Preparing to Swim in the same River Twice

Accidental selfie--
taken on every bump in the road 
on yesterday's ride!

I wanted a repeat of last spring.  I wanted long rides with my husband and cycling club.  I wanted the excitement of anticipating race day; and let me admit it, I wanted the weight loss I experienced last year.

Few of these experiences have come to pass.  I am enjoying long rides with my club, and I love it; but my husband rarely gets to join us.  My race training is slightly less thrilling than last year, and I'm up ten pounds.  I'd like to claim it's all muscle, but I'd be lying.

A Sunday Novice ride with my son, Denver.

Heracleitus said we "can't step in the same river twice" (Of course, he said it in Greek).  I realize I've been trying to do just that-- repeat last year.  This year's training experiences are different.  Still good, but different.

One change is my focus: I've begun thinking how fun it would be to share the triathlon experience with others.  I've been offered the opportunity to coach, and I'm going to take it.

Riders seeking sustenance at Rest Stop No. 4
at the Tony Serrano Ride. 
It was a joy to meet every one of them!

Another surprise, I became president of my cycling club this year.  An even bigger surprise is that I love being more involved with our riders and supporting the growth of the club.  Working as a volunteer at the Tony Serrano Century was incredible!

Baking Pumpkin cookies for
the Tony Serrano Ride.

Another unexpected change is that I've fallen out of love with running (temporarily, I hope.  We're in counseling ;-).  And my nemesis and I are more than just friends--I'm passionate about swimming-- some would say obsessed (Amy Benton).  

I'm happily training and looking forward to race day, but it's less mysterious now.  I know if I have a good day, I'll be faster than last year.

Sneaking a kiss from my son after our ride.

Dominic and Eddie on our last ride together before
Dominic's move to Philadelphia.

A rare opportunity to ride with (almost) the whole family.

What I don't know is what this quiet, rainy day will bring, or the days that follow it.  This admission is hard for an organized, goal driven control freak like me to admit.  Today will be a rest day.  A be grateful day.  But maybe . . . if it stops pouring . . . a long run day.

When "Just Keep Swimming" isn't Enough

It was a rest day . . . or it was supposed to be a rest day . . . but my 11 year old son wanted to swim and I agreed to go to the pool for a fun swim together.

We had a good time.  He loves to coach me; so after we warmed up, Denver began telling me how to do butterfly.  He talked and demonstrated.  I tried.  He told me everything I was doing wrong.  I tried again.  Repeat.  Repeat.  At one point, he said, "Your upper body is too stiff.  You look like this."  He then proceeded to thrash in the water as if his upper body and lower body were trying to drown each other!

Enough of that, I thought.  I'll do something I know how to do.  Freestyle.  I've been studying and practicing and reading and watching videos for three years.  As I swam, Denver decided to record me so he could offer advice.  When I saw the recording, I became sick to my stomach.  This is me?!

I was reminded of the old adage that "practice makes perfect" only if your practice is perfect.  I have been practicing swimming poorly, with my arms sweeping out to the side, my stroke not fully extended, my hips flat.  Sigh...

It's funny how easy it is to watch others swimming and to learn from watching them without forming any kind of judgment about them as people.  When I watch myself, however, I am so frustrated that I almost don't want to get back in the pool.  

I am humbled by the embarrassment of being a newbie once again.  It reminds me of how my children must feel as they try new things and receive unsolicited feedback from well intentioned adults. 

Kindness matters.  Patience matters.  As my yoga teacher offered at the end of every class, "Nothing takes the place of gentle, loving persistence."  And . . . back to the pool I go.  Humbled, but determined.  

I have a sink full of dirty dishes and a couch hiding beneath a mountain of unfolded laundry. Happy International Women's Day!

A Joyful Christmas breakfast with Poinsettia dishes.
John did the cooking.  I did the cleaning; and then
I went for a ten mile run.

Okay.  Let me first say that I'm very lucky to have a plentiful supply of dishes.  And when I think about "doing the dishes or laundry," I don't actually mean without a dish or clothes washer!  So, let me just admit that by every measurable standard, my life is awesome and wonderful and I love it.  My husband is incredible.  My kids are fantastic.  I have a great job.  But even with this life, from time to time, questions arise.  Sometimes, but not always, they arise while I'm on a six hour bike ride with my cycling club on a sunny Saturday afternoon while my kids are home . . . playing video games.  

A frequent post in my women's triathlon Facebook group is this:
"My (insert husband/partner/mother/father) says my passion for triathlon is selfish and it's taking too much time away from family obligations.  I love running, biking, swimming, and competing in races.  Am I being too selfish?"

Ten hours into my first Ironman.

I have looked for such questions in male dominated triathlon groups, and have never found them.  When something similar is asked by men, it is usually related to career obligations, and there is no angst in the questioner's voice.  It is simply a matter of logistics, not guilt.  

The same questions arise with regard to mothers working long hours in careers they love.  How do they do it, people ask, with a family?  No one ever asks that of men.

And the truth is that a mother's place is still in the home, even when she's not there.  It's okay for her to do other things, even fantastic things-- going to law school, becoming a judge, competing in Ironman triathlons-- as long as these activities do not get in the way of all of her family obligations.

I don't know what to say or do about any of this.  I'm not even sure how I feel about it.  By the time John and I had our first child, I drank the Kool-Aid.  I wanted to be the Best mom, wife, housekeeper, attorney in the world.  My mom set the standard for how much a mother could accomplish.  She rose at 5am and worked as Postmaster of a small post office all day, returning home in time to feed us dinner, attend our after school events, clean around the house, do laundry, and remember all of our dental and doctor appointments.  

But I couldn't.  Not really.  Not and have a moment to relax and enjoy the life I was creating.  Now that the kids are old enough to cook themselves breakfast and one of them can drive, I no longer feel the pull of society's expectations.  Instead, I feel the drive to go outside and chase dreams.  Usually, on a bicycle.  The dishes can wait.  And your clean clothes are on the couch.  You'll have to dig around a bit, but they're there.  Call me if you need me.  I'll be riding, or trail running, or swimming.  I'll call you right back.

A New Romance

Tracks left by Apollo and me on the dawn of our one real snow day.
--Photographer Unknown

As winter forces me closer to the fire, my triathlon training adapts.  Gone are the long, sunny days of cycling.  I miss the sunshine on my skin and the unfortunate tan lines that cyclists wear with perverse pride.  

Instead, the few rides we have are cold; and we not only dress like crazy clowns, but some require whiskey for warmth!

Our first winter base ride
of the season.

An "unnamed rider" taking
advantage of a little liquid heat!

I have been running more.  Harder.  Longer.  I've finally committed to real strength training and have seen my body change and adapt.  Who is this strong woman in the mirror?!

Most surprising of all, I have a new romance with . . . swimming.

Thanks to an incredibly thoughtful swim program called Swim Speed Secrets by Sheila Taormina, my hours in the pool have doubled.  More importantly, swimming has gone from long and boring to challenging and different every day.  My stroke technique has improved.  I can see and feel the changes in my body.

Other than misgivings about my visibly bigger upper arms and shoulders, I am both surprised and delighted with this new relationship to the pool.  And biggest surprise of all?  I'm getting faster.

I'm so surprised by these changes that I don't quite know what to do with them.  Should I enter an open water race?  Join a masters' swim team?  Just keep training for my Ironman?

Not that it matters all that much.  As John will happily remind me, I haven't found a way to make swimming (or anything else!) into a money maker.  Yet it thrills me to see my body happily responding to new training and new challenges.

Old dog.  New tricks.

Apollo watches the rain as we both wait to go for a run.

My Swim Coaches live upstairs

My Eldest Swimming Hero: John Robert off the blocks in the 100 Freestyle.

As the new year approaches, I don't need to hire a swim coach or seek inspiration for the hard work required for successful racing.  Two of my heroes live with me.  As I work to become a stronger, faster swimmer; these two are both my coaches and cheerleaders.

John Robert's cheering friends at a recent swim meet.
My favorite sign: Chlorine, Breakfast of Champions

My eldest son, John Robert, continually surprises me with his dedication to excellence in all that he touches.  This (unfortunately) extends to video games and Dungeons & Dragons, but also includes academics and swim team.  Over the past two and a half years, it has extended to swim stroke advice.  

When I first began training for triathlons, I could barely swim freestyle.  Because John Robert has been swimming on a competitive swim team for several years, I asked him for help. He cautiously agreed.  

John Robert patiently endures my photography
and swim questions over a breakfast of Honey Nut
Cheerios and an Arnold Palmer.
Obviously, we differ on nutritional advice!

After watching me from the pool deck, he put on his goggles and jumped into the water.  He watched me from the bottom of the pool.  He then began with the most careful of critiques: "First of all, Mom, there is a lot you are doing right."  

Ha!  He knows my sensitivity to criticism so well!  He then proceeded to offer one thing for me to work on for that practice.  He did not make the mistake I might have made by offering a laundry list of flaws that needed to be addressed.  Day by day, I ever so slowly improved.  

John Robert in a rare moment of relaxation.

If John Robert wrote an inspirational
slogan, this might be it.

Since that time, he has gone from being mildly embarrassed by my presence at the pool in front of his teammates to a quiet acceptance.  In the past year, I even detected a bit of pride when he mentioned to a fellow lifeguard that his crazy mom was training for an Ironman.  When I asked him about my stroke, he said it looks fine.  I can even do flip turns!

Denver at the start of his 2017 triathlon
at Calloway Gardens.

My other coach is Denver.  He, too, competes on his year round swim team.  He loves his coach, his teammates, and anything that involves being with other people.  He knows every member of his swim team.  Even the older kids give him high fives as he walks onto the pool deck.  He is a fan of freestyle and butterfly, but his biggest love is any relay where he is competing with his teammates. 

Denver at state competition with his relay team.

It may go without saying that Denver doesn't like to be left out.  This has wonderful side effects.  He competes in triathlons so that he and I can "talk" training and spend more time together.  Denver is my primary cheerleader, but also enjoys telling me what I am doing wrong.  One day he spent over 30 minutes showing me the proper way to do a flip turn and having me practice until I was too dizzy to go on!

Denver was present at my first Ironman competition, and will undoubtedly be there for the next one.  He yells almost as loudly as his daddy.  When I was starting out on the run, I paused to speak to him.  He pushed on my back.  "Get going!  This is a race!" 

He was there to cheer me to the finish line after a 13 hour day.  I appreciated his presence as much as that of his big brother, Spencer, and his Daddy.  Denver is a fan of Ironman souvenirs, too, and has adopted all of my Ironman gear as his own, from tri kits to backpacks.  With this boy, I feel the joy of competition and teamwork.

As I train for Ironman Chattanooga in 2018, I look forward to the loving support of my whole family.  I know my husband will be there as my training partner.  I know my cycling club will be there to help me put in thousands of miles with a smile.  But my two favorite swimmers deserve a special shout out today.  I couldn't and wouldn't do it without them.  
    

All three of my monkeys enjoying some pool time three years ago.
Spencer-- my middle guy-- is not my swim coach.
He is, however, a wonderful cheerleader!

One of Denver's many temporary tattoos
used at competition.  I don't quite
have his confidence!

The Long Road to Recovery

The view from the top of my driveway yesterday.

Recovery: A return to a normal state of health, mind, or strength.

Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever: A bacterial infection transmitted by a tick that can cause serious damage to internal organs such as the kidneys and heart.  Most commonly found in the southeastern United States.

After the whirlwind of Ironman-- the "Hurray!" and the "Congratulations!"-- what does one do?

My dear brother and sister-in-law
sent me this fruit basket.
The boys ate it in about 12 seconds!

I expected to feel done with triathlon.  I had been warned about burnout and depression after accomplishing this goal.  Neither arrived.  I wanted to train for next year.  Chattanooga 2018.  I thought I could go faster.  Maybe also try to qualify for the Boston Marathon.  Maybe compete in a bike race.  

My poor husband just looked at me like . . . !?X?!  Poor guy.  He thought the craziness was over!

After a mere two days of rest, I felt restless.  I was unaccustomed to sitting around.  I wasn't even sore.  Sadly for my house, I felt no desire to do a thorough cleaning or catch up on other chores.  I enjoyed more time with the boys, but even so, there was still a hole in my schedule.  I wanted to get back on the bike, or take a run, or maybe a swim.  

Back in the saddle with a few
of my favorite C4 folks.

Three days after Ironman, I rode 22 miles on the bike and did a 2,000 yard swim.  Delicious.  The next day, a 30 mile bike ride.  I wasn't fast.  My legs were still recovering, but the movement felt great. I allowed myself to continue doing half distance/half speed workouts for the next several days until a sudden change sucked the strength out of me-- Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.

It began nine days after Ironman, with a sudden dislike for coffee.  It tasted funny.  Hmmm...  I wasn't hungry for breakfast or lunch either.  Then came the fever.  103.  Nausea.  Headache.  OOoooh!  HEADACHE...

This continued day and night.  I lived on the couch.  I forced myself to eat, and sometimes I kept it down.  One day it was half a bowl of Cheerios.  Another day, five bites of sweet potatoes.  I thought I was staying hydrated, but the continual profuse sweating-- which required daily sheet and blanket washing (Yuck!)-- was literally draining me.  At my mother's urging, John took me to the ER on the fifth day.

After ten hours in the ER, two IVs, numerous tests, and what was to be a $16,375 bill, the doctors sent me home with a shrug: "Maybe it's some sort of virus.  Make sure you follow up with your regular doctor."  Seriously?!  They didn't even test me for tick born disease, which I specifically asked them to do.  Grrr...

Two days later, I saw Dr. Lanclos who diagnosed me appropriately, and prescribed the antibiotics that would heal me.  It took another week before I could stay awake all day without a long nap or drive a car without getting dizzy and nauseated.  It was 14 days before I felt like exercising.  My parents came down for a visit and were a wonderful help keeping the boys busy with activities, cooking meals, shopping, and encouraging me to rest-- which I did!

So here I am-- six weeks and four days after Ironman, and in my third week of regular exercise post Rocky Mountain Spotted Fever.  Where am I headed?  

I want to see if I can knock it out of the park next fall at Ironman Chattanooga.  How much stronger can I become?  How much faster?  

And-- by the way-- I know that in many ways it doesn't matter.  Health, Love, Family-- these three things are far more important than any physical challenge . . . and yet... these physical challenges call to me like a bewitching siren.

This drive to test my limits, however, has been tempered by the knowledge that my body is not superhuman-- despite my Ironman status.  It is humbling to see how quickly the body can falter.  But with the support of my favorite training partner, I think we still have goals to achieve.  Right PBM?     

SUFFERFEST and JOY

SHORT VERSION: 
It was a very long day, but I made it.
I am an IRONMAN!

FULL VERSION:
25 years of dreaming about doing an IRONMAN.  Two years of focused planning and training.  Hundred mile bike rides.  Hours of swimming.  Twenty mile runs.  All preparation for this day: Ironman Chattanooga September 24, 2017.

This is not fear, I told myself as we arrived in Chattanooga.  This is excitement.  I'm not nervous; I'm ready.  My husband and two sons endured my company to Chattanooga on the Friday before the event.  My eldest son stayed home for school and work, and I was sad he wouldn't be here.  But I was no fun-- as prickly as a cactus.  I sat silently and agonized about every detail in my mind-- Should I wear a wetsuit?  What should I pack in my special needs bag?  My family showed miraculous patience and forgiveness as I rode the emotional rollercoaster of pre-race anxiety-- "Ahem" . . . Excitement.

The night before the race, with my bike and bags checked in, I could finally stop fidgeting.  I mostly sat on the hotel bed in silence like a catatonic yogi-- breathing in, breathing out . . . Waiting for 5am.  Meanwhile, my husband and sons had fun that day: rock climbing and sampling every restaurant within walking distance.  I was ever grateful for my husband's willingness to entertain the boys.  Being a spectator at these events can be almost as tiring as being an athlete.  I wanted them to have fond memories.  

Race day arrived with the promise of heat and sun.  Fine by me.  After trying and failing to eat breakfast, I drank two cups of coffee, and John walked me to transition.  I adjusted the air pressure in my tires, put water bottles on the bike, and chatted with the athletes next to me.

Time to get on the bus.  John walked me to the long line of school buses waiting to take all 2,608 athletes to the start line.  About a quarter of us would either fail to reach the start line or fail to finish.     

Arriving at the swim start, I followed hundreds of athletes to the end of the swim start line which later became the middle of the swim start line.  It seemed to reach for miles into the darkness.  I couldn't see the river.  I sat on the sidewalk in the darkness, chatting with other athletes and their friends and family . . . and waited.  My teeth were chattering and my body shivering like a chihuahua.  It was 70 degrees.  I was simply nervous and ready to begin.

Supposedly, a cannon went off before the pros hit the water at 7:20am.  We were too far away to hear it.  Within minutes, however, our line began moving-- quickly.  We trotted along, awaiting the official start of our race.  Because we each wore a timing chip, our race didn't officially begin until we crossed the timing mat at the swim dock.  From that point, we had exactly 16 and a half hours to make it to the finish.  No exceptions.  The last Ironman of the day finished with four seconds to spare.  Hundreds failed to finish.

I obsessed about possibilities: broken goggles, a kick to the face that would knock me unconscious, lost contact lenses, a bike wreck, severely cramping muscles . . . the list went on and on.  One thing that never occurred to me was the possibility of a groundhog darting into the rode and causing a cyclist to crash.  This happened just a few hours later; but after lying unconcious for a few minutes, the man pulled himself together, and he finished!

The misty view of the swim start
from the boat of a volunteer.

It was my turn at the dock.  I leaped into the water and began doing what I have learned to do: just keep swimming.  My breathing was steady.  The water was comfortably cool.  The sun rose behind us, so we could see through the fog but were not blinded by sunlight.  I navigated through the sea of thrashing swimmers until I had a nice space to myself out in the middle of the river where the current was best.  I concentrated on getting the mechanics of the stroke just right, and on increasing speed.  I enjoyed it! 


John and the boys watched the excitement from the beautiful pedestrian bridge.  They saw swimmers doing all kinds of things-- breast stroke, side stroke, back stroke . . . They even saw a guy floating on his back.  They waved down at him.  He waved back. 

The strangest thing they saw was a guy who darted sideways in the river and then began swimming upstream!  A volunteer in a kayak had to come redirect him-- Twice!  Glad I wasn't that guy!  Overall, the swim went well for almost everyone.  No one was hurt.  Only four people were pulled from the water.  

In what seemed like just a few minutes, the buoys went from yellow to orange, so I knew we were halfway.  I sang songs in my head and just let myself get into that meditative groove that is long distance swimming.  My shoulders began to warm and then burn a little.  I knew this meant I was hitting a good pace.  I hoped to finish in an hour.  I concentrated on slipping my hand smoothly into the water, reaching, getting a good catch and pull, and lifting my elbow high on recovery.  Before I could believe it, I saw the angular architecture of the Chattanooga Aquarium and the red buoys that marked the end of the swim.  So fast!  And it was fast, too, only 55 minutes.  Thank you, Tennessee River current.

Me with Two Heads exiting the swim
and heading toward transition.

A line of volunteers built like football players stood at the steps of the exit to pull us out of the water.  After reaching the sidewalk, I reached back for my wetsuit cord and began unzipping as I trotted to the wetsuit strippers.

I ran up to a strong woman, plopped on my bottom, stuck my feet in the air, and she grabbed the top of my wetsuit and whipped it off in one smooth stroke.  
"Thank You!" I exclaimed.  
"Good job!" she answered as she handed me my wetsuit and off I went.  I was proud of myself for knowing how to get my wetsuit off.  It didn't occur to me at the time that she probably said "Good Job" to everyone!

Denver captured my expression
at the moment I saw my husband.

John and the boys were waiting near transition, and I stopped for a hug and a kiss and to thank them for being here.  Denver took a picture at the moment I saw them which captures my delight.

Unlike shorter triathlons where you keep all your gear next to your bike in transition, during an Ironman you run through a line of transition bags, shout your number-- "1121!"-- and a volunteer hands you your bag filled with your cycling gear.  Then we run into the changing tent where wonderful volunteers assist us as if we are toddlers: "I'll take you to a seat . . . I'm dumping out your gear right here so you can choose what you need . . . I'll put your wetsuit, goggles, and swim cap in your bag for you . . . You look like you're ready to go."

With over 2,000 bicycles, it's good
to remember your number!

I kept up a steady stream of gratitude for those volunteers all day.  They were amazing.  At that moment, I thanked her, put on my cycling shoes, gloves, and helmet, and headed for the bike racks.

Before I got there, more volunteers stepped up and slathered me with sunscreen.  How amazing is that?  I found Spooky, and we rolled out.

The beautiful countryside around Chattanooga filled me with joy.  Mountains surrounded us as we cycled past farms, pastures, wildflowers, and disgruntled churchgoers waiting in long lines to let us pass.

Unlike a few other races I'd experienced, most cyclists were polite and friendly and not prone to endangering themselves or others by drafting or swerving unexpectedly.  There was friendly chatter throughout the ride, though it grew less frequent as the hours passed. 

I am lucky that the Tennessee and Georgia hills on the Ironman course are very similar to what I'm used to.  I never felt overwhelmed by the long hills or rough and gravel strewn country roads.  Some athletes from Florida found it a bit more challenging, and I heard some sigh as we approached yet another long incline.

At nearly the halfway point, we rode through the little town of Chickamauga.  There, unbeknownst to me, my family was waiting with signs and cheers.  I shouted my gratitude and teared up so much I could barely see for a moment.  I felt so loved and grateful.  How lucky am I to have such a family?

As the miles passed, I occupied my mind with the pain in my stomach.  I planned to treat myself with PB&J sandwiches on the ride.  I don't normally eat flour or sugar anymore, and I thought it would give me a good energy boost.  After one sandwich at mile ten, however, it felt like an unending punch in the stomach.  I couldn't begin to eat and didn't want to drink anything.  This was not good.  I had eaten nothing yet today except that unwelcome sandwich.  Luckily, there were aid stations every 15 miles, and I started forcing down half a banana at each one.  I also stopped for refills of ice water in my water bottles, and forced myself to finish one water bottle before each station.  

By mile 70, my stomach felt better.  I ate an Rx bar and hoped that my energy would hold.  When a volunteer agreed to give me her own can of Coca-Cola, I chugged it in about ten seconds.  The results were amazing!  The caffeine and sugar hit me like lightening, and I felt good.  I guess flour is no longer my friend, but sugar still loves me.   

As I neared the 100 mile mark, I took inventory of my body.  Overall, I felt pretty good. Shoulders and neck ached a bit.  My back felt stiff but not painful.  My knees ached and my calves felt tight.  I had several blisters on both feet.  Worst of all were my thighs, though, which burned like they were on fire.  Front and back.  Quads and hamstrings: shredded.  I promised myself that running is different and my legs would rally.  (Lies!  All lies!)

As I coasted into transition and the dismount line, I told myself, Run and Done.  It's part of a chant that my youngest son and I made up to sing while he trained for his first triathlon.  

A volunteer grabbed the front of my bike and shouted, "I've got it!"  That was my cue to get my tired bottom off the bike and run toward transition shouting my number again.  I did, and another marvelous volunteer handed me my bag and then handed me over to another volunteer.  She walked me to a seat in the changing tent.  I removed my helmet, gloves, and cycling shoes while the volunteer took out my running gear and set it in front of me.  I slipped on my running shoes and felt the relief of larger shoes on my many blisters.

"All set?" she asked.  
"Yes.  Thank you!" and off I went with my race number belt in hand.

Again my wonderful family was there to wave signs and cheer me on.  I stopped to give hugs and kisses-- stopping too long for Denver.  "Run and Done, Mom.  It's a race!  Go!"  And off I went.

I felt great.  I had an average moving time of just under 17 mph on the bike; a victory for me.  My bottom felt blessedly relieved of the bike seat.  My arms loved swinging freely, and even my legs briefly rallied.

I'm off the bike!  Run and Done!

Those feelings lasted about two miles.  Unaccustomed to the unbelievably well stocked aid stations and enthusiastic volunteers every MILE on the run, I overindulged at the first two stations.  Instead of my usual sip of water every three to five miles, I was taking in water, grapes, and oranges every ten minutes.  The result was a heavy stomach and heavier legs.  Unlike some other poor souls I saw vomiting alongside the road and sprinting to the porta potties, I was able to get things under control in time.  I stopped eating and allowed myself a sip of water, Coke, or chicken broth every two or three miles.  That worked.

The miles dragged on.  We passed the spot where we had entered the water hours before.  I watched the sun set over the Tennessee River.  I talked to other athletes.  We encouraged each other and trotted on.  We weren't really racing one another; we were just battling the voices in our heads and the suffering in our bodies.

Volunteers were our life support.  They never failed to exclaim how Great we looked, how we were doing Awesome, and how we were Almost There.  Beautiful, beautiful lies.  They held out food, drink, and ice.  They danced.  They wore costumes.  They played loud music.  They were our islands of joy in an ocean of suffering.

At mile 12, am I running
or walking?  Hard to tell!
John is behind me in
the yellow shirt and red cap.

As I approached mile 13 of the run, my sons were suddenly beside me.  I smiled and gave hugs and wanted to stop and talk.  Denver said, "No.  Don't stop.  You can't stop.  We'll run right along here with you until we get to Dad."  I didn't know it at the time, but Denver thought I wasn't going to finish in time.  I could see worry in his eyes, but didn't know why.  For reasons he still can't explain, he thought the cut off time was 9pm and there was no way I was going to make it.

I kept running/trotting/shuffling.  The miles grew further and further apart.  Time ceased.  There was seemingly no end to the numbers between 13 and 26.  My legs couldn't tell the difference between uphills and downhills; both were equally painful.  I watched as volunteers tended to the fallen who lay with seized hamstrings or back spasms.  I saw an ambulance go by.  Some athletes looked like lurching zombies.  Some stepped to the edge of the road and vomited. Nearly all walked.  I allowed myself to walk only the steepest hills, but my "run" had become a pitiful shuffle.

There were moments of laughter.  Enthusiastic and well liquored college students made an evening of cheering us on the largest hills and trying to get us to drink beer.  They gave us high fives, played loud dance music, and lit up the sky with disco lighting.  Nearly all of us sped up as we neared them.  We didn't want to let them down. 

The miles somehow passed.  With only a mile to go, I passed over the pedestrian bridge the second time, but my family was no longer there.  The whole bridge was nearly empty.  I longed desperately to see my family and shout, "I'm going to make it!"  But they were already waiting at the finish line.

At the last turn, an Ironman coach who was also staying at our hotel, saw me and shouted, "There is the finish line.  Bring it on in!"  My body responded like a lightening bolt.  I felt my legs lift and my arms pump.  Where was that speed an hour ago?  I saw my family and they urged me on.  I passed a few people as I sprinted before reaching the red carpet.  And then . . . the Finish.  Tears even now as I write.  Bright spotlights in my eyes and the IRONMAN arch.  I slowed down, as is the custom once you get to the red carpet.  I saw the outstretched hands of strangers reaching for high fives . . . from me!  Wild cheering for every finisher.  I was stripped raw-- both emotionally and physically. I crossed the finish line and heard, "Kim Degonia.  You are an IRONMAN."  But I already knew.

And then yet another angelic volunteer-- known as a Catcher-- put her arm around me, handed me water, and asked me questions to determine whether or not to direct me to the medical tent.  Another volunteer put a medal around my neck and removed the timing chip from my ankle.  Yet another handed me my finisher's hat and shirt.  I walked into the corral for exhausted Ironmen and we looked vaguely bewildered as we waited for our friends and family to retrieve us like lost pets.  Mine did.

As I write this, it has been 48 hours since I crossed the finish line.  I'm still experiencing the effects of the race.  I cannot yet comprehend why this 144.6 mile Sufferfest has been such a powerful experience.  John said he watched two young guys holding either arm of an older athlete to keep him from falling, and it reminded him of the comradery of the Marine Corps.  There is kinship in shared suffering.  And at the finish line, shared joy.

Thank you to my parents who purchased Spooky and who have always supported my dreams.  Thank you to my husband who agreed to this goal well before he knew the cost-- and bought my ticket to Ironman on his own birthday.  Thank you to my children for preparing your own meals for much of the last six months.  Thank you to my bike mechanic, and my cycling club, C4, who helped me train-- and made it a joy.

I'm sorry, John Degonia, but I'm going to want to do this again.  I think I can go under 13 hours . . .