2015: Moving On

I've been intending to write a retrospective on 2015 for some time, but have struggled to work up any enthusiasm about it. Why? Though off to a rough start, it was far from a crappy year. Overall, it was reasonably balanced between good and bad, and had many lessons to offer. My soulmate and I had finally accomplished our long-term dream of moving to the Seattle area: I should be ecstatic, right? There was much good about last year. So why my reticence to reflect, and great happiness to see the departure of 2015?

I think it starts with trying to define things as either "good" or "bad". The "good" things can be incredibly stressful, and the "bad" can be incredibly bittersweet. When either is a significant life event, it's often so stressful that it's hard to sort out exactly how to feel. I spent most of 2015 puzzling on this, and have concluded that the only possible way to feel is...alive. I feel like I have emerged from a not-unpleasant cave of emotions and turmoil and aimlessness. And while it wasn't totally unpleasant, it wasn't in the least bit gratifying or life-inspiring. It just was part of the typical set of a first-world 50-something life's challenges.

I've been extraordinarily lucky for many, many years. For most of my life, actually. For the most part, gain has outweighed loss. I've been able to merrily go along my way, not sweating the losses because there simply wasn't that much to deal with. Oh sure, the typical nonsense, like failed relationships, lousy jobs, fender-benders, other whatnot, as well as the more important losses that come with living on this planet. Losing dear friends over the years has been hard, but acknowledged as a price to pay for living long enough, and is the only truly crappy thing about getting older.

So what was different about 2015?

Ya know that popular "top ten" list of life's stressors? Those major life events that most of us experience at one time or another? Yeah, that one. Some items on that list are harder than others but, one at a time, can be managed. Not so easy when you blow through half the list in a six-month period – even if they are the least stressful items on the list.

• Unemployment? Check.
• Major move across the country (and lose social network)? Check.
• Death of a loved pet? Check.
• Death of a revered parent? Check.
• New job? Check.
• Run through the wringer by a mortgage company? Check.
• Moving into new (purchased) home? Check.

Whew. Not all bad, not all good. All very stressful. And yes, all first-world problems. I had to keep reminding myself of that.

I wish I could say I handled it all well, and didn't let it throw me into a not-so-great place, but that would be lying. I lived in a weird place of bittersweet: sad but grateful to have experienced such an amazing father; torn between throwing a pity party and realizing how ridiculously lucky I am for so many things; thrilled to be living in the Pacific Northwest but not feeling at home; excited about meeting new people while being socially isolated; equally excited about running and biking in this beautiful place yet not motivated to train.

That bittersweet place enveloped me like a fog. The emotions were a thick, viscous mess that swirled unpredictably (Is this what depression feels like? PMS on steroids?), and sadness (but not pessimism) permeated everything. I knew my father wasn't going to live forever, but had a minimal support system in which to grieve: no routines, no social outlets where I could just forget about it for a while, no distracting job. My Seattle family was wonderful, but what I was feeling was too much to dump on anybody. Paula was extremely patient with me, and we churned through it.

After completely blowing an interview for a job that was mine for the taking (because I'd had a meltdown that morning and was too foolish to reschedule), I decided enough was enough. Time to wrap up the grieving and move into a more positive place: that's what my father would have wanted. Time to apply the weird-ass energy generated by the maelstrom of mixed emotions towards something more productive. Signing up for some runs or triathlons would have been perfect, but I had no income (yet) and those things aren't cheap. Aaargh. What to do?

Well let's think about this. Living in the present is free. Enjoying the company of my mate is free (or close to it, depending what we decide to do with ourselves). Enjoying the year-round green and the glorious sunsets literally steps from my door is free. Getting outside is free. Being optimistic about finding a job is free.

And I got a job! After a 20-minute phone conversation, no less. Funny how that positive thinking stuff works, huh? Still wasn't doing so great about exercising and eating properly (and feeling it – bleah), but hey, at least I could afford to do some things that were good for the soul. Did some races, enjoyed being active around other people, fantasized about getting my running mojo back.

Fast-forward to the Labor Day half-marathon. Ooooh my running shorts are WAY too tight – they've never been this tight. And my thighs are rubbing together. What the hell? And this flat low-key half-marathon is KILLING me. The photos are dreadful. I look like I'm wishing for a technical issue, perhaps a shoe blowout or massive bout of diarrhea, so I can quit. OK that's it. No more.

Found a great CrossFit gym (where they are all about finding workarounds and aren't a bunch of meatheads), bought a good rowing machine and used it, and started forcing myself to do short, pathetic walks/trots/jogs several times a week, hating every minute and loathing my pathetic-ness. After a couple of months, CrossFit got easier and a lot less exhausting. Rowing became less torturous. Running still sucked, but hey, one thing at a time.

Finally, sometime in December, I ran 5 miles, and IT DIDN'T SUCK. OMG. It actually felt good. How is that possible? Thank gawd. I was beginning to worry how much longer it was going to take to find that errant mojo. I'm still not getting on the bike trainer, but it's set up and ready to go. That'll happen...not sure when, but soon. CrossFit is now my run warmup: go to CrossFit, then go run a minimum of three miles. When not preceded by CrossFit, run at least five miles. And while I'm still not at pre-2015 running pace, I'm getting closer all the time. The heart rate isn't maxing out anymore. It. Feels. Good.

So. I head into 2016 in a much more positive space, even though some things are still seriously lacking. I still need to make friends here (but I now have a plan), I still need to get my butt back on the bike saddle, still need to do more exploring of trails, still need to improve the eating habits (sigh), but...it'll happen. Meanwhile, I'm still absorbing the many more lessons of the past year, from a much healthier place.

It's all good. 2015, you can suck it. 2016, let's go kick some ass.

In Memoriam: Austin Marathon 2015

I had absolutely no expectation of running a marathon any time in the first few months of 2015. The year had already been quite busy. The first two weeks of January were consumed with packing for a long-distance move. The rest of the month was filled with driving from Indianapolis to Seattle and unpacking, along with searching for a job. In addition, my eldest kitty finally reached the end of his year-long decline, and we had to say goodbye January 31.

The first weekend in February I decided it was time to get down to Texas to visit my parents. I hadn’t been since Thanksgiving, and I knew my ailing father (congestive heart failure and COPD) had been struggling more than usual lately. He was getting ever nearer the end, but he had already held on far, far more longer than any doctor would have dared dream, so I was feeling only a little more anxious than usual. The plan was to fly down there mid-week, depending on availability of seats. My dear brother, who has been looking out for both parents for years, sent some concerning texts early in the week, so Wednesday afternoon I went ahead and purchased a ticket to Austin. By this time, I knew my Pop was likely having his last ride on the downward side of the roller-coaster he’d been on for so long, but still didn’t expect to lose him for another few days. I landed in San Jose early Thursday morning to find a text from my brother.

Ugh. Now it’s a race to say goodbye. Dammit. Of course the flight was 20 minutes late and we had a never-happens Easterly headwind, so I just had to cross my fingers that I wouldn’t miss him. Thankfully, Pop was still alive, and was keeping his promise to hold on until I got there.

He was clearly miserable, laying in his recliner, covered in blankets just trying to be as comfortable as possible. By now he was too weak to speak with any voice, but he was completely present and aware of his surroundings. He was able to rouse and open his eyes, and we said our goodbyes. He told me he was proud of me, and said “I love you” many times, to everyone. His mind was there until the end.

He gave up the fight and died at around 6:30pm Thursday. He had defied the odds for many, many years and had far surpassed many doctors’ expectations. His will to live was extraordinary, and we had benefited from that will for a very long time. He never stopped smiling and finding joy in being alive, no matter the circumstance.

So how does this relate to the marathon? Well, Friday I decided to do the marathon, after the following conversation with my brother.

Me: I don’t know which to do, the full or the half.
Bro: Are you trained for a marathon?
Me: [Laughing] Oh heck no!
Bro: But you can do a half, easy, right? Isn’t that like a long training run?
Me: Yeah...I can get through a half without too much trouble.
Bro: Well, a full would probably be really good at burning off stress. Would give you more time.
Me: Oh what the hell. Gonna hurt anyway.

I had packed a minimal set of running clothes, in the hopes of getting a training run in, but no fuel belts or gels or any other typical racing items. The route is laid out such that if, by mile 12, I was severely hurting and needed to bail, I could simply turn off and finish the half. Given that my “training” had essentially consisted of 4-5 30-minute or so trots around Seattle and zero bike training for two months, my expectations were quite low. I just wanted to finish. My father had always enjoyed my spontaneous (lack of planning) nature, and got a kick out of the fact that his baby girl does endurance events, so he would have loved it that I just decided to do this race to remember him and try to burn off some grief.

Somehow I survived, resisted the urge to turn right at mile 12, and trotted to the finish line. My slowest marathon ever, but I finished. I had five hours and 44 minutes to reflect on how lucky I was to enjoy my father’s presence for 53 years. The day was pleasant, I was surrounded by several thousand people who each had their own story, and it was easy to enjoy being alive.

This one was for you, Pop. I love you.

Sorry For Your Loss

"I'm sorry for your loss." These words seem so trite when they don’t apply to you. I’ve heard these words many times, as I’m a huge fan of TV programs whose characters often utter these words. (You know the ones: CSI, Law & Order, etc.) As a viewer, I’ve felt that these words sound so contrived and empty, and have wondered if it was better to say nothing at all.

I've concluded that it isn't.

My sweet and cherished father passed away two weeks ago, and many people have said, "I'm sorry for your loss." And it has mattered. It helps. It doesn't matter if I'm close to the person uttering those words, or if they're a new acquaintance, or if they even knew my father. It helps.

This seemingly trite phrase conveys far more than the simple words. It conveys a visceral understanding of something that happens to all of us: we all lose people we love. It’s unavoidable, yet we rarely speak of it. We don't talk about grief, or sadness, or how we suddenly deeply miss the person at the most inopportune times. We don’t talk about how surreal it feels, how hard it is to truly believe that we will never see or speak with the person again, how blindingly final the death is.

Yet it's a universal experience. None of this is unusual or special. It just is. And everyone who lives long enough shares the pain. "I'm sorry for your loss" is an acknowledgment that the pain goes to your core and there's not a damned thing you can do about it besides outlast it. It's an acknowledgment that this is a shared experience that ranks at the bottom of human existence. And it's a reminder that we all suffer together, in different ways and at different times, and that we all empathize and care for each other.

Saying nothing is denial of reality.

So. Please. When we know there's nothing we can do to help, say "I'm sorry for your loss." In its own small, but significant way, it helps.

Group hugs, on the other hand...um, no!

Serendipity Epitomized: Bourbon Chase 2014

I'm not normally calendar-impaired, but occasionally it happens. I've spent much of my life "winging it", and this past weekend was a marvel of serendipity and the value of human connections. I don't recommend winging everything, and it's definitely a personality preference, but sometimes it's fun to just refuse to worry about ANYTHING and trust that things will work out. And if they don't...deal with it. At least there'll be no "what if" going on.

Due to my inability to read a calendar, about a week and a half out I realized that I was indeed free and available to do the Bourbon Chase. For those that haven't had to suffer through my gushing about this event, it is a 200-mile relay that stops at every distillery on the Bourbon Trail in Kentucky (there are many more that are not part of the official trail). It starts at Jim Beam, near Louisville, and finishes in downtown Lexington approximately 30 hours later. I've done this event three times, and I wasn't doing well with the idea of missing out this year for no good reason. This just wouldn't do.

Thankfully the Bourbon Chase people have a very efficient online bulletin board, where teams and runners can find each other. Sunday, five days before the race, I went online and found a team that sounded like a good candidate: happy with a slower runner (10:00 pace), all female (a first for me), a great team name (the Bourbonettes), and focused on enjoying the experience. By Sunday night, I was speaking with the team captain, Liz. While some members knew each other, most did not. This will be fun!

For those who have never done a relay, the logistics can get confusing. The Chase is 200 miles, and makes stops at Woodford Reserve, Wild Turkey, Heaven Hills, Four Roses, and Maker's Mark. It also passes through several quaint small towns along the way, and is a great way to see a lot of the Kentucky bourbon and horse country. This year there were 400 teams, and most teams had 12 runners. Like most teams, we had two vans with six runners each, and each runner had to run three legs, for a grand total of 36 segments. At the end of each leg, a wristband with a chip in it was handed off to the next runner. The average total mileage for each runner was 13-18 miles, with some legs longer (and harder) than others. I was runner #11, so was in Van 2. Three of us were Chase veterans; three were not.

Since Van 2 didn't have to be anywhere until after noon, I drove down to Louisville early Friday morning. One of the runners lived in Louisville, and could recommend a very safe place to leave my car: the parking lot across from a police station in an historic and relatively quiet part of town. Perfect! However, she was in Van 1 and had to leave Louisville before 6am, so I still had to hook up with my people somehow. Another runner flew in from Pennsylvania Thursday night and would be picking up our rental van Friday morning, then heading over to Lexington to pick up everyone else. She swung by to fetch me, and we rode together. Yet another runner lived in Lexington, where we picked up the rest of our crew. Time to head to Maker's Mark, get checked in, explore the distillery, and wait for runner #6 to arrive.

The team's first runner left Jim Beam at 9:45am Friday morning. Sometime after 2:30pm runner #6 arrived, handed off the wristband, and Van 2 was on our way. We cheered our incoming and outgoing runners, hopped into the van, and headed for the next exchange point. Now we would REALLY start getting to know each other, find out how accurate our pace estimates were (and how dependable we were as runners), and how well everyone did with lack of sleep.

Thankfully, we had a drama-free group. Everyone was there to do their part, have a good time, and make the most of the experience as a team. We breezed through our first six legs, with everyone having a good run. All of us either ran at pace or faster, and between the two vans we built a 35-minute lead on our estimated time. The predicted severe weather held off, and all we got was a few hours of rain. The runners in Van 1 had to deal with the worst of the rain, but everyone was happy it wasn't miserably cold and lightning. We handed off the wristband around 8pm, and went off in search of food and sleep.

Danville, KY is home to two major runner exchanges, and they have embraced the invasion of white vans and tired/hungry runners. The Hub coffee shop stays open overnight, and not only sells wonderful coffee, but very good sandwiches. It stays swamped with business all night long. This was the earliest I've ever been there -- years past it's been well after midnight. We got fed, and I ordered an extra sandwich for later. The local high school was renting out floor space in their gym for $5/head, so we went over there to attempt to sleep for a few hours. They had wrestling mats out, so we joined the other folks in their sleeping bags and laid down to rest.

We heard the heavy rain on the roof around midnight, when we needed to be getting up and ready to go. Oh joy. This could be a messy night. I don't think any of us slept, but we had all dozed some and enjoyed laying down and spreading out for a bit. Our lovely hosts had coffee and snacks, so we loaded up and headed out to the next exchange...and were thrilled that the rain had stopped. A quick check of the radar showed that the bad weather was done for the duration. We would be dry from now on, and the temp was going to stay perfect for running, in the 50's. Hooray! Life is good.

Somewhere in the night we ended up parking right behind some friends of mine from Indianapolis. I had no idea where they were, and they saw me first. Turned out they had grossly over-estimated how long it would take them, and they were going too fast. The race directors were holding them back for two hours before letting them run again, so they were cooling their heels. (Race organizers want all the teams to finish within a certain window Saturday afternoon/evening, and they plan aid station hours accordingly.) It was a remarkable coincidence to see them at all. They were staying positive, but were bummed about having to kill so much time.

Side note: Each year the race has a theme: this year it was disco. Some teams went all-out decorating their vans. We saw this team's vans throughout the race, and laughed every time. They had lights mounted to illuminate the disco balls, and one was playing disco music through a loudspeaker all night long. Very impressive.

Now we were running on narrow country roads with no lights whatsoever, aside from whatever light we were carrying and the occasional headlights of vans moving on to the next exchange. It was wonderful. This is truly horse country, and most of these roads aren't much more than a car-width wide. They wind around and through and up and down hills throughout farmland, and the area (in the daylight) is quite beautiful. Running at night in such a quiet, dark area is a very peaceful experience. You occasionally see the tail-light of another runner up ahead, or the headlamp of one catching up and passing, and that's it. Not even shadows, it's so dark. I finally had to hold my headlamp in my hand to better see the road ahead, and loved it. I knew I was almost there when I saw Four Roses illuminated up ahead on a hill. Handed off the wristband and helped myself to a bourbon ball (chocolate with bourbon inside). My first leg had been a 10k, this one was 5.3 miles, and it felt quite good. All of us had a good run, and handed off the wristband to Van 1 at Wild Turkey around 6am or so.

A couple of us passed out in our sleeping bags in the van and slept through Wild Turkey. Before I knew it, we were parked at a Cracker Barrel that was close to the next exchange. Even though I had inhaled my second sandwich at some point in the night, I figured it'd be a good idea to eat again. We had some breakfast, I ran into my Indy friends again on my way out of the restaurant, exchanged hugs, and went back out to the van to sleep some more. I've never gotten so much sleep at this event, and it was quite nice!

Our last set of legs began around 11am or so, and by now everyone was feeling the lack of sleep. Even though we all had good runs, they were far more painful than the previous legs. Finally I handed off the wristband to our last and final runner, and we headed to the finish line to run in the last hundred feet with her. The finish is in downtown Lexington, and the streets are closed for a giant outdoor party. Another team member lived about two blocks away, so we parked the van there and walked over. Before long our finishing runner rounded the bend, and the team followed her across the finish line. Go Bourbonettes! We finished just under 30 hours, in 29:49:06. That was good enough for 5th out of 16 Female Open teams, not bad for a group that wasn't even really competing! Now it was time to have some bourbon.

We were issued wristbands with four tabs to redeem for samples, and ushered into a giant tent. Tables lined the perimeter, and all of the participating distillers were handing out samples. I ran into my Indianapolis friends again, who offered a place to stay in Frankfort, about 30 minutes away. I really wanted to drink without worrying about driving, so I declined. The van was only two blocks away, I knew from experience that the bench seats were pretty comfortable, and I had my sleeping bag, so that was always an option. My teammates couldn't offer any space, but it wasn't too cold and I just didn't care where I slept. I wanted bourbon samples and food.

A little later, still in the very crowded bourbon tent, I looked up and saw two people from last year's team. I didn't even know they were running this year! They're both from Chicago, and had just done the race with only eight people, due to dropouts and injuries. Yikes. That's a lot of hard running. They had a room at the Hilton across the street, and had plumbing and a floor to offer. Sold! We enjoyed some more bourbon, then I headed to the room for a shower (which was a little slice of heaven). I went back out for dinner and another bourbon sample (friends gave me their unused tabs), then gave up and called it a night. My roommates were out until later, but I was too sound asleep to notice when they came back. Slept ten hours on the floor and made up for the previous two days' lack of rest. Thank you Brian and Jessica!

Sunday morning, I met the driver of the other van and we got on our way. I drove our van back to Louisville, got a ride to my car, then went to see a friend who lives about 30 minutes away in southern Indiana. We had a good visit, she fed me a wonderful pot-roast meal, and I headed home to my bed and two happy cats. Of course, once I got into my bed, I couldn't sleep. Go figure. Kill Bill 2 is always entertaining.

I'm not known for obsessing over details, but this was probably one of the most half-assed things I've done in a long time. I didn't plan anything beyond the bare minimum needed for the immediate future, and it somehow seemed to work. Solutions kept dropping into my lap, at the right time. Let's hear it for serendipity!

How to Go Broke on a $25 Bike Ride: Wabash River Ride

So I think I'm being all smart and clever when I sign up for a $25 bike ride. I needed to get a last long training ride in, and I really don’t like riding long distances alone, on an unsupported route. I'm old enough to be paranoid about getting hit by a car out in the middle of nowhere, and lying for who knows how long in a ditch next to some cornfield before any help arrives. For this reason, recreational supported bike rides are very appealing. They aren’t races so you go at your own pace, there’re food and drink stops on the course (so you don’t have to drag along food and worry about having enough fuel to finish), they’re conducive to riding with friends, and the best part: there are usually plenty of SAG vehicles roaming the course, looking to help anyone who might be in trouble. The feeling of security is complete.

A friend, Lisa, told me about this one, put on by a cycle club in a city about 50 minutes from home. She also needed to get a last 100-mile ride in. Neither of us was interested in trying to go fast; we just wanted to cover the distance and spend the time in the saddle. We both wanted a riding companion and they were only charging $25, so this was perfect. Let’s do it!

We were a little later getting going than we had hoped, but finally got on our way and had a very enjoyable morning. A third companion, Mary, rode with us for the first part of the day, then went her own way after about 35 miles. We took our time, pushed each other just enough to do some work, and took advantage of all the food/drink stations. The day passed uneventfully, and the tedium of almost 8 hours of riding was greatly relieved by the company. The ride was on Indiana country roads with little automobile traffic, so we could ride long stretches side-by-side and chat, a welcome break from most long-distance riding.

All was well until mile 97.5. We had been coming down a nice long descent for the last couple of miles, and it had just started to flatten out a little. Both of us were very ready to be done and back at the car. Lisa was perhaps 20 yards ahead of me, and no one else was within sight (riders were spread out by this point). We were just starting to pedal again, after enjoying the restful coast down the hill.

By the time I saw it, it was too late. Lisa had seen it, but hadn’t had enough reaction time to warn me about it. She passed closely, but avoided it.

A giant, rusted bolt lying directly in our path.

By the time I saw it, I had enough time to stop pedaling and start feathering my brakes, while running directly over it. It was perpendicular to my front wheel, so I was hopeful that I’d just roll over it, or worst-case scenario, get a flat. When I heard the explosive blow-out, I wasn’t surprised. “Oh great, a flat, but at least I’m almost home. No worries.” But it did feel strange, and I immediately unclipped one foot and started getting the other unclipped, while continuing to brake. The last time something like this happened (June 2013), I had a heck of a time staying upright, so was prepared to have to struggle again.

Surprisingly, there was no swerving, I just skidded to a stop on the rim of the wheel. Hooray!

Meanwhile Lisa, who was ahead of me and heard all this going on, was yelling back at me to make sure I was ok. She figured that since she didn’t hear any swearing or crashing sounds that I must be alright. I yelled back that I was fine, just had a flat. But it HAD sounded like a massive blowout. She thought both tires had blown, it was so loud. She turned around and came back while I climbed off the bike and moved to the side of the road. We were both astounded by what we saw.

We were even more astounded when I tried to pull the bolt out – it didn’t budge. Oh my. It was embedded so deeply into my wheel (the rim, not the tire), that as the wheel came around, the bolt slammed into my brake assembly and stopped the wheel cold. No wonder I was skidding! Since we were so close to the car and I was obviously fine, she went on ahead while I waited. In the short time it took her to get ready to come fetch me, two SAG vehicles stopped. Everyone got out, oohed and ahh’d at it, then got me and the bike loaded up and took me back. Back at the ride’s start/end, there was another ogling session, as anyone who saw it immediately called other people over to look. There was universal agreement that I was incredibly lucky. No argument there.

On the way home, I started mentally preparing myself for the repair bill. The bike shop was suitably impressed, and asked if they could keep the bolt for their collection of road hazards. After they pulled it out, I felt even more lucky. If that thing had hit ANYTHING besides my tire, it could have been very, very ugly. If it had hit my leg, it would have been catastrophic, with many many months of recovery. Scary stuff.

As I had feared, the wheel was ruined for road riding. The bolt had punched a good hole in it, dangerously compromising its structural integrity. Sigh. Wheels come in sets, so while I could have simply replaced the rear one, the darned things are priced in sets and I may as well upgrade while I’m at it. The impaled wheel was fine for use on an indoor trainer, so I put a trainer tire on it and kept it. Since I’m relocating to Seattle in a few months, where all riding is hill riding (very much unlike Indianapolis), I replaced the cassette with one that’s intended for climbing, with more gears. A pittance compared to the wheels. The brake assembly was questionable: when the bolt came around and slammed into it, it bent the piece holding the entire thing together. Ok for non-sudden stops, but not ok if I really needed it. Add new brakes to the list (of course those come in sets as well).

I’ve since ridden a handful times on the new wheels/gears, and am very happy with them. The wheels are lighter, more nimble and responsive, and the gearing makes Indiana rollers a piece of cake. Seattle will be an entirely new class of hills to conquer, but at least I’m well equipped now.

And I’ve already used the trainer wheel on the other bike, when I was too lazy to change a tire at 5:30 in the morning.

Total bill: $1140
Cost of walking away unscathed, albeit with a thinner wallet: Priceless

DFL > DNF > DNS: Redman 140.6

Toughest. Day. Ever.

Where to begin? The machine-wash heavy-load-cycle swim? The headwind on the bike that forced everyone to use hill-climbing gears? The unseasonably high heat and humidity? The Redman is a locally owned event in Oklahoma City, and features a half and full-iron triathlon. I did the full, because apparently there is something broken in my brain. But that’s a topic for another day.

Short story: It was brutal, wretchedly so at times, but thanks to the incredibly tolerant and patient organizers/volunteers, I finished. Dead last, an hour 20 minutes after the 17-hour cutoff, but I finished.

Long story follows.

Pre-Race

My sherpa, Suzanne, took the train up from Austin and met me in Oklahoma City. I had flown in earlier in the day, and checked my bike as baggage, using a sturdy cardboard shipping box that was designed to be used 5-6 times. This was my 3rd time using it. When I picked it up at baggage claim, I noticed that one seam wasn’t taped shut, and the box felt more flimsy than it should have. Did I seriously space out so badly that I didn’t tape it all up and didn’t notice while getting it to the airport in Indianapolis? Opened the box, and found the culprit: our wonderful TSA people had opened the box to inspect it. Apparently they’re not taught to leave things as they find them, so they didn’t bother to tape the box back up as it was, which severely compromised its structural integrity. Oh great. Pulled the bike out and put it back together, and it was intact. Except…why is the chain catching when I move the pedals? The chain guard was bent back into the chain. Sheesh. At least that is a very easy fix, and there are mechanics at the race site. I’ll let them deal with it. Was glad that was the only thing wrong, given TSA’s ineptitude at box-taping.

Friday we did a little sightseeing, then went to check myself and the bike in at the race site. The wonderful people from Schlegel’s bike shop were able to bend the chain guard back to its proper position and tighten everything down appropriately. (I had forgotten to throw the Allen wrench set into my bag.) All was well.

Race Morning

Got up at the relatively late time of 5:30am, ate the customary Greek yogurt/honey/blueberry breakfast, and headed out with all of my gear bags. Parking was a 20-minute walk away, and Suzanne had planned on dropping me at transition, then parking the car and walking over. Neither of us was thrilled to arrive and find that the road was completely closed, and everyone had to walk, carrying all their stuff. Great, there goes 20 minutes of valuable time. Since this was a full, and most of us were changing clothes between events, we had a swim-to-bike bag and a bike-to-run bag, and dropped those into tubs in the changing tent. The two special needs bags for halfway points on bike and run went into two other tubs. I put my nutrition on my bike, pulled on the wetsuit, and started getting mentally ready to swim 2.4 miles.

The Swim

Joined the herd of swimmers, and we all noted the stiff wind and the choppy water, and wondered how the wind was going to affect the bike. The water was choppy, but it really didn’t look as bad as Kansas, which had been whitecaps. It wouldn’t be restful, but I had swum in worse. I was in the second wave of swimmers, so we got started quickly. We walked out through some mud to the first buoy and waited for the start signal.

Then we all realized just how choppy it really was. There were swells. There were waves coming from every direction. There was no pattern to the chop, just random blasts of water to the face. It was impossible to get into any kind of rhythm, as it didn’t seem to matter when or on what side you breathed, it was difficult not to take in water. The course was a giant triangle marked by buoys, and we were to keep all the buoys on the left. The half-iron people swam once around it, the full-iron did it twice. The water was pushing everyone around very badly and it was tough to sight the buoys. The chop was bad enough that you couldn’t just lift your head up slightly to look; you had to lift it way up to see over the chop, or to avoid a snoot full of water. It was mentally exhausting, because you couldn’t just put the head down and swim, or you’d end up way off course. I did NOT want to swim any extra strokes in that mess.

I fought off calf cramps (legs took turns), mostly successfully, accepted the fact that this was going to be a mental game (because I knew the body was capable if the mind willed it), and slogged along for two hours. It was a relief to finally hit that last buoy and be able to stand up and walk it in. A volunteer was standing in the water nearby and asked if I needed help – most of us were a bit lightheaded when we first stood up – I told her no, I was peeing, and she may not want to come in any closer. She just laughed knowingly and said I wasn’t the first. It was nice to see Suzanne there and we chatted a bit as I walked to the changing tent. [Later found out they had pulled 12 people from the water, most of them disoriented and panicky. In addition, one of the buoys had drifted and we swam closer to 3 miles instead of the expected 2.4. That made me feel better about my two-hour slog.]

T1

Wow those volunteers were amazing! They had bath towels for us, grabbed our bags, dumped everything out, and packed up all our nasty stuff when we were done changing. I pulled on my bike shorts, jersey, shoes, helmet, drank some more calories, and took off. Was pleased that my T1 time was around eight minutes. Actually felt good when I left on the bike, and immensely grateful to be out of that washing-machine water.

The Bike

The course was two 56-mile loops, with plenty of gentle rollers, a few longer inclines, and a good amount of flat. Not a bad course, nothing extreme. The first 30 or so miles were uneventful. As the day heated up, however, the wind picked up and there were some pretty strong crosswinds. I could feel it pushing me to the side fairly regularly, but was glad it was at least a crosswind and not a headwind. That is, until we turned into one of the longest legs of the course. Then the headwind was incredibly annoying and physically tiring. There were aid stations every ten miles or so, and I stopped at all but two and either stood up or got off the bike entirely and topped off my fluids. I wasn’t particularly aware of being hot, but I was getting crusty from salty sweat and made an effort to stay hydrated. The aid stations all had either salt tablets or electrolytes, and I made a point to take those regularly. The volunteers were super cheerful and encouraging, and extraordinarily helpful. They couldn’t wait to bring us whatever we needed, be it a banana, cold water, Gatorade, bags of ice, whatever.

The police on the course deserve a special shout-out, as they held traffic to let us pass. Even with them there, I was cut off twice by inattentive drivers. I saw the first one coming and was able to just slow down and let him pass, but the second one went out of his way to be an idiot. I was almost home, probably around 105 miles, when he decided it was wise to cut over into the bike lane (which was marked off by cones), start to make a right turn, then stop dead in front of me. I had to hit the brakes hard enough to skid a little, but was able to avoid him. The cop was so pissed he kicked at the car as they finally started moving away. He was swearing loudly at them, too. My hero! The police were only supposed to be out until 4:30, but they stayed until the last few of us stragglers finished up around 6pm. It was really nice to see them there and know I didn’t have to fend for myself through some pretty busy intersections near the end.

T2

It was nice to see Suzanne’s smiling face when I pulled in from the bike. I had not expected to see her until maybe some time on the run, so that was a nice surprise. After eight hours on the bike fighting winds, I was spent. My leg extensors were completely shot, exhausted from pulling my legs up for so long. Once again, the wind required far more mental effort than otherwise, and like the swim, the ride had become a mental game. I was seriously considering the possibility of dropping down to the Aquabike category (swim/bike only) and calling it a day. In addition to being mentally and physically exhausted, (I realized later) the heat had drained quite a lot of energy.

As before, the volunteer in the changing tent was amazingly helpful and cheerful. As I changed into my running clothes, I made a comment about trying to beat the run cutoff. The volunteer then said something that was music to my ears: the race directors want everyone who starts the run to finish, and will stay out there until the bitter end. They’d even stayed until 2-3am in years past, waiting for people to finish. Wow. Ok, that made it easier to decide to stick it out and see what happened. Maybe my legs will recover and I’ll be able to jog some. As it was, I only had six hours 15 minutes to finish by the 17-hour cutoff, and feeling the way I did, I knew that would be a challenge. Tried to drink more calories, but the gut was having none of it. So I took the bottle with me and headed out, hoping the gut would settle down and I could take in more fuel while walking.

The Run

A total misnomer. There was no running. I joined the hordes of walking wounded, and started lap 1. I tried very hard not to think about the fact that I would have to pass this way three more times, and walked as fast as I could. The gut was hurting by now, and I fought off nausea for the first 6.5 miles. Made it to the turnaround and went back out for round 2, not sure if I was going to be able to finish this thing or not. Finally around mile 8.5 I was getting pretty woozy, and thought about a friend’s "involuntary nap in someone’s lawn" during Ironman Louisville (JD, sound familiar?). Decided if I didn’t sit down in the grass I would be doing the same thing. I sat, and promptly puked up everything I had taken in since getting off the bike. Everything. Nasty, but I sure did feel better! A couple of runners very kindly stayed with me for the few minutes it took to get my legs back, and one of them walked with me a bit to make sure I was really ok (I was).

At mile 11 I was finally ready to try to eat something again, but needed to sit down first. The volunteers were simply amazing (this station was manned by members of the local running club, the Landrunners). One kind soul was very encouraging. She noted that I felt cool (not a great sign) and forced me to try something new. They had baby dill pickles at all of the aid stations. I’ve seen this before, and it’s never sounded good. Sure did sound good now! Saltines and pickles seemed to stay down fine, so I did the remaining 15 miles grabbing a pickle or two at each aid station, an occasional saltine, and washing it down with plain water. Stomach felt fine for the rest of the evening.

My legs also had recovered completely from the bike ride, but by now my feet were ruined for running. I was wearing Newtons, which are very much designed for at least a slow trot, NOT for walking. For those not familiar with Newtons, they have lugs on the sole, on the front of the foot. This encourages a mid-sole strike and a lean forward. They’re wonderful for anything faster than a walk. However, if you walk in them, they’re pushing your heels back into the sole and applying more pressure to the ball of your foot than a normal shoe. This resulted in giant hot spots covering the entire pad of both feet, and deep blisters on my heels. The hot spots felt like giant blisters, and the heels just plain hurt. This all started around the time I puked, so I had to stagger more than half the marathon. I’m sure I looked like I’d been hit by a car.

The day's carnage was evident. I knew I was likely last, but I was not the only one missing the cutoff. About 30 yards past an aid station, I came upon a runner who was clearly not doing well. He told me he was woozy, and I guided him to the grass to sit down. He sat/fell in the grass, but was conscious. I told him to sit there while I staggered back to the aid station on screaming feet. Thankfully they had a golf cart there and gave me a ride back to the man. By then he was standing, unsteadily, with two other people holding him up. I knew he had help, so I continued on my way. I don’t know if they loaded him into the cart or not. I’m not sure he finished.

By the fourth turnaround I was really depressed and pissed off. Damn this was miserable. What the hell is WRONG with me? This just flat-out sucks, big time. Had to laugh when I came upon skunk #3 though, and watched it scurry back into the woods. Now wouldn’t THAT just cap off a truly wretched day?

With close to three miles to go, I knew I’d seen the last of the other late finishers. The SAG wagon caught up to me and followed me for the rest of the way, lighting the path quite nicely. The driver told me there’d been more than 70 DNFs between the half and the full (did not finish). Wow. This is a small race, so I knew that was a very high rate indeed. OK, I guess I can be a little less pissed at myself and be grateful I was able to keep moving. Suck it up, buttercup, and get this thing DONE!

Staggered in to the finish with my SAG escort. Poor Suzanne was still there waiting for me, and I finally crossed the finish line at 1:45am, 18 hours 20 minutes and 53 seconds after going into the water that morning. Oh it felt good to finish, but could I please sit and take my shoes off? The dawgs were screaming pretty loudly by then, but I felt surprisingly good otherwise.

Collected all my swag, marveled at all the genuinely supportive people that were still there, thanked them profusely for hanging around, and retrieved my stuff. One wonderful man gave me a ride to the car, and we chatted about the day. He was in charge of the swim, and also was caught off guard by how much worse it was than expected. Like us, he had looked at the water and thought it would be choppy but not scary. He said it became immediately apparent that it was going to be a tough day, as people were struggling shortly after starting. He pulled one guy out within the first few hundred yards who was swimming in circles. He’d become so disoriented that he couldn’t even tell them what year it was. Yikes.

This one was far, far more mental than physical. My body wanted me to stop, and many times I had to mentally check in and assess. Every time, it was clear that while I was hurting, I wasn’t doing any serious damage, and the body was capable of continuing. The REAL issue was mental. I was mentally tired early on, and constantly tried to reset throughout the day. When I started the bike, I forced myself to forget the swim. When I got to the turnaround and had to face the winds again (oh I really was wishing I'd signed up for the half), I just took a deep breath and tried to forget about the first bike loop. By the time I was truly hating life on the run, I was simply in too deep to quit. Especially when all those people were hanging around so I could finish! So even though I didn’t do it in the "official" 17-hour time frame, I did it, it still counts, and I still got the same swag as the first finisher. That works for me!

Stats

129 finishers/38 DNF
Swim: 2:08:58 (~2.8 miles, maybe more?)
T1: 8:46
Bike: 8:19:19
T2: 8:13
Run: 7:36:10
Total time: 18:20:53

Really, the only time that’s completely out of whack for me is the run. Not so bad! Everything else is a little slower than I had hoped, but not by much. Seven of us missed the cutoff, and I was only 8 minutes behind the one in front of me. I was surprised to find out it had gotten up to 88 and very humid. Well no wonder I was sapped off the bike. It's been a very cool year and I'm simply not used to that kind of heat. FYI: I shipped the bike back through the local bike shop, ground. Am avoiding the primates at TSA from now on!

Oh, and the title of this post? DFL (dead bleeping last) > DNF (did not finish) > DNS (did not start)

A Busy August

Back in August, I did two half-iron triathlons in a three-week span, and both are worthy of at least a brief race report. They were:

• Challenge New Albany (OH) – One of the Roth Challenge company’s inaugural forays into North America (Roth is a major competitor to the Ironman brand, but hasn’t had much of a North American presence until now).
• Ironman 70.3 Steelhead (St. Joseph MI) – My third time doing this race was unexpectedly difficult, not just for me but for just about everyone I know who did it. It was still a good day, though.

Prologue

18 days out from my “A” race for the year (Challenge Atlantic City, a full iron-distance tri), I came down with the cold-from-hell-that-becomes-hellacious-sinus-infection that has been striking down people all summer. I had only been antibiotic-free for three days when race-day came, so had to eat the entry fee and not participate. I lost three full weeks of training, so basically had to regroup and figure out what to do with the rest of the season. Do I give up on the iron-distance this year and relax a bit, or do I pick another one and plan the race/training schedule around that? Being a masochist, I signed up for the Redman in September, a full-iron distance in Oklahoma City.

Recovering from this “cold” proved to be challenging, and not exactly motivating to train hard, so I signed up for some events that would force me to get out the door and put out the effort. Besides, the Challenge brand of triathlons is well-respected in Europe, and since I had missed out on Atlantic City, I was still curious as to what their events were like. As fate would have it, one of their few North American events happened to be in a suburb of…Columbus, Ohio? Hmmm ok, that’s a bit odd, but it’s an easy drive from Indianapolis, so why not? Turns out that New Albany is a small little community that has chosen to bet its future on attracting things related to a healthy lifestyle, and has embraced the idea of being exercise-friendly. Who knew?

The event was an existing race that the Challenge people bought and adapted to their purposes. It was a smaller event, with around 275 people doing the half-iron distance, the same number doing the Olympic distance. The expo was small but quite adequate, with anything athletes might need.

This was a two-transition race. What this means is that the race starts at one location with the swim-to-bike transition there, the bike ride ends in a different location and the bike-to-run transition is located there. In this case, T1 was about 25 miles away from T2 (which was near the finish). This meant that we had to get our bikes to T1 on Saturday, the day before the race, then catch a shuttle bus race morning, dragging along everything else for the bike ride. After picking up my packet from check-in, I finally found transition after going to the incorrect address I was given. Apparently several flocks of Canadian geese had found it as well. There was a very healthy supply of nature’s fertilizer to step over. Oh joy. They really couldn’t hire a dog for the couple of days previous to keep the area clear? Stepping into goose poo on the way INTO the water wouldn’t be a problem, but I sure didn’t want to step on any coming OUT of the water, then pull on a sock and jam it into a bike shoe. Bleah. Oh well. It is what it is. Dodged the poo, found my spot, racked my bike, and went in search of dinner.

Race Day – New Albany

Early-morning logistics were a bit of a pain, since this was a two-transition race. After dropping off the run gear at our spot in T2, we had to pile onto buses headed for T1. Everyone was half-asleep, carrying a wetsuit, a bag with bike shoes/sunglasses/helmet/all the fluids for the bike/etc., stumbling around in the dark. After waiting for what seemed like forever (and realizing we had forfeited an extra 30 minutes of sleeping time for no good reason), all the buses pulled away in a convoy. I really hoped the lead driver was given better information than I had been given, or all the buses would be exploring the perimeter of the reservoir just like I had done.

Apparently the drivers had the correct address, but their directions were lacking. After a wrong turn, the convoy of buses got turned around and headed in the right direction. We all just laughed in between yawns, figuring they couldn’t start the race if all the athletes were lost on buses. Ha.

The rest of the day was snafu-free, and things went very smoothly. The swim was uneventful, in nice calm water that was just cool enough to be wetsuit-legal, but not so cool as to be shocking. It was very easy to sight, as it went up and down along the coast. If you weren’t seeing the coast on the correct side, then you had a problem. Once again, it was very easy to find my bike, since most of the planet swims faster than I do. I managed to dodge the poo at least long enough to get my feet into my bike shoes. (I have no idea what I stepped in on the way out of transition.) The bike course started out with very reasonable hills and decent roads, as promised. Around mile 20 or so, the Olympic distance triathletes turned off to head directly to T2, and we half-distance folks continued onward.

…and boy did it get hilly! There was a lot more chip seal roughness to deal with, and the hills seemed to get steeper and steeper. When someone would pass me on a hill, we’d commiserate about how much hillier this was than expected, and just laugh about it. It was definitely much harder than advertised, but a beautiful course.

After a fair amount of swearing up some hills, I finally got to transition and happily got off the bike. This transition was very long, and we had to walk the bike for what seemed like a quarter mile. Got quickly changed and headed out for the run. The weather had been cooperating all day, staying dry but with cloud cover keeping it from getting too hot, but it was starting to look threatening by the time us slow folks got out on the run course. After some mist, it finally rained a few times, enough to cool everyone down, then stopped. I know I wasn’t the only one that didn’t mind the small amount of rain.

Finished, collected my bling, rinsed off and put on some dry clothes, then went to the Starbucks near the finish line for a celebratory latte. The race included a decent dinner afterwards, which was greatly appreciated. It was nice to skip the search for food, and start the drive home fully caffeinated and on a full stomach.

The Roth Challenge series promises an inclusive experience, and delivers on that promise. They want everyone to finish, and don’t mind waiting for us slower folks. It’s nice to have the promised support at the finish, no matter how late. (By the way, I was not the last person to finish. Managed to catch and pass about a dozen people on the run, and there were several behind me coming out of transition.) Another successful day!

New Albany – The Verdict

Course: Beautiful
Swag: Nice shirt and medal
Logistics: Good
Support: Very good
Volunteers: Wonderfully encouraging
Recommended: Yes!

Race Day – Steelhead

By now I had FINALLY started feeling 100% and like my normal self in workouts, so I was expecting a better day with less struggle. Up to this point, almost every workout and race had felt like slogging through deep water, a constant grind, and harder than it should have been. I was looking forward to finally racing at full health. I've done Steelhead twice before, and like the course. There were quite a few of us from Indianapolis that were racing, and it was nice to have the group support.

Once again, I got lucky with Lake Michigan, and there were no dangerous currents or crazy cold temps. The water was chilly, but not miserable. It was colder than I would have preferred (don't remember the actual temp), however, and took forever for my heart rate to slow down so that I could settle into a decent swim. There were swells, much like the ocean, which most of us are not used to, and quite a few people had to fight off panic. For me, I just couldn't get the heart rate down, and looking around at others who were struggling, did a mental check to make sure the pounding heart was physical and not mental. Nope, not panicking, just can't get the body to relax. Well, it HAS to slow down sometime in the next 1.2 miles.

Eventually it did, but by that time my swim time was completely in the toilet. Oh well, finish, get out, and enjoy the rest of the day. I like the bike course here, and the weather is holding out with clouds keeping the heat at bay. Gonna be a nice day.

Had a good bike ride, and lolly-gagged the first 28 miles, enjoying the smooth roads and the scenery. Picked it up a bit for the second half, and enjoyed the long downhill/tailwind back to transition.

Left for the run as the pros were coming back to finish, and admired their running form and their bodies (not in that order). Was expecting a better run, but quickly realized that I just wasn't going to be able to run/trot as much as usual. Wasn't sure why, but looking around, everyone seemed to be feeling the same way. Finally realized that the clouds had dissipated, resulting in a hot, very humid afternoon. The hot heavy air seemed to affect all of the runners, so I was in good company with many many walk breaks.

(Note: It has been an unusually cool summer here in the Midwest, so none of us are heat-conditioned. Indianapolis had the coolest July on record.)

Mustered up a trot to the finish and was happy to head to a shower! Though this one was harder than I expected, it made me extremely grateful for good health and the ability to even do this stuff. I felt a little better about it when I heard other people saying they'd had a tougher-than-expected day too. Bad ju-ju? Who knows. But every finish is a success to celebrate, and I was just happy to be there.