The day after the Ironman is an interesting day. Well, the day after you are not an Ironman is an interesting day. I have had November 2011 written on my mirror for three years. The day I signed up for my first marathon, I wrote the words “Ironman 2011” in dry erase marker, under “Rock ‘N Roll, Jan 18, 2009” under my mirror. It was August 2008. It was the date I signed up for my first marathon. My deadline was November 2011 to finish my first Ironman, before I turned 31. 167 weeks to my first 140.6 mile race. The Ironman would snap me out of my funk. The Ironman would save me. I would look at that date every day I was home for 167 weeks.
Here I am 167 weeks and one day later. Where am I? Am I any better off than I was then? I’m almost drunk and I’m crying. I ignore the “what happened?” messages today instead of the “what’s wrong?” messages of 2008. Is that really the best thing to say? That’s almost as bad as the “I’m still proud of you.” Or the “you’re still my Iron*person.*” Or the “you are a winner once you cross the start line.” To be honest, no one who has prepared for yesterday for 167 weeks wants to hear any of that. Really, it’s thoughtful and I’m sure in a few hours to a few weeks, I’ll be ok able to talk about the situation without crying. But, it’s sort of like the, ‘It’s not you, it’s him’ breakup conversation.
My favorite question yesterday might have been “well, why COULDN’T you do it? It’s just 2.4 miles?” Interesting . . . my first thought: “Why the fuck are you standing here drinking the beer I bought for my friends asking me this question?” You are not my friend. Later this guy tells me, “I didn’t know the water temperature was 61 degrees.” Does that even matter? Hell no. Sure the water is cold. The water temperature had nothing to do with my inability to make the swim cut off. Sure it would have been nice to train in that sort of water or it would have been nice if race day water was 75 degrees. I also rode my bike in 115 degree weather. There are some things I can’t control. Unfortunately for me, weather/temperature/my body’s reaction to such is one of them.
It’s not like yesterday was the first time I tried to swim the distance either. From the beginning, my training plan hit the distance every single week. I was physically able to do the distance. The very day before I had a practice swim in the 61 degree water and felt great! I was mentally able to do the distance. I even thought about updating my facebook status with the words of a fun song from the 80’s, “. . . baby I was afraid before. . . I’m not afraid anymore!” (Heaven is a Place on Earth. . . Bueller. . Bueller. . .)
As hard as I have tried, I can’t predict how my body is going to react to different forces. Sure, my Saturday swim in Tempe Town Lake was great. I felt like it was a normal swim day in the heated, chlorinated pool. My breathing was easy and rhythmic; my stroke was smooth and long. I was happy to make friends with Tempe Town Lake. Frankly, there were more people around me in the practice swim than the swim start of the race.
I did not have that same experience yesterday. Most days, I put my wetsuit on and it turns into a magic cloak. I feel like I float along the water’s top. I don’t struggle, I loved being in the water (such was my experience during the practice swim on Saturday). Sunday, it felt like I wasn’t even wearing a wetsuit. I felt a drag and almost like someone was pulling my magic, graceful cloak back. With each breath I took in, I inhaled an ounce of water. I could not find a rhythm and I could not catch my breath. With each attempt, I thought I would find my stroke. I never did.
This is the perfect time in the race to work on the mental games I practiced throughout the training season. I wrote the words, “YOU WILL DO THIS” on my thumb knuckles so I could see the message on the bike ride. I didn’t realize at the time that I would see it every time I grasped onto the kayak to catch my breath. I had rough days in the pool while training. I used these days as growth opportunities. “You never know what the race day will bring Jeanne. Push though it” I’d tell myself. So I did. It was hard and there were days I didn’t think I’d get through the swim workout plan, but I did it. I knew the swim was going to be the hardest part for me. I made it through the star fish level of swim lessons back in the day. Basically, I could float in a pool at age 4 if I needed to. This does not mean I am an efficient swimmer at age 30. But I worked and I worked hard every week. I was able to swim the distance before the race.
The nice fellow who said his name was Mike was my rescue kayaker. I surely would have been in worse shape if he had not been right beside me the whole time. I won’t say that I would have drowned, as I was wearing a wetsuit and that provides a certain level of buoyancy. However, he provided the additional words of encouragement as I grabbed the nose of his kayak every 25-50 meters in the race.
It was really a bizarre experience. I would swim along, Mike would tell me how awesome my stroke looked, very long and clean. My lungs would not agree. They gasped for air. My body could not get enough oxygen to continue for more than 25-50 meters. I maybe made it 100 meters without stopping at the most at one time. Mike asked what my number was. I knew why he wanted to know. It took me an hour and ten minutes to make the turn around. Sure, this was the half way mark; I could still make it within the cutoff. The other kayak was telling us the current would help sweep me back. Mike and the other kayak kept telling me there was plenty of time.
Bullshit. I was exhausted by that time. There is something about not being able to breathe that sucks the life out of you. I didn’t give up. I kept swimming. I would hold on to Mike’s kayak until I caught my breath and then I would swim until I could swim no more. At one point he turned me over to another kayak because he needed to ‘go to the shore for a quick moment.’ I knew he was giving the folks at the shore my number to prepare the rest of the race officials for the non-finishers. I did not give up. I would once again swim until I couldn’t swim further. I grabbed the other kayak and gasped for air. Each time I started to swim again the family of five at the shore line would ring their cowbells and cheer in joy and excitement for me. I felt like it was the first time I tried to swim. I couldn’t swim for 25 meters without gasping for air. I had come so far. I had overcome my worst fears. Why couldn’t I just swim? Why wouldn’t my lungs work? I tried to swim again. And I continued to try to swim. My arms ached. My legs cramped. My lungs burned. I didn’t have time to cry.
What are the thoughts that enter your mind at this point? The biggest day of your life? The day that has been written on your mirror for 167 weeks? The day that your work colleagues say they know you by? Is it the words of the friends who mentioned, “you’ve got this” or “you’re an inspiration for me to do something today,” or even “just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” No, it’s the ones who say, “just getting to the start line is a win,” or “you’re crazy” or “you don’t need to prove anything,” or “why? It’s not a big deal.” Who the fuck are you? Do you even think of the impact of your “words of encouragement?” How is it that a complete stranger who just happened to be the closest volunteer near me is more encouraging to me than you? As I look around, the only people around me are the swimmers who are floating on their backs gasping for breath and the clean up crews in the jet skis and the motor boats. (This doesn’t help either by the way.) All I can think about is the words from those who “mean well.”
I keep telling myself, just keep swimming. The adrenalin will kick in and I’ll find my rhythm. I still have X minutes. Mike is still encouraging but a little more forceful. “You’ve got to get going if you want to make the cutoff.” So I do. And my calf cramps. I’ve been in the 60 degree water for about 1:55 now. Of course my leg is cramping. If I had been in the pool (I would have been finished with the fucking swim by now) but I surely could have finished the remaining 750 meters or so until the finish line. So I tried. I continued to swim. I couldn’t extend my left foot because the cramping was so bad. I knew there were people who completed the swim without a leg or two, so I continued to kick. Damn, my other leg cramps.
At 9:28, Mike told me I had to stop. The guys with the motorboat who had followed us for the last 45 minutes had to take me to shore. I pulled myself onto the boat because I knew I would pull the guy into the water if he tried to help me. The last bit of energy I had I used to pull myself into that boat. (That’s all I’d need, to be known as the girl who pulled the rescue guy into the water. . .) I knew it would end like this . . .45 minutes into the swim I knew. Today was not my day. Once you’ve trained for an event like this, you know your body. Mine was not able to complete the challenge today. I wouldn’t give up though. I couldn’t. What if I was wrong?
Although I could not hear the announcer, I knew what he already said. I heard it last year. I tried not to think of it every day since I signed up one year ago. It was my worst nightmare coming true. It was the reason I would not go out with my friends. It was the reason I resisted eating fast food. It was the reason I worked so hard every day yet I couldn’t bear to hear the words.
The announcer said, in front of my family and friends that day, I would not be an Ironman.
And on that day, 11/20/2011, number 224’s heart, MY heart broke.
Here I am 167 weeks and one day later. Where am I? Am I any better off than I was then? I’m almost drunk and I’m crying. I ignore the “what happened?” messages today instead of the “what’s wrong?” messages of 2008. Is that really the best thing to say? That’s almost as bad as the “I’m still proud of you.” Or the “you’re still my Iron*person.*” Or the “you are a winner once you cross the start line.” To be honest, no one who has prepared for yesterday for 167 weeks wants to hear any of that. Really, it’s thoughtful and I’m sure in a few hours to a few weeks, I’ll be ok able to talk about the situation without crying. But, it’s sort of like the, ‘It’s not you, it’s him’ breakup conversation.
My favorite question yesterday might have been “well, why COULDN’T you do it? It’s just 2.4 miles?” Interesting . . . my first thought: “Why the fuck are you standing here drinking the beer I bought for my friends asking me this question?” You are not my friend. Later this guy tells me, “I didn’t know the water temperature was 61 degrees.” Does that even matter? Hell no. Sure the water is cold. The water temperature had nothing to do with my inability to make the swim cut off. Sure it would have been nice to train in that sort of water or it would have been nice if race day water was 75 degrees. I also rode my bike in 115 degree weather. There are some things I can’t control. Unfortunately for me, weather/temperature/my body’s reaction to such is one of them.
It’s not like yesterday was the first time I tried to swim the distance either. From the beginning, my training plan hit the distance every single week. I was physically able to do the distance. The very day before I had a practice swim in the 61 degree water and felt great! I was mentally able to do the distance. I even thought about updating my facebook status with the words of a fun song from the 80’s, “. . . baby I was afraid before. . . I’m not afraid anymore!” (Heaven is a Place on Earth. . . Bueller. . Bueller. . .)
As hard as I have tried, I can’t predict how my body is going to react to different forces. Sure, my Saturday swim in Tempe Town Lake was great. I felt like it was a normal swim day in the heated, chlorinated pool. My breathing was easy and rhythmic; my stroke was smooth and long. I was happy to make friends with Tempe Town Lake. Frankly, there were more people around me in the practice swim than the swim start of the race.
I did not have that same experience yesterday. Most days, I put my wetsuit on and it turns into a magic cloak. I feel like I float along the water’s top. I don’t struggle, I loved being in the water (such was my experience during the practice swim on Saturday). Sunday, it felt like I wasn’t even wearing a wetsuit. I felt a drag and almost like someone was pulling my magic, graceful cloak back. With each breath I took in, I inhaled an ounce of water. I could not find a rhythm and I could not catch my breath. With each attempt, I thought I would find my stroke. I never did.
This is the perfect time in the race to work on the mental games I practiced throughout the training season. I wrote the words, “YOU WILL DO THIS” on my thumb knuckles so I could see the message on the bike ride. I didn’t realize at the time that I would see it every time I grasped onto the kayak to catch my breath. I had rough days in the pool while training. I used these days as growth opportunities. “You never know what the race day will bring Jeanne. Push though it” I’d tell myself. So I did. It was hard and there were days I didn’t think I’d get through the swim workout plan, but I did it. I knew the swim was going to be the hardest part for me. I made it through the star fish level of swim lessons back in the day. Basically, I could float in a pool at age 4 if I needed to. This does not mean I am an efficient swimmer at age 30. But I worked and I worked hard every week. I was able to swim the distance before the race.
The nice fellow who said his name was Mike was my rescue kayaker. I surely would have been in worse shape if he had not been right beside me the whole time. I won’t say that I would have drowned, as I was wearing a wetsuit and that provides a certain level of buoyancy. However, he provided the additional words of encouragement as I grabbed the nose of his kayak every 25-50 meters in the race.
It was really a bizarre experience. I would swim along, Mike would tell me how awesome my stroke looked, very long and clean. My lungs would not agree. They gasped for air. My body could not get enough oxygen to continue for more than 25-50 meters. I maybe made it 100 meters without stopping at the most at one time. Mike asked what my number was. I knew why he wanted to know. It took me an hour and ten minutes to make the turn around. Sure, this was the half way mark; I could still make it within the cutoff. The other kayak was telling us the current would help sweep me back. Mike and the other kayak kept telling me there was plenty of time.
Bullshit. I was exhausted by that time. There is something about not being able to breathe that sucks the life out of you. I didn’t give up. I kept swimming. I would hold on to Mike’s kayak until I caught my breath and then I would swim until I could swim no more. At one point he turned me over to another kayak because he needed to ‘go to the shore for a quick moment.’ I knew he was giving the folks at the shore my number to prepare the rest of the race officials for the non-finishers. I did not give up. I would once again swim until I couldn’t swim further. I grabbed the other kayak and gasped for air. Each time I started to swim again the family of five at the shore line would ring their cowbells and cheer in joy and excitement for me. I felt like it was the first time I tried to swim. I couldn’t swim for 25 meters without gasping for air. I had come so far. I had overcome my worst fears. Why couldn’t I just swim? Why wouldn’t my lungs work? I tried to swim again. And I continued to try to swim. My arms ached. My legs cramped. My lungs burned. I didn’t have time to cry.
What are the thoughts that enter your mind at this point? The biggest day of your life? The day that has been written on your mirror for 167 weeks? The day that your work colleagues say they know you by? Is it the words of the friends who mentioned, “you’ve got this” or “you’re an inspiration for me to do something today,” or even “just keep swimming, just keep swimming.” No, it’s the ones who say, “just getting to the start line is a win,” or “you’re crazy” or “you don’t need to prove anything,” or “why? It’s not a big deal.” Who the fuck are you? Do you even think of the impact of your “words of encouragement?” How is it that a complete stranger who just happened to be the closest volunteer near me is more encouraging to me than you? As I look around, the only people around me are the swimmers who are floating on their backs gasping for breath and the clean up crews in the jet skis and the motor boats. (This doesn’t help either by the way.) All I can think about is the words from those who “mean well.”
I keep telling myself, just keep swimming. The adrenalin will kick in and I’ll find my rhythm. I still have X minutes. Mike is still encouraging but a little more forceful. “You’ve got to get going if you want to make the cutoff.” So I do. And my calf cramps. I’ve been in the 60 degree water for about 1:55 now. Of course my leg is cramping. If I had been in the pool (I would have been finished with the fucking swim by now) but I surely could have finished the remaining 750 meters or so until the finish line. So I tried. I continued to swim. I couldn’t extend my left foot because the cramping was so bad. I knew there were people who completed the swim without a leg or two, so I continued to kick. Damn, my other leg cramps.
At 9:28, Mike told me I had to stop. The guys with the motorboat who had followed us for the last 45 minutes had to take me to shore. I pulled myself onto the boat because I knew I would pull the guy into the water if he tried to help me. The last bit of energy I had I used to pull myself into that boat. (That’s all I’d need, to be known as the girl who pulled the rescue guy into the water. . .) I knew it would end like this . . .45 minutes into the swim I knew. Today was not my day. Once you’ve trained for an event like this, you know your body. Mine was not able to complete the challenge today. I wouldn’t give up though. I couldn’t. What if I was wrong?
Although I could not hear the announcer, I knew what he already said. I heard it last year. I tried not to think of it every day since I signed up one year ago. It was my worst nightmare coming true. It was the reason I would not go out with my friends. It was the reason I resisted eating fast food. It was the reason I worked so hard every day yet I couldn’t bear to hear the words.
The announcer said, in front of my family and friends that day, I would not be an Ironman.
And on that day, 11/20/2011, number 224’s heart, MY heart broke.
I shall simply be honest and post the first sentiment that came to mind...
ReplyDeletehttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B48D60wH8gA
Sometimes life gives us no words.. what we were trying to convey was You're not alone. Many have gone before you. Many will go after you. The important thing to keep in mind is that you need to keep on going.
ReplyDeleteSee a dear friend in your position. What would you say to encourage them? Here is what one person said: "If one dream should fall and break into a thousand pieces, never be afraid to pick one of those pieces up and begin again."
~ Flavia Weedn