Lest I Think I'm Tough After Finishing an Ironman
Friday, September 28, 2007

I don't think any of us have anything on this little guy.

E7 -- a Bar-Tailed Godwit (it's a bird) -- just set a non-stop flight record by covering more than 7,200 miles in eight days, without touching down once.

Oh, and apparently Bar-Tailed Godwits can't stop to eat or drink when they're flying over open water. Seriously.

Read about the rest of her epic journey here.

Mind-boggling.

Posted by Erin 2:20 PM 3 comments



Thank the Lord for Thursday Nights

...and bringing back Grey's Anatomy just in time to fill up the hours of not-training I'm now (not) doing after Ironman.

But, omg! A deer?! Burke is gone for good? Sloan came to Seattle to "get Derek back?"?!? "Callie's a bitch." George loves Izzie? Lexie is the "girl from the bar." And McDreamy/Meredith do a non-breakup breakup...again? Good lord. It was a lot to pack into one episode. My head nearly exploded. But the season ahead? Looks like it's going to be a fun one, folks.

All I can say is, it's great to be back in the fold. I missed many a Grey's night whilst in the pool, swimming laps at Master's practice in preparation for IM-Moo, and it made me crabby. Because around here, missing Grey's isn't just missing a TV show. We have a little group that gets together, eats a potluck dinner, drinks wine (main component of said group), and visits before and after the show (and sometimes during commercials -- but there's a no-talking edict during). And in the last two years, I've come to look forward to and rely on this little weekly reprieve from work and the sometimes mundane routine of real life.

There are only two rules with this group (one of which was nearly violated by most of us last night): Rule #2 -- no men in speedos, and Rule #1 -- no crying. I'll let you figure out which one was which. And by "let you figure out," I mean I'll just go ahead and tell you. Because, man! The little girl, blinking "I love you" to her dad whose head was no longer attached to his spinal column...and Lexie Grey making a big deal that George delivered a baby on his very first day. Got me right here, I tell you. Right here.

I realized last night, cleaning up from the Grey's get-together, that I finally have my life back. (slightly delayed realization, I admit). It's what I looked forward to for so long during those nights where I'd spin for a couple of hours, then run, then go to Master's, and finally drag myself home to bed, almost too tired to eat. And I enjoyed that grind, to a point. I enjoyed pushing myself and seeing how far I could go with me. But honestly? I enjoyed last night more.

I have a pretty full life...and a good life...but because of Ironman, almost all of it was put on hold last year. I don't regret that for one milisecond. I don't regret all that I gave up and all that I accomplished, but that doesn't mean that I'm not thrilled now to sit outside on a beautiful fall night on a sidewalk table and drink wine with my girlfriends, or to linger at the barn and watch the sun set over Verona, or indulge in sloppy joes and Grey's Anatomy on a Thursday night. Swimming, biking, and running? All three are a big part of life for me, but now, they're not the only part. And for that, for now, I'm thankful.

Posted by Erin 7:49 AM 5 comments



Say Ya to Da UP, Eh!
Thursday, September 27, 2007

This morning, the Today Show revealed its top eight picks for fall foliage destinations. At the top of the list? Michigan's Upper Peninsula!

It truly is God's country. Here's proof, taken during my grad school days from one of my favorite places in the whole U.P. -- and perhaps the world: atop Sugarloaf Mountain in Marquette.

But if you're going to see the colors, go quickly. They were already changing when I was there in late August.

Posted by Erin 9:27 AM 4 comments



Your Opinions Wanted
Monday, September 24, 2007

So, in my other life, I often moonlight as a writer, and I'm working on an article or two based on my Ironman experience.

For one article, I'm trying to pull together some basics of what people need to know/do to complete their first Ironman. And here's where all of you Ironmen and women out there come in. If you have a minute, please take a look at the list below and either elaborate on it, add to or subtract from it, and/or comment on the various pieces of the list.

And, if today's a particularly slow day at work, feel free to email me (or just leave a comment) an answer to the following question: "What do you know now that you wish you would've known (during training or the race itself) before you did your first Ironman?" (And if you also wouldn't mind adding your name, city or state of residence, Ironman completed -- state and year-- so I could potentially use your quote, if you're okay with that and all, that would be wonderful).

And if you're not a veteran, but an aspiring Ironman/woman? Feel free to let me know what YOU'D most like to know as you move forward toward that goal.

A big "thank you" to all of you in advance. And without further ado, here's my draft list so far:

  • Get moving . Start building a training base now. Seek out group swims through swim classes or masters classes, and rides and runs through local bike and running stores.
  • Register . Most Ironman races fill up in less than an hour, so know when registration opens. Competition just to register is as heated as the actual race.
  • Find a coach. From Ironman-specific programs to piecemeal approaches, there's one out there that's right for you and your pocketbook.
  • Suit up. Invest in solid equipment that fits. It need not be top-of-the-line, but everything from a bike to running shoes to a wetsuit should be custom-fitted to you.
  • Research. Read everything you can about triathlon and Ironman races. There are a host of great books, and scouring race reports from competitors' blogs provides a first-hand look at what went right, what went wrong, and what the experience was like overall.
  • Eat right. Nutrition is the fourth pillar of becoming an Ironman. Eating – and eating right –is essential. You have to fuel your body regularly and with the right stuff, and have a tried-and-true nutrition plan for race day.
  • Enlist support. Training for an Ironman is a huge undertaking – physically, emotionally, and mentally. Getting family and friends on board for the journey isn't only nice, it's crucial. Tell everyone. Your boss and coworkers will need to know. But don't hesitate to tell anyone else you can think of – spreading the word can boost your fan support.
  • Train. The hardest thing about Ironman isn't the race, it's the 12 months leading up to it. Prepare to spend weekends, mornings, lunch hours, or evenings training.
  • Enjoy . You are attempting something that only a fraction of the population would ever consider, and that itself is a success. As they say, "Swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, run 26.2 miles, and brag for the rest of your life!"

Posted by Erin 3:04 PM 6 comments



Best Idea Ever to Come Out of JLT Meeting

Okay, so the Justice League of Triathlon has only met twice, but "ever" is warranted, because the idea is just that good.

I wish I could credit it to one person in particular, but I can't remember who came up with it. In any case, whomever does this is going to make a mint.

What is "this," you might ask?

Here's a clue:

That's right. A tattoo booth just after the finish area at Ironman. A mint, I tell you! An absolute mint!

Just be sure to give credit where credit is due -- to the JLT -- when whomever takes this idea and runs with it makes their first million.

(And don't worry mom. That's a random internet photo. I haven't gotten one ... yet. )

Posted by Erin 1:46 PM 8 comments



Help a Sista Out
Thursday, September 20, 2007

Everyone, meet Krista. Among other things in life, Krista is an oft-commenter on my blog, a hostess-with-the-mostess on her own hilarious blog, and most importantly, a marathoner hoping to raise money for leukemia-stricken Amelia through Team-in-Training.

After a bit of a slump, Krista just had a huge breakthrough with her fundraising. She has just a little over $1,000 to raise before October 21st, when she runs the San Francisco marathon. This post is me doing my part, along with a meager donation (all that's left after the money-suck that is Ironman), to help her reach that very achieveable and worthy goal. Because if running a marathon isn't hard enough, Krista had to throw a $3,800 fundraising goal and planning a wedding into the mix.

So, if everyone who reads this blog can throw just a small donation Krista's way, hopefully we can help change the life of one little girl.

(At the very least, it's just good karma. Click here to cash in on your share).

Posted by Erin 3:04 PM 1 comments



Wisconsin Ironman Epilogue: Comedown
Tuesday, September 18, 2007

I don't want to come back down from this cloud;
It's taken me all this time to find out what i need, yeah.
I don't want to come back down from this cloud;
It's taken me all this...all this...time.
~Bush~

This morning, for the first time in a week, I ran. I donned a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and laced up my brown runners that had carried me, just a little over a week ago, through the haze of flashbulbs and music and cheering of the Ironman finish chute. I grabbed Newt and Leonard, and the three of us set out into the sticky sweet air of Indian summer.

I didn't run because I needed to. Because I have crashed post-Ironman and was seeking refuge in forward motion and the endorphins my body has fed off of for so long now.

No, I ran because I could. Because I felt good today...and, truth be told, because I've felt good since last Tuesday. I ran because my dogs needed it. And because I wanted to get back to that place that I visited last week, and over the last year -- the place where I pushed myself beyond, where I tested my limits and doubted my strength and found most simply, that if I just held on, I could -- and just do some thinking about the whole experience. And for me, that place is me, in my runners, moving forward, hearing my footfall strike a steady, hypnotic one-two on the concrete.

I'm still trying to figure this whole thing out. Ironman, I mean. Perhaps there are some who can do Ironman and call it just a race. But I don't think they are many, and I am not one of them. My father, a man who slept in on the mornings of mine and my sister's first marathons, even understood this about Ironman. This past week he said to me, "That was really something. People keep asking me how it was, and I tell them, 'I can try to tell you about it, but you just won't understand.'"

In some ways, it was like another version of me -- one that I don't know well -- did Ironman that day. Although familiar, it seems so far away and distant to me, akin to a childhood memory or deja vu. On the other hand, I find it hard to view things not through that lens. Even as I enjoy going about my day in a way that I haven't in well over a year, Ironman remains a constant pebble in my mind.

The night of September 10th, Chief of Stuff and I headed out for a celebratory dinner of sushi. As the conversation often goes, we talked about the week ahead. He asked me about my availability on a certain night, and I gave him my stock answer, "I'm not sure -- I'll check my schedule." I meant my workout schedule. The one that had perched on my dresser for the last twelve months and dictated how the hours of each day would be arranged. Like a phantom limb, these habits had become so ingrained that, although I wanted to relish my new found longer days, I missed them somewhat.

It happened again, on the way home from dinner, when we stopped at the gas station to fill up. I should run in and stock up on some Gatorade, I thought. Because this is what one does on gas station stops. This is what one does when one's weekly schedule is packed and there's no time for things like grocery shopping or spontaneous trips for Gatorade. You combine trips; you multitask. And suddenly, you no longer need to.

And this, I'm happy to report, hasn't caused me any great duress. I've heard the stories of post-Ironman depression. Of the letdown that so often follows. But it hasn't seemed to follow me.

The question I've gotten over and over and over again is if I'm going to do it again. People ask this, I think, because of the curiosity factor (Really though, isn't this much the same as asking a woman who just gave birth when she's going to have another kid?). An answer of "No way" means it was so terrible that you couldn't imagine going through that again, and that the person answering is, in fact, human; whereas "Yes" would indicate that the respondent is certifiably insane.

Me? I've pitched my tent firmly in the "I don't know" camp. It was such an incredible experience, this first Ironman, that I somewhat believe any subsequent try would be a let down. It's also a lot to give up -- a year of lost weekends, vacations not taken, phone calls not made -- and a lot to ask your people to give up and put up with too: There's incessant navel-gazing. "I can't," becomes you're entire lexicon; and even if you could, in the end, you're too tired. And all non-Ironman related activities or thoughts get pushed off onto someone else -- grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking -- or just don't get done. So I don't know...because Ironman is never just about you. Because no one goes 140.6 miles, or all those that precede them, alone.

But it also seemed just a touch too easy. I felt altogether too good afterwards. And I've started to wonder if maybe...just maybe...I couldn't push harder, go faster.

So my compromise at this point is that I'd do it with someone else next time -- CoS, Melanie, my sister (any takers?!) -- or maybe when I'm 40, or 50. Or hell, even 60. In the meantime, I want to do at least one half-Iron next summer, and a few Olys and Sprints, with my eye toward getting more competitive. With a goal of a top-three finish, at some point, in my age group.

For the time being, though, I'm just going to enjoy life. I'm heading out this afternoon to ride my horse for the second time. The other night I made homemade soup and helped CoS make butternut squash and sausage risotto, and still got to bed by 10:00. Tomorrow night I will have dinner with my dad and my sister in Green Bay. This weekend I will go for brunch, and maybe to the farmer's market. I will clean my condo and take my dogs to the barn. I will start writing a bit and sending my writing out to literary journals again. I will finish polishing my book and start looking for an agent. Next week I will return to my Master's group, as much for the social aspect as the exercise. I will cheer on CoS in the Green Bay Duathlon at the end of this month, and go to the Madison Book Festival in October.

And I will run, like I did this morning. Without my Garmin or heart rate strap. Without any thought of tempo or hill repeats or miles. I will run to feel the leaves dance at my feet. To experience the melting of fall into winter. To see the look of sheer exhilaration on my dogs' faces. I will run in a continued effort to feeling my way through this -- about what it means, and where I go from here. I will run because I can, and because I want to. And for now, that is enough.

Posted by Erin 11:46 AM 11 comments



Ironman Wisconsin: The Run
Monday, September 17, 2007

Love me faster than the devil
Run me straight into the ground
Drowning deep inside your water
Drowning deep inside your sound
~OAR~

Those are the words that were playing as I ran out of T2, as I left the most difficult and dreaded Ironman leg behind me.

There are those moments in life when things seem to get real slow, when time almost stands still, and when you know -- when you intuitively know, way deep down -- that everything is going to work out just fine.

Running out of T2 on September 9th, I felt like that. It was a year of worrying up worst-case scenarios -- from cold and rain to flat tires to breaking an ankle crossing the street a week before the race. A year of having to explain, over and over again, both what I was doing and why. A year of battling sustained fatigue, deeper and longer-lasting than any other I'd ever experienced. A full year of being fueled by doubt and fear and only a tiny, tiny bit of hope.

One whole year. All leading up to this.

And my god, did it ever feel good.

Turning onto Pinkney Street, I found my crew near the Old Fashioned. I hugged my mom and dad, Chief of Stuff, and my friend Melanie who had traveled from DC to be with me that day. I wanted to hug all of them, but I was sweaty, and time was ticking, and so I just said "thank you" over and over again, shared a few high-fives with the rest, and kept trucking. There were a lot of miles to cover still that night, after all.

My legs -- somehow -- felt fresh and good. No soreness. No cramping. No thick, thudding hurt with each step. All of those double bricks were paying off now. And except for a slightly elevated heart rate that stubbornly just would not come down, things felt...well...great.

The plan was to run from aid station to aid station, alternating Gatorade (or Cola after the halfway point) at one, food and water at the next. The plan was also to keep running. I had conserved enough on the bike that I hoped I wouldn't have to walk any large chunks of the marathon. I knew if I did, I'd be disappointed with myself afterwards, and in case this was my first and last Ironman, I wanted to do it right.

The first 13 miles ticked by quickly. Every time I'd be tempted to walk, every time I'd be tempted to complain to me, I'd remind myself, "You're running! You've been waiting all day for this. And how much fun is this? All these people, the great weather? What more could you ask for?!" And then I'd think of other people's race reports I'd read, where after the first few miles, things started to feel overwhelming, or their body started shutting down, or they would cramp up.

I was having none of those issues. I reminded myself as such, often, and that unless I was having any of those issues, I would keep running. Because if I kept running, the sooner I'd experience that finish chute, the sooner I'd get to my Jamba Juice that Melanie was going to pick up for me (and real food that didn't consist of cookies, chicken broth, grapes, or pretzels).

One of the aid stations was themed "Back to the 60's." Leading up to it were banners that read, "Turn, turn, turn," "Legalize GU," "No Drafting," etc. As I write this, they don't seem all that funny; but after 100-some miles and eleven or so hours of constant movement, I thought they were freaking hilarious.

Walking through the aid station at dusk, I felt someone sort of staring at me. More intently than spectators stare at athletes. "Erin, is that you?" It was my physical therapist from the UW Sports Medicine clinic who helped me through my bout with bursitis post-Green Bay Marathon. She was (and still is) quite simply, one of the best physical therapists a girl could ask for. Having done a handful of Ironmans herself (including Kona), she just got it. She had been focused only on getting me back on the road as soon as humanly possible, and for that I could've kissed her several times over.

She asked how things were going. I told her I was just thrilled to be off my bike. "I know exactly what you mean," she said. We had talked before, during my sessions, about how we'd take running over biking any day. Two hours of biking or two hours of running? Give us both the running shoes. Doesn't make sense, it just is. But since I found that out about her, she had seemed like a kindred (albeit much faster and in better shape) spirit. After inquiring about my hip and how it was holding up, she wished me well. "Get running!" she said, and I did.

Until Observatory, that is. Still not done with my dinner (a Mojo bar) and having the chewing difficulty of an 80-year-old who'd misplaced her dentures, I slowed to a walk again up the first Observatory hill. I feel it's important to point out that I didn't need to walk...I chose to. Tactical decision to get fuel in as opposed to trying to wing it. I didn't always like my plan, but it had been working for me all day, so I stuck to it.

Running up State Street to the half-marathon turnaround, Chief of Stuff and Melanie ran with me for a bit. They asked how I was feeling, what kind of Jamba Juice I wanted, and what I wanted for dinner. So many questions! I told them about the chewing problems, and requested something I could gum if need be, like pasta.

Melanie and CoS, giving some moral support and taking a dinner order.

I also tried complaining to Melanie about my feet, which at the moment, I was hoping would just up and fall off my body. Hot spots from my bike shoes, combined with half a marathon, equaled screaming dogs for Erin.

"I want to cut them off," I whined to Mel.

"Yeah, we'll take care of that later. Right now, you run."

Had she not flown all the way in from DC for this race, just like she said she would on the day I signed up, I might have wished (at that moment) for bad things to happen to her. As it was, I could only grumble on my way. She was right. Less whining, more running.

At some point on State Street, either before or after my talking-to from Mel, I saw Xt4, who nearly frightened me with his exuberance. In the times I've met him, he's struck me as a deep, introspective guy. Thoughtful. Reflective. I was expecting some words of wisdom or genius inspiration from him -- something he wished someone would have said to him during last year's race when he most needed it. Instead, you could imagine my shock when I got something along the lines of, "Wooooooooooo-hoooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeah, baby! You're doing it, aren't you?! Whoooooooooooo-hoooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!" very loud and in-your (or my) face. It seemed to cause a bit of a scene. I loved it. Made me smile all the way to the next aid station.

And I needed it just then. Because we were sent back out to purgatory. Out along the lakeshore trail. They're not really going to have us do this whole part of the loop again, I thought. And I tried to convince myself that was, indeed, the case. That we'd just run along the trail for a bit, loop back up around Observatory, and be done with it -- skipping the long, dark run out to the turnaround at Lake Mendota Drive. But no matter how many times I tried to do the fuzzy math I knew that's exactly what I'd have to do. The whole loop. Again.

CoS ran with me for a bit on my way back out. I asked how I was doing on time. My figuring skills are fuzzy at best on a normal day, but at the moment, they were shot to hell. He told me what my bike time was, what time I had started, and that I was on pace to run a sub 5-hour marathon. "Sweet!" I said. "I'll finish in time to hit the 'Bou (a dive bar that we all have a soft spot for just around the corner from my condo) afterward!"

He seemed a little shocked. "You sure you want to go out after?" I assured him I did. That was one of the things keeping me going. Mike Riley. Hot food. Finishing in time to hang out with my people afterwards at the 'Bou. Pretty simple, really.

There were lots of people walking now, so I started to make a game out of picking them off. I looked down at my Garmin. Thirteen minute miles. What?! I had no idea it was possible to actually run a 13-minute mile. Oh dear god. At this rate... Just then, a spectator, concealed by the dark, called out -- to me? "Forward progress. It's all about forward progress tonight. You're going to be an Ironman. Just keep moving forward." She was right. My shuffle was faster than what my walk would've been. I got real okay with my 13-minute miles for a spell.

I picked up a middle-aged guy named John who slowed to my speed. We chatted about our days, the weather, and if this was our first Ironman (Mine, yes. His, no). I asked how this compared to Florida, the last one he'd done. He started to fade. "You go on ahead, I'm going to walk," he said. And as I ran out into the dark ahead of him, he called, "You're doing great you know, for your first one! Really impressive!"

That was all I needed. My footfall picked up, and so did my pace. 11:30 minute miles. It felt like I was flying. I thought about all of those runs that had gotten me to this point...and about one in particular, back in August when it was in the high 90's with 100 percent humidity. It was a six-miler after a mile swim and two-hour bike. Stupidly, I had decided not to bring a water bottle with me, and by the second mile into the run, I thought I might die. But I could hear Mike Riley's words in my head that day -- "Erin Celello from Madison, Wisconsin...YOU are an Ironman" and everything those words stood for kept me going. Now, instead of hundreds of miles separating me from hearing them, there were only a handful.

Up Observatory Drive once more, I walked briefly. I chatted with a Notre Dame student doing his first Ironman, too. He had to get up and drive back the next morning at 7 a.m. to make an afternoon class. Yikes. Another woman came up on us and joined in the conversation. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she said, "But there's not a whole lot else to do out here." That too, made me laugh. I was either easily amused or easily annoyed at this point, and there was no telling which direction I'd go at any given moment.

Up ahead, I saw Lisa, Ann, and Joel. They told me there was another group waiting at the bottom of the hill. "So you mean I should start running again now?" I joked.

"Oh no, not at all," Lisa said. "You do what-ev-er you want." Later, they would tell me there was a guy cheering just a little bit earlier near them; often obnoxious, he apparently had one gem: "This is Ironman. If it were easy, everyone would do it! The only thing easy about Ironman was yesterday."

The plan of the Fighting Irish rep I was running with was to walk most of the rest of the way so as to save himself for the finish. But I was ready to get going again, and so I started up. One foot in front of the other. Each time, one step closer to that finish chute.

The group wasn't at the bottom of the hill, but they were near the State Street turnaround. On the way back down State Street, CoS called out to me, "This is it! The rest of the day was a warmup. Now the race starts."

In my head, I mocked him and wished him the same fate I'd wished Mel not long before, even though I had read something similar on IronWil's blog and told him that was my plan. "Race my ass," I said to myself. "Insensitive asshole." Apparently, constant movement for longer than most people are awake in a day makes me crabby. Or maybe it was the lack of coffee in my body. Or food. Either way, I told him about my silent outburst and apologized for it afterwards.

Passing the Inspiration jumbotron on the Lakeshore Path heading back toward Madison, I hoped for a message. I knew Carla, Mel, and the Eggplant had written one. I saw them do it. But next to my number, I saw this: "Erin Celello: Just do it. Bill wants you to."

I have no idea who the hell Bill was. And, in consulting later on with Carla, Mel, and Eggplant, found out that they didn't either. Must've been someone else's message. What they had actually written was, "Brian Vigue, more wine!" to remind me of our past girls nights spent downing wine and chatting, and to give me that to look forward to once again. Regardless, trying to figure out who Bill was and what "it" was he wanted me to do took my mind off things for at least a mile or two.

After that, I started the game of trying to add my times up and estimate my transition times to see when, approximately, I'd finish. Again with the figuring. Again with the faulty math. Finally, I figured out that all I had to do was check at the next mile marker and find out what time it was. If I had a few miles to go, and it was before 10 p.m., I could likely pull off a sub 15-hour finish -- a silent goal of mine all year that I had kept only to myself, for fear of getting tied too closely to it.

Running up the hill near Camp Randall, I asked a couple waiting patiently on the sidewalk for the time. "9:15" they told me. With a little over two miles to go. More fuzzy math. More confusion. Was I figuring this right? Was it only 9:15?

I didn't want to miss that 15-hour mark. I wouldn't miss that cutoff. There would be no more aid stations. No more walking. I would run this in.

The return trip on the Pedestrian Path was lonely. Behind me, someone was running faster than I could've willed myself to go. "Great job!" he called out. "You too," I answered back. "Almost there. Finish strong." Then I saw he had a volunteer shirt on, which he called back to point out. Duh. Crabby? Check. Slaphappy? Check. Delirious? Yup, that too.

Coming through the tunnel and up the bike path, I heard a voice. "Erin? Is that Erin Celello?"

I had no idea where the voice was coming from. The path was deserted except for the volunteers behind me, and a man standing way up ahead.

Then I saw Darcy, who had coached me through this whole dizzying process, sitting on the ground, nursing her week-old baby. She started yelling for me. "You're going to do this, Erin! You're doing it. A few more minutes until you're an Ironman. I'm so proud of you!" I tried a feeble wave as I passed. I attempted a smile. And now, I wish I could've said something, smiled more. Because she and her husband, both Ironmen themselves, with their little baby out there taking pictures and cheering at 9-something at night, was the lift and inspiration I needed. I couldn't show just then how much I appreciated it; I can only hope my saying it now is enough.

A couple more turns, then onto the bright lights of State Street. My name yelled out a hundred times over by people I'd never met. People who were rooting for me now. It was all. so. much.

This...this was it. These last few blocks. They were what I'd been inspired by initially, and for so long after I first saw people and read about people -- people just like me -- taking these last steps toward being something other-than on the opposite side of that chute.

I tried to slow down to take it all in and speed up to ensure a sub-15-hour finish all at once. I looked those calling out to me in the eye. I looked around me, seeing the way the glow of the finish chute fell on US Bank building and Capitol lawn. I let it sink in that in just a couple minutes, I would be in that chute. Finally. It was finally here. And I had done it.

I slapped people's hands on the way in. This I know. But the rest was a blur. I didn't hear the music, or the cheering. I never heard Mike Riley say, "Erin Celello, you are an Ironman" (although I'd later learn that he almost didn't say it either, what with all the vowels and "l's" in my last name).

But I remember looking up at the clock: 14:41. I remember feeling the tape whisper across my torso. I remember smiling. Just smiling. I couldn't have smiled any more. Any bigger.

There were no tears then. I had shed my last Ironman-tear a handful of hours before. I had left those on the early spring and summer roads of the IM-Moo loops, on the roads of Dodgeville and Barneveld, on countless stretches in between, and finally, just outside T2 on the Monona Terrace. No, the knowledge that I could, that I would, do this had finally dried any tears...even those of joy.

Looking back, I think that knowledge had been there all along. And looking back, I now realize that all along, deep down, I had believed the quote, "You're already an Ironman; the race is just a celebration."

But the race isn't just a celebration. It's more than that. It's a validation in the purest sense of the word.

Xt4's blog -- one of the original inspirations to me on this journey -- is called "Becoming Ironman." And that's the most fitting description for this process. It's not that at 14:41:40 I was me, and at 14:41:41 that night I was an Ironman. No. It happened a little on the day it took me nearly five hours to go just a little more than fifty miles. Or when I should've been sipping mojitos and baking myself in the sun, but instead spun for two-and-a-half hours in a stuffy gym sans air conditioning in the Dominican Republic. It was the time where, derailed by a flat tire and early dinner plans on one loop of my two-loop scripted workout, I had to set out the next day and do another two loops again. It was every time I didn't want to drag myself to Master's at 7:30 on a frigid, dark night but did it anyway. It was the epic weekend of the Dairyland Dare, when I went up against myself, and barely came out the other side. It was every time I strapped on my goggles, or clipped in my bike pedals, or laced up my running shoes to do the hard work that got me to that chute, to those lights, to that medal, and to everything it all stood for. Ironman isn't a state of "being" -- as in "You are and Ironman." It truly is a becoming.

And like everything else that day that just seemed to fall into place perfectly, the man who's blog titled just that -- becoming -- a man who, through sharing his emotions and trials and writing, inspired me to start my own journey, and whom I hadn't then met but had since become a friend, placed my finisher's medal around my neck.

As soon as I was through the finish, a volunteer grabbed me and wrapped a tin-foil-looking blanket around my shoulders. "Are you okay?" she asked.

I beamed at her. I had a huge, stupid grin on my face that just wouldn't budge. "I'm great," I said.

"Do you feel okay?"

"Perfect," I said. "I feel perfect."

"Well, you seem just fine. Do you want some coke or gatorade, at least?"

Coke, right then, seemed about the greatest idea in the world. And it tasted just as great.

Then, my team was there. And there were hugs and lots of "How do you feel?" and my dad saying he was proud of me.

We visited for a while -- me, and all those who had been out there cheering for me at some point that day. And although that alone was special and I really didn't want it to end, a chill had crept into the air and there was gear to get and a shower and food to be had, and at least one drink to be ordered at the 'Bou.

Walking toward the Terrace with Chief of Stuff and my mom, Scout, the day felt surreal. It had been one of the best -- if not the best -- day of my life in so many ways, for so many reasons.

"I'm exhausted," my mom said, and I laughed at her, then. She was exhausted?!? But I also realized just how much she, and everyone else, had put into this day. They had shared my fears, my highs, my lows, and my little victories -- not just today, but throughout the past year.

As badly as I had wanted it all to be over, as much as I had been looking foward to this feeling for so long, I also didn't want it to end. My mom grabbed my bike from me then, announced that she'd ride it home, tried mounting it, and promptly fell over. I asked if she was okay, which she was. If only she knew how many times I had done the same thing, maybe she wouldn't have looked so embarassed. I didn't get that out, though. Instead, I just said, "Why don't we just walk...together?"

I said this not out of concern for my bike -- it would be put away for a while, anyways -- but because I wanted this day to last just a little bit longer. And so we walked. Chief of Stuff, my mom, my little blue bike, and me, together.

Run Time: 5:18:43

Finish Time: 14:41:41

Posted by Erin 1:57 PM 15 comments



Ironman Wisconsin: The Bike
Friday, September 14, 2007

Photo credit Joel Rivlin

In T1, I started to put my bike shoes on before I remembered that the plan was to carry them out of transition. Since I had an incredibly low race number, my bike was racked all the way at the other end -- much too long a way to run in cleats.

I also made a spontaneous decision to stop at the sunscreen-slatherers. I've been blessed with olive-ish Italian skin that doesn't tend to burn and I never put sunscreen on for my long workouts this summer, so I don't know what possessed me to alter my plan -- maybe just because they were there, and so nice, and calling out to me.

One got my arms and legs and back, while the other touched up my face and ears. "You'll thank me for this later," he said. And that night, showering off the grit and grime of the day, my skin stinging just a little by the early fall sun, I did.

I ran down the long, long, long corridor of bikes, shoes in hand, waiting until I could call my race number out to one of the volunteers. I am a stupendously slow cyclist, and I had been dreading the bike portion of the Ironman for nearly a year. The sooner I got on my bike and got moving, the sooner it would be done.

Finally, the numbers dropped into the low hundreds. "102!" I shouted, and by the time I reached my rack, my bike (yet unnamed) was out and waiting for me.

Off the helix and out John Nolan Drive, I found a steady cadence and tried to just settle in. Upon good advice from a good number of smart people who mentored me through this process, I didn't let my miles per hour climb above 17. I felt good, but I also knew that before long, I'd be struggling to keep those same mph readings in the double-digets.

At some point near the Alliant Energy Center, WIBA-alum Bob flew past me. He yelled something encouraging about how we should get this going, or something. And I wanted to. I wanted to pump my legs and fly. But I also had a plan, and by god, I promised myself I was going to stick to it. So I watched Bob get farther and father out ahead, growing smaller and smaller.

I am slow, I thought.

You have a plan, I reminded myself. The plan was to still be fresh enough and feel good enough at the half-marathon mark to run the entire marathon. That was still a long ways off, I told myself. Doing so would take discipline. Strict adherence to my plan involved not exceeding 17 mph on the first lap, downhills excluded.

I am still slow, I thought. But then I also remembered the portion of an article that I posted on this blog some months ago: "Be prepared to get passed by a grandma on a sit-up-and-beg bike." They'll pass you on the bike, but you'll see them on the run. My plan would work, if I just trusted it. If I played this right, I'd not only see them on the run, I'd pass them back again.

Way back in mid-April, I roused myself for a rare early-morning ride, driving out near Verona to get a taste of the course. I parked near Irish Lane, rode up Irish to Caine, and then the entirety of Whalen, and back. It was harder than I ever expected it to be, and as I loaded my bike into my car that morning, the cold dew of early morning dissipating into a warm spring day, my legs shook out of fatigue and fear. Whalen road had kicked my ass. I hadn't even made it to the loop.

I remembered that morning as I easily overtook the last roller on Whalen and coasted into Verona. I knew the turns, the roads, by heart now. I knew so much more, too, and smiled, thinking about just how far away that April morning felt. About how far away the me that stood, shivering alongside my car, now felt.

Up Valley Road. You're going to feel tired here, I reminded myself. You always do. This section, through to Mt. Horeb, was my least favorite stretch of the course. The inclines were so gradual that I'd always be lulled into thinking I was "practically" on a flat. But what they lacked in incline they made up for in length, and I'd look down, and find myself struggling to maintain 11 or 12 mph -- always -- and I'd get frustrated and or panic about my speed -- always. But I had also complained as such so often to Chief of Stuff that I was certain he'd have parts of the team posted along County Road G and Route 92.

And there they were, all decked out in yellow, Newt and Leonard (my two Vizslas) along for the viewing. There was a moment, when I was still not yet upon them, when my throat caught. I still can't seem to find the words to describe how I felt then. Lucky, thankful, overjoyed. These things come close, but they don't get to the heart of the feelings this day conjured -- and would continue to conjure -- throughout.

It's like Woodstock for triathletes, I thought. So much raw physical and emotional effort, sustained over an entire day. So much goodwill. So much support. Overwhelming. Purely and simply overwhelming.

So I smiled. A huge, beaming, giddy smile. Because if I didn't, I would have cried.

I stopped in Cross Plains, the entire town decked out in a "wild west" theme. There was a saloon girl directing bikers. A guy wearing tiger-striped chaps. Even little boot/spur/horseshoe garland inside the porta-potties, which seemed hilarious. These people left no element undecorated.

Then it was on to the bitches. I heard people around me starting to lament this portion of the course. But I had a soft spot for the bitches, or maybe I just have a soft spot for climbing. Either way, riding them throughout the summer, when I hadn't seen another soul on the course for hours, I imagined the sides lined with cheering masses and the thought motivated me to sit my butt in the saddle and keep pedaling. I couldn't wait to see that...hear it...experience it once and for all.

Turning onto Old Sauk Pass Road, a guy passing me groaned, "Oh god, here we go."

"Let's do it," I said. "This is the fun part!"

He likely thought I was a little off. He for certain thought I was annoying. But it was fun. From the woman on the early part of the hill silently striking a drum with a beat that seemed to speak right to my legs, to the rowdy crowds at the top of the hill. I laughed, I smiled at them. They smiled and yelled back. The interplay was intoxicating. I wanted to do it again.

And I got to on the next two bitches, and then again riding through Verona. I tried to drink it all in. The sign that someone had made that read, "You're doing a freaking IRONMAN!" (Which is, really, exactly how I felt). The lone super-spectator in jean shirt and red cap who would yell, "Lots of love for you 102," or "I'm going to see you up ahead 102," or "Still loving you, 102. STILL lovin' you!" Triteacher catching sight of me late in Verona and infecting me even more with her excitement.

And my team. What can I say about my team? They were everywhere. To the point where I started to worry about them by the second lap.

"Did you guys get to eat?" I called to Carla and Brian at my second attempt at the Old Sauk Hill climb (Bitch #1).

But they didn't hear me. Instead, I now know that they panicked a bit. Carla called Melanie, who was with CoS and my parents and said frantically, "I think she needs food. Or Deet. She needs something...I just don't know what it was!"

Later, before the last of the bitches, I wanted to yell to my team, "Five bitches down, one to go!" but they kept yelling and hooting and hollering. I couldn't get a word in edgewise. That night, they would ask me, "Why did you keep trying to talk to us? Didn't you have enough to worry about?"

I did. That was for sure. Remembering to eat either Clif Blocks or mojo bars at the top of every hour, to take Endurolytes every half-hour, and to down a bottle of Gatorade an hour. There was a lot of thinking going on. But I worried about them too. I worried that they were dragging themselves through the day, rushing from stop to stop, skipping out on lunch. I wanted them to have as much fun as I was having out there.

Heading into Mt. Horeb the second time, my coach, Darcy, and her husband were waiting for me at the bottom of the hill. I can't remember what, exactly, Darcy yelled at me (John was snapping pictures), but I can hear her voice even now. I can hear in it urgency, and pride, and sticktuitiveness. And she kept cheering. At the top of the hill, and almost to the aid station, I could still hear her. I thought to myself that she just had a baby, with no drugs, barely a week before. No matter how tired I was, surely, I could pedal a few more hills. A few more miles. Surely.

On my second time down Whitte Road, I saw my friend, Lisa. "Don't worry about me," she said. "You just keep pedaling. We're here for you. Joel and Ann are just ahead." I'd see them again, later on that loop (now I can't remember where it was, as the day seems to blur at points), and would yell to them, "Almost done. Then it's on to State St. where you guys can relax and have a beer at the bar!" She would later tell me that she thought I was losing it a bit. Really, though, it was so fun for me, that I wanted them to be having an equal experience.

The sixth and final bitch behind me, I spotted the couple on Timber Lane grilling out and listening to the Packer game (tied, as they informed passing racers). Wasn't I just here? I thought. It had been two hours before, but felt like two minutes. And then, bittersweet, came the realization that this was almost over. My lower back and lower regions felt like they were going to fall right off my body. And, in fact, I might have welcomed that. Things were starting to hurt. But I also knew that even if I repeated this race, I'd never get to repeat this experience...these feelings. And as much as my back and neck and whoo-ha wanted the whole thing to be over -- as much as they wanted off the damn bike, I didn't so much.

Going through the streets of Verona the second time, things were quiet...subdued. No crazy cheering. Now cowbells. No music. No people lined three-deep. There were large stretches of empty sections of white fencing. It felt empty. I checked my bike computer. I was well within the time cutoff. Barring any serious disaster, I should make it, I reasoned. In reality, my bike would have had to break in two and I would have had to run back not to make the cutoff, but I had worried about that cutoff for twelve whole months, and I was not about to stop now.

On the outskirts, I heard my name. It was Katie and Angela -- another two members of my team, who seemed downright thrilled to be out there. They were jumping up and down, seemingly (for some reason) barely able to contain themselves. Their excitement caught. I smiled, gave them a thumbs up, and called out that I'd see them back in Madison.

"You have quite the cheering section out here," a guy passing me said. It wouldn't be the first or last time someone would say that to me. I told him he didn't know the half of it.

The ride back into Madison seemed to take forever. I saw my team again on Whalen going the reverse direction. I saw the crew from the barn where I board my horse at the intersection of Whalen and Fitchrona Road, waving signs that would later appear on Gino's stall door. I saw the, by now, all too familiar message in faded white paint on the road: "Last hill. Amy, Tina. Now, run!" All summer I had ridden over that message. And each time I did, I imagined what this exact moment would feel like. I imagined having my summer behind me, two laps of the Verona loop behind me, and a marathon in front of me. I imagined how I would feel, what kind of day I was having. Now, the day was here. I was tired. But I was still moving. I was doing it. And it felt like the greatest thing in the world, even then, at the tail end of 112 miles.

I was suddenly thirstier than ever, but for fear of a sloshing stomach on the run, sipped only lightly on Gatorade and tried to alternate with that and water. Soon I was cruising through the parking lot of the Alliant Energy Center. And after that, down the outside lane of John Nolan Drive, watching the Capitol's dome and Monona Terrace grow larger and larger in view.

I had feared the bike portion of the Ironman for so, so long. Up until that day, up until that second loop, I didn't know if I would actually make it. The numbers told me so, but just like the day of the Dairyland Dare, I didn't let myself believe them.

But now, I was approaching the helix of the Terrace. I was approaching the helix of the terrace much more than an hour before the cutoff. People at the top of the helix were sounding a horn and yelling, "Way to go 102! You're doing it! You're going to do this!"

I melted. I don't know that I've ever experienced a more pure relief and joy than I did at that moment. I had finished the Ironman bike. Tears poured down my cheeks. I was smiling and laughing and crying huge, hiccuping sobs.

A volunteer caught me, concern in her voice. "Are you okay? Just hold on. We've got you. You okay?"

I let them guide me off my bike. Still sobbing. Still smiling.

"I did it." I said. "I can't believe I did it."

The volunteer just looked at me. I'm sure she was used to dealing with all sorts of emotions and reactions at that point, but she still seemed perplexed.

"I just can't believe I'm finally off my bike," I finally said, offering a bit of a truce...a sentiment she'd understand.

"I'm hearing a lot of that today," she said, helping me fish the remaining two Mojo bars out of my bento box, and guiding me toward T2.

Although I had brought my sobbing under control, I still had tears streaming down my cheeks when I heard someone call out to me from behind the fencing going into T2. It was Thomps. I don't know what he said, or if I said anything in return. But he reached out his hand, and although it was filled with a fist of Mojo bars, I held mine out too. He had been there throughout the day, and farther back throughout this journey as mine -- as a non-present (or, at least, on the nights I was there) founder of the Wingra Wednesday night swim group, then as a commenter on my blog, and then as a real, live, in-the-flesh person sitting next to me at the Friday-night WIBA dinner in July offering needed encouragement and sound advice.

Back in August, after I missed the entry for the Racine half-iron and after seeing the results and speedy average bike splits, my confidence solidly shaken, Thomps emailed me:

"The courses are very different. Racine is flat, flat & flat. Moo is relentless. One hill after another. Training on the course is a mixed blessing. You will gain valuable experience about the course, learning where to accelerate or cruise. But, the downside is your average mph will play with your head. So, don't fret about it. If you keep moving forward, you will have enough time to finish."

That email, those words, stuck with me and repeated in my head so many times throughout the day. So, it was only fitting that Thomps was the person I saw at the end of my most feared, most mentally-trying leg. You-will-finish. Even when I couldn't let myself believe it, others believed for me. For that, I'll be forever indebted.

Into T2, I had two thoughts on my mind. One: Hebrews 12:1 ("We are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses...let us run with endurance the race that is set before us") and Xt4's related suggestion that you slow down, slap hands, hug, and just for a minute, appreciate your people who have been out there all day cheering for you without any interaction or payoff whatsoever, once you get started on the run. And two, the quote, "Perseverance is the hard work you do after you get tired of doing the hard work you've already done."

Out of the Terrace, OAR's "Love and Memories" -- a staple on my running playlists -- was blaring as I started the run. It was still a great day.

Bike Time: 7:42:12

T2: 5:34

Posted by Erin 9:58 AM 6 comments



Ironman Wisconsin: The Swim
Wednesday, September 12, 2007

The swim start, before the cannon goes off.

I can't even say Sunday, September 9th dawned clear and bright, because when I left my condo at 4:35 a.m. to walk the eight or so blocks to the square that morning, it was still pitch black out.

I had laid out my clothes the night before on a chair of my kitchen table, and assembled the pieces of my breakfast (Mojo bar, English muffin with peanut butter and honey, Powerbar recovery drink, water, and Gatorade) so that the only thing to do in the morning would be to toast the muffin and grab the recovery shake from the fridge.

I ate in silence, in the dark, at my table with my two dogs -- Newt and Leonard -- for company. I was trying not to wake my parents or Chief of Stuff, asleep in the adjoining rooms. But I was also soaking in the stillness and heaviness of the morning. There were many questions to be kept at bay (Would I or wouldn't I? Could I or couldn't I?), and just as many that were important to think through thoroughly (What would I do first and what would make the most sense -- special needs, body marking, or coffee?)

At quarter-to, I grabbed my bike and run special needs bags, my dry clothes bag, and bike pump all packed into an old ski duffel, and headed out the door for the 10-minute walk to the square.

Across the street, some twenty-something boys were just shutting down a party -- turning off the lights and heading upstairs for bed. I will -- hopefully -- be half-way done with the bike course by the time they even get out of bed, I thought. It was funny. I remember that kind of schedule -- the party-all-night and sleep-all-day schedule that I often kept through college and even, at times, in graduate school. I remember, back then, feeling sorry for the poor blokes I'd see leaving for work or out on a run as I was stumbling home to my bed. Now, thinking about what lay ahead that day, the roles were reversed. It was them I felt sorry for.

Dropping off my special needs on either side of Pinkney St. was uneventful and quick. So, before the line grew too long, I decided to grab a coffee before body marking instead of the other way around. The plan was a Starbucks grande nonfat mocha -- tried and tested several times over the summer. Funny enough, the barista who I often see during my mid-morning or mid-afternoon workday coffee breaks recognized me (I really do go there that much that a barista recognizes me at 4:45 in the morning, barely awake). "You're not really doing this, are you?" she asked, acknowledging my IM-branded dry clothes bag and bike pump. I nodded, feeling the same way. Was I really doing this? Ho-ly. I mean, a whole year had gone by? Already?!? Was I ready for this? Was this really it?

She wished me well, and gave me a complimentary water bottle and package of coffee beans, and I was off to body marking, where I looked unsuccessfully for J-Wim and Mike, who were volunteering. But the Terrace was a zoo, and I was feeling the need to hunker down in the hallway with my Ipod and coffee as soon as possible, so I hoped that I might catch them later in the day.

I made my way as close as possible to the door we'd be exiting out of for the swim start, and hear someone calling my name. It was Rural Girl . I settled in on the floor next to her, and found myself happy to share in some pre-race chit-chat. The alternative was stashing myself in a corner and visualizing obsessively while listening to my Ipod; but I had decided long ago that this day would be about fun -- a celebration of all that I'd accomplished and all that I'd put those close to me through in the last year -- and that one more session of visualization might only amp my nerves, not assuage them. So we shared a Gatorade I had stashed in my bag and waited.

After this entire year of preparation, I was just ready to get the day started. Finally, it was time to start pulling on wetsuits, slathering on bodyglide, and making our way down to the water. Walking out of the Terrace, I took note of the sunrise: a glowing pink splash on the horizon, and hoped that it was an indication of the day to come. Stu, Rural Girl, Wil, a few others and I proceeded in a group down the helix, but separated near the bottom due to the sheer numbers of athletes and the almost-pandemonium created by Mike Riley's voice booming over the loudspeaker: "Let's keep moving. Everyone needs to get in the water. Pro's take off in five minutes!"

I made my way to the dry clothes drop-off, all the way searching the crowd for my team so I could hand off my bike pump to them. But one of the day's many, many amazing volunteers took it from me and assured me he'd attach it to my bag (And wouldn't you know it -- at 10:00 later that night, that's exactly how I found it). Thank goodness, because I never did see my team. I kept scanning both sides of the ramp for any yellow shirts until it was time to put that behind me, situate my goggles, and start swimming far out into the middle of the course, left of the first buoy where I intended to start.

Bobbing in the middle of Lake Monona, I felt strangely detached. No nerves. No apprehension. It felt like a training day alongside a couple thousand other people, with a few thousand looking on. But I wanted -- needed -- to feel something. This was Ironman, after all.

So I flipped onto my back, facing the Terrace, and tried to drink in every detail. AC/DC's Thunderstruck (a staple on my Ironman training playlist) blared through the speakers, and I felt my pulse fall in line. Somewhere in the mass of people lining the Terrace were my people. They were there for me today, and they'd finally see what all of the training, sacrifice, and fuss was about. I couldn't wait for them to experience Ironman along with me -- to feel what I felt all those years ago when I first witnessed it.

I looked around at the mass of bobbing caps, thinking how each one of them had their own story, their own reasons, their own goals. Yet here we all were, in this one lake, together. Sappy? Perhaps. For some, this was a competition; but for the majority, it was a shared experience...a journey, of which the last 140.6 miles would be covered alongside their fellow athletes, and with their families, friends, and other supporters.

The pros took off then, and the kayakers were asked to hold the line. I swam a bit farther to the inside, as my little area had crowded a bit since I first staked it out. "I'm hanging back for a few before I start," a guy in front of me said. I told him that was fine, that that was my plan too.

"TWO MINUTES! WHO WANTS TO BE AN IRONMAN TODAY?!?" Mike Riley's voice boomed.

Two minutes had never gone so quickly. I didn't hear the cannon, but I instantly felt the water churning around me. Only a handful of strokes into the race, I thought, So this is the famed Ironman washing machine. Hmmm. It wasn't all that bad. As if there was a bubble around me, I found a space early on to swim in, and stayed in it -- just inside the buoys -- almost all the way to the first turn.

The Ironman "washing machine."

That first length went quickly, and as I rounded the turn, I was kicked hard for the first and only time during that race. But I didn't let it rile me. I'm not sure if it was all my previous thinking about what a great, communal experience IM was, or if I was just that relaxed, or if it really wasn't that bad, but whatever the case, I didn't encounter any of the IM-swim horrors that I'd heard about for the past year.

Rounding the turn to complete the first lap of the swim, I felt a strange sensation, as if I was caught in a giant draft going around the buoy. I actually felt pulled right around the turn.

Almost as if on cue, the right side of my back knotted up to start the second lap. It had been giving me problems since the week before, after a particularly horrendous and harrowing open water swim in Michigan's Upper Peninsula, and I knew that it would be with me the rest of the day. It was more painful than aggravating, but I had to switch from right to left-side breathing to try and give it a rest.

At one point, still on the out-stretch, I miss-sighted and thought I was almost upon the turn buoy. Exciting! It didn't take long, however, to realize I hadn't yet cleared the far end of the Monona Terrace, and it was the half-way buoy, not the turn buoy. So I tried to calm my breathing again and settle back into a rhythm.

On the back-stretch, I did the very same thing. After sprinting for a handful of yards, I realized the group in front of me hadn't turned off. They were still swimming. Far, far, far off into the distance. Tired and disheartened, shoulders and back starting to scream, I put my head down and decided not to look at the distance for a bit. Just swim, I told myself. Mechanics, stroke, one with the water, don't fight it. That's when I promptly swam straight into a buoy, knocking myself backwards.

Stunned, I could only hope no one else had noticed.

Soon after, I found myself in between two large men, both with scary looking strokes. Like swinging a golf club, the one on my left would bring his arm out of the water slowly, letting it gather speed on the way down, slapping into the watter with a "crack!" every time. The one on my right was simply flailing -- trying to power himself through the water as hard as he could. Fearing bodily harm if I got too close to either one, I stopped and let them go by, just in time to see them collide with one another. Fair match up at least...

Before long, I once again felt the familiar pull around the final turn, and started kicking my legs and picking up my pace to get the blood flowing. It was no wonder, I thought, that people's race reports didn't get too into the swim -- it really was over before you knew it. Like the race director had said on Friday night, "The swim course director always makes this more complicated than it has to be. It's just left turn, left turn, left turn, repeat. If you want to feel sorry for someone, we've got the bike and run course directors up next."

My hands touched rubber, and I struggled to stand on the shore's steep incline. Two volunteers grabbed my arms and nearly lifted me onto dry land. I looked up and beamed at what I saw on the clock: 1:26. That was a PR over the open water swim in early August by 14 minutes!

I was ecstatic...but also disoriented. Somehow, I remembered to run to the wetsuit strippers and after I quit "helping" them, they were able to get my suit off in a matter of seconds. And I also had the wherewithal to hold my wetsuit in front of me, lest someone snap an unflattering pic of me in spandex and a sports bra.

My "run" up the helix was more of a shuffle. I knew I needed to get the blood flowing, but this was probably the toughest part of the entire day. I just. felt. terrible. All-over terrible. I couldn't help but think, If it's this bad now... But then I saw my mom, clinging to a lightpole above the crowd. She waved frantically, and then shouted to the rest of my yellow-clad team, "There she is! There she is!" The woman who had been lamenting, "I can't wait until this whole thing is over," every time I talked to her on the phone in the last year, finally seemed to be getting into the Ironman spirit. I saw Chief of Stuff and reached out for his hand, and yelled and waved to more of my team. My feeling terrible was behind me. This, I could tell, was going to be an incredible day.

Then, sitting down in transition, I couldn't get my legs to stop shaking. They were bouncing up and down all on their own. It wasn't because I was cold. Or nervous. I don't know what was going on with them, but it was a relief to get suited up and start the most dreaded part of the day for me -- the bike.

Swim time: 1:26:40
T1: 8:43

On my way out of T1.

Posted by Erin 2:36 PM 15 comments



Ironman Wisconsin: Preface

For more than a year now, this blog has been my refuge. It's where I've sorted out hard feelings and hard rides. It's where I've complained, pondered, and lamented. It's where I've vented my insecurities. And in response, it's where I've received so many incredible validations and affirmations.

But this week, I've been avoiding it like the dentist. It's not because I no longer have a need for this blog -- I do (more on that later). It's not because I haven't had time, because I suddenly have all the time in the world. Most simply, it is because Sunday, September 9th was one of the most amazing experiences of my life. And therein lies the rub: because it was so incredible, so life-changing, I feel I owe the write up of it something inspired and brilliant. Yet, the day was so free of drama, it went so smoothly and was so much fun, that I'm at a loss of exactly what to say. And that is neither inspired nor brilliant.

So, before the details of my Ironman day begin to fade, I have decided to exactly what I did a year ago yesterday: I am simply going to jump in and start, and let the pieces fall where they may.

First up, the swim.

Posted by Erin 2:21 PM 4 comments



Snippets
Tuesday, September 11, 2007

I couldn't have been more pleased to open up my email yesterday to find that one of my amazing support crew, the Eggplant, had been emailing me "In-Race Updates" all day long. To preserve them in one place, and until I get an actual race report pulled together (which will come...soon-ish), I'm posting them all here. Enjoy!

8:40 a.m. You were the happiest person we saw coming of the swim! Your expression was: "What!? I'm done?! That wasn't so bad! Let's go!"

9:58 a.m. Expression at check point c (bike); "I'M RIDING MY BIKE AND IT'S THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD!!!!!"

10:01 a.m. Sobering realization for Erin Crew after check point c: Erin is moving faster than we are. "She's kicking out ass," Melanie grumbles. Anxiety level among Chief of Stuff and Chief Navigator (Rich -- dad) rises perceptibly: less talking, more intense navigating. Newt (dog), however, remains calm.

10:14 a.m. Desperate realization at check point f: Erin is super human; crew is slow. We must move more quickly, but hover craft has not yet been invented. Mean spirited grumbling about performance enhancing drugs fades into grim silence.

10:30 a.m. Check point h: Erin unveils the presidential wave. Carla narrowly avoids being brained by discarded water bottle.

10:39 a.m. First "Erin looks so good" tears: Melanie.

11:25 a.m. #97, in pink, is fake Erin. Oft mistaken for the real thing, and usually about 5 mins ahead. Sleep-deprived, slap-happy cheering seems to be a hit with the participants. Example:Chief of Stuff to biker: "fancy bike!" Biker to Chief of Stuff "thanks!" Chief of Stuff and Eggplant: much giggling.

11:46 a.m. Crew outsmarts self at check point K: sees Erin coming, assumes it's Fake Erin, only starts cheering when real Erin waves. Discussion of how to improve performance ends abruptly when more urgent topic of lunch is raised.

12:20 p.m. En route to checkpoint F, Eggplant becomes panicked that cookies have gone missing. Crisis averted when Scout (mom) finds them under Eggplant's seat.

12:32 p.m. First to snooze (non-dog category): tie -- Melanie and Scout (post-lunch napping).

1:05 p.m. At checkpoint F, special agent Brian V. pulls out the binocs in effort to avoid repeat of Fake Erin debacle. Gives himself a "whoop whoop" for coming up with the idea.

1:57 p.m. Just to be clear: you've got about 30 miles to go and you look like you're just out for a weekend spin. Good work!

2:45 p.m. Crew runs from check point K, gets in the car and drives to check point l. En route, we gulp some water. Run, rolling transportation, water? Yes, it was our triathlon.

4:02 p.m. Yes, the frequency and, some could argue, quality of the updates may be suffering. I fear I may have hit the dreaded IronFan wall. In great need of napping. But I will push on.

4:26 p.m. Transition 1 expression: startled delight. Transition 2 expression: if possible...more startled with delight than before? And more tears from Ms. Melanie.

5:31 p.m. Marathon mile 6. Erin looking just as good as she did coming out of the water, riding the bike... I mean....we're all wiped out!

6:59 p.m. Jordan-esque high five at mile 12!

7:43 p.m. Team member 1 to team member 2: "I just nursed, so I can have a margarita." Team member 2: "oh, if that's the way it works maybe I can have a baby!"

9:47 p.m. Same expression at the finish as at the transitions, except this time you believed it. Congratulations! Great job!

In-Race Awards:

  • Snack MVP: Melanie Fonder (hershey's kiss peanut butter cookies!!).
  • Most (justifiably) in need of hershey's kiss peanut butter cookie: Chief of Stuff.
  • Most likely to cuddle up on lap to sneak nose in cookie bag: Newt.
  • Most likely to fall for Newt's cuddle up on lap to sneak nose in cookie bag trick: the Eggplant.
  • Best British accent: Joel.
  • Most confused about trip destination: Leonard the Dog (despite his loudly-expressed expectations, hoped-for barn never materializes).
  • Best Leonard sound effect describer: Scout ("he sounds like a Canadian goose.")

Posted by Erin 9:33 AM 6 comments



14:41:41
Monday, September 10, 2007

That's the time it took me to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112, and run a marathon yesterday. I'm crazy happy today, and am still having a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that a) I really did this; b) I don't have to figure out how to fit a 3 to 4-hour workout tomorrow -- or ever again if I so choose; and c) that this thing I've been focused on and working toward for more than a year is, in fact, over.

So, for the time being, I'm just letting it all sink in.

At some point, I'll post a full race report. Until then, I want to say a simple, but deeply heartfelt "Thank You" to everyone who was out there with me yesterday -- in person and in spirit -- to those athletes that I covered the miles with, to my amazing amazing amazing support crew, to all those who sent emails and texts and good thoughts my way.

I might have been able to cover the distance on my own, but it never would have been as fulfilling or special a journey as all of you made it. For the entire day yesterday, I couldn't stop smiling (honestly, there were a few spectators who repeatedly referred to me as "The Smiling Girl" whenever I rode by) because my thoughts kept alternating between two things: 1) Oh my god, I'm doing an IRONMAN!; and 2) How did I happen into this amazing life?

At one point, I thought that everyone should have the chance to do this, just to see how incredible that kind of support feels. Then I realized that doing that much in one day was most idea's person of hell. Honestly, though, there are very few days in my life in which I've had so much fun -- really. And you are the reason why. I can only hope that yesterday was, for all of you, an iota of the fun that I had.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you...even though those words are not nearly enough.

Posted by Erin 3:43 PM 18 comments



Notes from Ironman Village
Saturday, September 08, 2007

T-18 hours. Wow. But my bike is racked, my gear bags are checked, and not much to do now but catch a movie, take a nap, have dinner with a good portion of my favorite people, and try to get some sleep.

In the meantime, though, I'd like to propose a couple of rules given my observations in Ironman Village today:

  • No spandex unless you have bike shoes on, are just about to put them on, or have very recently taken them off. Spandex is not acceptable attire on State Street, at the Farmer's Market, or at brunch. And checking in your bike and bags is not so strenuous a process that it requires full-body spandex. Promise -- I just did it in a t-shirt and jeans; no chafing to speak of.
  • Why, why, why the head-to-toe Ironman regalia? If it's because you're just so gosh-darned excited to be here doing Ironman, well then, I guess you get a pass. You can't fault a person for exuberance. But if you're doing it just so everyone else knows you're doing Ironman? Ugh. Don't.

I'm sure I'll think of others...feel free to add your own. But for now, that's all I've got. Naptime now.

Posted by Erin 11:16 AM 8 comments



Mastering the Inner Game
Friday, September 07, 2007

People keep asking me how I feel. They expect me to be scared or nervous...or both. And quite honestly, that's what I expected, too.

But truth be told, I'm neither. I keep waiting for those feelings to come. For the jittery panic to set it. For things to lose focus and to get caught up in the hugeness of it all.

I thought it would come when I first walked through Ironman Village. Nothing.

I thought it would come at registration yesterday. Nothing.

I thought, maybe, it would come at the Ironman store, or seeing all of the buffed-up Ironmen and Women walking around the square, or when I started to set out my gear. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

I'm strangely calm in the midst of all of this -- a technique I think I've learned through horse showing. Showing horses -- especially at big shows like Congress and the World show where the warm-up rings, holding pens, and the grounds in general are like a nine-ring circus -- nerves are not only useless; they're dangerous. Some riders might have had good goes with jangled nerves, but those rides are flukes. The riders who win, who put in completely solid rides, are in total control of their emotions. They don't get themselves all riled up with thoughts of "Ohmygosh, this is the WORLD show. There's so-and-so, and so-and-so...and what if I mess up. What if I miss a stride" and on and on. They treat it as just another ride around just another course.

I'm trying to do the same with Ironman. And, apparently, it's working.

Like last night, when, at the recommendation of my coach I tried "floating."

From what I've read, athletes like pro football players and Olympic track stars have been using floating since the early 80's.

I can see why.

First of all, it's an incredibly relaxing experience. You lie in a dark tank in 18-inches of water in which 1,000 pounds of epsom salts have been dissolved. It's completely dark, and the temperature of the water and the air inside the tank matches the surface temperature of your skin, so you do literally feel like you're floating.

Some people spend the time meditating. Some fall asleep. I decided well ahead of time to spend the hour visualizing.

I visualized race morning -- waking up, getting dressed, walking up to the square (with my wetsuit, Xt4!), visualizing before the race in the Terrace's hallway (not often you can visualize yourself visualizing, but hey, Ironman's not your everyday experience), and bobbing in the water before the cannon went off. I visualized the noise, the crowd, the energy, and staying calm throughout. Horse show calm. I visualized getting kicked and batted around on the first lap, and finding my own space as well as being tired in my arms and neck and shoulders on the second. I saw myself getting out of the water, disoriented, and taking my time to get oriented and find a stripper. I visualized that I'd feel tired running up the helix and I wouldn't let that bother me. I visualized telling myself that it would be a long, long day, and I'd feel tired at lots of times throughout.

Then I visualized the bike course. The whole thing: the large rollers of Whalen, the climb on Valley Road that never looks like much but sucks my breath like a vacuum, the dreaded (for me) Route G and it's little climbs that never feel little, the three little pigs on the downslope of Rt. 92, the hill into Mt. Horeb, Whitte Road's rollers, the "wheeeee!" Garfoot section, the dreaded (for everyone) Old Sauk Pass Hill, the next two bitches (which I secretly like), and making my way back into Verona (which always feels long, but will hopefully be better because of the great crowds on raceday). Then I did it again. And I tried to envision how I'd feel on the way back. Tired, maybe, on Whalen, but at the end of that, it was going to be all downhill. And then I'd get to run.

I visualized getting off my bike, taking off my shoes, and running (or walk-running) into T2. I visualized getting dressed, putting on bug spray, strapping on my fuel belt, and slowly getting my legs going -- out the door and around a few blocks, finding a rhythm before I ran the gauntlet of the great crowd on MLK. I pictured walking through the aid stations, alternating water/food and Gatorade. I felt the desperation that I'd feel at mile 14-18 (because I always do. Those are the hardest.), and telling myself, "Even the Pros hurt. Everyone hurts. Just keep running. The only way out is through." I pictured myself feeling renewed at Mile 20, ready to run the last six miles of this journey just the way I powered through the last six miles of my Dairyland Dare/Olympic Tri weekend. And I pictured the finish line. The sounds, smells, and feelings that would come then.

I left the float feeling relaxed and prepared even more than when I had entered.

And now, I'm off to a massage appointment to get this pesky issue I've been having with my back and neck worked out.

I'll leave you with some pics from registration yesterday, and one of the BEAUTIFUL flowers my DC girls (Anne, Kelly, and Deanna) sent me this afternoon -- thanks so much, girls. Much love!

And as one last note, since this may be my final post for a couple days, I just want to also thank everyone who has emailed me notes of encouragement. Each and every one has moved me to tears (Again with the crying, I know!!!), and your support and love is overwhelming and humbling all at once. This experience has taught me many, many lessons, the most important of which is just how blessed I really am.

Posted by Erin 9:49 AM 1 comments

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