C.: Well, I suppose that my husband, Tucker Tucker Two, a.k.a. The Cat Fighter Formerly Known As The Tuxedo (who really needs a shorter nickname) Now Simply Known As T, Because Triple T Was Already Taken isn’t going to get me out of here today. I might as well continue reading my bhff, d.c. scot’s BEYOND THE THITEENTH MILE: THE IRON MAN CHRONICLES. He juxtaposes the brutal training and competition in this event, the ultimate one-day test of physical fitness, endurance, mental toughness and strategizing with events in his day-to-day life. I’m on Chapter 24. You can read along if wish.
CHAPTER 24: THE SEASON
2100 hours; Run course; last aid station:
I’m almost to mile 23, where the going really gets tough. I need to find some chicken soup at this aid station (again). The salt in it will help me replenish my electrolytes and finish the race strong (or at all). This has been a hard season, but I’m proud of myself for getting this far. I cannot give up now, no matter how nauseated and tired I feel. That would ruin my whole season. I just need to keep going, because I’m almost there, almost there, almost there…
***
The season, my fourth in terms of participating in triathlons, wasn't going as well as I had hoped. While I had hoped to finish in the top ten in my division at least once, the best I could muster was to finish in the top 20 three times. I finished 17th twice and 14th once. While these aren’t bad finishes, I had hoped this would be my break-out season, since it was only my second one that was almost completely injury-free.
The year before, I had set personal records on every course on which I competed. The first one-half of the season had gone rather smoothly, with strong finishes in both the one-half Ironman distance triathlon and the first sprint I attempted. My third race, though, was a huge disappointment. With it being on my favorite course, the one where I had begun my career as a triathlete, I thought my fastest time ever was attainable. That time, I reasoned, should put me in the top ten in my division, a first for me in terms of competing in triathlons.
The best-laid plans of mice and men, however, are often made in vain. It took me five minutes longer to finish this course than I believed myself capable of finishing, mainly the result of two slow transitions. In a long race, five minutes isn't that much, but in a sprint, five minutes is akin to an eternity. Most of my times were slightly slower than the year before.
For some reason unknown to me still, my allergies decided to come back with a vengeance during the summer months, and they were becoming a real problem. They seemed to surface at the most inopportune of times. This was usually in the course of a race or a run. I wondered if my slower times were due to my allergies, over-training, or perhaps under-training. The proof, I knew, would reveal itself at Cinco Ranch.
Cinco Ranch was declared the club championship course that year. This was the one at which all triathlon clubs try to have the most members. That would ensure a minimum of one thousand participants, most of whom would be seasoned veterans; and my club was the host this year. That assured that most of the participants would be from Southeast Texas, including the 13 to 16 individuals in my division who usually finished ahead of me.
The week before Cinco Ranch was a busy one, as are most weeks, months, and years in most of our lives. I felt fine the day of the race, but the usual nervous energy was missing. That is, until the start of the swim. Going against both my coaching and my better judgment, I dove into the middle of my swim wave, in the dead center. After repeatedly being kicked in the head, I inhaled several mouthfuls of the murky water, setting a gag-reflex action in order. This, in turn, set off an asthma attack, and I was in dire straits.
Although my body and brain were in panic mode, experience and coaching took over. Heeding my swimming coach's words, I turned on my back to breathe, all the while keeping an eye on the familiar markers along the way. When I spotted the one I was looking for, I headed to the side of the pond and, with my feet, located my salvation. There is a shelf about one-half of the way through the swim on one side, and it was that shelf, which a volunteer had kindly pointed out to me, that practically saved my life three years before; the first time I attempted this race. As I stood on that shelf, I caught my breath and regulated my breathing. I was always moving forward, though, as I had been trained to do. I was extremely winded by the end of the swim and behind my goal by about two minutes. Nicole and I both thought I could make that time up on the bike leg, as she stood on the sidelines, shouting words of both encouragement and concern.
I did pass at least five of the participants in my category on the bike leg, and about 35 more who weren't in my category. With a 10 mph crosswind blowing, though, I couldn't quite reach my goal of averaging 22 mph. That left me needing to run three miles in under 25 minutes to meet my goal, something I had never done at the "Energy lab III.”
I set off at a comfortable pace and promptly got passed by three competitors in my division. I had passed all three on the bike. I let the first two disappear out of my sight, knowing I had no chance of catching either of them. Their strides told me that their speed was beyond my ability to compete with either of them on the run course. I decided to pace on the third one, reasoning that I would go into my trademark sprint and pass him at the finish line. I did pace on this runner for most of the three-mile run course, going into my trademark sprint where I had sprained my ankle three years before, and crossed “under the wire” in one hour, 32 minutes and 30 seconds, or about 30 seconds after my rabbit crossed the finish line.
I averaged my usual nine-minute pace on the run, even though I thought I had run a little faster this year. Everyone I talked to, however, had a one-word description for the run course on this hot, humid August day in Southeast Texas: brutal! No, I didn't finish in the top 20 in this race; I barely made it into the top 40, finishing 39th. Since my division had over 90 competitors, that put me in the top 40%. That wasn't too bad, until you stop and consider that 25% of the competitors are doing the race “just for fun," and just as many more probably had either flats or some other physical problems. In so many words, I only finished ahead of about 5% of the "competitors" in my division, not exactly where I wanted to be!
There is a reason why competitive athletes keep a training journal. It’s to figure out what we are doing, both right and wrong. At this time, I turned to mine. My one thought when I did this was, When did I have time to do all of this?!
Sometimes, hobbies can be a relief from day-to-day life. But if you must work until midnight on Friday just so you will be able to get in 18 holes of golf on Saturday, then chances are, you won't enjoy your golf game very much.
Since both my knees, my right shoulder, and my left foot were beginning to develop tendonitis, I decided to take a rest to allow them all to heal. The tendonitis in my knees, foot, and shoulder didn't subside with rest, but life goes on. There are times, however, when I truly wish I could make time stand still. This season was one of those times. I’m not referring to the triathlon season now, but rather, this particular season of my life.
I've heard old-timers say that they believe that bad things come in groups of three. I don't know where this saying originated, but I could only hope it was true during this season of my life. My whole family was looking forward to a joyous occasion that was set to occur—the birth of my parents' first great-grandchild. She decided to make her appearance a little early. As a result, she had a brief stay in the hospital. The night that my niece, who was a registered nurse at the time, brought her home, she stopped breathing and passed away in her sleep. She was only eleven days old.
Not even the most gruesome of scenes from a William Faulkner movie could have compared to the sight of my niece's husband carrying the casket of his infant daughter to her tiny grave.
This happened just five days after another member of my family, tragically and unexplainably, decided to take his own life. Why anyone would choose to do this is a mystery to me, just as why someone would choose to fly an airplane into the side of a building, killing thousands of others along with himself, is a mystery to me, as it is to most people. This all happened less than a month after Nicole's grandfather passed away from complications of Alzheimer's disease.
Suicide and suicide bombings are not easy to understand, but they, at least, are based on a decision that someone made. An infant's death is never easy to explain or understand. Haley's funeral did, however, put my next race into proper perspective. At this one, I didn't let trivial things such as people lying about their swim times to get a better seed in a seeded pool swim or others drafting on the bike leg bother me. I did, however, dedicate the race to Haley's memory. I stenciled her initials to the base of my running shoes to remind me of her. On the back of my race number, I wrote part of a Bible verse that the minister read at her funeral. Every time I felt like pulling up, I reminded myself, It's for Haley. This, however, like the tears at her funeral (as well as after) didn't seem to be nearly enough to express my grief. Somehow, tears don't begin to cover the amount of grief that I felt at the loss of a child. I didn’t know that I would ever look at a child quite the same way again.
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