserts (which is fine, but what I really wanted were dinner ideas). And MTV... hmmm. Where to even start with MTV? The channel that no longer plays music, or even pretends to, even though "Music" makes up a major part of its title...the channel that has arguably the worst "reality" programming on television, hands down ("Sweet 16," "Made," "Parents Know Best," ugh. Could go on and on). I was booooored.

Finally, on came "Hogan Knows Best" on VH1 and "The Hills" on MTV, which saved me. Whew.

Looking outside, after finishing the first bike leg, I considered running inside. But for some reason, running in the rain doesn't bother me nearly as much as biking in it, and I had a new playlist to try out, so I laced up and headed out. (Although the whole run it felt like the skies were going to empty out any second. Talk about humid!).

The thing I love most about my Garmin 305 is that it means I never have to make a decision about where I run. All of my mileage is calculated nice and handily for me, with no commitment to a route. I can wander at will. Ahhhh, sweet freedom.

In any case, the run was uneventful. But I felt great the whole time. Ten miles went by like five (only, not quite as fast), and I was chastising myself for maybe not biking hard enough that morning.

But back on my bike on the trainer in my living room (now watching Oprah grill poor Dina McGreevy about not moving out of the Governor's residence when her husband admitted he was gay), I could feel fatigue setting in to my legs. And it felt good to know that I'd been working hard earlier that day.

The thing was, there was no good reason for me to shorten my workout. I felt fine. I was inside and out of the weather. I had nowhere to be last night. But I was bored. I was (sleepy) tired. And I wanted to actually make dinner and not eat at 10 p.m. for just one night.

Weak, I know, but I cut the bike from two hours to one, and the run from one hour to 30 minutes, and then called it a day. I started my taper 1.5 hours early.

Writing that, 1.5 hours now seems like a lot. But in the scheme of an entire year of workouts -- of fighting through 126 miles of hills last weekend and an oly the next morning, not to count the double-bricks upon double bricks in the months before -- I'm over it.

On to tapering, and the big day. Let the countdown begin!

Posted by Erin 11:38 AM 2 comments

Water Water Everywhere
Monday, August 20, 2007

Saturday was a big day. Not in hours logged or miles covered, but in straight-up confidence.

The swim portion of the Ironman goes by the fastest, but it is, arguably, the one most fraught with trepidation. There are just so many factors to consider, not the least of which is drowning. Then there's the possibility of getting kicked or swum over by 2,000+ people all trying to get to the same place you are, and the difficulty of not being able to breathe at will when you're in the water, unlike every other sport. And to make it even more difficult, in training sessions, you never have a great idea of how far you've swum. In open water, it's a guess at best, and perhaps I'm the worst lap-counter in the world, but for any given long-set session in the pool, I figure I'm usually either over or under by a few hundred yards.

All of this can combine for a pretty scary 1.5 to 2 hours on Ironman morning, or all those leading up to it.

I saw that first-hand on Saturday. It was an open water race (1.2 or 2.4 miles) set up to mimic the Wisconsin Ironman swim, complete with chip timing and a water start. I purposely put myself right in the middle of the pack. I wanted to get beaten up a bit. For the experience and all.

And just behind me in the water was a guy who was freaking out. "I can't do this. I don't want to do this," he kept saying. "Just look at this water. No way. I'm heading in."

He had a point. To say the water was a little rough is sort of like saying that snow is a little cold. I had to do a weird shoot-myself-straight-up-out-of-the-water move just to see the next buoy over the chop. A woman next to me told me to just sight the second footbridge, which was definitely easier.

And just like that, a whistle sounded and the race started.

I got into a good rhythm early on. None of the thrashing around and getting short of breath that defined my open water swimming earlier in the summer. As the swim progressed, I let the rollers cradle me...tried to feel with my whole body what my little section of the lake was doing, and somehow got my arms and torso to respond accordingly. And literally, before I knew it, I was at the first turn buoy. I looked up long enough to notice that it had started pouring out.

On the backside of the first lap, I had my first, real gross-out Ironman experience. I had to pee in my wetsuit. Now, before anyone starts judging, I was probably only 40 minutes into an hour-and-forty-minute ordeal, my bladder was cramping, and I was in the middle of freakin' Lake Monona. You would too. Needless to say, my wetsuit got a good washing post-race.

So, aside from the weird/totally gross feeling of being encased in something you just peed in, the entire first lap, really, went well. I was relaxed and felt good. I told myself that at the turn to start the second lap, I could flip onto my back and chill out for a few if I needed a pick-me-up, but I didn't feel as though I needed it, so I pressed on.

It wasn't until the backside of the last lap that I started to feel fatigued. It was hard to sight, as there were only four buoys marking the course, and because of that and the weirdly-strong pull to the right that I get when I breathe to that side, I was zig-zagging. I had also stopped trying to feel the water and what it was doing, and was instead trying to muscle my way through it. As a result, I kept getting slapped by some serious chop. It felt like someone was beating me in the head with a wet towel. Pleasant.

I took the opportunity to stop twice and just float. It was probably only about 20 seconds each time, but just enough to let me get my head re-centered. I made myself go back and concentrate on form -- to check in with every part of my body and see what it was doing and readjust accordingly.

At the last buoy, I could feel the burn in my arms and shoulders, but I had plenty left to swim the last leg hard, and before I knew it, my hand was touching the carpeting. I exited the water in 1:40.

Chief of Stuff was there with towel, and commented that he heard person after person who exited the water complaining about how rough it was out there (and, it was) and how their times were 10 to 20 minutes slower than last year. I asked a guy I was standing next to if it was this bad during last year's Ironman (don't ask me how I knew this guy was a) doing Ironman this year or b) did it last year, but somehow I did). He said that this was as bad, if not worse, and that he'd probably go with worse.

CoS and I did a brief bike afterward. It was supposed to be an hour, but got shortened to 30 minutes on account of the race starting more than an hour late, having to leave town that afternoon, me feeling completely fine and not needing to do a drawn-out test of my initial on-the-bike nutrition, and some serious rain coming down. Just for the record, I've biked in all sorts of conditions. I just didn't feel like doing it that particular day. So, when a street we were trying to cross refused to give our side a green light, I asked CoS if he minded just calling it a day. He didn't, and we biked back to the Terrace to load our bikes and get out of town on time.

On the road that afternoon, I was positively giddy.

"You know what I just love," I asked, and without waiting for any kind of response, answered: "That the weather today absolutely sucked!"

CoS commented that that was a truly weird thing to say. And it was. Ironman makes you say bizarre things all the time. But today, I'm still excited about how rough it was. Because that means that, come race day, barring a hurricane landing this far inland, it likely won't get any rougher. And that even in those conditions, I posted a not-speedy-but-solid 1:40 -- which leaves me an extra 40 minutes before the cutoff. On race day, worst case scenario is that that is what happens. Best case is that I knock 10 minutes or so off that time.

So, September 9th can go ahead and bring on that 2.4-mile swim. As they say in Top Gun, "Just a walk in the park."

Posted by Erin 4:52 PM 4 comments

How It's Done
Friday, August 17, 2007

When people hear you're training for an Ironman, they say one of two things. The first is, "I could never do that." The second is, "I don't know how you do it."

There are basics involved in "doing" an Ironman. You follow a training plan. You put your time in. You keep your head down and your legs, arms, and feet moving forward, every day. And you hope that eventually, if you do what's written in your plan, you will have somehow transformed yourself from a recreational athlete to something "other than" -- a body and mind that's up to the challenge of anywhere from 11 to 17 (god-willing) hours of constant motion on one specific day. You allow yourself that hope, and then it's back to focusing on just the next workout, and then the next, and then the next. You have to be self-motivated and endlessly disciplined. It is tedious and it is monotonous.

It is also selfish.

For those of us training for this thing -- this one day, this one blip in time in our lives -- this is how we do it:

We put off planned visits to see you because our training schedule and finances just don't allow for one this summer.

We don't return phone calls as often as we should, or at all.

We decline invitations to get together for dinner or drinks, month after month, always with the promise, "After this is over..." And if we do accept an invitation, we're usually late on account of a workout running over.

We skip out of board and committee meetings and other extracurricular obligations month after month.

We stop going to the grocery store. Or to Target. Or to Walgreens. We stop making our fair share of meals. We expect that if you need something, you'll take care of that for yourself.

We come in late and leave early, and take sick or vacation days, from work -- not to spend time with you, relaxing, but to work out.

We are too tired, night after night, to carry on a whole conversation or to show proper interest in what's going on with you; but expect you to care what's going on with every minutia of our training, night after night.

We talk incessantly about Ironman and all things related, and expect you to be as engaged as we are in this crazy undertaking.

We plan a year full of weekends around ourselves -- our races, our training, our needs and wants.

We miss birthdays, weddings, baptisms, anniversaries, holidays, and church with the excuse that "it's only for this year."

And then we expect you to be as excited as we are when we sign up for another run at this next year.

We take and take and take -- your time ... your patience ... your support -- and give only the promise of being a better friend, girlfriend/wife, daughter/niece/granddaughter, coworker, and mom/dog-mom "after this is over."

How do we do it? The better question is, how do you?

You see, there are so many of us who could never do this without so many of you. Because the truth is, no one goes 140.6 miles -- or all those that precede them -- alone.

We are a lucky bunch, us Ironmen-in-training. And that's thanks to all of you. You know who you are...

Posted by Erin 8:37 AM 5 comments

How You'll Be Able to Spot Me on September 9th

I'll be the one wearing the ugliest shoes imaginable (that, unfortunately, are also some of the comfiest shoes imaginable).

Posted by Erin 8:15 AM 6 comments

Welcome to My World
Wednesday, August 15, 2007

So E.L.F. has this great list posted on her site of "You know you're doing an Ironman if...", and I so related to most of her observations that I decided to re-post the relevant ones here, with some of my own sprinkled in.

This is what it's like to be me these days...

YOU KNOW YOU'RE DOING AN IRONMAN IF:

You fall asleep with thoughts of what you'll wear during Ironman dancing through your head.

You spend so much time at the pool that when you walk out of the locker room you have to look down just to be sure you remembered to put your swimsuit on.

You use toilet paper to wipe the inside of the toilet bowl and think to yourself as far as "cleaning" goes - that will do. You'll clean it 'for real' after Ironman.

At least once a day, you think about your placement in the swim start - will I start front, back, left, right, head up, head down?

Dinner time is now what used to be bedtime.

You get on the scale and find you have gained weight. You think there is no mathematical way this could be possible for you to train more and gain weight, but the numbers on the scale don't lie.

You have completely taken the laundry basket out of the clothing loop and instead just put the dirty clothes directly into the washer.

You're too awake to fall asleep but to sleepy to stay awake.

You’ve started keeping notes on flavors of bars and what they do to your stomach.

There are more dirty water bottles in your dishwasher than dirty dishes.

You are toying with the idea of asking your grandmother to stitch together two Bento Boxes because you’ve got this great Ironman-induced idea of the ultimate calorie carrying machine - a Bento Box with an “extended cab”.

You find yourself browsing the bar section in the grocery store to 'see what else is out there.'

You have a growing list of post-workout foods that you are willing to work for.

Your friend tells you how to make fried chicken with egg beaters and you won't hear a word of it because it won't have enough calories, salt, or fat to sustain you through you next workout.

Cold water has never tasted so good.

There is a certain part of your body that hurts, that doesn’t usually hurt, like your left index finger, and somehow you know it has something to do with Ironman training.

Before you make plans, you say “I have to check my schedule" -- not your work schedule or family schedule, but your workout schedule.

You feel prouder than ever, even though you haven’t really done anything yet.

It's so much fun to tell people that you're doing Ironman that you almost feel like you'll ruin it if you actually have to go and do the race.

On demand, you can rattle off the calorie, carbohydrate, and sodium content of most bars and gels.

On any given day, at least one part of your body is chafed to the point of scabbing.

Your tan lines are starting to look like a bad road map.

It used to take one cup of coffee to start your day. Now it takes four, about three times a day.

At least 20 percent of your diet is consumed in bar/gel form.

You keep hearing a voice in your head and it is saying “_______(your name), you are an Ironman."

You also keep hearing another voice in your head and it is saying, “What were you thinking? What were you thinking?”

Weekly, you wander the grocery store aisles looking for something to satiate your appetite and you eat it before you get home.

You have become a one-drink date. When you do drink, you are likely shout something about Ironman in the middle of the street.

For some reason, you sense the race experience will be the least epic thing compared to everything you’ll do in preparation for the race.

Your husband has threatened divorce if he hears one more word about Ironman. As a result, you have elected a certain friend that you can only talk about Ironman with because they too are training for Ironman and have also been threatened with divorce.

You picture your Ironman date like the end of a prison sentence. For example, you begin talking about how life will be “after September 9th…”

You fear your teeth will have a permanent tint from consuming large and consistent quantities of green, blue, and orange sports drink.

You feel fitter, but also fatter, than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You can’t remember miles 60 – 90 of the bike ride but you know you did them.

Anything shorter than a 500 in the pool makes you feel like 'why bother'.

You’ve ridden more miles than you’ve driven in the past week.

You wake up 3 pounds heavier than you went to bed as because you took so many salt tabs the day before.

You have a 7 hour workout on your schedule and even though you know it is sick and wrong, you look forward to it.

You can’t sleep at night because you are so jacked up from caffeine and sugar from the workout you probably just finished an hour earlier.

You find yourself looking at small baggies and containers wondering if you could carry crackers, salt tabs, or bars in it.

You find yourself sitting at work and after 20 minutes have gone by, you think to yourself that it’s time to eat ½ of a bar. Another 45 minutes later, you think it’s time to take a gel and then you realize that you are not sitting on your bike, you do not need to be doing your nutrition plan, but you do need to get back to work.

The term "special needs" no longer refers to a group of individuals but a bag that you might find at mile 56 of the bike, or mile 13 of the run.

If you find yourself feeling slow and having a bad workout, you think to yourself that it’s ok, because you’re training for Ironman where you will only go slow. These days, running a 9:15 pace feels like you're flying.

You have a favorite ice pack.

You feel like you took the day off because all you did was swim 3000 yards.

Your training is more limited by available time or daylight then how far you can run/bike/swim.

At any given moment you know exactly where your heart rate monitor and swim goggles are, but cannot remember for the life of you where you left you car keys or credit card (and 90 percent of the time they are in your bike’s bento box).

When booking a vacation, you ask reservation clerk about the type of stationary bike in their workout facility and how long their pool is.

Your monthly bill for vitamins, supplements, energy bars and recovery drinks surpasses your grocery bill.

You can’t use the back seat of your car because it’s filled with a bike, helmet, shoes, an air pump, wetsuit, pool bag, and running bag so you can do a workout anytime, anywhere.

You start putting the word "only" in front of phrases that normal people never would -- for example, "I only have to run 10 miles today.”

You take sick or vacation days from work to fit in long workouts.

You have nearly veered into oncoming traffic while trying to pull a salt tab out of a baggie.

You take your cell phone along on bricks so you can "catch up" with friends in-between. The only other time you call people is driving to or from the pool, or to or from the Ironman bike loop.

Your co-workers haven’t seen you with your hair or makeup done in nearly a year, because, really, what’s the point of going through all that fuss when you’ve got a workout or two left in the day?

You think about Ironman incessantly. You drive to work and think "I am doing Ironman." You go to bed and think "I am doing Ironman." You wonder what you will think about after Ironman. Maybe doing Ironman again?

Posted by Erin 7:51 AM 4 comments

The Morning After (Oshkosh Olympic Race Report)
Tuesday, August 14, 2007

As I mentioned, Saturday was not my proudest day. I wanted to quit over and over and over again, and that mentality carried on well into the night after the Dairyland Dare was over.

I didn't get on the road to Green Bay until 8:30 that night. That would have put me in bed somewhere around 11 pm -- about an hour-and-a-half past my goal sleep time. The whole drive I kept thinking how beat up I felt, and that I was only half-way through this hellish weekend. I thought about maybe just sleeping in and then doing my own little triathlon-simulation workout that didn't involve a 45-minute drive, 7 a.m. start time, a $95 entry fee, or any sort of competition. I could swim at the Y, then bike around Green Bay, and run my old route along the Fox River that was so familiar from my college days at St. Norbert and my post-grad school days living with my sister and brother-in-law. I decided, though, that this was unacceptable. I had said I was going to do this race. It was posted on my blog. I needed to do it. There was no good excuse not to.

I finally arrived in Green Bay about 10:30, exhausted and ready to sleep. I organized my race bag for the next morning, double-checked the registration times, and went to crawl into bed. My sister and brother-in-law were supposed to be in Las Vegas, so I chose to crash in their room given perks like a great ceiling fan above and a featherbed below that the guest room just doesn't have.

But then I saw something that stopped me cold. There on the floor were their suitcases -- all packed and with travel info/itineraries on top. Immediately I called their cell phones. Straight to voicemail. I started rifling through their suitcases. Maybe they had just combined suitcases and left these behind. But in my sister's was her new bathing suit, along with other things I knew she'd want to take with her. I tried their cell phones again. Nothing. Then I started calling my parents. Same thing (although, this is not altogether unusual for them not to answer their phones). Finally, after a (very scary) dead-body check of the house, and calling everyone yet again, I called Chief of Stuff and gave him the low-down.

"Is her makeup bag in there? Or Tommy's dopp kit?" he asked.

Huh?!? My sister could have been kidnapped and he's asking about a makeup bag?!?

"No," I answered, audibly annoyed, I'm sure.

"What do the plane tickets say on them?"

I told him they weren't tickets...just an itinerary on checking into their hotel.

"There's a number for the hotel on here -- maybe I should call that and find out if they checked in," I said.

CoS told me to back up and check the check-in date. It was for August 12th.

"Erin," he said, "They're probably just at the wedding with your parents."

Sure enough, just as I hung up the phone with CoS, my sister called. They had, in fact, been at a wedding in Door County with my parents. But it had been a horrible week at work, and I hadn't talked to anyone in my family all week. I had forgotten that little part of their plan.

Lindsey told me they were on their way back to Green Bay, as a matter of fact, and that no one had been kidnapped, maimed, or otherwise harmed.

"So I guess I should vacate your bed," I said. My sister indicated that would be nice.

After all those shenanigans, it was now well past midnight. I had to be up in a little more than four hours. Maybe I'd oversleep and not do the race, I thought.

At 1:40 a.m., raucous thunderstorms woke me, and my first thought was that maybe it would be storming so hard that they'd cancel the race. Then I did some sleepy math and figured that it would have to be the slowest-moving storm in the history of the earth to affect a 7 a.m. start. It was then, at 1:40 in the morning, that I resigned myself to the fact that I had run out of excuses. The only way out, is through.

And so, I showed up the next morning in Winneconne on the bank of a gorgeous, nature-preserve-looking lake and went about the business of registering, body marking, and laying out my transition area. There were people whizzing by me on bikes and on foot, and some in the water already, "warming up" for the day. I just wanted to make it through.

I was in wave 6 -- the last wave for the Olympic distance event. Waiting for the five waves ahead to take off, I looked around me and my stomach started to tighten. What if I'm the very last person out of the water? And then, as a result, the last person on the bike? Just then, this incredibly nice, pint-sized, middle-aged woman standing nearby started chatting at me. It was her first Olympic, and she wasn't just nervous, she was bordering on scared. I told her it was an accomplishment just to be standing here, and that she wasn't competing against anyone but herself. And I realized that I should listen to my own advice.

So I visualized a good, solid swim. I visualized doing my own race, sticking to my pace, and not worrying about anyone around me.

When my wave went off, that's exactly what I did. I put myself into the middle of the pack, because I wanted more experience on getting kicked and pushed around (unfortunately for me, this was the most polite group of triathletes I've seen. Every time someone touched me they'd yell "sorry!" or "whoops" and move over.) I concentrated on keeping my stroke rhythmical and on mechanics. And then, I started passing people. Near the end of the out-and-back course, when everyone was bottlenecked around the last buoy, I looked back and saw I wasn't last (this bottleneck was also hilarious b/c the course is so shallow you can stand up almost the whole way...so everyone was just milling about around the last buoy, chest-deep in water, until things unclogged), and gave myself permission to relax, which I did.

I felt strong the whole way, and let myself race the last 200 or so.

The bike, however, was a different story. Not two minutes in, I knew this was going to be miserable. After 120+ miles the day before on some of the most punishing hills this side of the Rockies, I just had no legs left. They felt shredded. They were burning. My adductors were screaming bloody murder for me to just stop pedaling. The discomfort was actually making my eyes smart. I waited for my legs to loosen up. But somewhere around mile 10, they felt like they were still brimming with lactic acid, and I realized that maybe, just maybe, this was my lot today. They weren't going to loosen up. They were going to keep screaming the whole race. I just had to deal with it.

I wasn't going to die from the pain and it wasn't going to last forever. The only way out is through.

I had been passed by a lot of people in the first 10 miles. I knew a lot of them were doing the sprint, but not all. And the old fear of coming in last resurfaced. I told myself that someone had to be last, and then promptly answered myself that yes, that was true, but it wasn't going to be me.

So I starting pushing a harder gear. I looked only a couple feet in front of me and repeated to myself that in only a matter of hours, this would be over with and I'd be showered and napping. I picked off one person. And then two. And then three. The 1/2 way mark loomed ahead, and I bemoaned the fact that I had another 15 miles to go yet. But I kept pedaling. Every now and then, I'd stand up, try to stretch my adductor, and then start pedaling again. I wasn't fast, but I wasn't just riding, either, and when the end of the course neared, I felt like I had waged my own little battle...and won.

Surprisingly, on the run my legs stopped screaming, even though they felt heavy. I promised myself that at the one-mile water station, I could walk through.

I saw people ahead of me who had passed me early on in the bike. "They'll pass you on the bike, but you'll see them on the run." Not sure where I had heard that, but it came to be my mantra during those six miles. This -- the run -- was my thing. I was happy to be out here, running, finally -- after the previous hell of a day on the bike ... after all of those weeks where my hip throbbed even on the elliptical.

I started to have fun. I was closing the gap on the group ahead of me, and then on the person ahead of that group, and so on. I had no idea what my pace was, as I had purposely left my Garmin in the car. But I was slow enough to be gaining ground on people, and I wasn't walking like so many others who had succumbed to the horribly-hot, thick, standing air.

Before I knew it, I was at the turn-around point. Three more miles. You can do anything for three miles, I told myself. I picked off one more person, and then one more. Two miles. There were goosebumps forming on my arms -- a sure sign for me that I was beginning to overheat. I took two cups of water and doused myself.

I came up on a guy I remember passing me during the bike. He didn't turn around, just said, "Whoever that is sounds fast."

I told him I didn't feel fast, so as to seem like less of a jerk for running up on him (even though, I'm well aware that's the whole idea of a race), but I did. I felt fast, and strong. Were it not for the heat, I could've easily done another six miles.

Finally, a little over a mile out, I passed the woman from my swim heat that morning. We chatted briefly about how it all went for her, and she told me to run on. "How do you look so strong?" she asked.

I didn't have any clue. I had started that day not wanting to be there, not fully believing I could even do this race on my trashed legs from the day before. And I had raced it. Not speedy-gonzales fast, mind you, but that day, I had somehow turned a training day into a race. My head was in the right place, finally, and my body had followed suit.

After finishing, I stripped my shoes and socks and jumped into the lake. The cool water felt good on my skin, but even moreso on my hurting legs. Then I went to collect my things.

A guy about my age had his bike racked next to mine. I hadn't noticed him that morning, but it was hard not to notice him now. He was beaming. He asked me how my race went, and I told him I wasn't sure what any of my times were (sacrilege, I know, in the tri community), but that I was happy with the morning. I asked how his went. "It was the most awesome race I've ever had," he said. Then he told me where to get a print-out of my results.

The print out told me I had placed ninth in my age group. I was instantly thrilled. Ninth! Top ten! I can't remember the last time I had been so proud of my own self. And not just for the placing, but for mentally beating that day...and that whole weekend.

I wanted to tell someone, anyone. But that's the kicker of doing races alone. There's no one to share it with. I eventually called CoS, and my parents, but it was hard to convey all that I was feeling. I couldn't figure out how to share this weekend with them -- to give them the details they needed to see what I saw, and feel what I felt. To impress upon them just how far I'd come in 48 hours. And I came to the bittersweet realization that at its core, that is what competition like this is all about. It's about you and you alone. About what you have to do to get yourself through the toughest imaginable moments. And when you do, it's about recognizing and celebrating those victories for yourself, because no one else can really, truly do that for you.

Later that afternoon, sitting on the couch and still high from the morning's race and results, I checked to see how many were in my age group. Fifteen. Only fifteen people. It didn't diminish how proud I felt of my accomplishments that weekend, but I was sheepish about how big a deal I made the placing out to be.

But when I told CoS that there were only 15, he asked how many of those other 15 I thought had done 120 miles on a bike the day before. "Ninth," he said, "is great."

It was. And it is.

Oshkosh Olympic Triathlon 2007

Swim (3/4 mile): 26:29:09

T1: 2:51 (Could NOT get free of wetsuit -- got all caught on timing chip. Ugh)

Bike (30 miles): 1:45:35

T2: 2:03 (just. plain. slow -- but giving my legs a pass for that one)

Run (6 miles): 57:57:20

Final epic Ironman training weekend: in the books.

Posted by Erin 8:42 AM 3 comments

Me Against Me
Monday, August 13, 2007

*Disclaimer for the grandmas: this post is rated R. The language is not gratuitous; it's necessary and justified. Consider yourself warned.*

This weekend was epic. In so, so many ways. And each day deserves it's own due, so I'll break them out separately. First up, the Dairyland Dare.

The Dairyland Dare sounds scary -- just under 15,000 feet of climbing spread out over 200 kilometers. In reality? It's scarier than it sounds.

Heading toward Dodgeville at 5:30 a.m. on Saturday morning, the most amazing sunrise was breaking over Lake Monona. Almost one month exactly from today, I told myself, you will be in that water with more than 2,000 other people, waiting for this one day that you've been waiting for all this time to start, and watching that same sun come up ... And that -- that -- is what today is about.

But my head wasn't in the game. Even then. Even before the day had started, even surrounded by such a beautiful sight, even though I reminded myself that I was lucky to be out here, doing this -- still healthy and going strong this late in the game -- something was just off.

Was it because I was staring down such a huge, seemingly insurmountable weekend (120+ mile bike and a hour run-off, followed by an olympic triathlon in Oshkosh the very next morning)? Was it because I was staring down that huge weekend all by myself -- no support staff, cheerers, or co-riders/runners/drivers to keep me company? Or was it just out-of-whack hormones/emotions (after all, driving to Green Bay that night, Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying" -- especially the line, "I went two-point-seven seconds on a bull named Fu Man Chu -- got me all choked up and goosebumpy...Yes, really.)? Maybe it was all of it. But whatever the combination was, it nearly broke me.

At the risk of sounding overdramatic, I'll say exactly what ran through my mind over and over again that entire day: I've never seen anything like this. I've never felt anything like this. This is the hardest thing that I've ever done. Ever. And even now, having the benefit of retrospect and distance, I still feel that way.

The first ten miles of any ride is hell for me. I hate it, every time. It's like the first couple of miles of a run for most people. Unfortunately for me, the first ten miles of this ride was filled with Whitte Road-type rollers right off the bat. But I was riding strong, picking off people on the hills (note: I wasn't trying to be competitive in the least...just looking for outside validations). I reminded myself to take a look around, and with the valleys and ravines of southwestern Wisconsin just peeking out from the early-morning mist, it was hard not to be awed. That part of the state has to be among the most beautiful not only in Wisconsin, but the country as a whole. In its own way, it's up there with Colorado, Montana, and the rolling fields of Kentucky.

In any case, before I could get completely into a rhythm, I saw ahead of me a frightening sight: a hill that climbed high into the trees and out of sight, and on it, riders that looked like ants crawling upwards. Only, even from where I was, still a ways off, I could tell that almost every single one was walking.

I will not walk. I will not walk. I will not walk. I had never walked a hill on my bike before. Before the day was over, I would have walked one and a quarter. I would consider it an accomplishment that I hadn't put my foot on the ground more than that.

I don't know where this hill was. Looking back at the maps, the elevation charts, and the cue sheet, I still don't know. In honesty, the entire day, save for a few moments, blended together. For this, I am thankful.

There was a photographer three-quarters of the way up that hill. I will not have a picture taken of me walking my bike. I will NOT. I will pedal this entire motherfucking thing. Yippe-ki-yay motherfucker. (This is what I yell to myself silently on really hard hills.)

And here I am, pedaling the hill. I am not smiling. That is pain on my face.

And here is a picture looking down the hill. It doesn't even begin to do this monster justice. At the next rest stop, someone commented that it was a 23 percent grade.

In the end, I walked. I had to. I thought I had to throw up and wasn't going fast enough to keep moving forward. As I was nearing the top, on foot -- embarrassed and disappointed -- I allowed myself a look back. There were only two people still pedaling. I cheered for one, who was grinding past me. "Way to go! That is im-pressive!" I no sooner got the words out then he stopped and threw a trembling foot to the ground. "Not impressive enough," he said. The other gutted it out and upon reaching the top said, "Jesus Christ, that thing is Machiavellian."

At the rest stop after that hill, weather had started to move in. The sky was night-time dark. People talked amongst the groups they were riding with. I had a brief exchange with a nice guy from Illinois, but other than that, no one approached me. No one talked to me. My confidence was shaken by that hill, a fear of the rest of the day was slowly building. I felt lonely and alone. To make matters worse, it was the best spread I'd ever seen at a ride/race -- sandwiches, cookies, five kinds of fruit, various power bars, string cheese, muffins...you name it -- and I couldn't have any of it. I was testing out my race day nutrition plan, and none of those things was a part of it.

Finally, we got the go-ahead to leave. "The severe stuff is past us, but you're going to get poured on," one of the volunteers announced.

And we did. For nearly two hours. The rain made the roads grease-slick, and I rode every downhill on my breaks. At the end, my forearms and hands ached from trying to keep a grip on the breaks, and the handlebars. And it wasn't the rain, or the searing pain in my arms, or the hill after hill after hill, or the being alone. It was all of it, combined together, that made me think, If I can do this...

Then the rain broke, and almost instantly, the air was still-hot and thick with humidity. Breathing was hard. My head started to hurt.

If I can do this....

I never let myself finish that thought, because I couldn't. I couldn't even go there, because I wasn't sure I could finish. For the first time that I could remember -- with anything -- I wasn't confident that I could overcome, that I could persevere...that I even wanted to.

I started checking my computer obsessively. I was watching half-miles go by, like I was running instead of biking. And the math I was doing scared me. At this rate...

I tried concentrating on my nutrition instead. On reading the little laminated postcard that I had wedged between my aerobars. But it was broken up into half-hour increments, and the time between those half-hours when I was supposed to be eating or drinking or popping Endurolytes seemed to stretch on forever. The road ahead of me, the hill after hill after hill, seemed to go on forever.

The only way out is through. I had heard that somewhere recently, and I tried telling myself that, convincing myself of it. But I knew better. There was a different way...there was just not doing it. Stopping.

So I did. I stopped. I was at the top of another hill -- a plateau if you will -- surrounded by cornfields that didn't rustle and heavy air and a relentless sun. I pulled out the cue sheet to find out how. much. farther. Just then, a pair of guys who seemed like they had only been out for a handful of miles whizzed by. "Can't stop now -- we're almost there," they said. I asked where. "Clyde. The rest stop in Clyde," one called back to me.

So it was settled. I could not, would not, go on. I would swallow my pride, call as far as I had covered on this course good enough, and catch a lift back to Harris Park.

Pulling into the rest stop, I expected to feel relieved. I would end this now. I would be done. But I couldn't bring myself to talk to anyone. I had been on the verge of tears for hours, and if I spoke, at all, I was afraid the flood gates would open.

The worst part was that I had no idea why. My body was holding up fine. I was out there with other bikers on a supported ride -- not by myself in the pouring rain like had been the case in my 120-miler to Waupaca earlier in the summer. I told myself to get a grip, to toughen up, to make a peanut butter sandwich. And sitting down to eat it, the tears started.

They wouldn't stop. Initially, I hoped people would think I was just sweating. But after a while, the bike tech guy was giving me strange looks. And really, why wouldn't he? Some random girl eating a peanut butter sandwich in the middle of a beautiful day on a beautiful ride, crying. Not hurt, nothing wrong, but crying. So I went and sat by my bike near the side of the shelter, hoping to calm myself, and I just cried harder.

Eventually, I ended up behind the shelter, unable to get a hold of myself. I was in full meltdown mode, with the worst part being that even if someone asked, I couldn't begin to articulate why. Tonight, looking back, I still don't know. But I can feel why. And there are few worse things that I've felt.

That rest stop stretched on, and on. I watched two groups come in and go out. I couldn't bring myself to ask for a ride back to Harris Park, but I couldn't bring myself to get back on my bike either. So, paralyzed by this unknown thing bearing down on me, I sat and sipped water. Sipped water and sat.

I'm not sure how or why or when I got back on my bike. I don't much remember pedaling. I remember cursing even the little rollers, dropping down into the lowest gear possible on inclines that I would have stayed in my 53 on any other day. I didn't turn my computer back on either. I didn't know what time it was (I had accidentally bumped the clock ahead last week, and never reset it), how fast I was going, or how long I'd been out there. All I knew was that the only way was, in fact, through. I gave myself the out of getting picked up, but every time the sweep van passed, I gave them a thumbs up and waved, telling myself that I could change my mind next time.

Then I came to a hill that made the Old Sauk Pass bitch look appealing. It stretched on and on, just gradually steep enough to fool you into thinking you could do it. After what I thought was the first quarter of it, I gave up. Looking back, I could have biked further up, but I could never have ground out the whole thing. Mentally or physically. Because I could only see about a quarter of the whole thing. Around every bend, it just kept climbing. Up and up and up. Then a bend, then up some more. And just when it seemed to even out, it wrapped itself around another curve, and climbed a bit more. There was just. no. way.

At that point, though, I was resigned. I would finish this. I wouldn't be fast. I wouldn't be happy. I might cry again. But I would keep pedaling (god-awful slowly) until I finished. And if the sweep van had to pick me up, it would do so because the course was closing, and not because I gave up.

And then, an older/middle-aged man who was, I swear, pedaling by me on a mountain bike like he was out for a Sunday morning ride on a city bike trail, said cheerily, "Only 16 or so more."

"Hills?!?!?"

"Miles," he said.

I didn't believe him. I started trying to do math, to figure miles from kilometers and hours I had been out there, but my head wouldn't work. I didn't believe him, or my own figuring. I didn't believe anything. I had no idea how far I had biked, and I was no longer confident about exactly how far the 200k ride was, because I couldn't believe that I had ridden nearly 100 miles already. So I tried extrapolation: if a 10k is 6.2 miles, and a 5k is 3.1 miles, then a 200k should be...ugh. No idea. Too much figuring. Head hurt. And I didn't need to know where I was or how far along (which was probably better in the long run). All I knew was that I had to get to the top of that hill. And that after, there would be another hill, and another. And all I could hope for was that they got progressively smaller. But in the meantime, I cursed every foot of every climb. I cursed myself for getting me into this -- the DLD, and the Ironman. Into biking in general. I cursed the hot air and the rain that was still hanging out in my shoes, starting my feet on the path to blistering.

Turns out, he was right. A rest stop only ten or so miles past that hill found me less than ten miles to go to the finish. There, a volunteer said that there were a couple more decent climbs, but they were long and gradual.

She was exactly right. The last one I remember was gradual enough, but seemed to go on for a mile at least, though it could be longer or shorter -- I have no way to verify which. She had said that you have to climb from the valley back up into Dodgeville, and that phrase kept going through my head as I pedaled. In my lowest gear, I pedaled. I checked and double-checked that I couldn't go any lower. And I pedaled. I stared at the asphalt two feet in front of me, and even though I was convinced I couldn't go any slower -- or faster -- I pedaled. Because the end of the hill was way off in the distance, and I couldn't conceive of walking that whole way up, and because I was still moving, I kept pedaling.

Eventually, I reached the top. Eventually, I finished. I don't know how long it took me, and I'd rather not know. All I do know is that I felt, even at the end, like crying. Like sobbing. And not out of joy, but relief. Out of a feeling that comes from not having conquered, but merely endured. I had nothing to be proud about on that ride. Even though I finished, it still feels like I quit. Because I did. A hundred times over.

I changed then, and started my run-off, which I downgraded from an hour to 40 minutes. Because I could. Because I had to. After all, it was almost 6 p.m., and I still had to drive back to Madison, pack, and drive to Green Bay to finish the final part of this epic weekend the next morning, and I still wasn't sure how I was going to do it all -- logistically, mentally, physically, or emotionally.

Running out of the park, there was a guy ahead of me doing the same thing. I heard someone call us "crazy triathletes." Eventually, I caught up to him, asked him what he was training for (Ironman Wisconsin), wished him luck, and passed by him. It would have been nice to run with someone, but I wasn't sure if he wanted company, and suddenly, I wasn't sure that I did, either. After all, this whole day had been me against me, and I wanted to finish it that way.

After my turn-around point, I passed by him again and waved. "I'm hoping if I just keep lying to myself, I can get 40 minutes out of this run," he said.

As I ran on, those words echoed in my head. I decided that it was no good lying to yourself on this journey. I wasn't proud of me that day. I couldn't say that I had been tough, or determined, or any other qualities that an Ironman-to-be should have. I couldn't say that I hadn't looked for any and every excuse to just quit. But I could say that I didn't lie to myself. I got down into the grime and muck and murk with me. I took a hard look at my inner demons, and I gave them their due. I won out, but just barely. They almost beat me. They almost broke me.

Or, rather, I almost broke myself.

I didn't though. I cracked, but I didn't break. Somehow, I made it through, and went on to have one of the best races I've ever had the following morning. Right now, though, it's time to sleep. So, more on that to come...

Posted by Erin 1:17 PM 12 comments