IM 70.3 New Orleans: A Mixed Bag

The weekend got off to an unsettling start while waiting for my ride down from Indianapolis to check in to his hotel. A fellow competitor noticed my Indiana t-shirt, came over to chat, and immediately informed me that two cyclists had been hit by a car that afternoon. Both were in town to race; one had been killed, the other seriously injured. Oh great.

Logistical failings became clear the next day (the day before the race). Bikes had to be checked in to the transition area on Saturday. Transition was 11 miles away on the shore of Lake Pontchartrain, but the host hotel was right next to the French Quarter. Sunday, race day, there were shuttle buses to get the athletes up to the race site, but Saturday, nothing. There were no public transportation options, and it would be a very expensive cab ride. The race organizers' answer to those who had flown in and not rented a car was not acceptable: take a cab or hitch a ride with someone. Really?

Thankfully there were plenty of us there with cars, and a friend of mine had driven over from Austin, so we were covered. One member of our group befriended a car-less Canadian woman who was roaming the parking garage looking for a ride. Unsat.

Sunday morning brought the usual gawdawful early alarm, and we were at transition setting up our gear by 6am. It was now time to relax, watch the sun rise, and await our turns to go into the water. It was a beautiful sunrise, and everyone stood around yawning and chatting to pass the time. My Austin friend enjoyed the human eye-candy.

Before the race started, the newly-minted widow of the athlete who had been killed spoke to us. He had been a firefighter, and left a young family behind. She told us that he would not have wanted anybody's day to be ruined by what had happened, and urged us all to have a good race. I don't think there was a dry eye in the house. We all marveled that she was able to hold it together long enough to even try to speak. The race director then spoke, and he was very plainly deeply upset. He explained that a fund had been set up to help the man's family, as well as help the surviving man's family pay for his rapidly-mounting medical bills. (I haven't heard any follow-up, but was told he had broken his back, along with multiple other injuries. He was still in serious condition when we left NOLA.) The crowd was very quiet for a few minutes, while everybody filed the experience away and got ready to switch gears into race mode.

The swim start was surprisingly efficient and kept swimmers from crawling all over each other in the water. I was in the very last wave, women 40+. Each wave worked its way down the dock to a floating platform, 4-6 swimmers lined up at the front of that platform, and went into the water every 15-20 seconds. All 1230 (or so) of us were in the water in under an hour, as promised.

It was a very nice, sheltered swim in a harbor off the lake, so no chop and relatively warm. The sleeveless wetsuit was perfect for the 68-degree water. My swim was slower than I had hoped, but it felt good. I had only swam once in the last six weeks, since dislocating my shoulder, so I didn't expect to do exceptionally well. I was very happy that the shoulder stayed put and felt solid, and annoyed at the constant fogging of my goggles. When they'd fog up so badly I couldn't see the buoys, I'd stop and tread water long enough to clear them out. Not great for time. Sigh. The hardest part of the swim was the exit, up some very steep stairs they had lowered into the water. I barked my shin on the bottom step, trying to find it in the murk. Ouch! The wetsuit strippers did their thing, and I was quickly carrying my wetsuit to the bike - which was very easy to find due to my slow swim! Waved hello to my friend, and got ready for a long-ish ride.

Took off on the bike, and immediately had to climb a 40-foot highway ramp. Lovely. However, I surprised myself by passing the two riders that were ahead of me, and got ready to enjoy the ride.

...which I did for the first 35 miles. The only hills were the occasional overpasses and ramps, and the wind, while annoying, didn't particularly affect the ride. The winter indoor training paid off, and I was averaging 18-20mph (great for me) and passing many people. A 64-year-old man (our ages are written on our calves) and I played tag for a while, passing and catching each other, until he finally passed me for good around mile 30. That one was actually pretty humorous. I was passing two people at the time (ages high 20's early 30's), and he passed me as I was passing them. I heard one of the young 'uns exclaim something to the other, and had to chuckle.

At some point it occurred to me that there had been an abundance of caution in how the roads were closed. Usually, they'll close one side and have traffic pass on the other. Not this time, not even where there was plenty of room. Later in the ride, someone had placed a bicycle that was completely painted white, handlebars, tires, everything, up against a tree. It was covered with flowers. Afterwards, several of us wondered if that was where the two cyclists had been hit. I'm quite sure the excessive road closures were a direct result of Friday's accident. Sobering.

After the race, there was universal agreement that the suckfest had begun around mile 35, when the winds got completely out of control. A weather front was blowing in, and the winds were all over the place, either pushing us from the sides or trying to stop us from the front. There was no tailwind, of course. The last 20 miles everyone just put their heads down and kept cranking as hard as possible. I have never used granny gear on a flat ride, but had to that day. The only encouraging thing was that I was somehow still managing to pass people, even though I was spinning a tiny gear and going painfully slow. The last half mile we had to go back up that 40-foot ramp, into a headwind. Are you serious? Oh well, I could see transition so I knew the torture was almost over. Thank gawd.

Headed out for the run, feeling all alone. Since I was in the last group to enter the water and had a pitiful slow swim, the bulk of people had long since left on their run. There were only two others in front of me for the first quarter- to half-mile, but it didn't take long to catch and pass them. It was very clear that the bike had beaten up everyone pretty badly, as virtually no one was running. The vast majority of us were walking/trudging/walking, and it really was a death march for many. As I would gain on groups of people, their silhouettes reminded me of the Walking Dead. It actually was quite humorous.

Somehow I managed to work my way up through groups of fellow wasted runners, and was soon within two miles of the finish. Hooray! It was great to see a friendly face around mile 11 and whine a little about the wind on the bike. She just smiled and reminded me the finish was near. At mile 12 I finally caught the woman I'd seen earlier who was doing the race as a relay, and clearly suffering. She was heavier, and it looked like this might be her first seriously long event. She had been maintaining a passable trudge earlier, but by mile 12 it was obvious her feet were really hurting. As I passed, I said, "I think we're going to finish this thing!" "Oh, we're definitely going to finish," she said, "I've quit four times today!" Excellent!

As usual, the last quarter mile felt like several, but finally I saw my friend and a fellow competitor from Indianapolis (who had already finished), and knew there were only a few yards to go. Huzzah! I'm done! Time for a good local brew and some red beans and rice. We found a place to sit, and gradually the Indiana contingent all found each other and bitched about the wind. I felt a little better about the bike after I heard that even one of the pros had commented on how tough the wind was. Ok, it's not just because I maybe went out too hard and got tired; it really was that bad. Whew!

And here is where the logistical failures again became clear. The finish was in City Park, nowhere near either transition OR the French Quarter/hotel. All of our race crap was back in transition, and had to be retrieved by 8pm. There was a shuttle to go back there, but then no way to get anywhere from there, especially not with a bike. Great. Once again, it was a good thing we had plenty of vehicles, but I know it was a real hassle for some who had flown in.

After a badly-needed shower, we hooked up with the group and swapped war stories. I almost fell asleep in my dinner, and had to call it a day.

So. Am I glad I did this race once? Yes. Would I do it again? Probably not. The bike course wasn't very scenic, though it's the first elevation chart I've downloaded that was all in the negative numbers(!). The swim and run were fine. However the pre- and post-race logistical failings were bad enough not to want to fool with it again. The expo also was far smaller than expected, and a bit of a disappointment.

But the beignets, fried shrimp po boys, and grilled oysters were heavenly!

Overall Time: 7:13:08
Swim: 54:54 (yeah yeah I know, slow)
T1: 5:47
Bike: 3:27:20
T2: 3:26
Run: 2:41:42

HUFF 50K 2013: A Gorgeous Suckfest

December 28 was forecast to be an unusually nice day, especially for late December in Indiana, so I couldn't use the weather as an excuse not to do the HUFF. The HUFF used to take place in Huntington, IN, hence the name: Huntington Ultra Frigid Fifty. It has since moved to a beautiful park in Albion, IN, but the name has stayed the same. It's a two-loop trail run in unpredictable conditions. Some years the course is flooded with icy cold water, other years it's a muddy slog, a bone-chilling cold run in the snow, or a perfect day to hang out in the woods. 2013 was a perfect day to hang out in the woods.

Temperatures were a warmer than usual (THIS year) low-30's, with a beautiful clear blue sky. For once it wasn't blustery, and there was enough snow on the ground to make it a classic winter-in-the-woods scene. The race started just as the sun was breaking the horizon, and the crisp winter light added to the positive energy. Everyone was looking forward to enjoying the day, our last warm one before the colder-than-usual temperatures predicted to return on Sunday.

This is a larger trail ultra, with a combined 900 runners between the full 50K, the 10-mile loop, and the 50K relay. Like most trail runs, and most ultras, the atmosphere is far more laid-back than at a typical road race. All experience levels were there, from seasoned pros to newbies like myself. Before the race, people compared opinions on running shoes, racing strategies, and previous HUFF race experiences. The start was a guy saying (not yelling), "Go!"

The first loop went well, with a spectacular sunrise over the frozen lakes covered in snow. There was no mud, as the ground was still frozen hard. I was surprised it was so hard, and while it was nice not to slog through mud, the hard uneven surface was tough on the feet. There were several times when I really wished I had dragged along a camera. I felt great at the ten-mile point, and still felt pretty darned good after completing loop 1 of 2. I was a little tired, but not horribly so, and the bottoms of my feet were starting to complain a little from the hard irregular surface, but nothing I couldn't manage. My goal was to finish the 50K under 7 hours, so I was happy with my time of 3:19 for the first loop...

...until about one mile into loop 2, when the foot annoyance became full-blown hotspots that felt like the entire pads of both feet were large blisters. I've had hotspots before, but never this bad. I knew they would hurt whether I walked or ran, so I settled into a walk/trot combo that worked out well. I was still passing people, and they weren't catching and passing me at aid stations, so I was happy with my pace. The day had warmed up into the 40's, thawing things out. There were several impressively deep mud pits the second time around.

At mile 24, the previous eight miles of compensating for aching feet finally caught up with me. One ankle had been slowly developing a sharp pain with each foot-plant, and I could no longer even try to trot with it. The pain was such that it felt like I was in real danger of seriously injuring myself if I insisted on anything faster than a walk. Up to this point I had been maintaining a decent pace, and was still passing people. My ankle made it clear that my pace was going to have to slow way down: I was going to have to walk the last six miles. Urg.

So, I trudged/staggered/limped the last six miles, and tried to focus on enjoying the day. "This is just a looooong walk in the woods on a beautiful day." "I'm still catching a few people, how is that happening?" "Oh crap, here comes that guy who had a real attitude when people were taking their time crossing a creek earlier. I really wanted to beat him." "I only have to hurt for another (fill in the number) miles. Don't think about how many minutes that will take."

It was a pleasant surprise to find that the guy with an attitude really was an ok person. I don't know why he was so impatient earlier, but he had since mellowed and was slogging along just like the rest of us. And since misery loves company, I felt a little better as I saw how slowly most people were tackling loop 2. I wasn't the only one who was forced to slow down to a death march: the suffering was widespread. Yet no one was considering quitting. It was getting more and more difficult to navigate the mud pits with aching feet, but overall was not nearly as muddy as I had expected.

The last mile I watched runner after runner pass me and pull out of sight. By this point, my frustration was blunted by the searing pain of each step. How is it possible for your feet to hurt this badly and not be blistered? At the last aid station less than a mile from the finish, the wonderful volunteers saw my hat ("will run for beer") and offered up a Sam Adams. I seriously considered it, but just wanted to finish and get off my feet. I asked for an oxy instead, but they were all out. Time to suck it up and get that last half-mile out of the way.

I crossed the finish at 7:32, surprised at my time since I had to walk so far. It had been a pitiful walk, with tiny steps getting smaller with each mile, until I had slowed to a 20-minute pace. I happily collected my very cool belt buckle/medal combo, and staggered to the food tent. Found a chair, and a fabulous runner/volunteer brought me some wonderful home-made corn chowder. He was wearing a ten-mile loop medal, so he had obviously run earlier and then stuck around to help the rest of us. A special person indeed.

After warming up and sitting for a while, it was time to attempt to get to the car, which was parked about a quarter-mile away. After an excruciating 10-minute shuffle that must have epitomized "pitiful", and much grunting and groaning, I finally threw myself into the car with a huge sigh of relief.

On the way out of the park, I forced myself out of the car (and yes, back on the screaming feet), to take a photo of a glorious sunset over one of the frozen lakes. No, it wasn't beautiful enough to make me forget about the pain, but it made me even happier that I had spent the day outside enjoying the gift of a perfect December day in Indiana.

PS: Now I know which socks NOT to wear in a trail ultra. Duh.

Brrrrr! Flying Monkey Marathon 2013

This is a most irreverent race that sucks you in with its sarcastic attitude. I survived this one last year, and was once again unable to resist the temptation to invite bodily pain.

You see, the Harpeth Hills Flying Monkey marathon boasts a total elevation change of 7200 feet (or 7500, depending on which statement you believe). In any case, it's a brutal combo of steep ups and downs, and the downs never seem to be quite as long as the ups. The slogan of the race is "Running is Stupid", and that attitude pervades the entire day.

Flying Monkeys are said to inhabit a beautiful park just southwest of Nashville, TN, and are rumored to occasionally attack runners. You are encouraged to deal with the hills as quickly as possible, or risk attack. This is not a "race" for most participants however -- it's an experience to survive, and most people are quite laid-back about the whole thing. There are a few genetic mutants who actually do race, and the rest of us watch in awe when we see them coming, on their way to finish a good two hours before us mere mortals.

It's a small race, about 300 runners. Part of the swag is a personalized race bib and tech shirt, and you are asked for your "monkey name" when you register. Since I was stupid enough to subject myself to this again, knowing full well what was ahead, I chose "Stupid". Not everybody was as self-aware as I, but I did run into Idiot before the race. There was also a red cape in the swag bag, to go along with this year's "Faster than a speeding banana" theme, but I forgot to wear it. Sigh.

The weather in Nashville in late November can be a total crap shoot. Last year it was a very comfortable high-40s range and dry. This year it was a beautiful sunny day, but the temps were in the 20s with wind-chills in the teens for most of the race. Some people were thoroughly bundled up, most were like me (knit hat, gloves, tights, couple of tech shirts and a running jacket), and a few crazies were wearing shorts and/or nothing on their arms. Ummm. NO.

Everyone gathered in the park for the casual start, stood around trying to use other bodies as wind blockage, and got ready to enjoy the gorgeous day ahead, cold wind be damned. One very nice runner offered me an extra set of hand warmers. I took one, and asked him to give the other one to another needy runner. I'm sure he had plenty of takers. I was carrying a camera in the other hand anyway, so it would be warm enough. Trent (the race director) said, "Ready, set, go!" and we were off. No ceremony. It was wonderful.

Before the first mile, we saw our first sign in the "I hate Trent" series: "Trent Sucks". Awesome. I ran with Dorothy for another mile or so. I remembered seeing her last year. She has run the Monkey every year, this was #8, and she drove up from Birmingham AL She had red-sequin slipcovers for her running shoes, and didn't think the wig would get too hot this year. She was going to be happy with anything under six hours. I didn't want to be that cold for that long, so I went on ahead.

After another mile or so, I caught up with group of guys who were running together, obviously old friends. We were all walking up a hill, and one of them was wearing a blade prosthetic. I asked him if his monkey name was "Badass". He laughed and said, no, he just stuck with "Matt" this time. I hung with them until we got to the top of the hill, then took advantage of the downhill. We would leap-frog each other for about 18 more miles before I finally left them behind for good. I don't care what Matt says, he's a major badass and I am in awe.

Thankfully the trees and hills provided some coverage from the wind for most of the course, but there were a few spots on the tops and outside edges where the wind was painfully cold. The biggest problem with stopping to drink or suck down a cold, stiff gel was the chill that could set in if you dawdled too long. I was amazed at the cheerfulness of the volunteers at each and every aid station. They HAD to be miserably cold, yet were smiling and supportive and very helpful. One was even breaking the thin crust of ice in the water cups before handing them to us!

Personally, I had a great day. After I passed mile 20, I decided that I wasn't going to let anyone catch and pass me for the last 10k...unless they were really moving. I steadily caught and passed runners, and managed to stay ahead of them. Things started hurting but not too badly, and finally I passed the mile 26 marker. There stood Paula, holding my cape! I was happy to use that as an excuse to stop long enough to put it on, then run to the finish, passing someone else along the way. I managed to finish three minutes faster than last year, at 5:13:54, relatively pain-free.

...until I got back to the car with my medal and beer. The second I stopped moving, my legs started bitching loudly about the hills. The quads were actually fine, but the hams and calves were just itching to seize up. Somehow I avoided a full-on cramp-fest, and was very happy to sit in the warm car with the seat heater turned on. We had to get Paula back to Indianapolis in time to work that night, so there was no hanging around to socialize or try to score any more swag. Along with the free beer (from a local brewer, Yazoo), there was a pot-luck feast of goodies. I grabbed a plate of food and munched on that all the way back home. Wonderful way to end a race!

How to Half-Ass a PR

The Indianapolis Monumental Half Marathon was half #58 for me, and I was completely unprepared, so I had zero expectations. I just wanted to enjoy the day without more than the usual aches and pains, and preferably with none. However, despite all the odds, I beat my personal best time by almost two minutes, and had a very good day. Crazy!

I present the Happel Half-Assed Half-Marathon Training Plan.

Week 1:

1. Move to a new apartment.
2. Have PRK surgery on both eyes, rendering yourself useless for at least three full days. Don't bother to eat for these three days, as that requires too much effort to rouse from the Vicodin-induced pain-avoiding slumber.
3. Spend rest of the week trying to find basic items, such as running tights, running socks, favorite running shoes, etc. In the process, find some dress socks and clean underwear.
4. End the week participating in a 30-hour event (Bourbon Chase relay). The night before the relay, make sure you make wise diet choices such as Apple Pie Bourbon samples and Town Branch Rum. Continue the bourbon-sample diet throughout the event.

Week 2:

1. Improve diet slightly by finally going to store and buying some fresh fruit, and lay off the burgers.
2. Fight eye-strain headaches and exhaustion while waiting for eyes to heal. Continue to sleep as much as possible after miserable 8-hour days of staring at laptop. Hope the eyes settle down soon.
3. Wear sweat pants to training sessions at gym, since you can't find the gym shorts and prefer not to wear spandex.
4. End the week traveling to a 40th-anniversary celebration of your high school opening. Participate in multiple events, ensuring you don't get enough rest. Continue to monitor the diet with genuine Tex-Mex and Starbucks coffee and pastries. Return home to unpacked apartment with a severe case of hotel-head sniffles and dry coughing.

Week 3:

1. Give up on finding gym shorts and wear spandex shorts to training session at gym.
2. Eat more of that fresh fruit you bought in week 2. Contemplate adding some fresh vegetables. Find the oatmeal and get back to your normal breakfast.
3. Break down and buy a pair of reading glasses to at least get you through the work day, knowing you likely will have to buy another pair of a different strength before too much longer.
4. Drag yourself to the first group exercise class in a month, an Insanity class. Be humbled at how severely it kicks your butt. Try to hang on to knowledge that it won't kick your butt so badly the next time.
5. The night before the half-marathon, usher a symphony concert, assuring you will get home later and will be going to Jimmy John's for dinner at some point during the concert.
6. Don't bother looking for gels for the upcoming race. No idea where they are anyway, and looking for them will eat into what's left of your sleep time. Be happy you can find a complete running ensemble that will be comfortable for 13 miles.

Race Day:

1. Skip the race fanny pack. Can't find the nutrition anyway, so why bother? Check the ID and money at gear check and don't worry about it. Make a plan to consume Gatorade for your calories, and hope for the best.
2. Remember to turn on the Garmin since it can take forever to find the satellites. Ponder the significance of the fact that somehow the Garmin made it through the move without disappearing into a random box, yet the nutrition has gone AWOL.
3. Enjoy the pre-race chatter, look forward to the impending beautiful day, and make your way to the starting corral. Optimistically place yourself in the corral that's a few minutes faster than your average starting time, just to avoid getting trapped behind any large groups of walkers.
4. Start the race, turn on the Garmin, and forget about it. At 3 miles, see the race clock and double-check the Garmin to make sure. Note that you are on track for a PR, but decide to see how it's going at the 10K mark before committing to seriously pursuing it. Continue walking only at aid stations, and resist the urge for walk breaks anywhere else.
   
5. Try not to get annoyed at being passed by the juggling guy. Yes, he was juggling three balls for the entire race. And he passed me before mile 6.
6. Hit the 10K mark, and see another PR. Hmmm. Dismiss the idea of calling it good and relaxing for the remainder of the race, and hope they have some nutrition at the next aid station.
7. Finally find food after mile 8. Take two Cliff blocks, grateful for the calories. Take a little extra time to choke them down with some water, and make a mental note that those things sure do take a lot of chewing.
8. At mile 10, note another PR, and decide to push for the remaining three miles. Keep resisting the urge to take walk breaks. Enjoy the fact that you are passing a lot of people who haven't leap-frogged you, and that you don't sound quite as bad as some of them.
9. Pass mile marker 12. Do some mental math, rule out any possibility of a much-wanted walk break, and keep pushing on.
10. Cross the finish line at 2:07:53 with a 9:45/mile pace, very close to two minutes faster than your last PR (which was two years ago, two days after a Spirits Expo and approximately 63 samples of high-quality spirits).
    
11. Laugh about the whole thing while enjoying a large caramel latte from the best coffee shop in town (Mo Joe's). Take a walk in the local park and admire the beautiful fall foliage. Enjoy the rest of the weekend.

Death of a Muse

In general, I have no beef with growing older. In fact, I'm really enjoying the heck out of it. Each decade is better than the previous, and I look forward to every day. However, there is one giant caveat to growing older: losing friends.

Last week the world lost a pretty unique and amazing human named Georgeann. I met Georgeann a very long time ago at Arizona State, in 1983. She played trombone, I played bassoon. The trombones sat right behind the bassoon section, and we entertained each other through tedious orchestra rehearsals while the conductor completely ignored anything sitting beyond the string sections. She was my roommate at the Aspen Music Festival in 1984, and three of us spent the nine weeks laughing ourselves silly when we weren't in rehearsals.

But there was a lot more to George than fun times. When I met her, she explained that she had no spleen, so had to be careful about staying healthy. It had been removed in her early twenties due to some sort of immune system disorder. Since the spleen is a major component of the immune system, there were certain things she had to be especially careful about. She wasn't particularly concerned about it and didn't let it control her life, it was just something to be aware of.

Life went on. I moved to Boston, she and Barry built a locksmithing business in Chicago, she gave up trombone and learned to play the cello, and eventually had a little girl, Kati. She even volunteered at a children's hospital, on top of everything else.

Thanksgiving weekend of 1995, after a shift at the hospital, Georgeann went home and went to bed, feeling like she had the flu. Barry came home early from the shop to look after little Kati, who was only a few months old. Georgeann fell asleep for a few hours. Some time in the night, she got up to go to the bathroom. Only she couldn't walk. Her hands and feet were very, very cold. She woke up Barry, who had the presence of mind to literally carry her and the baby down to the car and go to the nearest hospital.

Luck was still with them, as someone in the emergency room recognized what was going on. Georgeann had picked up the same strep bug that killed Jim Henson (creator of the Muppets) in a matter of hours. The only treatment is to throw multiple combinations of antibiotics at it and hope something works in time. I don't know the details, but at some point her heart stopped, she was in a coma, and went into septic shock. The survival rate for septic shock is somewhere around 40%. It was lower 18 years ago when this happened. Somehow, she survived all of this.

After a couple of weeks of inaccurate second-hand information, I finally flew to Chicago to see her. The first words out of her mouth were, "Carla! I'm alive! What happened to my hands and feet could have happened to my brain! They tell me I'm going to be able to hold my daughter!" She had dry gangrene in all of her digits and both feet, starting above the ankles. All were a dark purple color. Her fingers were so shriveled they looked like claws -- the fingernails were huge on her poor sticks of fingers. Her feet were bloated like a kiddie balloon with toes. The infection had sent all of her coagulants to her extremities, and had been literally killing her from the outside in. It was quite a shock to see, but her enthusiasm for living quickly made it just part of who she was. That was how she handled it.

I was there for three days, and lost track of how many times she exclaimed, "Carla! I'm alive!" She was very eager to get the feet amputated and get started on recovery. She had already been prepped more than once, only to get down to surgery and spike a fever and wake up back in her room with the dead feet still attached. She was scheduled to try again the day after I left. Typical of Georgeann, she said, "I know they're holding me back, and I'm ready to have them gone, but ya know, it's gonna be a little strange to look down and see them gone." Sheesh. I had to laugh at her and say, "Georgeann! It's going to be more than a 'little strange', it's going to be effing weird!" We had a good laugh.

Even after her feet were amputated, it took another couple of months before she could start learning to walk again, because they were trying to salvage as much of her hands as possible. She endured many debriding sessions and bided her time until they removed her fingers. She was left with no knuckles, and half a thumb joint in one hand. After surgery, she held up her hands and said, "I have Muppet hands!" She learned to walk, celebrated Kati's first birthday right there in the hospital, and she was discharged eight months after going to bed to sleep off a flu.

A few years later she and Barry adopted a boy from Russia. By this time she was driving again (still like a bat out of hell), walking around 2.5 miles a day (same gait as before), raising the kids, working with Barry at the security shop, riding a stationary bike 30 minutes a day, etc. While she still needed help with some things, she was amazingly self-sufficient, and never let on how exhausting or frustrating it all had to be. She didn't let it define who she was or what she did. She was very annoyed at having to wear pants with elastic waistbands, however.

In the last few years of her life, she discovered her passion in horseback riding. She bought a horse and trained for dressage competitions. All with no feet and no hands to speak of. Her dream was to ride in a competition herself, and I think she would have done that very soon had things gone her way. I can't even imagine how hard it is to ride a horse when you can't use your feet and ankles to hold on or communicate with the horse - she was using only her upper legs and her core simply to stay upright. Amazing.

I have a short list of people that truly motivate and inspire me when things are getting hard in an endurance event and it's slipping into a sufferfest. George was, and will always be, one of those people. When my feet hurt, I am happy to have feet and happy to have the ability to feel pain. I think of how hard Georgeann had to work to do anything at all, and that usually stops the pity party before it can get started. Every visit with her was a laugh-fest, whether we were making fun of Pia Zadora, telling stories, or making plans to get totally plowed, visit Graceland, and see how long it took to get kicked out. I will miss the emails forwarding links of potential Darwin-award winners in the news, accompanied by some hilariously sarcastic remark.

Georgeann died in the hospital, choking on her breakfast. She had been sick off and on for the past year, with what appeared to be respiratory issues and perhaps congestive heart failure. We all attributed this to her compromised immune system, and figured she probably had a lot of damage from the original illness 18 years ago. This time, she'd been in the hospital a couple of weeks, was very weak, and was having difficulty sitting up straight. It's a mystery to us as to why she was left alone to eat in this condition.

What none of us knew was that earlier in the week, they had done a bone marrow biopsy, and found multiple myeloma. Her husband didn't even know about this finding until after she died. We think she may have found out the day before, but never had the chance to talk to anyone about it. She was planning to go to rehab the following Monday for three days, then go home (she died on a Saturday). We don't know details, but the implications are that the cancer was bad enough that she was not going to survive it. It certainly looks like one of the more nasty forms to get, without a very hopeful prognosis.

So. How to respond to this. Be upset that she died choking, likely knowing she was dying, due to what can only be viewed as neglect? Or be grateful that she didn't have to suffer the indignities of chemo, radiation, and likely horrible bone pain for an extended period of time? While sad and shocked that we had to lose her the way we lost her, I choose to be grateful, while a little angry and disgusted with the hospital. I'm so glad she didn't have to hurt or be sick anymore. She fought so hard and for so long that she had to be tired of it. I know she wasn't quite ready to go, but her future was grim.

Georgeann, thank you for all the smiles, all the tears from laughing so hard, all the inspiration and motivation. You have no idea how many people admired you for your strength and refusal to sit back and give up. You will always be my muse.

IM Louisville 2013: Fate Catches Up

Everyone who races knows that, eventually, they will have a day when the body refuses to play along. It is inevitable. If we are lucky, it happens at a smaller, less significant event. If we are not, it happens at our "A" race, the one we've been training for all year.

Such was my fate at Ironman Louisville 2013.

After a very easy (and slow) swim, I got out of the water feeling fabulous and full of energy for the bike ride and run ahead. I was actually looking forward to getting out there on the bike, and eager to start the run. The helpful volunteer in the changing tent helped me get all my stuff sorted out, opened my lube for me, and handed me things as I needed them. I drank my Shakeology, which topped off a filling breakfast of two Core Powers and a protein drink made with almond milk and a peach, and I was out of there in a quick 10:45. While five minutes faster than the last time I did this race, it felt very relaxed and calm, and I was looking forward to the rest of my day.

Got deluxe service with two more volunteers slathering me from head to toe in sunscreen, found my bike, waved goodbye to Paula and Shirley, and took off. It was a beautiful day, just starting to heat up into the low 70's.

Things went well. As I expected, the first 22 miles were the fastest. This was the flattest part of the course, with only two big hills. The next 25 or so miles I slowed down about as much as I had expected, knowing it was going to be non-stop hills for another 40 miles or so. It was getting warmer, but I wasn't feeling particularly uncomfortable, and I was on schedule with my fluids and fuel. I made sure to sip on my carb/protein mix on a regular basis, and had stopped a couple of times to take water and some electrolyte drink, and stand up to stretch the legs a bit. Was passing lots of people on the hills without killing myself. So far so good. Gonna be a great day!

At mile 50 or so, the freight train hit. I felt like I wanted to puke. My legs lost all strength. I was consumed with an overwhelming fatigue. I started fantasizing about stopping, laying down in the grass by the road, and taking a 3-hour nap. What is going on? I sure hope this passes. I've NEVER felt that bad during any kind of physical event. I've felt mildly nauseas for maybe five minutes at a time when it's been particularly hot, but nothing that compares to this fatigue. I definitely wasn't bonking; I'd been taking in good calories all day. I wasn't trying anything new. All my nutrition was stuff I'd been using all summer. Did I start out too fast and flame out? No, I had kept a very reasonable and comfortable-feeling pace up to this point. Am I getting sick with something and it's just now hitting me? All I could do was keep going and hope it passed. But I had a dark feeling it wouldn't.

Around mile 56 (or maybe 58?), I pulled into an aid station and knew I had to sit down before I fell down. A wonderful volunteer brought me a baggie of ice, and I put that on my neck. Drank a full bottle of water and felt a little better. Got up and realized I probably should lay down for a few minutes. Laying in the grass, I put the ice on my side, and that helped quite a bit. Was finally feeling good enough to get up, go to the bathroom (well I guess that rules out dehydration, no?), and get moving again. By now, my focus was on making it to my food at special needs, which was mile 65.

I struggled more than normal to get up the hills, and tried to go as fast as I could going down. By now I was starting to get a little woozy, which was frightening when coasting down a hill at something like 35mph (I haven't checked my Garmin yet to verify). Going down one hill, I realized that the walls were indeed closing in, and it was all I could do to focus on the pavement immediately in front of me and holding a stable form, so as not to crash. I was very aware of making a conscious effort not to let the attention stray and do something stupid that would cause me to lose control of the bike.

Finally got to special needs. Called out my number, and yet another outstanding volunteer found me a chair and brought my bag of goodies. I drank another Shakeology, hoping the protein would at least alleviate this agony enough to get the brain back in gear. The volunteer was a man about my age, and he was feeling my pain. That poor guy tried his best to buck me up and get me pumped about doing the remaining 47 miles. If I had been feeling normally, I would have been thrilled to only have 47 miles left. In my current condition, I could only groan and thank him for trying. After I-don't-know-how-long, I got back on the bike and left, very slowly. Walking wasn't the problem, pedaling was. If I could just get myself back to transition, I could WALK the marathon if need be. If I can just get back on the bike.

But the legs continued to get weaker and weaker. It got to the point where I could barely pedal even on the flat sections. Since when is it hard to get 13mph on my bike?? What is going on here?

The nausea never really went away; instead it proceeded to get worse and worse, as did the struggle to focus. Finally, around mile 72 or 73, I stopped, laid the bike down, and sat down next to it, hoping to wait out the nausea. Some other cyclists came by (also going fairly slowly but obviously not feeling as awful as I was) and asked if I needed anything. I told them I was done and asked if they could please mention me at the next aid station. They promised they would and continued on.

I laid down in the grass by the road and promptly lost everything I had just put in my stomach. Several times. Damn. Is this ever going to stop? It finally did, and I sat up. Realized that I actually felt a lot better after puking. Maybe I can get a few more miles in and see how it goes?

At 75 miles, the legs totally gave out and refused to move the pedals any more. Well, crap. Whatever this is, it's bad. And it's not letting up. In fact, it's getting worse. There's no possible way I can do another 37 miles, even if it's flat, and it isn't. Found some shade, leaned the bike up against someone's mailbox out in the middle of nowhere, and sat down. Pretty soon a Sheriff's vehicle came by, and I let him know I wasn't needing EMS, I just needed a ride back to Louisville. Waited maybe ten minutes, and a race SAG van showed up.

[Side note: Another rider came up while I was getting into the van. She was going to hitch a ride because she didn't think she was going to make the bike cutoff. I told her she had plenty of time if she kept going, and it came out that she thought the cutoff was 5:30pm. She was very happy when I told her no, it was either 6:20 or 6:30, so she could definitely make the 37 miles by then. It was probably 3pm or so by this time, so she still had around three hours to play with. She left, smiling. I really hope she made it. I was too out of it to look at her number, much less remember it, so I can't look her up in the results.]

I climbed in the back, thinking I might lie down, and we headed for the next person to pick up. It was blissfully cool inside. Uh oh. I think I'm gonna puke again, and the windows back here don't open. Ack! Climbed up into the front seat and hung my head out the window. Is this misery ever going to end? The driver took my chip, wrote my number down, and called it in. Damn. I'm really going to DNF. I N-E-V-E-R DNF. Especially not at my one major race, especially not an Ironman! But I couldn't do a thing about it. This was not a matter of will power or mental strength. It simply wasn't happening today.

We picked up two more people who were having mechanical issues, and passed a third who was going back in an ambulance. I had to ask the driver to pull over once on the highway, but didn't get sick. I rode the rest of the way back with my head hanging out the window like a dog, wondering if I should have chosen the ambulance instead. Dear god, what is wrong with me?

Got back to transition, walked straight to the medical tent and laid down. Baggies of ice in the armpits and under the neck felt great. Answered a few questions (no not dehydrated, just peed an hour ago, yes BP is always that low, no a pulse of 60 when I'm not moving is not unusual, yes had plenty of fuel onboard until I puked). They watched me for a few minutes and as we chatted, it was obvious I was not in IV territory or worse. The nurse called Paula and told her where I was, and within a few minutes, she and Shirley rounded the corner. They had been waiting nearby, watching my splits get slower and slower, and they knew something was going on. Paula had even turned her phone up super-loud so she'd be sure to hear it, and was ready to answer any unknown phone numbers that called. We retrieved all my stuff from transition and walked back to the hotel. Stopped in the Starbucks in the lobby and got a vanilla frappacino, which was a little bit of bliss after feeling so awful for so long.

Showered, went to dinner, came back and napped until 10:30pm, then went back downstairs to watch the last hour of finishers. The last hour is the most exciting, as people push hard to get in under the 17-hour cutoff. I was happy to see a few people that had been in the back-forty with me on the bike successfully finish their race, and I'm sure I missed a few. It was good to see that they managed to get back in time, even though they were struggling for a while.

Felt fine after a decent night's sleep, and two days later feel completely normal. Looking back, I think I must have been on the verge of heat exhaustion or something like that. We've had a very mild summer in Indianapolis, and I've lost my hot-weather conditioning. (I was more prepared for heat in June.) One of the medics told me that the heat index had spiked right about the time I started tanking, and he wasn't surprised. I was caught completely off-guard, though. I did everything right: training, nutrition, fluids, pacing. I've done over 60 triathlons, almost 60 half-marathons, 15 marathons, and a slew of other distances, and have never felt anything like this. It took me totally by surprise. I'll be happy if I get another 10-year run of mishap-free racing, now that I've got this spectacular bonk (or whatever it was) out of the way.

Sadly, there are no more iron-distance opportunities this year that are not sold out, save one. It's $575 and in a state that I've already raced in...sigh. I'd love to do it, but hate to spend the money, again. However, I'm mapping out the rest of the tri/half-marathon/marathon season, figuring out which states to hit, and am grateful to be injury-free and able to plan more races.

And hey, no recovery time to speak of! All I did was an easy two-hour swim and five-hour bike -- didn't beat myself up on the run, so I'm ready to go work out tomorrow. Ha!

Who Needs Sleep?

I've concluded that loud country music is more painful than the crotch pain from 120 miles on a bike. After running a trail half-marathon. All on two hours of sleep.

So Ironman Louisville is in four weeks (now two). This meant I had two weekends' worth of hard training before having to taper. What better way to spend this one than beating myself to a pulp? As it happened, Planet Adventure put together the perfect hard training weekend and I was able to take advantage of it. Paula and I were scheduled to work timing for a 24-hour bike ride at the Subaru test track (how many times can you ride the two-mile loop in 24 hours?), which didn't start until noon. This meant we could also participate in the Planet Adventure trail run that morning before heading up to Subaru.

Saturday's alarm went off at 5:45am, giving us plenty of time to have a good breakfast, make sure the car was loaded up, stop at Starbucks for some caffeine, and get to the race site in time to relax and get ready to run. The Eagle Creek trail half- and full-marathon is a much-anticipated race, and drew a sold-out crowd. I planned on doing the half, and Paula signed on for the quarter-marathon (~ 6.5 miles). The course is more challenging than many, with lots of ups and downs and a fair number of fallen limbs to step over.

The day was perfect for running, with cloud cover that kept the temperatures down and the humidity high. No one minded the humidity, since we were having outrageously cool temps for August. Paula won her age group and I placed second in mine (out of seven). Surprising since I had an unusually slow day (2:49:01), but I guess everyone in the female 50-54 group was feeling laid-back that day.

Paula finished up, then rode with James (of Planet Adventure) up to the Subaru test track at Lafayette, to start getting the timing set up for the 24-hour bike ride. After I finished running, I headed directly there and helped them finish getting ready. The count-down clock was turned on at noon, and all the riders took off.

After making sure everyone's chip was reading and recording properly, Paula and I signed up to ride in the "solo female" division. This event is primarily made up of teams who ride the full 24-hours, taking turns. There was only one woman signed up for the female solo category, so we were both guaranteed to place in the top three. I like those odds! Around 1pm I took off and did a few laps, and got my legs under me.

Another Planet Adventure staffer showed up and relieved James, and Brian was there with us until midnight. The track was dimly lit, and cyclists had to have some sort of headlamp and tail-light, but it was pretty easy to see everyone. By the time it got dark, riders were spread out with only a couple clumps. The wind finally died down and made for some very pleasant riding. Paula and I took turns, and I managed to rack up 36 laps before calling it quits around 11pm. At this point the other solo female had 43 laps, but she had called it day and turned in her chip. Cool! I should win this thing, since my goal was to complete 50 laps. The way she had cranked out those 43 laps had convinced me she was going to leave me in her dust, so I was happy to find out she'd done all she was going to do.

At midnight, Brian went to join his family at a local hotel and get some sleep, and I crawled into the back of the car and slept until 2am. When I relieved Paula, she filled me in on some issues that were going on, then she went to get some rest. There were a couple of chips that were going completely wonky, registering laps that didn't exist and ridiculously fast laps. I had to pay close attention and make sure everyone's chip was registering as they crossed the start line, and delete all of the extraneous entries being generated by the wonky chips. I actually didn't mind, as this forced me to stay awake and alert.

Working 24-hour events is very interesting. The dynamics change as the hours go by, and people get more and more relaxed. Even the hyper-competitive types start to mellow out by 3am. Everyone was camped out in the infield of the track, and teams had tents and congregating areas set up. Some riders didn't even show up to the track until midnight or later, whenever their shifts began. The event was a fundraiser for CASA, an Indiana organization that helps abused and neglected children, and Subaru is a major supporter of that group. The organizers did a wonderful job keeping riders fed, with a food tent that never closed and always had plenty of good things to eat and drink. They catered dinner, breakfast, and lunch from local restaurants, and it was great to have real food to eat.

Overnight was quiet, with a steady stream of riders switching out with teammates, and three very determined male solo riders going non-stop. Those guys would crank out 30-40 miles, take a 30-minute break, then go right back and do another 30-40 miles. Crazy. Many people were sleeping, but that didn't dampen the enthusiasm of those who were up and riding or supporting the riders.

Paula relieved me around 5:30am, and I was back out on the track by 5:45. It was great to ride at sunrise, free of the crazy winds that had blown us around Saturday afternoon. I clinched my victory (did the eight laps needed to get me to 44 laps), then Paula took a turn. Finally, around 7:30am, I reached my goal of 50 laps. Hmmm, Ironman is 56 laps (112 miles), surely I can get that? Reached that goal with a little over two hours to go, then took a break. Decided I wanted to get 60 laps under my belt before calling it quits, so went out and did my last four. By now the sun had fully risen and the wind was picking up. I was extremely tired even though I felt great, and got sick of fighting the wind all the way down the first half of the track. I had hoped to possibly break 60 by at least a couple of laps, but was just too tired to keep working against the wind. My legs felt good but heavy, and mentally I was very happy with my 60 and ready to call it good.

The countdown clock finally hit zero, there was a quick awards ceremony, and I was presented with a nice plaque for first place solo female. The winning solo male had some crazy number like 150 laps, and the winning teams were in the 365 mile range. We then got busy packing up all our gear. Down came the start/finish line, the clock got put away, all our timing stuff packed up and stowed, all the cables coiled, speakers put away, trailer loaded. By 1:30pm, the track was clear of tents, mobile homes, and riders, and looking very quiet. We were grateful for the relatively short ride home (< 1 hour), and decided to stop at Texas Roadhouse for takeout steak...

...and were bombarded with outrageously loud bad country music. "I love my truck and my ex ran over my dog" kind of country music. Loud enough we had to use our outside voices to order our food. And it was loud outside too, with nowhere to go to get away from it. After an excruciating 15-minute wait, our food was finally ready. I asked the employee how she listened to that all day without shooting anybody. She laughed and said she got used to it. I gave her my condolences.

And yes, loud country music truly is more miserable than any amount of bike-riding-induced crotch pain and sleep deprivation.