Certain truths are easier to accept than others. One particularly hard pill to swallow, as I was once reminded, is that on any given day there's always someone who is faster than you. This pearl can be applied to virtually ANY aspect of your life, just change the adjective. There's always someone who is . . . faster, smarter, taller, stronger, thiner, prettier. . . than you. I mean, no shit, it's not like out of all 6.8 billion of us I thought I was going to top ANY list. BUT, it doesn't mean we shouldn't be proud of what and who we ARE. Right? Welllllllllll . . .
Nature makes us competitive beings. Don't make me pull out my BA in Anthropology, but Darwin had a couple things right, one being the importance of competition within a species (which many times has led to an entirely new species all together . . . ). Competition can be fun, it can keep us on our toes, it can motivate us, and if you're a white moth during the industrial revolution, it can destroy us (err . . . sorry). Healthy competition is, well, healthy. Constant competition is not. Constant evaluation and comparison of your self to others WILL eventually make you crazy. To occasionally take a moment and just be proud of yourself and your accomplishments, not in comparison to anyone else, is good for you. But those moments are few and far between and outnumbered by time spent thinking about how we need to get faster, or thiner, catch that person in front of us, catch a boyfriend, land a better job.
I go back a forth between feelings of great confidence and a complete lack there of -- in training, in racing, in life. I remember qualifying for Boston and feeling like I was ON TOP of the world. I was so proud of what I had accomplished. I was a GOOD runner. I was a FAST runner. I was one of just a small percentage of marathoners. Then I got to Boston. I was one of 25,000. I was no longer good, I was average. Seriously. The average Boston time is 3:40. I ran a 3:39. Growing up, I NEVER got a "C" in school. All A's, maybe a B en la stupide Francais. Never a C, never average. Speaking of school, I had these grand visions of going to my 10 year reunion as the only class of '99 Ironman finisher. Maybe I wouldn't be married, maybe I wouldn't have children, but I would be the only Ironman there. Except that I wouldn't. Turns out I graduated among other Ironmen-to-be. One in particular has qualified for Kona and is racing this October.
My ideas of grandeur never seem to last for very long. And maybe that's good. It's not like I need to be walking around all high and mighty, delusional about how fast I am. The thing is, I seem to slide right from the crest of the wave down into the trough. Maybe I'll be a 3 time Ironman finisher by the time I'm 30, but without a quality relationship, with a career I'm unsure about, an overall malaise (take that Madame Magnin!) for where I am right now. I somewhat irrationally start to question every decision I've ever made. Where did I go wrong? Was it because I went to prom with Adam? Was it that job at the art museum I had during college? Was it that 4 year stint as a vegetarian? WHAT?!?
Sometimes I get sad. Who doesn't? I feel like I'm not living up to my potential. I feel like I'm so far from what I had pictured for myself. I'm scared that I have far less control over my life than I thought. It is hard knowing that virtually everyone I grew up with, everyone I admired, everyone I was in "friendly competition" with, seems to have figured it out while I am still struggling. Sometimes I feel a tinge of embaresment when people ask me if "all" I do is coach, or comment that I never moved from my hometown. I once emailed a friend (who's married with two kids) who I haven't seen since I was a freshmen in college. I told her about my marathons, triathlons, racing, coaching, traveling. Her Response: "You didn't tell me much about yourself other than coaching and keeping up with rowing and racing. Tell me more." What if there isn't more? And what if that's not enough?
Darwin saw in nature a constant competition between individuals with different degrees of fitness. Competition leads to the survival of advantageous traits which eventually lead to the evolution of a new species. (I know, I know, ix-nay on the arwin-da.) Sometimes I feel like this is the story of my life. Most days, in most company, I feel a little out of place, a little unrelateable, like I'm just a different species. When DO I feel "normal," like I'm in my element, like my priorities and goals aren't so out of wack, like I can speak the language, like I can be proud of exactly who and where I am . . .
When you finish the Ironman, Mike Riley ("Voice of the Ironman") announces your name and declares you an Ironman. For obvious liability reasons, Ironman asks for as much of you medical/personal/family dog's name type information as possible. Among other information they have your age, home town, job. I must have finished during a lull in athletes, because Mike gave me quite a bit of air time this past November. As I fished he announced, "Kelly Vanek, a 28 year old rowing coach from Tempe, Arizona. Welcome home, Kelly. YOU are an Ironman." I hadn't won, I hadn't even finished while the sun was still out. I wasn't going to Kona. I wasn't the only Boston marathoner or alumni from my graduating class that raced that day, I still wasn't married with kids (difficult to accomplish during a 140 mile endurance race). I was still coaching, living in Tempe, 20 miles from where I grew up. And I was proud.
You'll rarely win, you'll only occasionally be better than average, sometimes you won't even have the right skills to compete at all. We're not all made to do it ALL. But we are all made to be happy and proud of who we are. And all those people infront of you (outside of the foot race) let them be. They're you're competition, but they're also your company, your own weirdly evolved species. Like all those Galapagos Island freaks.
"Let each man hope and and believe what he can." Charles Darwin
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
My Fair Share of Abuse
Plantar Fasciitis (PF) and I met in June (approximately around the same time as the beginning of this blog writing hiatus). I figured no one was really that interested in hearing about my physical therapy or my visits to the podiatrist. But mostly, when it hurt to run, walk or even stand, the last thing I wanted to do was talk about it, because that made it all too real.
I could remember a time when I had enjoyed running. My closet could attest to this -- a running shoe cemetery dating back to my early marathon days and an extensive collection of white cotton t-shirts, screen-printed with goofy looking turkeys, running cacti, surf boards with faces, etc.
There may have been a time when running was fun, but now that time was a distant memory. Now, running was painful. I was slow and awkward. I lost my motivation to run because every time I went out, I felt like I was one step further from healing. Running everyday became every other, every other became once a week, once a week became only on race day. “This is dreadful,” my subconscious would remind me every time my left heel hit the ground. I found myself questioning the “love” that I ever felt for running. Is it something I ever really loved, or did those endorphins seriously cloud my judgment? I became scared of the thing I once loved, and the fear made me angry. Not only was it hard and painful and severely uncomfortable, but now I was bad at it and embarrassed.
Whether good or bad, a big part of who I am, I associate with training and racing. When people ask me what keeps me busy, it’s not boyfriends or a husband, children or a career, social lighting or traveling; it’s training, and my laundry list of upcoming races. Maybe to some that sounds unsatisfying, but it makes me happy. It is simple and I like it that way. But what happens when training and racing are out the window because of an injury? Well, by the time PF came onto the scene, I had $1000 floating around in Active.com World, dedicated to my next season of racing. I certainly couldn’t re-nig on these commitments. What a waste! Plus, I was getting bored with my current collection of event garb and I needed a fix.
So physical therapy it was. Strength training and stretching, sure. Ultrasound and electrical stimulation, alright. Steroid patches and resistance work in a box of dry pinto beans, wait what? New shoes and new inserts, old shoes and new inserts, new shoes and old inserts, tape, night splints, acupuncture, homeopathic remedies, ibuprofen, naproxen, acetaminophen, topical pain relievers, scraping, ice, rubz, podiatrists, x-rays, orthotics. FOR THE LOVE!!! Out of desperation I considered cortisone shots and plantar fascia surgery. I was lost and I would have tried anything to take the pain away and get back on the road.
For the most part I’ve managed to stay pretty injury free all my life. No broken bones, no concussions, never had any teeth knocked out. I guess ballet doesn’t carry the same risk factors as say soccer or basketball. In any case, an injury free childhood means that I am just now learning how to deal with this very real side of athletics. Our bodies are amazing, but that doesn’t mean we are immune to injury. And when I heard someone liken PF to the runner’s vampire bite, I was almost certain my number had been called.
Ironman race day quickly approached, a day that I had been my motivation for all my training over the course of the year, a day that I hoped would be perfect in every way, a day I now looked forward to with a combination of apprehension and dread. I realized that I would not be at my best come race day, that I would not feel any relief from my injury, and most sadly, I was fearful that this was the beginning of the end of my racing career, that at 28 I had literally run out of miles, that all my running dreams were slipping away . . . Kona, Leadville . . . all slowly fading from the realm of possibility.
Race day inevitably came. I limped around transition after having packed my shoes in my “morning clothes bag,” the hard ground and the cold air aggravating my injury. But now I was used to it. I would suck it up and deal with it. Maybe it was a mix of an Aleve-overdose, the topical pain relievers, and the combined energy of all 2500 athletes willing themselves to the finish, regardless of any obstacle, but 12 hours and 1 minute later I had completed all 140.6 miles. I collected my well-earned t-shirt and hat (yes, Ironman springs for finisher hats as well) – the shirt navy and the hat orange – which would definitely spice up the collection. So I guess I had gotten what I wanted, sort of.
I didn’t revel in Ironman splendor like I did after my first finish. This time I welcomed the break from training. I wanted my body to heal and I didn’t want to be reminded day in and day out that I was operating at less than 100%. Over the next weeks I walked around with a song in my head and these hackneyed lyrics on repeat:
“You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
You just might find,
You get what you need.”
To which I wanted to reply, "Oh really? Suck it, Stones."
I felt a little gypped honestly. A year of training, the money, the hours, the frustrations, the PAIN, the time and effort spent trying to heal my injury to no avail. Maybe in the end I still made it to the finish, but it didn't happen at all the way I wanted, and I’m not sure it’s what I needed either, Mick.
But when it came down to it, despite my current disenchanted state, I still wasn’t ready to give up on running. It had made me who I am and it had shaped my life. I owed it to running to make this right. My type A personality forces me to emphatically say yes to any run, any race, any distance, any pace. But for months now my body had been telling me to “KNOCK THE F*CK OFF!!!” and so for once I listened.
Cycling and circuits (severely boring), night splints (exceedingly lame), foot exercises (unarguably stupid), became my regimen. I read about running fundamentals, about the movement of the foot, about proper running technique. When I ran, I applied my new wisdom which initially made me even slower, hurt my ankles, calves and forefeet. Awesome. Have you ever tried to change the way you run or walk? It’s like trying to change the way your heart beats – as if running is as involuntary and uncontrollable as the blood pumping through your body. Healing was not going to happen on its own, but I was willing to try. Fine, Mr. Jagger, you got me on that one.
Well, if you know anything about me, you know where this story is going. Active.com showed up to collect in the amount of one half marathon this past weekend. I stood at the starting line feeling happy, triumphant, and ready for the first time in months. PF was on its way out. It was refreshing to be "on the road" again, except that my “anticipated finish time” required 7:40/miles and because of my injury I hadn’t done ONE sub 9:00/mile since Boston last spring. Riiiight.
Well, all I can say is that adrenaline is an amazing thing. Maybe I hadn’t trained appropriately, and maybe I hadn’t really earned my position in the second coral, but when the race started there was that old familiar feeling of flying -- the quick turnover of my legs and my arms pumping to propel me forward. I felt like I was falling in love with running all over again. And love makes you do some crazy things . . .
At the end of the day I got my 7:40’s and a PR by 12 minutes. And now I was an even bigger believer in the power of our bodies and the still greater potential of our minds. And most importantly, every mile, every step that day I saw as a gift, a blessing, because now, I knew the alternative. I had a body that would do more than I had expected, a mind that bolstered my body in the face of difficulty and discomfort, a will that wouldn't take no for an answer, and an unmarred love for all this insanity. The things I wanted, on this day and at Ironman -- the perfect body, the effects of perfect training, the perfect race plan, the confidence that comes with all these -- all those "wants" remained unmet, and in the end it really didn't matter. Because it's really never about perfection, is it? It's about taking our very real bodies and minds, with all of our shortcomings, improper techniques and hangups, confronting our deficiencies, changing, and growing beyond them. By revealing our imperfections we can, oddly enough, more closely approach perfection. So (sigh . . . eye roll . . . ), maybe The Stones had it right. Perhaps when you try you do get exactly what you need. Maybe getting what we want makes us momentarily happy and content, but getting what we need makes us whole and heals us.
Side note: Mick Jagger was 20 years old when he wrote the lyrics to You Can't Always Get What You Want . . . and on acid (so the story goes). So just because rock and roll says it's true doesn't always mean it's so. However, youth and heavy narcotics aside, they got it right this time.
I could remember a time when I had enjoyed running. My closet could attest to this -- a running shoe cemetery dating back to my early marathon days and an extensive collection of white cotton t-shirts, screen-printed with goofy looking turkeys, running cacti, surf boards with faces, etc.
There may have been a time when running was fun, but now that time was a distant memory. Now, running was painful. I was slow and awkward. I lost my motivation to run because every time I went out, I felt like I was one step further from healing. Running everyday became every other, every other became once a week, once a week became only on race day. “This is dreadful,” my subconscious would remind me every time my left heel hit the ground. I found myself questioning the “love” that I ever felt for running. Is it something I ever really loved, or did those endorphins seriously cloud my judgment? I became scared of the thing I once loved, and the fear made me angry. Not only was it hard and painful and severely uncomfortable, but now I was bad at it and embarrassed.
Whether good or bad, a big part of who I am, I associate with training and racing. When people ask me what keeps me busy, it’s not boyfriends or a husband, children or a career, social lighting or traveling; it’s training, and my laundry list of upcoming races. Maybe to some that sounds unsatisfying, but it makes me happy. It is simple and I like it that way. But what happens when training and racing are out the window because of an injury? Well, by the time PF came onto the scene, I had $1000 floating around in Active.com World, dedicated to my next season of racing. I certainly couldn’t re-nig on these commitments. What a waste! Plus, I was getting bored with my current collection of event garb and I needed a fix.
So physical therapy it was. Strength training and stretching, sure. Ultrasound and electrical stimulation, alright. Steroid patches and resistance work in a box of dry pinto beans, wait what? New shoes and new inserts, old shoes and new inserts, new shoes and old inserts, tape, night splints, acupuncture, homeopathic remedies, ibuprofen, naproxen, acetaminophen, topical pain relievers, scraping, ice, rubz, podiatrists, x-rays, orthotics. FOR THE LOVE!!! Out of desperation I considered cortisone shots and plantar fascia surgery. I was lost and I would have tried anything to take the pain away and get back on the road.
For the most part I’ve managed to stay pretty injury free all my life. No broken bones, no concussions, never had any teeth knocked out. I guess ballet doesn’t carry the same risk factors as say soccer or basketball. In any case, an injury free childhood means that I am just now learning how to deal with this very real side of athletics. Our bodies are amazing, but that doesn’t mean we are immune to injury. And when I heard someone liken PF to the runner’s vampire bite, I was almost certain my number had been called.
Ironman race day quickly approached, a day that I had been my motivation for all my training over the course of the year, a day that I hoped would be perfect in every way, a day I now looked forward to with a combination of apprehension and dread. I realized that I would not be at my best come race day, that I would not feel any relief from my injury, and most sadly, I was fearful that this was the beginning of the end of my racing career, that at 28 I had literally run out of miles, that all my running dreams were slipping away . . . Kona, Leadville . . . all slowly fading from the realm of possibility.
Race day inevitably came. I limped around transition after having packed my shoes in my “morning clothes bag,” the hard ground and the cold air aggravating my injury. But now I was used to it. I would suck it up and deal with it. Maybe it was a mix of an Aleve-overdose, the topical pain relievers, and the combined energy of all 2500 athletes willing themselves to the finish, regardless of any obstacle, but 12 hours and 1 minute later I had completed all 140.6 miles. I collected my well-earned t-shirt and hat (yes, Ironman springs for finisher hats as well) – the shirt navy and the hat orange – which would definitely spice up the collection. So I guess I had gotten what I wanted, sort of.
I didn’t revel in Ironman splendor like I did after my first finish. This time I welcomed the break from training. I wanted my body to heal and I didn’t want to be reminded day in and day out that I was operating at less than 100%. Over the next weeks I walked around with a song in my head and these hackneyed lyrics on repeat:
“You can’t always get what you want,
But if you try sometimes,
You just might find,
You get what you need.”
To which I wanted to reply, "Oh really? Suck it, Stones."
I felt a little gypped honestly. A year of training, the money, the hours, the frustrations, the PAIN, the time and effort spent trying to heal my injury to no avail. Maybe in the end I still made it to the finish, but it didn't happen at all the way I wanted, and I’m not sure it’s what I needed either, Mick.
But when it came down to it, despite my current disenchanted state, I still wasn’t ready to give up on running. It had made me who I am and it had shaped my life. I owed it to running to make this right. My type A personality forces me to emphatically say yes to any run, any race, any distance, any pace. But for months now my body had been telling me to “KNOCK THE F*CK OFF!!!” and so for once I listened.
Cycling and circuits (severely boring), night splints (exceedingly lame), foot exercises (unarguably stupid), became my regimen. I read about running fundamentals, about the movement of the foot, about proper running technique. When I ran, I applied my new wisdom which initially made me even slower, hurt my ankles, calves and forefeet. Awesome. Have you ever tried to change the way you run or walk? It’s like trying to change the way your heart beats – as if running is as involuntary and uncontrollable as the blood pumping through your body. Healing was not going to happen on its own, but I was willing to try. Fine, Mr. Jagger, you got me on that one.
Well, if you know anything about me, you know where this story is going. Active.com showed up to collect in the amount of one half marathon this past weekend. I stood at the starting line feeling happy, triumphant, and ready for the first time in months. PF was on its way out. It was refreshing to be "on the road" again, except that my “anticipated finish time” required 7:40/miles and because of my injury I hadn’t done ONE sub 9:00/mile since Boston last spring. Riiiight.
Well, all I can say is that adrenaline is an amazing thing. Maybe I hadn’t trained appropriately, and maybe I hadn’t really earned my position in the second coral, but when the race started there was that old familiar feeling of flying -- the quick turnover of my legs and my arms pumping to propel me forward. I felt like I was falling in love with running all over again. And love makes you do some crazy things . . .
At the end of the day I got my 7:40’s and a PR by 12 minutes. And now I was an even bigger believer in the power of our bodies and the still greater potential of our minds. And most importantly, every mile, every step that day I saw as a gift, a blessing, because now, I knew the alternative. I had a body that would do more than I had expected, a mind that bolstered my body in the face of difficulty and discomfort, a will that wouldn't take no for an answer, and an unmarred love for all this insanity. The things I wanted, on this day and at Ironman -- the perfect body, the effects of perfect training, the perfect race plan, the confidence that comes with all these -- all those "wants" remained unmet, and in the end it really didn't matter. Because it's really never about perfection, is it? It's about taking our very real bodies and minds, with all of our shortcomings, improper techniques and hangups, confronting our deficiencies, changing, and growing beyond them. By revealing our imperfections we can, oddly enough, more closely approach perfection. So (sigh . . . eye roll . . . ), maybe The Stones had it right. Perhaps when you try you do get exactly what you need. Maybe getting what we want makes us momentarily happy and content, but getting what we need makes us whole and heals us.
Side note: Mick Jagger was 20 years old when he wrote the lyrics to You Can't Always Get What You Want . . . and on acid (so the story goes). So just because rock and roll says it's true doesn't always mean it's so. However, youth and heavy narcotics aside, they got it right this time.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Journey: Sand Diego, Destination: Boston
Enjoy the ride, stop and smell the roses, it is better to travel than to arrive, it's the journey not the destination. No matter who said it or how it was said, most of us have tried to embrace some form of this advice. Most of us A-typers have failed. I think of these words when I need to relax before a race. I remind myself of the fact that race day is the easiest day of my entire training schedule; all the hard work has already been completed when you arrive at the starting line on race day. You have already battled your demons during your lonely 120 mile bike rides and your solo 20 mile runs. All I have left to do is enjoy! It is not race day that makes you who you are, nor is it your finish times that prove your worth. In short, it is the journey.
The Boston Marathon calls bull shit on all of this nonsense.
Boston says, if this is not the hardest run you've ever raced then you have not worked hard enough If you don't finish this race on the brink of consciousness, the you did not push hard enough. If you "saved" yourself for any part of the course, then you did not try hard enough.
By the time I got to Boston, Friday before the Monday race, I was at ease. This would be my 7th marathon -- I was a vet. The work was done, my qualifying time verified, the registration complete, the time off work scheduled, the trip planned. The only thing left was just 26 miles. I was ready to run what is arguably the world's most well known and prestigious marathon. It was almost too real. The mystique was gone, the journey was over. It was almost a let down.
That's when Boston slapped me across the face.
After I left the humble starting town of Hoptinkon I cruised for 10 miles averaging 7:45 per mile. Sure, it was faster than I had planned, but it was a steady decline and I knew I would slow a bit in the second half thanks to the hills. So giving myself a little buffer would help get me to my anticipated finish time of 3:30. I mean PUH-lease, it's not like Boston would be THAT much harder than any of my previous marathons. I knew what it was to run 26 miles. And 26 miles is 26 miles wether you're in Arizona, California, or Boston.
That's when Boston punched me sharply in the gut.
At the half way point, although I was still going sub 8:00, the miles seemed noticeably harder. My stomach began to turn. GU, Powergel, Accelgel? Even the thought made me sick. Not even water was sitting well, so I began looking for places to puke. But that is difficult when the entire course is lined with white-haired grandmas, little kids, frat guys, you name it -- all of Boston is out. You are exposed, in all your glory, or all your misery. Just try to keep it together, I thought to myself. As I approached mile 20 where my support team had planned to set up camp, I had slipped to about 8:30's. It felt like a snail's place compared to earlier in the day, but I knew that if I could make it to 20 and get that boost of energy from my family, I could cruise for the last 6. Although I wouldn't be finishing in 3:30, at least I would be finishing.
Jab, jab, right cross . . . Boson had me cornered.
As I crested Heartbreak Hill, my legs turned to glass. Every step felt as if I was being hit it the quad with a baseball bat. Each time my foot hit the ground it felt like my muscles might shatter. Could I run 6 more miles like this -- an hour more -- when each step was reverberating through my body like a mini earthquake -- one after another, after another? I felt like a pile of rubble. I wanted to go faster. I didn't want to finish doing 9:00 miles, but I couldn't make my body move any quicker -- not even if my life depended on it. I felt sick, light headed, thirsty, cold, like I was going to pass out, like I WANTED to pass out, like I wanted to DIE! I wanted it to be over. I wanted to stop moving. I wanted to revel in the last 6 miles of the Boston Marathon. I wanted to enjoy the crowds, the Citgo sign, Commonwealth Ave -- but I couldn't.
Boston landed one final blow and I was down for the count.
It didn't even feel good to finish. The damage was done. Multiple volunteers asked me if I was ok -- I guess ashen skin and blue lips are signs that something is up -- I couldn't even formulate a sentence; my words weren't making sense. I started to shiver uncontrolablly. I took my gloves off and realized that even with the 40 degree weather and intense headwinds everything I was wearing was totally drenched with sweat. I had about a half mile to walk to get to my gear bag which at least had dry gloves in it, but every step was a struggle and I wondered if I would make it. The race had literally taken everything I had. I had nothing left in my muscles, in my head, in my heart.
Long story longer, this is what I was reminded of when I ran the Boston Marathon: that sometimes it's not JUST about getting to the finish; SOMETIMES it's about how fast (or slow) you get there. When we forget about the importance of performance, we lose a large part of what it means to be an athlete. We cannot run ALL our races or live ALL our days thinking ONLY of the journey and never the destination. And when it comes to Boston, you better believe that the starting line is NOT your destination. Honey, that is only the beginning! Sure, it's great to make it there, to look around and see a sea of 25,000 of the world's best marathoners and know that you have earned a spot amongst them. But if that is your final destination, your "journey" is about 26 miles short. Because, I assure you, it's the FINISH that you want to make it to -- proudly, and quickly, having truly earned the privledge of every step you took on that hallowed course, having earned the opportunity not to run the race, but to race the race; because this is the Boston Marathon SUCKAH!
Five weeks later, against my better judgement, I found myself once more at the starting line. This was the San Diego Marathon. I stood next to a long time running friend, the one who had convinced me that two marathons in 40 days was a good idea. I don't usually run with people and with good reason. I was hoping this would not be the beginning of the end of our friendship. Although my 8th marathon, it was full of firsts. It was the first time I would run with company. It was the first marathon where I would not dictate the pace. It was the first marathon where I would opt out of using my I-pod. And it was the first marathon -- gasp -- where time did not matter. This was my promise and my challenge: this race would be about friendship, beautiful San Diego, the crowds, the guy wearing the inflatable monkey and the two girls in the fairy costumes. This was, very simply, about doing something I love. This time, it was ALL journey. We saw our friends at mile 20 and they snapped a picture of us. My smile was so enormous that I look like a cartoon. You can't fake that kind of bliss. We finished together 6 miles later, and my love for this ridiculous sport was renewed.
San Diego kissed me smack on the lips.
Both Boston and San Diego were surprising for different reasons. In Boston -- the weather, the course, the humbling desperation. In San Diego -- the friendship made stronger by 26 miles, the fun, the joy. There are times where it's about the journey and times where it's about the destination. It can be your heaven and your hell. It can build you up and tear you down. And to see it from both sides is to truly know it. And only when you know something can you truly love it. To know what it has the potential to do to you and without reservation to return again -- that is explained only by stupidity, ego, or love. To appreciate the journey, to see the importance of the destination, to have sought the understanding of both and to have been blessed with a love for both is to have become a better person with a deeper knowledge of oneself.
The day after the Boston Marathon the Globe printed a full page add that said this:
Today you may feel like you'll never run a marathon again.
See you next year.
Touché.
The Boston Marathon calls bull shit on all of this nonsense.
Boston says, if this is not the hardest run you've ever raced then you have not worked hard enough If you don't finish this race on the brink of consciousness, the you did not push hard enough. If you "saved" yourself for any part of the course, then you did not try hard enough.
By the time I got to Boston, Friday before the Monday race, I was at ease. This would be my 7th marathon -- I was a vet. The work was done, my qualifying time verified, the registration complete, the time off work scheduled, the trip planned. The only thing left was just 26 miles. I was ready to run what is arguably the world's most well known and prestigious marathon. It was almost too real. The mystique was gone, the journey was over. It was almost a let down.
That's when Boston slapped me across the face.
After I left the humble starting town of Hoptinkon I cruised for 10 miles averaging 7:45 per mile. Sure, it was faster than I had planned, but it was a steady decline and I knew I would slow a bit in the second half thanks to the hills. So giving myself a little buffer would help get me to my anticipated finish time of 3:30. I mean PUH-lease, it's not like Boston would be THAT much harder than any of my previous marathons. I knew what it was to run 26 miles. And 26 miles is 26 miles wether you're in Arizona, California, or Boston.
That's when Boston punched me sharply in the gut.
At the half way point, although I was still going sub 8:00, the miles seemed noticeably harder. My stomach began to turn. GU, Powergel, Accelgel? Even the thought made me sick. Not even water was sitting well, so I began looking for places to puke. But that is difficult when the entire course is lined with white-haired grandmas, little kids, frat guys, you name it -- all of Boston is out. You are exposed, in all your glory, or all your misery. Just try to keep it together, I thought to myself. As I approached mile 20 where my support team had planned to set up camp, I had slipped to about 8:30's. It felt like a snail's place compared to earlier in the day, but I knew that if I could make it to 20 and get that boost of energy from my family, I could cruise for the last 6. Although I wouldn't be finishing in 3:30, at least I would be finishing.
Jab, jab, right cross . . . Boson had me cornered.
As I crested Heartbreak Hill, my legs turned to glass. Every step felt as if I was being hit it the quad with a baseball bat. Each time my foot hit the ground it felt like my muscles might shatter. Could I run 6 more miles like this -- an hour more -- when each step was reverberating through my body like a mini earthquake -- one after another, after another? I felt like a pile of rubble. I wanted to go faster. I didn't want to finish doing 9:00 miles, but I couldn't make my body move any quicker -- not even if my life depended on it. I felt sick, light headed, thirsty, cold, like I was going to pass out, like I WANTED to pass out, like I wanted to DIE! I wanted it to be over. I wanted to stop moving. I wanted to revel in the last 6 miles of the Boston Marathon. I wanted to enjoy the crowds, the Citgo sign, Commonwealth Ave -- but I couldn't.
Boston landed one final blow and I was down for the count.
It didn't even feel good to finish. The damage was done. Multiple volunteers asked me if I was ok -- I guess ashen skin and blue lips are signs that something is up -- I couldn't even formulate a sentence; my words weren't making sense. I started to shiver uncontrolablly. I took my gloves off and realized that even with the 40 degree weather and intense headwinds everything I was wearing was totally drenched with sweat. I had about a half mile to walk to get to my gear bag which at least had dry gloves in it, but every step was a struggle and I wondered if I would make it. The race had literally taken everything I had. I had nothing left in my muscles, in my head, in my heart.
Long story longer, this is what I was reminded of when I ran the Boston Marathon: that sometimes it's not JUST about getting to the finish; SOMETIMES it's about how fast (or slow) you get there. When we forget about the importance of performance, we lose a large part of what it means to be an athlete. We cannot run ALL our races or live ALL our days thinking ONLY of the journey and never the destination. And when it comes to Boston, you better believe that the starting line is NOT your destination. Honey, that is only the beginning! Sure, it's great to make it there, to look around and see a sea of 25,000 of the world's best marathoners and know that you have earned a spot amongst them. But if that is your final destination, your "journey" is about 26 miles short. Because, I assure you, it's the FINISH that you want to make it to -- proudly, and quickly, having truly earned the privledge of every step you took on that hallowed course, having earned the opportunity not to run the race, but to race the race; because this is the Boston Marathon SUCKAH!
Five weeks later, against my better judgement, I found myself once more at the starting line. This was the San Diego Marathon. I stood next to a long time running friend, the one who had convinced me that two marathons in 40 days was a good idea. I don't usually run with people and with good reason. I was hoping this would not be the beginning of the end of our friendship. Although my 8th marathon, it was full of firsts. It was the first time I would run with company. It was the first marathon where I would not dictate the pace. It was the first marathon where I would opt out of using my I-pod. And it was the first marathon -- gasp -- where time did not matter. This was my promise and my challenge: this race would be about friendship, beautiful San Diego, the crowds, the guy wearing the inflatable monkey and the two girls in the fairy costumes. This was, very simply, about doing something I love. This time, it was ALL journey. We saw our friends at mile 20 and they snapped a picture of us. My smile was so enormous that I look like a cartoon. You can't fake that kind of bliss. We finished together 6 miles later, and my love for this ridiculous sport was renewed.
San Diego kissed me smack on the lips.
Both Boston and San Diego were surprising for different reasons. In Boston -- the weather, the course, the humbling desperation. In San Diego -- the friendship made stronger by 26 miles, the fun, the joy. There are times where it's about the journey and times where it's about the destination. It can be your heaven and your hell. It can build you up and tear you down. And to see it from both sides is to truly know it. And only when you know something can you truly love it. To know what it has the potential to do to you and without reservation to return again -- that is explained only by stupidity, ego, or love. To appreciate the journey, to see the importance of the destination, to have sought the understanding of both and to have been blessed with a love for both is to have become a better person with a deeper knowledge of oneself.
The day after the Boston Marathon the Globe printed a full page add that said this:
Today you may feel like you'll never run a marathon again.
See you next year.
Touché.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
The "B-word"
I don't know if you can pinpoint the moment when you move from disbelief to belief, or when the scale tips from impossible to possible, or when wishing is replaced with hoping, is replaced with action.
When I ran my first marathon, I had heard the "B-word." Boston. I knew that it was out there, and I knew that you had to qualify in order to enter. I also knew that it wasn't an idea you just casually threw around in conversation. Like, "Oh, I think I might run Boston some day." I visited the Boston Athletic Association website and checked out said qualifying times; then I did the math and realized that I wasn't ever going to just accidentally and conveniently run a 3:40 and, "oops," qualify. If this was going to happen, I would have to make it happen. I would have to turn my 4:15 into a 3:40. Was 35 minutes (or lack there of) worth the time and effort. Was this even possible; was it something I could believe in?
To be honest, I wasn't sure, and I didn't make the decision right then. But I did continue to run . . . 4:15, 4:14, 4:03, 3:48. I think it was then, the moment I crossed the line at 3:48:35 that I realized 3:40 was in reach, if I wanted it. But every time I got all starry eyed thinking about standing at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, I would remember what that meant: going 3:40, in other words, running 8:20 miles, 26 times. And that was flipping fast. I still wasn't buying it.
Then last summer I reached my tipping point. I was driving a friend around, we were making small talk, and he asked me what I was currently training for. I told him I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. He asked me what time I needed to run, I told him, and without pause he responded, "Oh Kelly, you're not built for a 3:40!"
Maybe that was all I needed, someone to tell me I couldn't, because from that point forward I had a greater purpose, to do the "impossible." If you've ever been the underdog, you know there's nothing better than making the impossible, possible. So I trained, hard. I ran through the 110 degree Arizona summer, I woke at 4 am to start my 20 milers. I felt fast; I felt like 3:40 was becoming possible, but not guaranteed.
When the preparation was complete and the training was executed, I stood at the starting line wearing all green, as a reminder of my pursuit of Boston. Hopefully I could put my money where my outfit was. My plan was to run between 8:10 and 8:20 in the first half and buy myself as big of a cushion as possible. I would inevitably slow in the second half. But at 13 I felt fresh, SO fresh. I didn't need to back off at all. And for a moment I panicked. Was I sure that the qualifying time was 3:40? Because this felt too easy. I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule and l felt like I had flown over the first half of the course. Now I would put my feet on the ground and run. But I didn't just want to run. I wanted to race.
And this was when I believed, knew, that I had made it happen. I was going to come in under 3:40, and it wasn't going to be by a few seconds. It wasn't going to come down to a last do or die 7 minute mile. I had put in the work and this was the reward. I didn't just believe, I knew. I ran with confidence, with elation. At 20 I ran without caution, without fear. I ran sub 8 minute miles and it wasn't until 23 that I paid for it. It was then that I finally settled into that 8:20 pace, those 8:20's that had scared me for so long, that had made me a non-believer. I came in that day having run a 3:31, averaging 8:05, and having negative split the whole race. I had undoubtedly qualified. And so began my following 48 hours . . .
That night I sat with a friend, having a celebratory drink and watching the Arizona Cardinals win the NFC conference championships and advance to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history: an improbable feat and the epitome of a Cinderella story. A day after this I watched again as the first African American took the oath of office: the son of a Kenyan man and a woman from Kansas, who had grown up between Indonesia and Hawaii. Talk about the ultimate long shot.
It seems like "impossible" continues to prove us wrong. Yet we still resist. So what will it take for us to believe in ourselves, in each other? Can we allow ourselves to be 49% pragmatist, 51% dreamer? Instead of naivete, can we call it faith? Can we replace our self imposed limits with open minds and open roads? What if we set lofty goals without fear of disappointment of unmet expectations? What if we wore green at the start and went out 10 seconds faster than we thought possible? What if we fought for every inch, first down after first down, believing in a team that few others did? What if we found ourselves inspiring a nation BECAUSE of our willingness to hope and believe?
Youth begs us to believe and age pressures us to be realistic. Failures, defeats and broken hearts try to convince us that low expectations mean low risk of disappointment. We grow older and we get harder. We want to believe, but we think believing is unwise, illogical. The thing is, when we look back on our greatest moments, or pivotal events in history, or sports, aren't they many times steeped in improbable circumstances, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and a minority of believers? Are these reasons NOT to believe, or are these required ingredients in man's greatest accomplishments?
What is so wrong with just believing? What is so unwise about hoping, planning, and acting? Why does having faith in ourselves or each other make us naive? Barack stands with his hand on Lincoln's bible, Cardinals lead in the last minute of the 43rd Super Bowl, with 9 minutes to spare, I qualify for Boston. So you tell me, what IMPOSSIBILITY should I NOT believe in next? Until the unbelievable things stop happening, I think I'll just keep on believing. I will use the "B-word" freely, because I am a proud "B"eliever.
When I ran my first marathon, I had heard the "B-word." Boston. I knew that it was out there, and I knew that you had to qualify in order to enter. I also knew that it wasn't an idea you just casually threw around in conversation. Like, "Oh, I think I might run Boston some day." I visited the Boston Athletic Association website and checked out said qualifying times; then I did the math and realized that I wasn't ever going to just accidentally and conveniently run a 3:40 and, "oops," qualify. If this was going to happen, I would have to make it happen. I would have to turn my 4:15 into a 3:40. Was 35 minutes (or lack there of) worth the time and effort. Was this even possible; was it something I could believe in?
To be honest, I wasn't sure, and I didn't make the decision right then. But I did continue to run . . . 4:15, 4:14, 4:03, 3:48. I think it was then, the moment I crossed the line at 3:48:35 that I realized 3:40 was in reach, if I wanted it. But every time I got all starry eyed thinking about standing at the starting line of the Boston Marathon, I would remember what that meant: going 3:40, in other words, running 8:20 miles, 26 times. And that was flipping fast. I still wasn't buying it.
Then last summer I reached my tipping point. I was driving a friend around, we were making small talk, and he asked me what I was currently training for. I told him I was trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. He asked me what time I needed to run, I told him, and without pause he responded, "Oh Kelly, you're not built for a 3:40!"
Maybe that was all I needed, someone to tell me I couldn't, because from that point forward I had a greater purpose, to do the "impossible." If you've ever been the underdog, you know there's nothing better than making the impossible, possible. So I trained, hard. I ran through the 110 degree Arizona summer, I woke at 4 am to start my 20 milers. I felt fast; I felt like 3:40 was becoming possible, but not guaranteed.
When the preparation was complete and the training was executed, I stood at the starting line wearing all green, as a reminder of my pursuit of Boston. Hopefully I could put my money where my outfit was. My plan was to run between 8:10 and 8:20 in the first half and buy myself as big of a cushion as possible. I would inevitably slow in the second half. But at 13 I felt fresh, SO fresh. I didn't need to back off at all. And for a moment I panicked. Was I sure that the qualifying time was 3:40? Because this felt too easy. I was 4 minutes ahead of schedule and l felt like I had flown over the first half of the course. Now I would put my feet on the ground and run. But I didn't just want to run. I wanted to race. And this was when I believed, knew, that I had made it happen. I was going to come in under 3:40, and it wasn't going to be by a few seconds. It wasn't going to come down to a last do or die 7 minute mile. I had put in the work and this was the reward. I didn't just believe, I knew. I ran with confidence, with elation. At 20 I ran without caution, without fear. I ran sub 8 minute miles and it wasn't until 23 that I paid for it. It was then that I finally settled into that 8:20 pace, those 8:20's that had scared me for so long, that had made me a non-believer. I came in that day having run a 3:31, averaging 8:05, and having negative split the whole race. I had undoubtedly qualified. And so began my following 48 hours . . .
That night I sat with a friend, having a celebratory drink and watching the Arizona Cardinals win the NFC conference championships and advance to the Super Bowl for the first time in franchise history: an improbable feat and the epitome of a Cinderella story. A day after this I watched again as the first African American took the oath of office: the son of a Kenyan man and a woman from Kansas, who had grown up between Indonesia and Hawaii. Talk about the ultimate long shot.
It seems like "impossible" continues to prove us wrong. Yet we still resist. So what will it take for us to believe in ourselves, in each other? Can we allow ourselves to be 49% pragmatist, 51% dreamer? Instead of naivete, can we call it faith? Can we replace our self imposed limits with open minds and open roads? What if we set lofty goals without fear of disappointment of unmet expectations? What if we wore green at the start and went out 10 seconds faster than we thought possible? What if we fought for every inch, first down after first down, believing in a team that few others did? What if we found ourselves inspiring a nation BECAUSE of our willingness to hope and believe?
Youth begs us to believe and age pressures us to be realistic. Failures, defeats and broken hearts try to convince us that low expectations mean low risk of disappointment. We grow older and we get harder. We want to believe, but we think believing is unwise, illogical. The thing is, when we look back on our greatest moments, or pivotal events in history, or sports, aren't they many times steeped in improbable circumstances, seemingly insurmountable obstacles, and a minority of believers? Are these reasons NOT to believe, or are these required ingredients in man's greatest accomplishments?
What is so wrong with just believing? What is so unwise about hoping, planning, and acting? Why does having faith in ourselves or each other make us naive? Barack stands with his hand on Lincoln's bible, Cardinals lead in the last minute of the 43rd Super Bowl, with 9 minutes to spare, I qualify for Boston. So you tell me, what IMPOSSIBILITY should I NOT believe in next? Until the unbelievable things stop happening, I think I'll just keep on believing. I will use the "B-word" freely, because I am a proud "B"eliever.
Friday, November 7, 2008
Ode to Gator Bike
It has been just over a year since I purchased my first road bike -- a sky blue Cannondale that had made the trip all the way from Florida to sit in a garage in Arizona, until a beautiful thing called Craig's List brought us together. The addition of the Cannondale made for four bikes in my garage. I also had a Jamis that I was renting, my roommate's something-or-other from Target, and a white Trek 700 (which I will refer to from here on out as Gator Bike). This made my initiation into bike culture complete. The two-wheelers had completely taken over my garage.
The one inalienable truth about bikes is that you can't have just one . . . or is that potato chips? In any case, it's true for both. Different occasions, different places, different weather, call for different bikes. I wouldn't ride Cannondale to the bar and then attempt to clip in after a pitcher of Hefewizen, and I wouldn't show up to Ironman with Gator Bike. Every bike has something different to offer and some unique personality traits. Simply put, bikes are like people.
Of the now five bikes that have called my garage home (Bianchi became part of the family last June), my favorite is Gator Bike. GB has been handed down four times, but was originally purchased by a guy who was 6'4". I am only 5'8" -- you do the math. It is entirely too big for me, and I imagine that I must look like a circus clown when I ride it. The front derailer doesn't work, so I use the big ring for EVERYTHING. Climbing, descending, whatever. The back derailer isn't much better and will shift at random which, come to find out, can be pretty unsafe. But the best part of this fine cycling machinery is the horn which is in the shape of an alligator head. He has one wonky eye and a snarly grin and when you squeeze his snout he squeaks like a dog toy.
Meet Gator Bike.
If GB was a person I imagine he'd be that guy that everyone wants to hang with. He's easy going, unpretentious, he tells the best stories. He'll drink a few cheap beers and school you at pool or darts, or he'll enjoy the complex aromas of good glass of wine and talk in depth about American Foreign Policy. When he arrives, everyone thinks, "Sweet! GB is here!" (This part is not made up. As it is, even with rider, people are generally more excited to see GB than they are me. "Squeak the horn!" is usually the welcome I get when I show up on GB.)
GB and I are kind of like an opposites-attract-match-made-in-heaven. I like things clean and in perfect working order. I like my work to be efficient and precise. I am quiet and reflective. I would rather not be the center of attention. But GB has chosen me, and I can't tell you why, but I'm glad he did. He is much too cool, too outgoing, too worldly, too fun, to be hanging out with me. But here we are, most mornings catching the sunrises and cruising down the 16 mile bike path. Especially in the summer months when the asphalt will melt your wimpy road bike tires, GB and I spend a lot of time exploring the path -- parks, golf courses, neighborhoods, schools, ponds, soccer fields. During monsoon season there are evening downpours that leave the path totally saturated, but we don't care. We tear through the puddles and flooded sidewalks without hesitation, flinging mud and dirty water everywhere.
Simply put, GB allows me to have adventures that I would never get to have on my road bike. I can take risks without worrying about damaging a tightly tuned bike. I drop off curbs, jump over bumps in the road, mash through the gears -- things you'd never do on a delicate road bike. GB makes me much cooler and much more confident than I really am. He makes me embrace things that I fear: adventure, risk, the unknown. He makes me better, stronger, faster.
After the Ironman last spring, and all the training that preceded it, the last thing I wanted to do was get back on my road bike. However, I missed that "wind-in-your-hair-freedom" of the bike, so I dusted off GB and filled up the tires. For weeks on end we did a 30 mile out and back, daily. My times were getting faster, but I didn't think much of it. As the weather cooled, I began taking Bianchi out on Saturday mornings for about 40 miles. The first 40 miles went ridiculously fast and I assumed it was a fluke. Over the next few months my times dropped dramatically and I was beginning to feel like maybe I no longer sucked at the bike. Like maybe, without even realizing it, GB had made me, well, fast.
The final test came just a few weeks ago at my Half Ironman "season wrap up." The outcome? Fifteen minutes faster over 56 miles, averaging well over 20 miles an hour. (But no worries -- I still got my dose of humility during the swim, as always.)
As I walked Bianchi home that day and leaned him up in the garage next to GB, I gave the gator a squeak and a quiet thank you. I had no doubt that he was the one who deserved the credit. I thought back to 18 months earlier when I first inherited Gator Bike and I remember being fearful -- fearful of riding a bike in general (it had been decades since the pink Schwinn of my childhood), fearful of traffic, of hills, of speed, of falling, of making mistakes.
I'm sure everyone can think of someone in their life that pushed them to a place they didn't necessarily want to go. A coach, a teacher, a parent, a friend, who created some sort of resistance or challenge or level of discomfort -- for no benefit of their own, but just to unlock the greatness they saw inside of us.
Although just a bike, this is what GB taught me: to embrace your fears and your deficiencies; to appreciate those that ask more of you than you think possible; and then to thank them for seeing in you what you yourself did not. Initially, these people motivate us to do our best. But eventually we find that the gift they've given us is actually the motivation to do out best, even when no one is watching. When I used to look at GB this is what I saw: old school steel frame, heavy as hell, white with lime green writing, gator shaped horn. But come to find out he's much more than this. He is a period in my life when I grew up, when I realized you are as good as you believe you are, when being my best became not only satisfying, but liberating.
I used to think GB was too good/cool/fast for me. I would get mad and frustrated when the work was hard, when I would make mistakes. I would ignore him for months, assuming that the only way to become a faster road biker was to ride my road bike. But GB has proven to be like that friend that you can always go back to. He doesn't want an apology or a thank you or any of the credit, he simply wants to help you work hard, become better, find confidence, set you free. He just wants to fly up and down the bike path together, "Squeak, squeak! On your left."
The one inalienable truth about bikes is that you can't have just one . . . or is that potato chips? In any case, it's true for both. Different occasions, different places, different weather, call for different bikes. I wouldn't ride Cannondale to the bar and then attempt to clip in after a pitcher of Hefewizen, and I wouldn't show up to Ironman with Gator Bike. Every bike has something different to offer and some unique personality traits. Simply put, bikes are like people.
Of the now five bikes that have called my garage home (Bianchi became part of the family last June), my favorite is Gator Bike. GB has been handed down four times, but was originally purchased by a guy who was 6'4". I am only 5'8" -- you do the math. It is entirely too big for me, and I imagine that I must look like a circus clown when I ride it. The front derailer doesn't work, so I use the big ring for EVERYTHING. Climbing, descending, whatever. The back derailer isn't much better and will shift at random which, come to find out, can be pretty unsafe. But the best part of this fine cycling machinery is the horn which is in the shape of an alligator head. He has one wonky eye and a snarly grin and when you squeeze his snout he squeaks like a dog toy.
Meet Gator Bike.
If GB was a person I imagine he'd be that guy that everyone wants to hang with. He's easy going, unpretentious, he tells the best stories. He'll drink a few cheap beers and school you at pool or darts, or he'll enjoy the complex aromas of good glass of wine and talk in depth about American Foreign Policy. When he arrives, everyone thinks, "Sweet! GB is here!" (This part is not made up. As it is, even with rider, people are generally more excited to see GB than they are me. "Squeak the horn!" is usually the welcome I get when I show up on GB.)
GB and I are kind of like an opposites-attract-match-made-in-heaven. I like things clean and in perfect working order. I like my work to be efficient and precise. I am quiet and reflective. I would rather not be the center of attention. But GB has chosen me, and I can't tell you why, but I'm glad he did. He is much too cool, too outgoing, too worldly, too fun, to be hanging out with me. But here we are, most mornings catching the sunrises and cruising down the 16 mile bike path. Especially in the summer months when the asphalt will melt your wimpy road bike tires, GB and I spend a lot of time exploring the path -- parks, golf courses, neighborhoods, schools, ponds, soccer fields. During monsoon season there are evening downpours that leave the path totally saturated, but we don't care. We tear through the puddles and flooded sidewalks without hesitation, flinging mud and dirty water everywhere.
Simply put, GB allows me to have adventures that I would never get to have on my road bike. I can take risks without worrying about damaging a tightly tuned bike. I drop off curbs, jump over bumps in the road, mash through the gears -- things you'd never do on a delicate road bike. GB makes me much cooler and much more confident than I really am. He makes me embrace things that I fear: adventure, risk, the unknown. He makes me better, stronger, faster.
After the Ironman last spring, and all the training that preceded it, the last thing I wanted to do was get back on my road bike. However, I missed that "wind-in-your-hair-freedom" of the bike, so I dusted off GB and filled up the tires. For weeks on end we did a 30 mile out and back, daily. My times were getting faster, but I didn't think much of it. As the weather cooled, I began taking Bianchi out on Saturday mornings for about 40 miles. The first 40 miles went ridiculously fast and I assumed it was a fluke. Over the next few months my times dropped dramatically and I was beginning to feel like maybe I no longer sucked at the bike. Like maybe, without even realizing it, GB had made me, well, fast.
The final test came just a few weeks ago at my Half Ironman "season wrap up." The outcome? Fifteen minutes faster over 56 miles, averaging well over 20 miles an hour. (But no worries -- I still got my dose of humility during the swim, as always.)
As I walked Bianchi home that day and leaned him up in the garage next to GB, I gave the gator a squeak and a quiet thank you. I had no doubt that he was the one who deserved the credit. I thought back to 18 months earlier when I first inherited Gator Bike and I remember being fearful -- fearful of riding a bike in general (it had been decades since the pink Schwinn of my childhood), fearful of traffic, of hills, of speed, of falling, of making mistakes.
I'm sure everyone can think of someone in their life that pushed them to a place they didn't necessarily want to go. A coach, a teacher, a parent, a friend, who created some sort of resistance or challenge or level of discomfort -- for no benefit of their own, but just to unlock the greatness they saw inside of us.
Although just a bike, this is what GB taught me: to embrace your fears and your deficiencies; to appreciate those that ask more of you than you think possible; and then to thank them for seeing in you what you yourself did not. Initially, these people motivate us to do our best. But eventually we find that the gift they've given us is actually the motivation to do out best, even when no one is watching. When I used to look at GB this is what I saw: old school steel frame, heavy as hell, white with lime green writing, gator shaped horn. But come to find out he's much more than this. He is a period in my life when I grew up, when I realized you are as good as you believe you are, when being my best became not only satisfying, but liberating.
I used to think GB was too good/cool/fast for me. I would get mad and frustrated when the work was hard, when I would make mistakes. I would ignore him for months, assuming that the only way to become a faster road biker was to ride my road bike. But GB has proven to be like that friend that you can always go back to. He doesn't want an apology or a thank you or any of the credit, he simply wants to help you work hard, become better, find confidence, set you free. He just wants to fly up and down the bike path together, "Squeak, squeak! On your left."
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Ironman Take 2
A Tale of Two Cities, the best of times the worst of times, words vs. numbers, left brain vs. right brain. To write about that day is to tell two entirely different stories. One is unequivocal, orderly, and told through splits and rankings and hours, minutes, seconds. The other is emotional, chaotic, illogical and told by the heart.It was April 13, 2008, my 27th birthday. The alarm clock woke me at 4:00 am. I arrived to prep my bike at 5:00. My race number was marked perfectly on both arms: 1953. I had 15 minutes in the water before they fired the gun at 6:30. Only a few minutes into the race and my heart rate was flirting with the 180's when it should have been 155, MAX. It took me an hour to swim the first mile and 49 minutes to complete the last 1.4. Out of 2027 people who began the race and exited the water, I was in 1968th place -- with only 50 others behind me . . .
. . . I was suprisingly relaxed that morning, given what I was about to do. Fruit smoothie, cup of English Breakfast tea. I woke my three friends who had stayed with me that night in anticipation of a long day of spectating. When I got to the course I went to work on my bike. As the dawn approached and the sky grew light, I looked up from my bike to take it all in. I glanced up at the bridge that spans Tempe Town Lake and for a moment my eyes locked upon three figures silhouetted by the pastels of the approaching sunrise. As I watched, the three became five with the addition of a dinosaur and what could only be a blow up man. There they all were, my three friends, K-Rex and Pedro. Long story, better saved for another time.I was calm until the gun went off. Immediately I knew I was too far forward in the pack and I was about to be run over by every other swimmer out there. I panicked. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't put my face in the water. I rolled over and tried to take a couple backstrokes, but each time the choppy water splashed across my face, my lungs tightened up even more. I heard someone next to me, "I can't do this. I CAN'T DO THIS!" I stopped and looked around and saw a few people -- wounded, struggling. Can I do this? If I didn't calm down, then no, I couldn't. Why are you here? You don't have to be here. Call that safety boat over and you can end this all right now. My friends waiting at transition, my family watching online, my team, good God my parents! No, I will do this, You MUST do this. What is the cut off? You can't be sure, you didn't pay attention to cut off times because you didn't anticipate this. You thought this was going to be easy? It's the God damn Ironman!
So I stopped, twice. The first kayak was paddled by a girl about my age. Before I let go she said to me, "You're doing amazing." And with that I sunk back down into the murk. I stopped a second time before I took control -- before I felt my first deep breath and forceful exhale, before I saw a glimmer of hope and imagined exiting the water and standing solidly on the ground, before I found a rhythm, before I just, swam . . .
. . . My coach had anticipated my swim to be about 1:15. I was 35 minutes behind, and I would NOT make it up on the bike. I was immediately aggravated by the gusty headwind leading out (and up) of town. The further I got up the gradual hill, the slower I got: 15 . . . 13.5 . . . 11. . . 9 . . . 8.5. So much for a 6 hour bike ride. 800 calories, 300 ounces of liquid, heart rate 155, temperature 90 degrees. Still, you dig in and grit your teeth and race the person in front of you until you catch him. Once, twice, three times, 763 times. By the end of the 6 hour 55 minute ride, over which I averaged 16.1 mph, I was in the middle of the pack. Number 1205. 114.4 miles, or 9 hours, down. 8% of the field had already dropped out . . .
. . . On the bike, even when the speeds are slow, you move, react, observe everything in a "hyper speed" sort of state. Your senses seem heightened. You listen for the slightest noise, perhaps a bike coming up behind you. You watch for the smallest of debris in the road, dodging everything in an attempt to save your next flat for another day. You see bodies but not faces. You exchange words but you don't talk. By this time I had come to accept that I would be far off my expected finish time, and I didn't care. I let the numbers go; they didn't matter any more. What was happening was far greater than anything you could measure . . .
. . . I started the marathon, 26.2 miles, at 4 pm. The volunteers in T2 told me it was 97 degrees outside the cool, shady tent. The loop was about 8.5 miles long. I needed about 400-500 calories on the run but couldn't get past 100 without making myself sick. The sun set at about 7 pm, leaving the last loop to be run in the dark. A couple friends escorted me on bikes through stretches of my last 9 miles. They brought good news with them: I had passed nearly 800 people since the swim. "Perfect 10 minute miles," one of them commented, "Just since we've been riding next to you you've passed another 50 people!" At this point, only about 15% of those left on the course were still running. The only mile I clearly remember was 22, because I bent over in front of the mile marker with an immediate urge to be sick. Then I had only minutes, seconds, I heard someone say "Quarter mile!" 13:41:25. 1689 people finished the race in the alloted 17 hours, only 83% of the field. It was the 3rd highest drop out rate in Ironman history. I had passed 1142 people. I was number 885 of the original 2027 . . .
. . . The run doesn't have that same lonely, blind feeling as the swim. And it doesn't have that isolated, fish bowl feeling of the bike. The run is something you can share. Your world moves in the same way as those around you, you no longer feel alone. You see faces, you have conversations, you smile, you laugh. You realize that you have everything with you, right now, that you need to make it to the finish: two feet and an iron will. You realize that these people you've been trying to get past all day make up the greatest company you will ever find yourself in; and the miles that you can't help but to wish away, are miles you will want back before the day is even over. You look into the eyes of friends, family, who you've seen since 6 am, and you remember their excitement the first time they saw you exit the water, and the next time they saw you on the first bike loop, and the third time they saw you on the THIRD bike loop, because they were so busy cheering for ALL THE OTHER Iron people that they missed YOU on the second loop entirely, and you know what it is to feel unwavering support and immeasurable love. And when you finish, they are there, as enthusiastic as they were 13 hours ago. It's as if THEY have completed the race. And they have. One person can't do this alone . . .
I was reminded that day that sometimes things get hard, so hard, that just to finish, you need a reason greater than yourself. Numbers don't cut it. For all my "reasons" that were there that day, as well as those who where there in spirit, thank you. I began because of me and finished because of you.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Ironman Take 1
Holding on with both hands and bobbing up and down with the choppy water, I clung to the side of the kayak. I watched the number on my watch flash with every beat of my heart: 181, 181, 182 . . . and listened to my own panicked breathing, shallow and labored.
I clipped in with my left shoe and heard someone behind me say with formidable encouragement, "Have a good ride Kelly." I shoved away and clipped in with my right. Here we go, just a nice 112 mile ride.
He was waiting there when I exited the T2 tent. All he said was all I needed to hear, "Twenty-six one mile jogs."
I stopped to tread water and raised one fist above my head -- come to find out this is the NOT SO universal sign of distress. I tried to call to someone for help, but a little like a bad dream, nothing came out when I opened my mouth.
I reached the top of the hill, the unrelenting headwind hitting me square in the face. My current speed read 8.5 mph. "BRING IT!" I snarled. It couldn't get worse, it might get better, and a bigger challenge would make for a better story at the end of the day.
"You'll keep this on for the next 4 days." he said. I looked down at my wrist as he snapped the closure on the silver hologrammed wrist band that read FORD IRONMAN 2008. "Holy shit," I thought to myself, "you're really doing this."
"How many times have you been here before?" the sign along the side of the run path begged. Presumably a simple question. Or perhaps intended to be a little more profound. How many times have you been here before . . . exhausted, running on empty, alone, scared, wanting nothing more than to stop? And then you don't. And the next moment you don't stop, again. And the moment after that you don't stop. And you put all those moments together and you get something amazing. How many times have I been here before? COUNTLESS.
I was a dot in a sea of bobbing pink and green caps. I watched the line of black wetsuits flopping into the water one by one. Looking out onto the first 2.4 miles of the next 140.6 miles of my life. "Welcome to the BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!" the announcer boomed into his microphone.
"Six miles until Ironman!" my dad yelled as I ran by in my last loop. By this time 10 of the high school girls I coach had also gathered in the same area to emphatically cheer me on into the finish. Signs, yelling, screaming. I realized then that you can feel love -- that love is the negation of all pain and fatigue. Love is the greatest renewer. "Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13
I had only been on the course for about 15 seconds when I heard the announcer inform the crowd that the pros were coming through for their second lap. For a moment I thought it would be exciting to see them pass -- their perfect bodies and top of the line gear, their sponsors' names zooming by at 25+ mph. My next thought was: Mother F*ckers! The race is only 2 hours old and they are already 38 miles ahead of me?
When the sun goes down and the course gets dark, everything gets quiet, very quiet. You can hear the shuffling of footsteps, but even those get lighter and softer. You go inward, you have no energy, no emotion left for the outside world. All you have goes to turning your legs over, one after another, after another . . .
After the most self-doubting sixty minutes I've ever experienced, I was at the turn around buoy. I had only one hour and twenty minutes for the return trip plus an additional 500 meters. Would I even get the chance to bike the 112 and run the marathon? Or would it end here in the water? Would those 1000s of hours of training be for nothing? Was the Ironman just too hard for me?
At some point I crossed the finish line back into the real world. I had asked more of myself than ever before, I had allowed myself to go places I never knew existed, I had been to the opposite end of the world and back, I felt like I had lived a lifetime in a day. I don't remember the cheering or the signs. I don't remember Mike Reilly saying "Kelly Vanek! You are an Ironman!" By that time I already knew. All day long I had known. I had had the guts to train for it, surely I had the guts to finish it. Race day is not a test of skill, it is a test of patience.
This is how that day, "the best day of my life" exists in my head -- as bits and pieces. As memories that stand out for a moment, then fade back into their surroundings, as if they are all part a long, meandering, cluttered, dream. The timeline is disordered, the story line seems unreal, the characters include all my friends and family, an inflatable dinosaur and blow up Mexican Man named Pedro. Yes, this MUST have been a dream.
All you learn from such an experience is unfathomable. Since April, I have tried to sum it up in a few pages. I've tried to define it with some overall theme. It isn't possible. It is too many things, too many moments, too many lessons. What I do know is that April 13, 2008, was, as predicted, the best day of my life.
I had felt my highest high, which made me vulnerable to my lowest low, which I think I also reached in these 6 months post race. When one day has the capacity to change your life, every other seems wasted, sad, uninspired. "That event ruins people," I once heard someone say. Perhaps, but if it didn't ruin me that day, it sure won't ruin me today.
Ironman is not the Holy Grail of athletics, it is not Kilimanjaro, it is also not a thing to do just to say you've done it. It won't make you a better person and it won't take anything away from you. But I think amid the haze of the event and the dreamlike recollection of all the moments connected to that day, I think it does offer you a few seconds of the most pristine clarity.
You realize that everything you do, become, accept, renounce, love, endure is a choice. And so I choose to add this caveat:
April 13, 2008: the best day of my life . . . so far.
I clipped in with my left shoe and heard someone behind me say with formidable encouragement, "Have a good ride Kelly." I shoved away and clipped in with my right. Here we go, just a nice 112 mile ride.
He was waiting there when I exited the T2 tent. All he said was all I needed to hear, "Twenty-six one mile jogs."
I stopped to tread water and raised one fist above my head -- come to find out this is the NOT SO universal sign of distress. I tried to call to someone for help, but a little like a bad dream, nothing came out when I opened my mouth.I reached the top of the hill, the unrelenting headwind hitting me square in the face. My current speed read 8.5 mph. "BRING IT!" I snarled. It couldn't get worse, it might get better, and a bigger challenge would make for a better story at the end of the day.
"You'll keep this on for the next 4 days." he said. I looked down at my wrist as he snapped the closure on the silver hologrammed wrist band that read FORD IRONMAN 2008. "Holy shit," I thought to myself, "you're really doing this."
"How many times have you been here before?" the sign along the side of the run path begged. Presumably a simple question. Or perhaps intended to be a little more profound. How many times have you been here before . . . exhausted, running on empty, alone, scared, wanting nothing more than to stop? And then you don't. And the next moment you don't stop, again. And the moment after that you don't stop. And you put all those moments together and you get something amazing. How many times have I been here before? COUNTLESS.
I was a dot in a sea of bobbing pink and green caps. I watched the line of black wetsuits flopping into the water one by one. Looking out onto the first 2.4 miles of the next 140.6 miles of my life. "Welcome to the BEST DAY OF YOUR LIFE!" the announcer boomed into his microphone.
"Six miles until Ironman!" my dad yelled as I ran by in my last loop. By this time 10 of the high school girls I coach had also gathered in the same area to emphatically cheer me on into the finish. Signs, yelling, screaming. I realized then that you can feel love -- that love is the negation of all pain and fatigue. Love is the greatest renewer. "Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." 1 Corinthians 13:13I had only been on the course for about 15 seconds when I heard the announcer inform the crowd that the pros were coming through for their second lap. For a moment I thought it would be exciting to see them pass -- their perfect bodies and top of the line gear, their sponsors' names zooming by at 25+ mph. My next thought was: Mother F*ckers! The race is only 2 hours old and they are already 38 miles ahead of me?
When the sun goes down and the course gets dark, everything gets quiet, very quiet. You can hear the shuffling of footsteps, but even those get lighter and softer. You go inward, you have no energy, no emotion left for the outside world. All you have goes to turning your legs over, one after another, after another . . .After the most self-doubting sixty minutes I've ever experienced, I was at the turn around buoy. I had only one hour and twenty minutes for the return trip plus an additional 500 meters. Would I even get the chance to bike the 112 and run the marathon? Or would it end here in the water? Would those 1000s of hours of training be for nothing? Was the Ironman just too hard for me?
At some point I crossed the finish line back into the real world. I had asked more of myself than ever before, I had allowed myself to go places I never knew existed, I had been to the opposite end of the world and back, I felt like I had lived a lifetime in a day. I don't remember the cheering or the signs. I don't remember Mike Reilly saying "Kelly Vanek! You are an Ironman!" By that time I already knew. All day long I had known. I had had the guts to train for it, surely I had the guts to finish it. Race day is not a test of skill, it is a test of patience.
This is how that day, "the best day of my life" exists in my head -- as bits and pieces. As memories that stand out for a moment, then fade back into their surroundings, as if they are all part a long, meandering, cluttered, dream. The timeline is disordered, the story line seems unreal, the characters include all my friends and family, an inflatable dinosaur and blow up Mexican Man named Pedro. Yes, this MUST have been a dream.All you learn from such an experience is unfathomable. Since April, I have tried to sum it up in a few pages. I've tried to define it with some overall theme. It isn't possible. It is too many things, too many moments, too many lessons. What I do know is that April 13, 2008, was, as predicted, the best day of my life.
I had felt my highest high, which made me vulnerable to my lowest low, which I think I also reached in these 6 months post race. When one day has the capacity to change your life, every other seems wasted, sad, uninspired. "That event ruins people," I once heard someone say. Perhaps, but if it didn't ruin me that day, it sure won't ruin me today.Ironman is not the Holy Grail of athletics, it is not Kilimanjaro, it is also not a thing to do just to say you've done it. It won't make you a better person and it won't take anything away from you. But I think amid the haze of the event and the dreamlike recollection of all the moments connected to that day, I think it does offer you a few seconds of the most pristine clarity.
You realize that everything you do, become, accept, renounce, love, endure is a choice. And so I choose to add this caveat:
April 13, 2008: the best day of my life . . . so far.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
