The Start of It All
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
I remember this time last year. When I was still mulling things over. When I would take extra-long lunches to wander MLK Drive, meandering through Ironman Village, watching athletes with impossible physiques ready themselves for this one day. This one race.
I would get a coffee and sit on a bench on the square, steeping in the electricity of Ironman, the air thick with it. I would pick out a muscled-yet-sinewy athlete and think, "I could never look like that," and then see another, more common-looking person and think, "If that person could do this..." I would turn over and over again the prospect of taking on something so gigantic. I would feel confident one minute, and the next, wonder if I'd fall flat on my face -- both figuratively and literally -- attempting an Ironman. After all, I didn't have a bike. I didn't know how to change a tire. I hadn't swum competitively since I was ten years old. I hadn't done a triathlon since high school. I didn't know what riding 50 miles felt like, much less twice that. I had no business even thinking about taking on Ironman. What I did know, though, was that if it came down to guts and determination, then I could do this. What I did have was the tenacity to see it through. Because, I knew a thing or two about overcoming adversity. In high school I had blown out each of my knees in consecutive years and undergone reconstructive surgery on both, and afterwards, weathered 18 months of nearly consecutive, grueling physical therapy without missing one season of track or ski racing. My senior year, I even qualified for the Junior Olympics. Fast forward to the Mad City Marathon last year -- a race I didn't even know I'd be able to run, given the history my knees and I have. That day, the mercury reached 97 degrees (after not eeking out a reading above 70's in the months before), the pace leader I was running with passed out, the asphalt on the beltline buckled, and race officials closed the course down nearly two hours early because medical demands were more than they could keep up with. It was a hell of a day to run a first marathon, but I finished. And now, fast-forward to today. I find myself at Starbucks on MLK Drive (where I find myself most days at some point or another). I am waiting to begin my very last Ironman-focused coaching session during which we'll go over my race plan -- from clothing choices to swim position. I am four-and-one-half days from stepping up to the starting line of my first, and perhaps last, Ironman. I look up and see this, and tears spring hot in my eyes:
I don't think I've cried this much since I was a 13-years-old. I'm not normally a crier. But Ironman does something to you. This experience takes turns taunting and testing you. Then, in the darkest, toughest moments, it rewards you with a sunrise, a loved one's words of support or encouragement, a struggle survived, a lesson learned. It makes you a raw bundle of emotions -- fear, anticipation, dread, pride, gratitude, joy, and so many others. It breaks you and remakes you a hundred times over.
It's starting now. The lightpost banners have gone up. Grey and yellow garbage cans sit at the ready on corners around Capitol square. The Inn on the Park has changed its sign to welcome the trickle of Ironman athletes that will, as the days progress, become a flood.
Reading that little sign this afternoon made goosebumps rise along my arms. Because this year, I'm part of it. I will be one of those people I have watched for years -- out there, giving everything I have, pushing myself to limits I never before dreamt possible.
During our meeting, I told my coach that I finally feel ready. I told her two months or so ago that if need be, I could do the race the following day. Physically, I had put the time in. But mentally, I was a mess. I was uncertain. I was anxious. I was afraid. Afraid of not being able to control my nerves in those pre-dawn hours leading up to the swim. Afraid of 2.4 miles in the water. Afraid of missing a cutoff. Afraid that I didn't have what it might take to gut it out on race day.
Two months ago, I hadn't done a double-brick. I hadn't left myself and everything I had on the 126 miles of road of the Dairyland Dare. I hadn't turned around and raced and Oly the next morning. I hadn't swum a punishing 2.4 miles in Lake Monona, and then turned around and done it again, and yet again, in Iron Mountain's Lake Antione.
Each of those events sounds, even as I write them, insipid and bland. They involved a distance to cover, and I covered it. But to me, they represent so much more. They represent moments of despair and difficulty, and physical discomfort and pain -- greater than I ever might have imagined. Moments that required more tenacity and fortitude to get through than I ever thought I had. They represents moments where I learned something about myself on the most basic, primal level...and moments that elevated me to a higher plane. They represent deep valleys, not high peaks, and the hard-fought growth that comes from feeling as low as you've ever felt -- physically, mentally, and emotionally -- and embracing the lowness until you're able to crawl through to the other side.
And they represent the amazing kindness of people. The man who pulled up next to me to chat for a while at mile 100-something on my third Verona loop (in one weekend) when I was hot and tired and tired of being out there alone (and going much, much slower than he was). The cards (and words) of encouragement from my friends and family that seem to have arrived in a steady stream throughout the year. The cheers of complete strangers while racing alone. The incredible outpouring of support from other bloggers and blog-watchers, some who have come to feel like friends, whether I've met them in person or not.
Today, I'm not only ready, I am excited. All of the hard work is done. As they say, "Nothing left to do but the doing." I know there will be tough moments throughout the day. I know there will be some dark places. But the only way out is through. And the difference on the 9th is that so many of my favorite people will be there with me to cheer me through the valleys, and high-five me at the peaks. Finally, I will get to share this thing with all of them. And I will get to share the day, the experience, with all of those other athletes whose stories I've followed and been inspired by and whom I've gotten to know over the past year, either vicariously though the blogosphere or in person.
On its face, the Ironman is simply a 2.4-mile swim, a 112-mile bike, and a 26.2-mile run. But each of us on Sunday's starting line has taken a dizzying array of routes to take this one, final road together, and we know better.
Posted by Erin 11:30 AM
You have a way with words. I'm tingling with excitement from reading that. Awesome. I wish I could be there on Sunday in person to cheer you on. Kick butt on Sunday!!!
I believe in you.
Consider me among those who'll be cheering you on -
We'll be ringing those cowbells for ya Sunday and watching the finish line.
Have a great time!
You are one amazing woman, Erin! Good luck this weekend, I will be thinking about you from DC.
But there are so very few that reach out and say what makes such perfect sense, but I have been unable to find the words. Those words. And all I can say is I get it -- I know better. And for all of those different roads traveled and all of the tests and challenges that now seem vague and hazy, I'll be proud to share the last 140 or so miles with you.
I hope we both find a little sliver of glory on Sunday. I have a feeling we will.
I got goosebumps when I read this earlier at work! This is an amazing journey you have been on for a year and I have eagerly anticipated each blog post and wish I could be there on Sunday. I will send you every energy/swimming/biking/running vibe I have on Sunday. You will be incredible!
Kelly
I had to hold back tears while reading your post. You are an inspiration. I so wish I could be there on Sunday, but know that even if you were doing this alone (which would never happen b/c too many people love you too much) you would do it with grace, style and more heart than any other athlete. I wish you the best, but know that you don't need it because you already have succeeded.
- Aaron