The Dotman Cometh

The surrounding circumstances and exact time period are fuzzy to me now, but I do remember how I felt the first time I learned about the Ironman triathlon.  A relatively new convert to fitness addiction, I was on the cusp of preparing for my first marathon, which I was attempting because I wanted to achieve what I believed was impossible for me.  And then someone, I don’t remember who, told me of a race that begins with a 2.4-mile swim, followed by a 112-mile bike ride and capped off with 26.2 miles of running, all in a 17-hour time limit.  While I don’t remember the details about how I acquired this knowledge, I remember precisely how I felt when I got it.  I was enraged.  What kind of psychotic lunatic would dream up such a thing, and who were the masochistic idiots participating? 

I’ve since learned of other endurance events that either parallel or exceed the insanity of an Ironman.  The Badwater Ultramarathon is a good example – running 135 miles through Death Valley in temperatures up to 130 degrees.  The Western States 100 is another moronic undertaking, a nasty 100-mile trail run with many thousands of feet of vertical climbs.  Of course there are the other activities of weekend warriors lacking mental stability, such as climbing Everest or competitive free diving. 

These types of events only earned a quizzical headshake from me, no anger.  When I first learned about the Ironman, I thought I was pissed because I felt that an event that extreme in some way diminished my own ultimate accomplishment, the marathon. However, since I didn’t have this reaction when I heard about Badwater, which is essentially five marathons strung together in the desert, I think it’s something else.  I was angry because I believe I knew, even then, that I was on the hook.  Yes, though at the time I was overweight and running 12-minute miles, I knew the Ironman bug had been planted, and I was pissed because I knew it would hurt.

Since that time, I’ve come farther in my athletic pursuits that I ever imagined I could. I’ve run six marathons and dozens of shorter races.  I managed to get my half marathon time under two hours and my 10-mile time under 90 minutes.  I’ve even become competitive in my age group in local 5ks, assuming the fast local middle-aged women decide to sleep in.  I’ve now done a few sprint triathlons, two Olympic tris and two half Ironmen events.   

A full Ironman is an entirely different pursuit.  While the distances are only double the half, the preparation and event itself are exponentially more difficult.  A training plan I looked at recently, designed not for elite athletes but for regular mortal working people, commands two hours of training per day on weekdays, six to seven hours on Saturday and three to four hours on Sunday.  You get one day off of training per week, so you can lay slackjawed on your couch while cursing your diseased brain.  And the race itself has a 17-hour time limit. If you finish in 17 hours and two seconds, you count as a DNF, the much feared athlete acronym for Did Not Finish.  You are not allowed to draft on the bike.  You are not allowed an iPod on the run.  You are not allowed to have people on the course hand you things unless they are official race volunteers.  You have to figure out how to get enough nutrition on the course so you don’t curl like a ball on some roadside because you’ve run out of fuel.  You will suffer.  A lot.  This is a race that essentially began as a bar bet from some navy seals.

I’ve been stumbling sort of ass backwards toward this goal for the past few years.  Last fall, after Poconos 70.3, I decided I really wanted to try to do a Full.  I don’t really know why.  Maybe I’m still trying to impress the child I was, the chubby, awkward, clumsy girl who couldn’t run, couldn’t jump, couldn’t climb.  My greatest athletic contribution prior to my thirties was helping members of the swim team pass math in high school.  Maybe completing this event will finally get that “you can’t do this stuff” voice out of my head for good.

After much research, I decided on Panama City Beach in 2013.  It’s considered a good first-time event as an “easy” Ironman, meaning no ridiculous elevation changes on the bike or run, a relatively calm swim, and less likelihood of extreme heat despite its location, because the race is in November.  I chose 2013 to give me time to improve my swimming skills beyond the boulder-like level they’re at now, to get more comfortable with my bike and to acclimate myself to ramping up my training to a higher level.  I would go down and volunteer at this year’s race and scope the course.  It was all so reasonable, well, at least for the circumstances.

And then while I was racking my bike at Eagleman 70.3 this year, a woman I knew from other races told me that she was trying her Full this year, on October 20 in Wilmington, North Carolina, at a race called Beach to Battleship.    While not an Ironman branded event, the distances and rules are the same.  As soon I was told there were still slots available, the wheels started turning.  Even while I was suffering through the 96-degree run at Eagleman, I was latching onto B2B.  

So it looks like my Full is happening.  This year.  In sixteen short weeks.  I haven’t officially registered yet, but I have sought out training resources and started building my calendar around it.  I have a hotel reservation.  I would register right now, except the fee is non-refundable, so I will wait as long as possible.  I hope this will quell my inner beast.  Whether it does or doesn’t, Badwater’s never happening.  

The Big One

Anyone remember last year when I put all that time and effort into training for the Poconos half Ironman, only to have it converted to a duathlon at the last moment due to weather? Even without the swim, I was proud of the achievement, because I still cycled 55 hilly miles and followed it up with a 13.1 mile hilly run and, even more importantly, I raised $3,000 for the American Cancer Society by doing so. I was thrilled with the result, and walked away from it convinced that I would complete a true 70.3 race and also that I would maintain a long-term commitment to DetermiNation, the endurance program supporting the American Cancer Society.

A week ago, I finally completed my 70.3. The venue was Cambridge, Maryland, which is along the eastern shore. I walked into this race grossly undertrained, having only been out on my bike three times at a maximum distance of 38 miles. I also had no training week longer than seven hours, and most hovered in the five-to-six-hour range.

Because of my thunderstorm problem, I swore that if there was no threat of these, I would not complain about any other type of weather condition. So I won’t complain that it was 96 degrees with blasting sunshine on race day.

The day began with the swim that started at 8:00 am. Because the water temperature was under 76.1 degrees (by about a tenth of a degree), we were permitted to wear our wetsuits. I thought it was the wetsuit that made me feel so good about the first part of the swim. Then I made the turn to come back into the finish and I realized it wasn’t the wetsuit. I had been swimming with the current. Now the current was trying to push me back toward Delaware. And it seemed like it was succeeding. Based on the items in my sight line, I swam in place for at least 10 minutes, except for a few brief periods in which I was moving backwards. I finally figured out a way to actually move closer to the finish line and very slowly made my way there.

After spending too much time in transition peeling myself out of the wetsuit and coating myself in sunscreen, I took off on the bike. But first, a few words about the bike. I love my bike. I did a whole post about my beautiful Scott road bike. It’s a solid, serious machine. My sweet little road bike, however, had to share rack space at Eagleman with nothing but super high-end triathlon specific bikes with wheelsets alone worth at least $3,000. So while I was out on the road, making great time on my ride, I kept hearing the telltale “foof foof foof” of a Zipp wheel that lets you know one of these sleek bastards is coming up to pass you on your left.

The first two hours of the bike were great. At the two-hour mark, I was already at 39 miles. I was also officially on my longest ride since October. And then I fell apart. The headwinds hurt. My body hurt. I was thirsty and my feet were burning because of the hot ground. And it kept getting hotter and hotter. That’s just a notation, not a complaint. The last 17 miles took me an hour and 13 minutes, but I pulled back into transition just a little past 12 noon.

I dawdled in transition and didn’t start running until 12:15. The run course at Eagleman is basically a long, straight out and back. Your visual stimulation is farmland, and not the interesting kind of farmland with cows and horses, but lots and lots of fields. It is on asphalt, and is 13.1 miles without a hint of shade. And it was 96 degrees. Not that I’m complaining. I almost managed to run the first mile. A bit short of the mile marker, I had to start walking. The first water station came up shortly after, and I greedily grabbed two cups of water, two cups of gatorade and a cup of ice. This is when I realized I was in trouble. I tried to start running a few times, but just didn’t have it in me. The good news is I’m so frequently late in getting places that I can walk really, really fast. And that’s what I did – I walked. I finished the half marathon in 3 hours and 47 seconds. That is 40 minutes slower than the half marathon in the Poconos and an hour and two minutes slower than my personal record (set this year) at this distance.

I finished the race with a time of 7 hours and 17 minutes. This was a little slower than what I hoped for, but I was just happy to complete it at all. The race left me with the feeling that I can do this again and beat this time, and that eventually, I can do a full Ironman with the right training.

But it wasn’t the big race. My most important race of 2012 is coming up this weekend. It’s a triathlon. It’s not a half Ironman or a full Ironman. Instead it’s a shorter distance, an Olympic (.9-mile swim, 24-mile ride, 6.2-mile run). Why so important? Because this is the one for which I am raising money for the American Cancer Society. For this one, I am again on the DetermiNation team. Ironmen races and marathons are nice, but unless they are funding cancer research, providing lodging for people undergoing treatment, providing rides to chemo and support groups and all sorts of necessary services, providing advocacy for cancer patients and more government research and funding, then they are really just for fun. There is no athletic event that will mean more to me than crossing the finish line on behalf of the ACS, because of all they have done and continue to do to help my sister, the millions like her, the millions more who love people like her, and the billions more who should never get cancer in the first place.

So, yes, I did my 70.3, and it hurt and it was challenging and it was a big accomplishment. Even if I do a full Ironman this year, however, it’s this Sunday’s Philly Tri that is my apex of 2012.

A Very Different Broad Street Run

Three years ago on this blog, I wrote an account of my participation in the Broad Street Run, a 10-mile race here in Philly that happens on the first Sunday in each May.  It was a long piece that addressed how I felt at each stage, the conditions and the race itself.  I was happy with that race, because I achieved my Broad Street personal record at it, a time of 91 minutes and 11 seconds.  The story, however, was a solitary one.  While I enjoyed the race and loved the results, I wasn’t exuberant, because it was just me.  All about me.

I have since figured out how to fix that, and now the Broad Street Run is not just another race to me, but an event that fills me with joy every time I think about it.  One approach I figured out two years ago.  Drag my poor, hapless sister, who was just a few months from her recovery from cancer treatment, down the 10-mile trek with me in 90-degree weather.  Decorate her shirt so that it screams to everyone who sees her that she was running Broad Street ’10 after doing chemo in ’09.  Pester her every 10 steps to make sure she’s ok, and then tell her to suck it up when she complains of muscle fatigue.  Finally, run that last quarter mile past her kids and husband and all of the other screaming fans to the finish line to collect my very favorite post-race high five/hug ever.  She accomplished something major for herself that day, and I was elated to have a front-row seat.

Cancer, however, is an evil f*** that resurfaced for Shelly and has deprived her of so many things she should have a right to, including the ability to run Broad Street again.  I hate cancer.  I really, really, really hate cancer. 

This leads me to my second approach, which I used this year.  Participate in Broad Street with DetermiNation (I’m on the committee), which raises money for the American Cancer Society.  Everybody at ACS/DetermiNation hates cancer as much as I do.  But the ACS doesn’t just hate cancer, it fights it with advocacy, research and support services.  DetermiNation has given me something I’ve been desperate for:  a way to hit back.

The Broad Street Run organizers are extremely supportive of the American Cancer Society.  This year they granted DetermiNation 700 spots for the run.  They also provided a huge tent and publicity for on-site Cancer Prevention Study-3 enrollment at the race expo.  CPS-3 is a massive and historic study being conducted by the ACS to learn more about the causes and how to prevent cancer.  It is a vital study, and I’d be happy to chatter on about it for a year if asked.  I can launch all sorts of CPS-3 factoids because DetermiNation’s staff partners at the ACS asked me to be the lead volunteer for the Broad Street enrollment site, a post I was deeply honored to accept. 

Alesia Mitchell and I did lots of prep to get ready for the enrollment, and soon enough it was Friday, May 4, the first day of the expo and the enrollment.  On both Friday and Saturday, hundreds and hundreds of people took the time to come into our tent to ask about the study and what they could do to help.  A little bit of blood?  A waist measurement?   A twenty-year commitment to filling out surveys every few years?  No one was fazed at all, because cancer sucks, and I’m not alone in wanting to pulverize it. 

We wrapped up enrollment late Saturday afternoon and went directly to the DetermiNation team dinner.  The team dinner was magnificent, on a large outdoor area of Lincoln Financial Field, overlooking the field where the Eagles play.  Three hundred people came to decorate their race shirts, sign the huge “celebrate more birthdays” banner in honor of their loved ones, eat a great dinner and listen to some truly inspirational speeches.  DermiNation committee member Michelle, a survivor of cervical cancer, spoke movingly about how she stared down her diagnosis at the age of 30 by training for and running the Chicago Marathon while undergoing treatment.  Think I’m hardcore?  I’ve got nothing on Michelle. 

Finally, it was race day.  I showed up at DetermiNation’s start line tent greeted by scores of runners in their blue shirts all set to go.  After engaging in lots of great conversation, assisting with last-minute instructions and bag check and posing among my people in our beautiful team photo, we were ready to run.  I lined up at the start with Don, a fellow committee member and first time Broad Street runner.  I’ve always done this race unaccompanied, so even the running part of it was a new experience for me.  We chatted most of the way down Broad Street and, before I knew it, the finish line was in sight.  This is the first time I felt like this run was easy.  I can credit the perfect weather, but I’m also sure it was the cause, the company and the feeling of being buoyed every time I saw some of the nearly 700 blue DNation shirts that were popping up all over the running field. 

The DetermiNation finish line tent was magnificent.  Hundreds of DNation athletes and their friends and family milling about, sitting at the tables, slurping on a water ice, munching on hoagies and pretzels, or standing in the line to get a made-to-order cheesesteak.  And there was Dan Lavelle, the brilliant ACS staff partner who pulled together the whole thing, taking a few minutes to stand in the corner and just take it all in. 

Now when I think about the Broad Street Run, I don’t dwell on a number or remember the weather.  Instead I feel pride for what I was part of, and hope for a future in which cancer doesn’t exist.

The Best Race of My Life

A little more than five years ago, I looked at my watch as I was nearing the 10-mile marker of a half marathon. I remember vividly how astonished I was to realize that if I could just hold on to the end, I would finish in about 2 hours and 15 minutes. Crossing the finish line at 2:15:14 (a 10:20 pace), I was jubilant. I never thought I could finish a half marathon in less than 2 hours and 20 minutes. In my mind, I was still the lumbering girl who waddled across the finish line at her first marathon in a less-than-blazing 5 hours and 47 minutes (age 33, year 2004). A few months later, I completed my first half in 2 hours and 24 minutes, and I was intensely proud of that.

Yesterday, at age 42, I achieved my two biggest and longest-held running goals: a sub-2 hour half marathon and a sub-90 minute 10-miler, both in the same race. My previous best times for both of these distances were accomplished in 2009, the year I turned 40. At the Broad Street Run, I finished 10 miles in 91 minutes and 11 seconds. I crossed the finish line at the Philadelphia Distance Run in 2:02:53. At the time I thought I was close enough to get the stats I wanted fairly easily. However, despite intensive training, rather than getting closer to my hoped-for times, I slipped further away over the next few years. While I was still getting faster in 5ks, I was beginning to think it likely that I had peaked at distance running, and my sub-2/sub-90 dreams were out of my grasp. After all, I keep reading and hearing about the physical decline that happens as you move through your 40s and beyond.

I signed up for the Shamrock half-marathon feeling like it was my last shot to go for that sub-2. The cooler temperatures of a March race suit me. It’s also a flat course, and a race that I had heard terrific things about. I also signed up for a 10-miler two weeks after Shamrock to go for my sub-90.

My friend and fellow DetermiNation committee member, Ashley, also had her sights set on a sub-2 half marathon at Shamrock. So Saturday morning we loaded up her car with expensive gas and healthy snacks for the 5+ hour drive down to Virginia Beach.

In Maryland, an omen came. We were pulled over for speeding. The state trooper looked at the PA plates, demanded license and registration, and we resigned ourselves to a speeding ticket. Boo! He walked back a few minutes later, handed Ashley her paperwork and said we were getting a warning, no fine, no points. We thanked him profusely, promised responsible law-abiding driving and happily returned to our trek. Yay!

Even with our new dedication to obeying the speed limit, we made good time to Virginia and collected our race items at the expo. Upon checking in at the hotel, we learned that there was a (really nice!) free shuttle to and from the race, that the hotel offered free breakfast early enough for the runners to eat and digest before the race, and that we would not have to check out until 2pm. We went down to the beach for a bit before a really good Italian dinner, and then it was time to rest for the race.

Race-morning weather was perfect. Low- to mid-50s, no wind, overcast and a little humid. Ashley and I went our separate ways at the start line (we both prefer to race alone) and waited for our wave to be released. I had a sub-2 race plan. Run the first mile between 9:15 and 9:20; run the second and third miles at 9:10, run a 9:05 pace through mile 10 and then hold on for dear life. I am forever warning people not to start a distance race too fast. So when I passed the first mile marker and realized I ran it in 8:45, I thought I was doomed. I slowed for the next few miles, but I was still under a 9-minute pace. However, I felt weirdly good. At the 6-mile mark, I looked at my watch and saw 53 minutes had elapsed. I decided at that point to revise my goals. I was going for the sub-90 10-miler, and if that meant I fell apart in the last three miles and missed the sub-2, I would be ok with that.

I continued to feel good through mile 8, which is traditionally where the wheels start to fall off for me in this kind of race. Mile 9 was tougher, but I remembered how close I was to my new goal, and I hung on to capture it. I crossed the 10-mile marker in 89 minutes, more than two minutes faster than my best time.

Mile 11 hurt. I heard a lot of runners in my vicinity voicing their desire for that sub-2 goal, and a few people mentioned at the 10-mile marker that we only had to do a 31-minute 5k to achieve it. Near the end of mile 11, the sun popped out, and it got warm. Boo! But, magically, just a few minutes later it ducked back behind a mass of clouds, and stayed there until almost exactly the moment I crossed the finish line. Yay! That last 5k was hard and slower, but I knew what I wanted and I was going to fight for it.

Approaching the finish line, I had that combination of intense suffering and ecstasy that can only happen when you are having an outstanding race. I saw the finish clock from a distance, and knew for certain that not only would I easily get my sub-2, but if I ran the last bit hard, my clock time (in races unless you are elite you always start at least a few minutes after the race clock is initiated; you actual time is chip time) would be under two hours. Sure enough: clock time 1:59:52, chip time 1:58:05. I stumbled forward happily chirping “big PR!” to the nice volunteers who gave me my medal, a race hoodie, race hat, fluids, pretzels and a shamrock cookie (this event has great swag).

A beaming Ashley found me and announced that her clock time was 1:55. We found out that her chip time was 1:53:27, a nine-minute PR for her. We squealed and hugged, and went into the food tent on the beach to say hi to the Virginia D-Nation folks, who gave us peanut-butter sandwiches and cupcakes, and then collected our beef stew and Yuengling beers from the race volunteers and went to hang on the beach.

A couple of stats that are just killing me right now: My overall placement was 2020 out of 7894 runners. I finished 112 out of 738 women in my age group, and 787 out of 4894 women overall. I beat a majority of the men in the 30-34 age range, which I think of as the most competitive group.

I wanted this. I wanted this deeply, and for years. I worked hard, and I got it. Me, the little chubby kid who couldn’t do anything that didn’t involve a pen. So this was a perfect race, the best race of my life. At least, so far.

Overprogrammed

Just because I haven’t blogged since Poconos almost-half Ironman doesn’t mean I’ve been sitting on my tush gaining weight. Well, ok, I have been doing that, but only in addition to some other races.

It started off well. A week after Poconos I ran a 5k in which I got a 15-second personal record and third place in my age group. Then in November, I ran the Philly Marathon, a race in which I learned that it really sucks to run a full marathon when you did not train for a full marathon. First half = pure running joy; Second half = hoping poachers would declare open season on slow runners and put me out of my misery. In early December I ran the Hot Chocolate 15k at the National Harbor outside of DC. It was the most disastrously organized race I’ve ever done. The schwag was a nice cup of hot chocolate, some chocolate fondue, a cheap ill-fitting windbreaker and a truly nasty cold. Finally, just last week I ran the Disney Marathon. This was, by far, the most fun running event I’ve ever done, and I plan on going back for the Goofy challenge next year (half marathon on Saturday plus the full marathon on Sunday). I learned a word at Disney that will forever dramatically improve my running life: Biofreeze.

In any case, I’ve only been training a few hours a week since Poconos, and I’ve been eating as if I’m preparing for Ironman Kona. Besides eating, my time has been spent signing up for every single race I’ve ever heard of. My spring calendar (so far!) is absolutely ridiculous. It goes like this:

March 18: Shamrock ½ marathon
April 1: Cherry Blossom 10-miler
April 21: 5k for Clean Air
April 27: Out and Back Party Run (4 miles)
May 6: Broad Street Run 10-miler
May 26: Hammonton Sprint Triathlon
June 10: Eagleman Ironman 70.3 (wait list)
June 24: Philly Tri (olympic distance)

The only reason I don’t have my autumn schedule worked out yet is there are too many races on conflicting dates I want to sign up for.

By any standard, it’s too much. It’s too much time; it’s too much money; it’s too much injury risk. It’s nuts. As I was trying to work out my training schedule for this tangled mess, I had an epiphany. I’m self-medicating with races. I would rather blow my savings, my spare time and risk getting mangled than dwell on the very horrifying stressors in my life. Since there are worse methods to use to hide from life, I guess I’ll stick with my crazy race schedule, and even incorporate a bunch of over-the-top goals. For example:

1. I want my sub-2-hour half marathon this year, and I want it at Shamrock.
2. I want a sub-90-minute 10-miler (Cherry Blossom – this means you).
3. I want another PR in a 5k, preferably close to 25 minutes (it’s now at 25:45).
4. I really need to learn how to swim if I’m going to continue to be part of swimming competitions.
5. I have to stop being afraid of my bike.
6. I’ll stick with yoga and core work and weight training. Really, I mean it this time.
7. I want to lose enough weight so the people pictured in finish line race photos with me don’t have to hear “you weren’t any faster than THAT girl?!”

Insane? Absolutely. But not compared to what I'm already thinking about for 2013.

Extremely Over Long and Boring Half Ironman Race Report

Well, Poconos 70.3 or, more accurately upper 60s something point something, is now in the history books, and I am a proud survivor. To say an experience is a roller coaster ride is a cliché, but, wow, does it ever apply to this one.

Way back in February when I signed up for this, I had two big concerns: getting through an open water swim without floaties and finding time to train. I figured I would just keep hitting the open water as much as possible until I got comfortable in it and I would wedge in the training time, just as I did for the Steamtown Marathon last year.

Sometime after I registered, I saw for the first time the elevation chart for the bike course. It looked just like a seismic readout for a megaquake, with one big hill near the end that stood out like a middle finger being waved at the riders. I am not a hill rider. I live in Philly, and the roads near me are flat. Also, climbers are light little wispy people, and I am extremely tall and more food-focused than most dogs I know. But I figured, like the swim, I would just keep practicing until I got comfortable.

And then, June happened. The diagnosis of Shelly’s metastatic recurrence was Earth-shattering, and it changed every priority I had. The idea of spending so much time satisfying my own personal glory in the face of what my family was going through just seemed far too self-indulgent. I stopped training, and coasted into Philly Tri, an Olympic distance event at the end of June, off the fumes of my previous work. It was at the Expo for that tri that I met the Team DetermiNation people, who showed me a path to make this race more meaningful than anything I have ever participated in. So, armed with a modified training plan, I trudged forward.

In the early part of the summer, I got in enough open-water swims that I began to feel comfortable. I would be the last person out of the water because I pretty much swim backwards, but I would not drown. The bike was a bigger problem. Every time I tried to get out for a long, hilly bike ride, there was either a storm threat or life obligation that got in the way. I had to skip three sprint triathlons I planned on doing in the later part of the summer because of weather issues. As race date neared, I felt unprepared to face 56 miles of Poconos hills.

The flip side of this was the overwhelming support from my friends and family. I’m not just talking about the donations to the American Cancer Society on behalf of my race goal, which totaled over $3,000, but also the messages expressing gratitude for raising the money, describing loved ones’ fights against cancer and talking about what a special person my sister is and sending thoughts and prayers her way. There is simply no way to express how much this support meant to me. Thinking of this kept me grounded.

It kept me grounded, that is, right up until the day before race day, when it struck me that I was really going to have to do this thing. The ironic thing leading up to race weekend was that, after all that worrying and training for the swim, it ended up being cancelled anyway because locally ridiculous rains caused the river to be unsafe. It is good that I learned how to swim, however, since Mother Nature seems intent on turning my basement into its own open-water spot. The event organizers decided the event would become a 69.1 duathlon instead of a 70.3 triathlon. After hearing tales of whole trees shooting down the Delaware, I was cool with that.

There was nothing, however, that was going to get me out of the bike. We got to the race Expo on Saturday in time for the noon athlete’s meeting. The speakers spent a lot of time telling us things like, “coming off the steep descent on this road, you go right into a turn that is greater than 90 degrees onto a narrow path, and there will probably be wet leaves on the ground.” They showed us tennis ball sized walnuts that would be on the ground, and spoke of bear sightings and deer crossings. This was not comforting.

And then we drove the bike course. By the end of that ride, I was so terrified I lost the ability to speak. There were hills that were so intense I don’t know how our car handled them. And there were lots and lots and lots of them. In fact, no part of the course was flat. To make matters worse, it rained all through Saturday night, ensuring that the course would be wet and covered in debris. It was also likely to rain on us while we were riding.

To put my fear in perspective, I was only able to put away about half of my dinner on Saturday evening. On Sunday morning, it took me two hours to force myself to eat half a bagel. I NEVER lose my appetite. I was reminded of my mortality at the first transition area, from which the race begins, when I looked around and saw the super human born athletes I was “competing” against. They all looked like they used to be Olympians. I looked like I should be ordering a hoagie. We lined up in the transition area, and as it became close to the time for me to go, I nearly started crying from terror. The officials at the start told me to go, I went over the giant speed bump out of the transition area (really, race directors, was this necessary?) and directly onto the first hill to the road without an issue.

It didn’t take long into the ride before I almost ate it. At the 1.8-mile point, we had to do an extremely narrow u-turn. I went off the road into the dirt, but somehow managed to get back onto the road unscathed. The first Big Nasty Climb came around mile five. I learned two things on this climb. One, you have to decide before the climb whether you want to ride it or get off the bike and walk it. Cyclists ride with hard-soled shoes that are clipped into the pedals. Unless your clip-out skills are sublime, you can’t clip out on a steep, wet uphill without ending up on the ground. If you change your mind halfway up, you have to suck it up and find a way to get to the top. Two, if you have such a death grip on the handlebars of your super light road bike that you are pulling up, the bike will oblige you by lifting up the front wheel. This makes it both harder to climb and more likely that the bike will decide you are worthy of ejection.

The first 10 miles of the ride were particularly brutal, and then it and I calmed down for a bit. I was staying hydrated with my camelback, which easily identified me as someone who needed to be passed by everyone else, and got my nutrients by eating a Gu Chomp every 15 minutes. I decided to move really slow and stick to low gears to lower the risk of my bike chain escaping its home. I coasted every descent, and braked heavily through a lot of the more intense ones.

The hills started to get more severe again in the mid-20s, and my whole body was hurting from spending all that time digging into the handle bars with all my strength. I had ibuprofen in my pocket, but couldn’t reach it. By the aid station at mile 39, I was hurting badly. Still, I was about to go past it without stopping when I noticed the sharp climb right past it. The climb had a turn, and it was impossible to gauge how long the ascent would last. I decided to hop off and walk the bike up, so I also had a chance to get to my pill. It was probably a combination of the slight break from riding and the painkiller, but I felt much better after that. I expected the nastiest of the Big Nasty Hills to come at mile 39, but because of last-minute course corrections stemming from roads being flooded, it presented itself at mile 44. I remembered it from the car ride, and immediately dismounted and started hoofing it up the hill. Lots of other riders joined in. A few riders who apparently did not check out the course continued riding it, likely not realizing that what looked like the crest of the hill up ahead was a turn leading to twice of the same of what they had just tackled. I heard lots of very colorful language and the name of every known deity taken in vain. I heard it clearly, too, because the riders were moving almost as slow as I was walking.

All manner of bike carnage appeared along the ride. I saw too many people dealing with popped chains and flat tires to count. One ambulance passed with sirens blaring, and I had to weave around another. Serious competitors with $10,000 tri bikes sat by the side of the road, mournfully watching me go by while they waited for mechanical assistance. None of this was surprising given the conditions of debris, wet leaves and sometimes even small streams of water we had to ride through. The race directors did a great job of clearing what they could, but there’s only so much you can do with weather conditions like what we faced.

I tackled one last Big Nasty Hill at mile 51 and settled in for the last four miles (they announced that they cut off a mile on race morning because of road conditions). At mile 53 1/2, a large crowd appeared, and I suddenly saw the best sign I have ever seen in my life: “BIKE IN.” T1! My ride was over, a mile and a half earlier than expected. I was ecstatic and immensely relieved, and I spent extra time chatting with others in transition while getting ready for the run.

I think it was the joy of being off the bike that made my legs feel really good at the beginning of the run. I had to remind myself to slow down. But I was happy, happy, joking with the volunteers and high-fiving my friends who were also racing the event. The run, advertised as relatively flat, was hilly compared to other runs I’ve done, but not compared to the bike. I held a nice steady pace, walked the water stations and walked some of the ascents. When it started to get tough in the last six miles, my marathon experience kicked in, and I settled into the grind. I had ribbons on the back of my jersey with the names of my own and my supporters’ loved ones who have fought cancer. I thought about those names a lot. I had Shelly’s name on a ribbon on the front of my jersey. I thought about her through the whole race. These fights inspired me and humbled me, and I was very emotional when I turned the corner into the finish. I heard my name announced as I crossed the finish line, kissed Shelly’s ribbon and collected my medal. I finished in 6 hours and 25 minutes, with a bike ride of 3 hours and 57 minutes and a half marathon of 2 hours and 20 minutes.

This wasn’t just a triumph for me, but a win against cancer. It was an amazing experience to conquer my fears and accomplish something like this for myself and at the same time so much bigger than myself.

Thank you, thank you, thank you to all who donated and wished me well. And thank you again. Also, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to my friend, Sheryl Massie, who came to support me, try in vain to keep me calm, sleep on a lumpy sofa in the hotel, cheer for me on the course and drive my poor wrecked body home. Everyone needs a friend like Sheryl.

Epilogue:

1. I am now going to be on the committee for Team DetermiNation, and I plan to be actively involved for years to come. This means you’ll be hearing from me again about other events. I promise that every event I do I will pay the race entry fee, so no one should ever feel I am asking for donations just to participate in a new event.

2. While I am very proud that I finished this, because of the swim and bike mileage being cut, I feel like the 70.3 is unfinished business. There is another 70.3 coming up in Austin, Texas on October, 23 and, well, I already trained…. Stay tuned.

3. It’s now in my head that I want to do a full before I’m 50. Sorry, mom, but it’s partially your fault for giving me that “I am an Ironman” book.

Finally Worthy of My Bike?

Hello, road bike. We have to have a little talk. You are a beautiful, powerful machine. You are fast, light and agile, and any cyclist would be proud to ride with you.

I don’t know what you thought when I claimed you at the bike shop. You must have been hoping for a serious male rider in his early thirties looking for a race-worthy bike. You got a 42-year-old woman who actually let out a cheer when she heard the pumpkin donuts were again available at DD. Since you came home with me, you have spent almost all of your time sitting in a corner. When you have gone outside, you learned that I have become a nervous rider, and I’m slower than I used to be. I know you want to break free and fly, but I just don’t have that kind of power any more.

Next week, however, is your moment. You get to do the kind of ride your mommies and daddies at Scott Bikes imagined when they created you. It is a 56- mile race, and it has switchbacks and lots of steep and long climbs and descents. Now, we both know that you are far more equipped than I to handle this ride, but we have to do this together. You’ve been bathed, checked and re-greased in anticipation, and you are perfect. I believe in you – you will keep a nice steady ride, your tires will stay inflated, your chain will stay in place and all of your parts will be in proper working order. Since this race is much harder for me than it is for you, I am quite nervous. But I promise you this: I will do my very best to be worthy of you. So let’s do this race and make each other proud.