Just Keep Swimming. . . Just Keep Swimming. . . Just Keep Swimming

When I was four(ish), my family vacationed to Sesame Place-an amusement park of sorts based on Sesame Street. What more could a four year old want?! My recollection goes something like this: there is a giant room full of kids playing in a sea of plastic balls. There are cargo nets and slides above (so you would fall off of the nets into the soft set of plastic balls below, etc.). I remember my Mom carrying me out of this particular attraction kicking, screaming and crying (me, not my Mom). She remembers it slightly differently. I guess I was too petrified to go down one of the tunnel slides and some random lady had to grab and pull me down the slide. I clearly knew I was headed to my death in the sea of plastic balls and kicked her and screamed the whole way down the slide.

This is how I feel every single time I get in the pool to swim laps. I feel out of control--kicking and screaming (not out loud, for now. . .). I am terrified and I implode with anxiety. I hate swimming. It is not something I enjoy because I SUCK at it.

I’ve taken lessons and had friends watch my stroke. “Looks great,” they’ll say. It doesn’t feel great. Swimming is nothing that is natural for me. I can’t breathe, my heart pounds, my muscles burn, I can’t find a comfortable rhythm, and I can’t relax. This is not the ‘what a great workout’ kind of feeling. No, this is the, “I am clearly going to die” kind of angst. I want to cry it is so hard for me. Workout after workout after workout I feel like I make zero progress.

I don’t mean to brag, but I am pretty awesome at most things I do. There are very few activities I participate in on a regular basis that I am not ‘good’ at and enjoy doing. Otherwise, why else would I do it? It is really quite unfortunate for me that swimming is one of the activities in the triathlon.

So what can I do? Hide some flotation devices and an airtank in my wetsuit for the race? I suppose I have to just keep swimming. (Thank you Dory for the awesome mantra.) As much as I do not enjoy doing things I’m not good at, I am trryyyiinng to see this as an opportunity for growth (both physically and mentally). Hopefully one day (soon) I can feel more at ease in the pool. I am sure not going to let it get me down.

How Far I've Come

Since first hearing Matchbox Twenty, I’ve been a huuuggge fan. I pretty much stop whatever I’m doing when I hear the first few notes of a song to listen and relish in my MB20 bliss.

After the big decision that I was going to be an Ironman, my first goal was to finish a marathon. If I couldn’t finish a marathon, I couldn’t finish the Ironman. September, 2008 I started my training for the 2009 P. F. Changs Rock ‘N Roll marathon in Phoenix.

Matchbox Twenty’s How Far We’ve Come track quickly became my theme song. I listened to it first thing on my early morning runs to get me motivated. As I started the last mile of the PF Chang’s I put the song on repeat so it would get me through those last few brutal minutes. The beat of the song is fun and energizing and a few of the lines really keep me moving.

Every time I hear the line, “Let’s see how far we’ve come. . . Let’s see how far we’ve come,” I think back to when I couldn’t even run half of a mile. I’ve now completed three marathons. I am thankful every time I can tie up my shoelaces and hit the pavement and I do not take it for granted. I’m not always happy or excited about it, but I do it. I think about how running really has changed my life and how I have been able to experience so much more because of it. You may even catch me smiling every once in a while.

Why?

“Why the Ironman?” some people have asked. It has always been a dream of yours? You have always been a swimmer/biker/runner so it is a natural fit? Ha. None of the above.

My first Ironman experience was April 2005, the inaugural Ironman Arizona race. My friend Lauren volunteered as a swim spotter that morning and I went with her to the finish line to see the last finishers come in between 10 pm and midnight. What an inspiration! People of all ages, sizes, athletic abilities were finishing this great feat.

Fast forward to the end of August, 2007. It was one of the hottest days that summer. My employer had an annual golf outing at a local country club. I was driving the secretary at my office back to the 18th hole to take pictures. While meandering along the cart path, she screams, I swerve (golf ball flying toward us) and run the golf cart up on the curb next to a bush. I take a step off of the golf cart and realize the bush was actually a tree. I fall roughly 20 feet straight down to the bottom of a ravine. Luckily, a large rock at the bottom broke my fall. The secretary asked if I was ok. I said no. I crawled on my hands and knees out of the ravine.

Adrenaline was flowing. I could not feel my rear. My leg and stomach were both bleeding. I was worried about the golf cart that was stuck on the curb. I hobble back to the pro shop to tell them what had happened. They couldn’t believe I was still walking.

I went about my business at the golf outing. Making sure the clients picked up their pictures, presenting the prizes for longest drive, etc. etc. At one point my boss asked what had actually happened. He was concerned because a part of the tree was in my hair.

I drive home. It was horrible. It was the first time I had sat down. When I got home, I was able to check out the damage for the first time. My right buttock had ballooned into a gross, bruised orb of swollen skin. I could not sleep. The pressure of laying on my back was too painful. If I laid on my stomach or side, the open flesh wounds would send sharp pains through my body.

The next day I go to work and suffer through the morning routine. Eventually, I break down and head to the doctor. I am able to get in on short notice to see the physicians’ assistant. Her initial examination focuses on my ankle. I hadn’t actually realized how swollen and bruised my ankle was. The pain in my buttock was too intense. When I finally dropped my pants so she could see, she dropped her clipboard. She then raced to get my doctor. Neither of them had seen anything like my ass. Awesome.

The PA sent me to get X-Rays. Surely my pelvis was broken. Surely my ankle was broken. As it turns out, I have pretty strong bones and neither was broken. It was nice to hear the X-Ray tech mention “wow, she looks like she’s in pain.” (Because most healthy people get X-Rays just for the heck of it.)

I then went to get my first ultrasound. I needed an ultrasound so the surgeon could know where to drain the fluid from my buttock (it was swollen to the size of a softball). The ultrasonographer marked the choice spots with big Xs with a magic marker.

The surgeon decided the pockets of pus and fluid were not centralized enough to drain. I guess the particular area was also prone to infection and she didn’t want to risk it. I had to wait for my body to absorb the fluid for the swelling to go down.

Enter my life in stretch pants and compression shorts. It took about nine months before I could walk without a limp. I fell into a horrible depression. I ate all the time. I couldn’t really move, so I gained weight. Pretty much hated life.

I don’t remember what the trigger was. Maybe the Ironman World Championships were airing on TV. Maybe I had a dream. For some reason, as I wallowed in the depths of despair, I decided I would be an Ironman. I remembered the finishers of the great race I watched in 2005. If they could do it, surely I could.

And here I am. I still have some scar tissue on that right side. It’s about the size of a golf ball actually. It does send a sharp, shooting pain every once in a while to remind me of where I’ve been, where I’ll go.