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.
