Race Report: Run It Down

I stumble off my bike and into transition to find my run bag. Again, another amazing volunteer meets me outside the changing tent, grabs my sweaty elbow, and steers me to a seat. She pulls off my bike shoes and packs up my bike helmet. I pull on my Thorlo socks and Saucony shoes. A few minutes later, I stand up and walk out of the tent. I let a couple volunteers lather me in sunscreen before I step onto the run course - and then I start running.

I run to the first aid station and douse myself in orange Gatorade Endurance and water. Mmmm, fluids. I keep running. Another mile in and another aid station. More Gatorade, more water. And I'm starting to feel like I can do this. I keep checking my minutes per mile to make sure I'm maintaining my speed. I'd like to go faster, but I know that a faster mile pace could cause me to blow up at mile 20. And I definitely do not want to blow up.

Around mile six, I see my friends Dave and Dawn. They're volunteering as run pointers. And they cheer loudly for me. I've been given a boost. I complete my first lap around mile nine. I run through transition, looking desperately for my family. I see them and I wave. One lap down. Two to go. I run another mile and a half and I see my friend Sarah. She cheers me on. Again, I've gotten a boost. I keep running.

A couple miles later I stop for the porta-potty. And I realize I desperately need solid food. So I walk through the aid station and grab a couple orange slices and tear into them. Okay, physically and mentally recharged. I keep running.

I pass Dave and Dawn again. I hold up my right pointer finger and say, "One more lap, one more lap." I can do this.

I run through transition again and yell for my family. I wonder where Tim is. He's got to be done by now, I think. I keep running. And now I am really hungry. I am craving food. I am craving salt. I eat chocolate chip cookies at the next aid station. And then I start on pretzels at the next aid station. The aid station volunteers are offering PowerGel and chicken broth, but I can't go there. Give me cookies and pretzels, please.

It's getting dark at this point. I start thinking that I could finish in 12 hours. I keep putting the miles down and with each mile that goes down, I think that's one less mile in which I'll blow up. I can do this. I'm getting closer to the finish line and Mike Reilly!

I don't remember where, but somewhere on the back side of the run course, a volunteer hands me a glow-in-the-dark necklace. I try carrying it, but that presents a problem when I'm trying to grab Gatorade and pretzels at the next aid station. So I decide to wear the necklace and tuck it under my tri top so it doesn't bounce and hit my chin.

I run down mile 23 and I see Sarah and Noah, who are now volunteering as run pointers. They cheer me on and tell me I'm getting close to the finish. I am jazzed. I am putting those miles down. I am heading toward the finish line.

Up over the Mill Avenue bridge and down the other side. It's officially dark. I pick up the pace. I am feeling strong, I am feeling good, I am going to be an Ironman in a few more minutes.

I come up on transition and I make a left-hand turn into a parking lot. I run up the lot and back onto the street. There are two runners in front of me and I pass them. I veer left and bam!, I'm in the finish line chute! I see Tim and Maggie, Tim's mom. I am now running down the chute. I throw my arms up and focus my eyes on the finish line. I'm pretty sure Mike Reilly just mentioned my name. All the sudden, I'm crying. I'm crying, I'm pumping my fists in the air, I'm running as fast as my exhausted legs will carry me.

I crossed the finish line in 12 hours, 1 minute and 10 seconds.

A volunteer met me across the finish line and wrapped me in a mylar blanket. She held up my left side. Another volunteer gave me a bottled water and held up my right side. A third volunteer placed my finisher's medal around my neck, and then gave me my finisher's t-shirt and hat.

I was an Ironman. And I was still crying.

Tim met me in the finisher's chute and we took a photo in front of the IMAZ backdrop. My mom raced over to me, thrilled that I was alive and coherent. My legs were absolutely killing me. My sweet tri top was stained orange from the Gatorade. My tri shorts were wet from, well, let's just say from a certain aqueous solution...

I realized, probably an hour after finishing, that I had just had the time of my life. That I swam 2.4 miles, biked 112 miles and then ran a marathon - all in one day. That I raced with absolutely stunning individuals - Rudy, the double-leg amputee; the 77 year old man who DNF'ed in Kona just a month and change ago; the middle-aged man in the wheelchair, and so many more whose faces I passed again and again on November 22. That I discovered I loved eating chocolate chip cookies and pretzels while running. That, if I train myself mentally and physically and emotionally, I can do anything.

Bring on the next Ironman.

Good Morning, Arizona

We made it. We are currently lounging comfortably in the Grand Canyon State, hanging in our hotel suite with our bikes, wetsuits, tubs of Gatorade Endurance, multiple duffel bags and - most importantly - Starbucks coffees.

Yesterday's drive through the desert went well. Tim and I rocked out to a little Kings of Leon, U2, Dave Matthews and Shaggy (I was able to get only a few Shaggy songs in before Tim shut that down). We waved to other IMAZ participants we passed - the tri bikes latched to their cars were total give-aways.

So now we're here and trying to adjust to Mountain time. In a little while, we'll drive to Tempe Town Lake and take a dip in the 64 degree water. Then we'll drive the bike course. And then I'll work on not freaking out...at this very moment, we're 48 hours away.

I have to share a couple of lines from the Athlete Information Guide that I found, um, a tad humorous, if not downright frightening. Here we go:

1). "Athletes may not make progress on the bike course unaccompanied by their bicycle." All right, Bike, it's you and me for 112 miles. Good thing that's been the plan since the beginning.

2). On the run course - "No form of locomotion other than running, walking or crawling is allowed." Excuse me, crawling? I really hope it doesn't get that bad...

On that note, I need to find some Body Glide. Until next time!

One Month to Go

Oh. My. Goodness. Do you know what today is? It’s October 22nd! [Insert shout-outs here: Happy anniversary, Barb & Kevin! Happy birthday, Noah! Happy un-birthdays to the rest of you!] Do you know what happens exactly one month from today? That’s right: Ironman Arizona.

I measure time now in reference to race day. Thanksgiving feels eons away, even though it’s just a few short days after Ironman. Halloween? I’m pretty sure I missed it. In fact, if you asked me what month it was, I’d most likely answer November.

So does this attitude toward time mean I’m ‘in the zone’? Or does it mean all the Gu and Gatorade Endurance have truly, finally, successfully addled my brain?

I’m not sure, but lately, I do find myself consumed with thoughts of November 22. And my behavior shows it.

When I’m running on the sidewalks these days, I don’t allow myself to step on anything but the cement pavement. I specifically run to the edges of sidewalks to avoid those metal doors.

I wash my tri shorts a certain way. I hang my tri shorts up to dry a certain way.

After I’m done swimming, I place my goggles back in my gym bag a certain way.

Every time I get off my bike, I unclip from my pedals a certain way.

Hmm. And now I officially sound neurotic.

If this is what’s happening a month out from race day, then I can only imagine what superstitions will take hold of me a few weeks from now...

Bring on Ironman.