It's been seven weeks since I stood in this same place with 140.6 miles in front of me. It seems worlds away now, like someone else completed the race, but their memories are stored in my head. Or maybe it is better described if I liken it to an out of body experience, where I floated above myself and watched the race unfold. Hard to explain, so I won't even try.
The build up to an Ironman event is nothing short of TOTALLY and COMPLETELY over the top. The closer you get to race day the faster time passes. There aren't enough hours in the day for the miles, the sleep, led alone life and work and things unrelated to the race. But you get it done, you stay afloat, you run on adrenaline knowing that in the end you'll be rewarded in the form of six little words: Kelly Vanek, you are an Ironman. Everything is done towards one end, and that is going 140.6 miles in 17 hours.
People look at you with wonder and disbelief. They call you crazy when you tell them what you're preparing for. You revel in that feeling, that you're about to do something that others never will, not because they think it sounds too hard, but because they think it sounds impossible. It's a drug. It's a high. I admit it.
That feeling is the reason that I've gone from 5ks to 10 milers, from half marathons to full marathons, to triathlons, from Olympic, to half Ironman and finally THE Ironman. It's the reason that the super Ironmans now exist, as well as the ultramarathons and 157 miler through the Sahara. Endurance athletes are crazy enough to try to chase their last high with some even more outrageous stunt. The deeper they fall into this abyss, the more ridiculous and unreasonable the challenges become. For the desired feeling that once took 5k and 20 minutes, you're now training for 12 months, racing for 13 hours, and hoping you don't die.
Needless to say, after Ironman, I suffered from some serious withdraws, and tried to fill the void with naps and a jog here and there. I felt lost, purposeless. I had accomplished this huge thing and reached a goal that for 10 months had been my reason for EVERYTHING. What now? I tried to sign up for the next open Ironman AZ and learned that registration begins one year in advance, which means I still have six moths to wait before I can officially set my sights on another 140 miler. Then last week, in a frantic, needy, midlife crisis sort of state, I signed up for a local Olympic tri to be held that upcoming Sunday. As soon as I pressed the send button and my registration drifted off into the nebulous of cyberspace, to be received by active.com, I immediately felt better. It wasn't an Ironman, but it was a fix that would at least get me through the week.
In those five or six days I realized this: there are things that are consistent about racing, no matter what the distance. There is always the moment of unhappiness when the alarm goes off at 4:30 Sunday morning, and you think, "WHO voluntarily wakes up pre-5:00 am on a Sunday to work their ass off for three hours? Damn type A personality . . ." There is always the nervousness that seeps in as you set up your transition area. You pull you gear out and carefully place it, piece by piece, in logical order to make your transitions smoother. You also always come through T1 like a bulldozer so that when you come through on T2 your first thought is, "What the hell happened here?" You blame the athletes on either side of you.
There are the smells of the triathlon. The neoprene, the toxic body marking pens, the new cheap swim cap. There are physiological effects that you can always count on. There's the "no-blood-in-legs" feeling when you exit the water, and the "forgot-how-to-run" feeling when you get off the bike. There's the feeling of euphoria as you approach the finish and float through the last 200 meters.
And most importantly, for me, there's the foot race. Mana a mano. Every time I race a tri I fantasize about the moment that I can put my running shoes on and start picking off those athletes in front of me. It's jungle rules on the run. Runner vs. runner. Pass or be passed. YOU are the only determining factor in your speed. There is no $600 "bells and whistles" wetsuit, or $8000 lighter than air carbon fiber bike that you can hide behind on the run. I drag my clearance wetsuit through the water and I push my 50 pound aluminum bike frame up the hills, but when the shoes go on, the gloves come off.
And I realized, last Sunday in the first mile on the 10k, that I was feeling that high again. These are the moments, whether there's 6 of them or 26, where I get my rush. The intensity of racing never fades. Maybe the preparation is different, the fan fare. My mom is not on the sidelines saying Hail Mary's. But the feeling of speed, or flying, of racing is always attainable if you want to push yourself to get it. The setting is not as grand and the anticipation of the event is different, but I realize now that the high IS the same. Within those miles, 37 or 140 it makes no difference, I can, if I choose, go to a place where I have never been before. I don't have to chase that high with more miles and more hours, but rather, a greater level of determination and commitment to The Race.For now, I will hold off on the the Sahara race. I'm sure it would be one of those "unseasonably warm" weekends anyway.
