Beating the Voices in My Head

My workouts the last few weeks leading into Sunday's Half Ironman were strong and confidence-building. Six months of diligent training made me ready to compete, both physically and mentally. The voices in my head, which had initially said I wasn't strong enough, fast enough, and wouldn't be able to endure such a grueling event, were now telling me I was at the apex of my game and would be able to conquer the challenge.

I had begun rallying the troops together a few months ago. I knew that at the end of an 8 hour event, my heart would need some encouragement, so I persuaded most of my immediate family to pack the sunscreen and travel to Kansas. Ironman events are not much of a spectator sport, in the sense that you will most likely be able to cheer on your athlete only 4 or 5 times throughout the day. However, they did not disappoint. My family was prepared ~ arriving before dawn to find the optimal advantage point from which to see me pass by as many times as possible, popping a canopy to provide shade from the seering sun, and making lots of noise each and every time I passed. In the end, they were a force that helped me push past the pain and keep moving forward.

Temperatures during the week were warm and forecasts showed it steadily climbing. An expected high of 95 degrees with a heat index of 105. This would mean the water temperature was too warm to wear a wetsuit. I had confidence I could swim the mileage (1.2 miles) in calm water, but was unsure with wind and waves, how much time and energy I would spend off course. Therefore, on the morning of the race, as I sat on the shore and watched swimmers struggle, I knew that in order for me to compete at my best for this particular day, I would need to wear my wetsuit.

Entering the water, someone referred to us as the "Rainbow Wave" because of all the different colored caps. Except for the orange colored relay participants, the rest of us had foresaken our original waves and start times because we wanted to wear our wetsuits. My family has since asked, "If you could do it over, would you make the same choice?" Without hesitation, my answer is yes. The current knocked me around and I struggled not only to stay on course, but also to breathe without drinking the lake water. This induced panic. Fear that creeps into your body and mind half a mile out from shore can be incapacitating. You want to scream. You want the waves to stop pounding. I've battled this situation before and had been preparing over the past months to fight back the demons from within. I did and I made it back to shore feeling strong and ready to continue.

As I make my way out of the water and up the boat ramp, I can hear my name being called by some of my family. Progressing toward my bike, I see my friend, Tina, heading out for her ride. I wish her luck and am feverishly trying to remove my wetsuit. One last layering of sunscreen as I glance to make sure I bagged all my belongings and I mount my bike. Weather forecast had predicted winds 20-25 mph with gusts up to 30. I knew with these crazy headwinds, my ride today would take me much longer than the previous times I had ridden the course. At the top of the first hill, the rest of my family feverishly begins yelling. What a great way to start my 56 mile journey.

Forecasts were true. Headwinds of 20+ mph and sweltering heat made for an uncomfortable ride. To start, I had taken two water bottles with me, with the intention of grabbing other fluids throughout the day at the aid stations. Within the first 10 miles, I had drank one of my bottles so I grabbed a gatorade at mile 13. Cool and refreshing, just what I needed as I turned the corner and headed directly in to the wind on a 15 mile out-and-back stretch of road. My legs were moving, but I didn't seem to be traveling very far very fast. Neither did the people I passed along the way. The tailwind on the return didn't seem to be much help as I worked my way back to the main road. Ahhh, time for a cold water from the aid station at mile 28. I thanked the volunteers as I passed, placing the top of the bottle in my mouth so I could open it when it slipped between my fingers and fell to the ground. On the spot decision-making is not my forte. After I debated with myself for twenty yards, I decided to continue waterless. Onward I rode, another turn south with several steep climbs. There were riders scattered alongside the road. They weren't in distress so I assumed they were having mechanical issues or simply taking a break from the beating. At one point, I wondered how tacky I would seem if I asked for one of their waters. Finally, a small stretch of road where there were no winds and at times even shade. At mile 40, I took a break and grabbed a couple waters. Sixteen more miles and a few more hills.

Those last few hills back in to the park were tough on my legs. My quads were starting to ache, but more importantly, my lower legs were screaming at me. I had dreaded the possibility this might occur. While in college, I suffered from lower leg compartment syndrome where the fascia doesn't allow the muscle to expand and therefore builds up pressure. Although I had surgery 18 years ago, there are still lingering symptoms of tightening and intense pain.

Although I was tired, my run started out strong. I had been practicing a run/walk method throughout my training and fully expected to be able to complete the half marathon with few problems other than fatigue. Unfortunately, lack of hydration and high heat had drained me more than I expected. Although I began my run with a little leg pain, by the time I had reached mile 8, I was walking more than running. I had cramping in my right calf and was only able to run about 20 yards at a time, then 10 yards, and finally only a few steps. By the time I reached my steadfast cheering section at mile 11, I was in tears from pain and frustration. While I knew I would not give in and quit, I simply could not fathom the idea of more pain. Thankfully, my husband began to walk alongside me. Encouraging me to keep going, noting how far I had already come. Through his reassurance, my spirits were lifted and my tears dried. My pace quickened to that of his own and eventually we made it to the finish chute lined by Ironman banners. It was here that he said to me, "Grin and bear it. Cross the finish line running." And I did, with my head held high.

Kansas 70.3 Official Race Results ~ 8:07:19

Swim     52:03                 Bike    4:08:06                    Run     2:57:53