Iron-y

My targeted first race of the season was a few weeks ago.  But, as happens in life, even the best laid plans go awry, and I did not race Oceanside as planned.

Suffice it to say, the 2015 season is a bit of a lemon so far in the racing department.

Certainly, my perspective on racing has changed.  The single-race-as-a-goal has realistically been replaced with a desire to be an athlete for life.  With 40 just behind me, there is a noticeable difference in how my body reacts to training volume and stress.  Being "in" for the long term demands a measured approach.  Recovery takes longer, and the abuses that my body once took in stride (hard back-to-back sessions, high weekly volume, cutting my sleep schedule to meet life demands, being less than perfect with nutrition) are no longer tolerated.

Work stress in December left me fighting a losing battle to the cold and flu season in January, followed by the loss of my beloved Bogey in January.  Add fatigue and stress to more stress, and you end up with a pretty unpleasant base.  Training was inconsistent at best, and each setback necessitated a few days or a week of recovery.

These things happen.  After each setback, I hit "reset", and I moved on...although not without a few good pep talks from Coach Jasper.  I was pretty determined to make some lemonade out of those lemons.  After all, your mindset is one of the very few things that is absolutely in your control.

The head, the heart or the body...?

Repetitive bouts of fatigue and stress cumulatively sap even the hardiest of minds and body.  And, in trying to work a solution, it is always easiest if you understand the root cause.  

So, I spent the first two months of 2015 wondering what the hell was wrong with me.  The fatigue and constant sniffles were a pretty obvious sign that something was amiss.  Tired all the time.  So, so very tired.

Emotional stress and physical stress are really hard to differentiate.  Was it my body telling my head that it had had enough, or was my head influencing what my body felt?  I was doing nothing different than I had for months, years, before...and yet, the result I was getting was so very frustratingly opposed to what I had ever experienced.  I wasn't getting stronger, I wasn't getting faster...I was just getting tired.

Just don't tell me to eat a steak!

As Jasper puts it best (and an outlook that I am grateful for), there is no cookie cutter approach to planning an effective training program for an athlete.  A training plan is highly individualized, a puzzle that fits into the demands, capabilities and lifestyle of each athlete.  There is absolutely no perfect or singular approach that works universally for every athlete.

The high-volume, high stress plans that work for some athletes absolutely do not work for me, and they never have.  This bod simply doesn't do boot camp - it needs love.  Effectively training means being smart, and taking the time to listen to your body isn't being lazy or unmotivated.  Rest, recovery and head space have always been important to me, and are even more critical to me today.  Being an athlete does not mean that every spare moment of your free time needs to be consumed by training.

You are not supposed to be wrecked all the time.  Hard days are to be matched evenly by the easy days when your body is given the luxury of recovering.  And, when it is clear that something is physically amiss, you step back and figure it out.  

Mindfully shelving the race in Oceanside created space - it eliminated the stress of racing when my body was not ready to race.  It also offered the opportunity to plan a sunshine escape not involving race chaos...a simply lovely riding adventure to the Santa Monica Mountains over the Easter holiday.  Riding in the sunshine for no greater reason than because riding is fun.  

Incredible Malibu canyon climbing

Vitamin D + mountains + ocean views = bliss

Snap back to reality

Suffice it to say, it is somewhat relieving to arrive at the "why".  Along with the fatigue and general malaise, symptoms that had been somewhat resolved by my surgery in 2012 had reappeared. A blood test confirmed that my iron levels are the lowest they have been post-surgery, and borderline anemic.  The sneaking suspicion then subsequently confirmed by ultrasound.

There are many life experiences you would choose to repeat, given the opportunity.  An incredible vacation, a milestone achievement, a loved one's accomplishment, the unconditional love of a puppy, an unforgettable sunset.  Surgery, however, does not fit the bill, and wasn't exactly my grand plan for 2015.  But here we are.

And yet, I feel fortunate.  I feel fortunate to know that there is not only a path to recovery, but it is a path I somewhat understand the trajectory of.  I feel fortunate to know that there is a reason behind the fatigue, and fortunate to feel like I can control how I manage it.  I might not be fast, I might not be racing, but I am here, I am alive, and I get to do what I love, with the people I love, every day - and that's not all that bad.  

In love and loss and love

Fifteen years is a long time.  One's life evolves enormously over that period.  For a person, fifteen years takes you partially through adulthood, with all the lessons and realizations that come with it.

For a dog, fifteen years measures a life.

That life started in small town Alberta.  A precocious ball of fluff literally bounced into my life, with him choosing me and not vice versa, the beginning of what was an improbable and adventurous run for a little pet store mutt from rural Alberta.  

From that cold January day onward, Bogey graced (owned?) absolutely every moment of my adult life as I know it.  My sidekick, my companion, my monkey.  He filled my world with love - an infectious, silly, enthusiastic, crooked-grinned, impetuous and irresistible love.  He was a standout, simply one of the best people (yes, people) I have ever met, unconditional and unwavering in his affection, gracious for the simplicities of life, and spunky as all hell.

When my life changed, Bogey stayed a constant.  We left the prairies and embarked on what was initially a lonely and isolating move to Vancouver.  No matter what job or relationship turmoil ensued, what successes or failures arose, he happily gave unwavering, unconditional and non-judgemental friendship.  Together, we gradually made Vancouver our forever home.  Kitsilano was his 'hood, and he owned that beach like no prairie shih tzu's business.

The infectious, crooked Bogey grin.

Fifteen years.  My longest relationship.

Every day, he greeted me at the door with his silly grin and happy tail.  He was a character, a little imp, and his antics and goofy personality touched everyone who got to know him.  He ran like a mad-monkey-dog, especially at the beach, but started and finished each day curling up beside me for a cuddle. We embarked on adventures galore, took holidays together, ran on beaches, had picnics and shared ice cream.

Self-satisfied at the beach.

Bogey did not do anything half hearted.  He was all in.  He ran himself silly, stopped to catch his breath, then did it again over and over.  He chased squirrels and ducks and cats relentlessly, despite no hope of ever catching one.  He rolled in the dirt, sand, and grass without fear of looking silly or getting dirty.  He greeted me with zeal, whether I was gone for a minute or a day.  I can aspire to experience my life with such passion and fervour.

There is no judgement, no selfishness and no game-playing in a dog's companionship.  It is the truest relationship you will ever experience.  Bogey taught me not only to love myself, but to raise the expectations of relationships around me.  He taught me to be appreciative and live each moment with joy, be unwavering in my loyalty, and to be unafraid to show my heart on my sleeve.

And, unlike relationships with people, a relationship with a dog is co-dependent and unconditional.  Bogey was forever my responsibility, and after years together, we just "got" each other.  I learned his snurfles, his ear twitches, his mannerism, his tail wags, his barks.  When I was ill, and when I had surgery, he was "ill" too and never left my side.  That bond is irreplaceable and precious.  I only wish I had more time, for fifteen years was simply not long enough.  The decline of that precious friendship was too soon, much too soon.

In the last few years, Bogey gradually lost his hearing (sometimes selectively), his eyesight, and sometimes his balance as arthritis creeped into his back legs.  He started relishing belly rubs over long walks (and somehow conned his walkers into more of the former than the latter), but in his Bogey manner, remained graciously enthusiastic.

Then, last fall, he fell terminally ill with a liver tumor that threatened his life several times.  He bounced back, incredibly, and in his happy-go-lucky way challenged even the vet's best estimates of his life expectancy.  With this diagnosis, however, came the cognizance that every extra day was a gift.  We delighted when he was able to scamper down to the beach, do his "rabbit" hop down the block and play crazy games with Dan in the living room.  Those good days eventually became rarities, with the scamper reduced to a block, then half, then a few meters.

Our "two-block" walks in the late years.

And two days ago, the horrible comprehension that our time together had run its course.  The most difficult, heartwrenching thing I have ever done was taking my best friend on that journey.  Together with Dan (his Dan-Dad), we made it our very best, last day possible, with ice cream, beaches, walks and cuddles.  We told him over and over, how much we loved him and how grateful we were for the life he shared with us, and held him close until he peacefully slipped away.  

Simple pleasures.  A scoop of ice cream on our best, last day together.

I would not trade my heartache today for the memories of the last fifteen years. My greatest fear is not in losing Bogey, for I know that it was time for him to be released from his physical struggle.  My fear is that memories will fade, and that I will forget the feeling of joy he brought me every day, the unconditional love he afforded me, and how burying my face in his beautiful fur made the world disappear.  I fear I will forget, without his presence as a reminder, to embrace every day with silly exuberance, and forget, without his faithful lead, to follow my heart.
 
And, while this is certainly not a story related to triathlon, or training, or any endurance activity whatsoever, it speaks wholly to the title of my blog...which is about the lifelong process of being in transition, learning and evolving.  In love and in loss and in love.  

I am determined to honor our love story, the wonderful life and the beautiful memories he chose me for.  Embrace life in the enthusiastic, impetuous and honest way that he did.  Love fearlessly.  Show affection.  Be silly and happy and love the world.  Stop and sniff the surroundings.  Take long walks. Run like the wind.  Roll in the grass. Relish every treat and ask for more.  Be a puppy forever.

Run like the wind, bask in the sunshine, bounce through the puddles...always.

Bogey, Boo, B-man, Bogeyman, Man-man, Monkey, Mr. Magoo, Little Shit, Good Boy, Bee-boop, Mr. Shih Tzu, Bogeylicious.

My Sweet Boy.

My Little Man.

Words cannot thank you for loving me so much.  It was an amazing, one of a kind love that we shared.  Rest well, my precious little friend.

***
“No matter how close we are to another person, few human relationships are as free from strife, disagreement, and frustration as is the relationship you have with a good dog. Few human beings give of themselves to another as a dog gives of itself. I also suspect that we cherish dogs because their unblemished souls make us wish - consciously or unconsciously - that we were as innocent as they are, and make us yearn for a place where innocence is universal and where the meanness, the betrayals, and the cruelties of this world are unknown.” - Dean Koontz (A Big Little Life:  A Memoir of a Joyful Dog)


***
Huge thanks to the wonderful people that played a part of Bogey's life and care.  Corinne, and his other friends at Fetch N' Go, who helped me manage his walks (and belly rubs);  his friends at the Doghouse (of both the canine and people varieties) who were his companions during our 12 years in Vancouver; his groomers at Unleashed Dog Spa who kept him looking spunky; and finally, the doctors and nurses at Granville Island Vet Clinic, who showed Bogey the utmost compassion and care.

Making plans

A friend forwarded me a great article describing Nicola Spirig's planned Ironman debut in Cozumel this weekend.  An Olympic medallist in triathlon in 2012, and an athlete of the infamous (and controversial Brett Sutton), Nicola is an incredible inspiration to me not because of what she does (aka race incredibly fast) but because of the manner in which she does it:  her way.

She is not only a triathlete and an incredible athlete period, but a professional (lawyer) and a mother. She has a life outside the sport and, much like any age-grouper, balances her passion for racing with real life responsibilities.  It is incredibly refreshing to see someone at this level demonstrate not only an ability to balance life, but a desire to expand her focus beyond elite level ITU racing.  By all accounts, the article indicates that the main reason she is racing Ironman Cozumel is purely curiosity.  Because she can.

Born an original

At the end of my "tri" season, I started making plans as I always do.  End of season always brings reflection and finality, but reinforces the things that make me tick.

I blogged in October about dreaming a new dream.  I was genuinely surprised at the wide range of responses - from support and encouragement to incredulousness.  But this process of creating intention should not come as a surprise.  Just as I took the plunge into triathlon five years ago, I am driven not by repetitiveness in my future plans, but by life experience.  Each year my motivation and goals evolve, and I expect will continue to do so over my lifetime.

I race because I can, and because it lends to my life.  I want to feel challenged, even a bit scared, of the things I take on. I am not interested in complacency or following a crowd - I was born an original, and intend to stay that way.  I am also not a "bucket lister".  Certainly there are experiences that I have simply tried and am not interested in repeating, but there are also experiences I will repeat because they lend something to my life that I need at that time, or represent activities that I have a desire to get better at.  There is no rhyme or reason to this...it just is.  If something happens to be one-and-done, it is because I chose it, and not because I checked off a to-do list.        

Two themes emerged from my race experiences last year:  defining possible, and racing for me alone. These are themes I will carry into my goals for 2015.  

Defining possible

I was wholeheartedly and genuinely terrified of both Alcatraz and Norseman.  That did not make them impossible - they simply represented the opportunity to me to rise to my potential.  Did everything go swimmingly (pun intended)?  No.  But that is the amazing part of endurance activities.  The fear is magnetic - being on the edge of your capability, learning how to adapt and realizing that you are capable of much, much more than you ever believed.  Simply - it is defining possible.

Racing for me alone

I have been, and will continue to be, very selective in the events I choose.  Racing needs to have soul, an inherent attraction - whether it is the location, the terrain, the competition.  The spandex parade interests me not, nor does the "flat, fast" mentality - I want finishing to be a question mark, not an eventuality.  The reward to me is in the effort and in the experience - it matters not to me if I am fifth or first or fiftieth, how I placed in my age group, or what my time was as long as I put forth my best. The race experience I desire is me against me, the elements and the terrain.  Period.

Up, up, up!

The "epic" in 2015 will come from the self-powered adventure known as the Haute Route.  A seven day, 900 kilometre traverse of the Alps and Dolomites - starting in Geneva and (hopefully!) ending in Venice.  There happen to be a few mountains in between...23,500 meters of climbing in aggregate.  You read that right...meters.   Am I scared?  Damned right.

A few hills there...

Moving out of the crowd

I seriously contemplated getting out of triathlon this year.  The age-group experience, particularly in my most recent race, was no longer an enjoyable one for me.  Large races with significant male participation create a very challenging environment on the bike for a relatively weak swimmer like me.  The swim is a beatdown, the bike is a congested mess.  Quite frankly...I was frustrated with my experience.

However, I have been a single sport athlete before and I recall exactly why I expanded my horizons - because I love the variety, I appreciate being able to move between sports, and I believe that each is a compliment to each other.  And while the Haute Route will certainly demand a focus on the bike, I realized I would be remiss to give up on swim/run so easily after working so hard.  I would honestly miss it all...yes, even the pool.  So the change I choose will not involve giving anything up...but will change the way the game is played.  (Because, after all, it is my game and I get to choose!)  

So I took the plunge out of age-group to become a forty-year old "baby pro".  I have no predictions on how this will go, no illusions of greatness, but am appreciative that the opportunity presents itself to race off the front with the fast girls (read:  chase the fast girls).  To my mind, you can never regret a decision you chose not to make. The anticipated ass-kicking will begin in March!  #yolo  

No turning back now!

 And with that...the planned (mis)adventures of 2015 are locked and loaded.  Things just got real :)

Take no prisoners

Last Monday marked the start line of the long haul back to some semblance of fitness.  After several years of taking a notable break after a season of racing, it should come as no surprise when I return feeling sluggish, slow and out of shape.  As I huff and puff and lament how my muscle memory has seemingly faded from existence, those first few workouts remind exactly how hard returning to swim/bike/run is after a over a month "off".

How do the other half live?

Off-season is the time of "normal", as though this hypothetical "normal" can be defined.  

My training friends, for the most part, are not exactly shining examples of this normal that I sought to achieve.  One even casually noted to me that he felt a 50k race was a perfect off-season activity to keep "things fresh".  Yeah right.

So absent any kind of real role model for normal, I free-styled for a few weeks...

An extra glass of wine (ok, maybe two) on a Friday night.  Sometimes Tuesdays too.  Sunday brunch with no run preceding it.  A weekday alarm later than 4:45am.  No pile of lycra laundry or packing around workout gear.  No training peaks schedule.  A (gasp!) holiday without a bike.  Drinks with friends.  Carelessness about food intake.  Shopping...of the variety where you go into real stores (not online), buy real stuff (not bike gear) and even buy girly clothing (not containing spandex).

And, like every other year, the beauty of off-season normal is that it makes me appreciate how absolutely not normal that lifestyle is, for me.  I want to sweat and breathe and create piles of lycra laundry.  I would rather stick pins in my eye than spend a Saturday afternoon in a mall, and quite frankly, I love to eat but really do prefer salads over chocolate and Perrier over martinis.  Perhaps that is just the sensibility that comes with age.  Or perhaps, the reinforcement of years of exercise that have taught me to appreciate that feeling awesome is a life premium worth seeking out.

The other beauty of off-season is that it reinforces how much balance training lends to my life.  Dropping a training schedule out of my week does absolutely nothing to improve my productivity at life in general, in fact, it makes me feel sluggish and grumpy and absolutely aching to get back to my routine.  Again, I realize that sounds strange, but taking breaks to workout energizes me to be productive in my career and at home.  Those hours "gained" in off-season, quite frankly, make my soul feel a little lost.  I'd rather be busy juggling it all than missing the sweaty parts.    

Do it because you love it

So I am back to juggling schedules and laundry and workouts.  Off season is off.  Not "fully" training, but at least sweating again.  And I love it.

Early season is its own beast.  Time off certainly refreshes the mind, but is enough to make the legs a little rusty.  Ask anyone who returns to swimming or running after several weeks off, and they will tell you how much of a struggle it is to return to simply feeling normal.  The truth is, it really never gets easier... but is a matter of setting your mind to it.

Those tough first workouts are tempered by the knowledge that race season is a long way off.  In my view, intense training at this time of the year really does not lend to race season success.  In fact, I believe that too much structure and intensity only serves to damage the opportunity to recalibrate.  Forget FTP, heart rate, wattage, time trials, race pace...this IS the time of year to enjoy being active, enjoy moving, have some fun and not get too fussed about where it all is going.

Same, same but different

I firmly sit in the camp that believes that the human body was not built to train serious, hard and fast year round.  As important as rest days and recovery periods are in a cycle of training, an absolute break followed by a gradual return to fitness is absolutely needed for me to restore the mind and body for the next big adventure.  And, upon returning to a regular schedule of training, my training week purposely looks a little different than the summer months.

Strength, base fitness and balance are my go-to in the early season.  Workouts are not long, but they are very focused and technique driven - good form creates a better base than anything.  (I really loved this article from training peaks that speaks to off-season training.  Someone else gets it!!)

One of my favorite off-season retreats is hot yoga.  As the weather turns nasty and the long dark Vancity days persist (why is it dark at 3pm!?), the heat and comfort of the hot room is my cocoon.  To be fair, I am not a very good yogi - I am definitely more linear than flowy, and my class preference tends towards more "athletic" styles of yoga like power or hot (I highly recommend Katherine Moore's hot class at YYoga...amazing!).  But as a non-bendy athlete who focuses on repetitive movements and pavement jarring impact for much of the year, my joints and muscles are very thankful for the variety and freedom of movement.  Not only does yoga promote greater flexibility and range in a body that is not used to being flexible, but I believe that yoga helps ward off injury and compliments running and cycling by honing in on mental focus.  My head loves being in that place, and nowhere else, for the entire class - the world around just gloriously disappears for an hour at a time.

It is also the season of balancing the things I really like (running for the sake of running!)...with the things-I-really-don't-like-but-are-good-for-me.  Aka...weight training and swimming.  I would really find any excuse in the book not to go to the gym or the pool, so this is a matter of scheduling it in and just doing it.  And, true to my experience every year, the more you go, the easier it gets...but you gotta show up.  Don't over think it, just go!     

My version of fun

And slowly, slowly, it is all coming back.  I am taking no prisoners and doing things exactly the way I want to.  I do this all because it is my version of fun, and as a consequence, I get to decide exactly what that looks like.  And with that, comes the reinforcement that this is the way I like my life to be -  the familiarity of the routine, the happiness of a workout achieved, and the joy of feeling healthy.  

Beach running...a perfect winter activity.

2014 race log

First Half Marathon 02/16
Vancouver Sun Run 4/27
Ironman 70.3 St. Croix 5/4
Escape from Alcatraz 6/1
Ride to Conquer Cancer 6/16-17
Subaru Vancouver half iron 8/13
Norseman 8/2
Glotman Simpson Hill Climb 8/16
SeaWheeze 8/23
ITU AG Worlds (Sprint and Standard) 9/2
Whistler Gran Fondo 9/6
Ironman Mallorca 9/27

...and that's a wrap for 2014!

Dream a new dream

At the end of each race season, I take a break and look back.  Every year's experience is unique, and certainly every season has ups, downs and surprises.  So much time, effort and money goes into racing each season, I would be remiss not to reflect at where it has landed me.

Arriving at a season finale DNF last week provided the impetus to come to terms with myself.  At what point is it ever enough to simply walk away - not just from a race, but from the status quo?  When does it become time to dream a new dream?

Somewhere between the humble first 25m swim at the YWCA pool in 2009 and reaching the top of Mount Gaustatoppen in August, I have managed to chase some pretty lofty aspirations, and achieve what I deemed (at the time) impossible many times over.  And in that time, there was a good share of angst, sweat, heartache and sacrifice, a tad bit of crankiness at times and certainly a lot of calories consumed.

So how does this chase evolve?  What is the next adventure?

I came to terms last week with a pretty stunning realization:  there is absolutely nothing to prove.  Just toeing the starting line at a race requires intense focus and determination.  You can give it everything you have, and the uncontrollable may prevent you from reaching the finish line.  And that is just fine.  A finish line medal is not a measure of one's worth.  I certainly do not race for anyone except myself, and I have already discovered (many times over) that I am capable of pushing my head and my body to accomplish much more than I ever imagined possible. However, when it stops being fun, when the sacrifice becomes too much, it is simply time to dream a new dream.

Racing and training, and all the routine that comes with it is addictive.  So are the endorphins that come with it.  And while it may certainly be as "healthy" as addictions can be (if that is possible), and pretty awesome to enjoy the benefits it reaps, doing the same races over and over, challenging the same course and the same demons, simply is not the lifestyle I choose long term.  Yes, Ironman is a noble aspiration and was something incredibly worthwhile.  However, you soon realize you are being "sold" a lifestyle and, as a lifestyle over the long term, it presents a lot of sacrifice that is simply not sustainable.

I do very little without a plan and clear intention.  It is just the way that I am, and part of the reason that I am in the profession I am and why triathlon has made a lot of sense to me.  So choosing not to attend roll down at St. Croix in May, and not responding when my name got called for a Kona slot, was entirely intentional.  It just was not my dream or goal to race in Hawaii this year.  And yet, I was surprised at how many (complete strangers) were incredulous at the possibility that someone would not want to go to Kona.    
There are athletes that have raced Kona dozens of times.  I salute them for their tenacity, energy and general awesomeness.  My dream, however, diverges from this repetitiveness.  Perhaps someday I will race on the Big Island again, and perhaps not - for now, three times is enough and I have no desire to make it an annual affair.  It is simply not the singular aspiration that I want to consume the best years of my life.

Instead, I chose this year to tackle what I felt was "impossibility", two races that quite frankly scared the shit out of me - Alcatraz and Norseman.  In ramming headlong into some demons and finding out that it was possible to conquer them, these two races have simply spoiled me for the experience.   True, grassroots, unique events where the entire focus in on athlete experience.  Events that demand resilience, where finishing is not only an incredible test of will, a challenge not just against the mind and body, but also a battle against the uncontrollable elements.  Races like these are in demand because they are simply unique.  Neither are a spandex, "drive-through" parade where you clock in and clock out - you put your soul in, or you do not finish.  

While racing has instilled in me the belief that anything is possible, I do believe there are limits to its appeal.  Perhaps I am too apt to becoming bored, but committing myself to something "epic" loses its lustre and appeal when it becomes repetitive and mundane.  The satisfaction of achievement simply does not stick when it becomes routine or an expectation.  So where does it go next?  How do I upstage myself?  Faster, further, longer, same same.. simply not sustainable or interesting to me.  This may sound like disenchantment, but I promise you it is not.  It is simply an unwillingness to accept the status quo as the bar that I set for the future.

So as I embark on dreaming a new dream, I take stock of the things I know...

I thrive on my personal (mis)adventures.
I love riding my bike.
I love the feeling of a workout conquered.
I (sometimes) like swimming, but mostly just like hanging out with my lanemates.
I believe the impossible to be possible
I am not getting any younger...or faster

Most of all, I am grateful to have been able to travel and race and chalk up some pretty ridiculous accomplishments this year.  By no means am I stepping back, but it is clear to me that that way forward is definitely not the same path I have already blazed.  I chose not to repeat the chapter.  After all...it's my life!

(I couldn't help myself...shameless inspirational 80's music....)  

Unfinished

Before yesterday, dropping out of a race had never been a real consideration to me.  I freely admit that I always felt that there was a way to finish what I started, even if that meant dialing down the effort or walking my way in.  I don't consider myself a quitter (though realize this is not judged by me), and likewise tended to view the DNF as a pretty drastic measure.  

I was a late entry to IM Mallorca only a few weeks ago, after learning I needed to be in Spain for work.  At the time, a friend had planned to race as well and it was an opportunity to add a race that I would never choose organically, arguably extending my 2014 race season a little past its shelf life.

It is one thing being a little worn and edgy from the cumulative miles of wear and tear that a season of training brings.  I have done late season races before (Cozumel, Kona) and know full well that it is demanding to be in full training load while the others are blissfully enjoying the spoils of off-season alternate activities...yoga, cross-country races, wine.  I chose to continue the SBR routine, and I expected what that meant - early morning 30k runs, clicking off the 4 hour ride while the rest of the team is in coffee mode, and getting a little aggro in the swim lane (c'mon...3k is not a workout!!).  In the weeks preceding the race, though, life outside of the training bubble occurred as it does - topsy, turvy, tumultuous, and emotionally draining.

Game face

Ten days ago, I would have told you that if anything was going to derail this race, it was my emotional state.  There is a dialogue that enters your mind during a race that you either control, or let control you.  If you let yourself get emotionally charged, your mind will cause your focus and your body to fall apart in equal succession.

And, perhaps, the outside criticism is that I was not fully invested.  Perhaps that is at least partially true.  It is obviously terribly difficult to be fully invested in a race when you are fully prepared to fly home at a moment's notice.    

When it became apparent that Bogey's health had settled sufficiently for me to race, however, the emotional outlet turned off.  I showed up at the start line with my game face and a plan to stay in the moment, execute each section of the race methodically and forget (for just a while) what the future might hold.

Engage!

Having participated in a European race gives me all kinds of appreciation for the awesome races we have in North America.  As the inaugural full-distance race in Mallorca (there have been 70.3's for a few years), there were some logistical kinks.  With over 2600 starters, and less than 300 women - the field is male-dominated and fast.  The small women's field, likewise, was Euro and scary fast (and, as one of the guests at my agriturismo commented..."you seem awfully small compared to those other women"...).

The swim was a no-wetsuit, mass age-group land start, on approximately 150m of width into a shallow beach.  It was pretty close quarters for 2600 people and I expected a rough start, akin to Kona.  As a "40th percentile" swimmer, I never really get out of the shitty mess in these mass swims and it is particularly bad when it is predominately big, overenthused men doing aquatic WWF.  Good swimmers know not this pain - in the pack, it is 3.8k of bedlam.  Either I deal with it or suffer a bad time.    

Photo of the Mallorca 70.3 swim start to add some perspective.  There were even boats moored in the harbour during the race!

My swim strategy was simple - stay "in", be engaged.  Stay in the pack, stay in my head and don't freak out.  Don't look around at the flailing mess, sight only when you have to and directly forward.  Stay confident and know that everyone else out there is facing the same crap as you.    

I was speaking to a friend a few weeks ago about the imagery and mental cues that unconsciously occur in a race.  Sometimes it is the song that you cannot get out of your head, sometimes it is a complete inability to recall ANY song or logical thought (this friend mentioned that the only song she could remember during Ironman Canada was "twinkle, twinkle little Star"...torture!).  Counting.  Repeating a mantra.

The mental image / mantra that occurred to me yesterday was odd - laughably odd - but worth sharing.  There is a scene in Top Gun where Tom Cruise's character is about to enter into a  gunfight, but hesitates in self-doubt.  The radio tower shouts at him, "engage, Maverick, engage",  In true Hollywood fashion, he comes to his senses, engages and kicks everyone's a**.  

So, as cheesy as it sounds, the mantra I had was simply "engage, Richele, engage".  I'm no fighter pilot, and I have no idea why Top Gun came to mind in the swim, but it helped enormously.  For the first time in a mass swim, I was cognizant that the other swimmers dislike contact as much as I do.  Whereas in the past, I would move away and seek calmer water if I got bumped - I stayed in, held my line and fought back when I needed to.  In most instances, the swimmer bumping me moved instead.

The swim was a "M" shape, with a beach exit after 2600m to start the second piece.  My energy really dwindled after going upright to the beach the first time, and the diagonal placement of the swim buoys was very confusing / disorienting so I battled the pack a bit to stay in line.

I never wear a watch during the swim and I don't look at the time on exiting - as a relatively weak swimmer, I feel that this information has no positive relevance for me.  Swims can be short or long, and what is more important is feeling ready to hit the bike - my litmus test is whether there are still bikes in transition! Effort wise, I swam pretty hard and, albeit not knowing my time at that point, had a great swim (for me) - 1:07.

Ride like you mean it

I have had some frustration this season on the bike.  Normally it is my strongest of the three sports, but for a variety of reasons it has not been my happy place.  Not intent to let this become my achilles heel, I was prepared to ride hard and make it count.

The course is shaped like a figure 8, primarily flat to rolling for the first 110k, big climb at 120k in the Serra de Tramuntana mountains in the northwest of the island (so spectacular!) and flat to rolling for the remainder.  Some technical descents, rough road and wind make it an honest course - and one that pacing is critical on.

The stunning climb

I took the first hour fairly conservatively, warmed up and got into a rhythm.  I was, however, pretty shocked at what was laid out in front of me...it was impossible to get clear of other riders.  With a predominately male field that exits the water in quick succession, I suppose this is inevitable.  What I was not prepared for, however, was the general willingness to deliberately pack ride.

I hate this and it creates a very unfair race for the women cyclists wanting to ride a clean race in a male-dominated race.  I was absolutely killing myself to break off the front, and only succeeded in dragging a pack with me that would swallow me on the next downhill.  Uphill and flat, break free, downhill swarm.  It is unnerving, and makes me very uncomfortable to ride in my aerobars when I am being swarmed.  What I really don't understand is the unwillingness of some of the participants to even try to ride legal - it is very simple to ride 10m back.  Quite advantageous really.  And if everyone plays by this rule, it creates a fair ride.

The motorbikes started breaking the packs (or at least scaring them into riding legal), thankfully, and for an extended section before the climb I was able to find space to ride my own race in my aerobars.  The crowd in Alcudia and Pollenca was invigorating and heading into the climb, I felt great - I had ridden the first section conservatively enough to attack the climb, and had lots of energy to attack the hill.

At the base of the climb I quietly relished passing every single person in the draft pack that had whizzed past me around 80k.  Climbing brings out the real deal...and I love that there is no faking it.  There was also more shade and the slower pace meant having time to eat and drink.

There is simply no way of dancing around what happened next, however, without a bit of criticism directed at the race organizers.  And, to be fair, I really appreciate and accept that there are logistical challenges and experience that come into organizing a race of this size, particularly in the first year.  However, the fact that the only bike aid stations were 30 kilometers apart is inexcusable.  Worse, the bottles we were being handed were half full of water.  So if you were lucky enough to grab and rack two bottles...you still only had one full bottle.

So assuming that, under normal riding conditions, you are a camel and can go an hour on one bottle of water in hot, windy conditions, you are getting a mere one bottle roughly every 50-60 minutes (I was averaging about 34-36 kph at this point).  But what they are forgetting is that 115 through 130k features a climb, averaging 5.5%.  So you are no longer averaging a bottle an hour - it is more like 90 minutes to the next bottle (if you are a good climber), after a hot, sweaty climb.  Hydration failure at precisely the point in the race where you need it the most.    

I went dry at the top of the hill - around 130k.  Rather than avoid missing my nutrition as well, I decided to choke down both my gel and salt tab sans liquid.  Bad idea in case you ever consider it.  The salt tab stuck in my throat and I was parched.  I have done enough racing to know that if you feel thirsty, you are already well dehydrated.  This was an alarm in my mind and by the time I eventually reached the aid station, I felt dizzy and headachy.

I decided to come to a full stop at the next aid station and do damage control - I drank a bottle (well, half!) of water immediately, asked for two FULL bottles to rack on my bike and drank a half bottle of Cola.  My abdomen had already started cramping, as had my legs, but I chose a lower gear than normal and "spun" through the next 30k.

I always find that the last 30k of the Iron distance bike are a bit of war of attrition under normal circumstances - you are hot, tired and ready to get off the bike.  At the same time, I am mentally preparing to run and I usually ride more conservatively to spin my legs out.  This is absolutely not the point at which you want to be in disaster recovery mode, and I knew that adequate nutrition and water into the last hour of the bike was imperative.  

All the people I had worked to pass on the hill whizzed past me as I was stopped to refuel, but I desperately hoped that the decision to stop would pay off.  Every other athlete I spoke to after the race had run dry as well, and several had experienced cramping issues to boot.  Certainly it was hot and humid - everyone was coated with white salt stains on the bike.  Not a good sign.

Time-wise, I had a great ride relative to the field even though I sacrificed some time at the last aid station and over the final 30k.  I rolled into T2 about 40 seconds shy of the 2nd place girl in my AG (she passed me after the climb) and knew that if I could run, I could well challenge her for the position.

Full stop 

Thoughts of chasing were fleeting - my head was all in, but my body had started checking out.  When I dismounted and started rolling my bike through transition, it felt like a knife was stabbing me in the gut.

I breathed, and walked my bike to the rack.  Walked to pick up my bag.  Sat down in transition and slowly breathed, got dressed.  I knew that if I let the cramp ease off that I had a chance.  As soon as I started moving again, it returned vengefully.  Not surprisingly there was no water and no aid in T2 - the vollies informed me that I was going to have to get to 2.5k on the run course before I could have a drink of water (seriously...aid stations every 2.5k on a hot, sun-exposed run?)

I have been in tough spots before in races.  The roughest race before yesterday was the 2012 ITU long distance worlds, ironically also in Spain.  Searing abdominal cramps through the run forced me to walk/run 30k, doing yoga breathing through the searing pain.  It was a horribly painful experience, and one I later attributed to dehydration.

So I knew this pain.  Debilitating pain, not the mind-over-matter kind of pain that you expect during a race this long.  I ran 500m and stopped.  Held my side, breathed hard to get rid of the cramp.  Brendan was cheering on the course and convinced me to give it 10k to work itself out.  I wasn't emotional, I wasn't upset - I was focused on that moment and doing what I could to get to the next.  

I made it to 2k, then 5k, then 7k.  Slowly.  Instead of getting better, the pain spread - from my left side to my whole abdomen.  Then my legs, then my calves, and into my feet.  My trusted "easy" run stride - the one that gets me through the start of the shit that is always the Ironman run - was not possible.   I made a bargain to myself - run one kilometre, then walk for a minute.   

I was totally, and perhaps stupidly, optimistic that I could make it better.  I wanted to race.  I wanted to run.  In retrospect, however, I recognize that I was on a slippery slide - my belly sloshed around with the massive amounts of fluids I was trying to replace, and it simply stopped accepting them.  I felt nauseous and GI distress started.  I got cold, shivering and goose bumps.  I was dizzy and lightheaded.  The knife pain in my chest started every time I moved.    

I walked to just past 11 kilometres, deliberating my options.  It may have been possible for me to walk the remaining 31 kilometres, but to me it was not a question of whether I could finish - I had nothing to prove.  And despite wanting to go, my body was telling me it was done.  The medical assistance at the aid station told me the same thing - go on and risk the consequences, and it was certainly not getting better until I had stopped and rested.  It did also occur to me that putting myself in a place of needing medical assistance while essentially traveling alone in a foreign country was not the brightest decision.  

The moment I handed by bib in, I felt nothing.  There was a calm knowing I was making the right decision at the time.  There was absolutely no point in pushing myself further - no race, no medal, no finish is worth seriously damaging myself over.  

Dropout

I do not take the DNF lightly.  With an endurance resume that over the past 10 years has 7 iron distance finishes, a dozen or more half-irons, various other distance triathlons, 15 open marathons and two dozen half marathons, quitting has not been part of my repertoire.  I don't consider myself lacking in tenacity either -  I raced an Ironman with pneumonia, another one with an injured achilles...possibly both very stupid things in retrospect.  I have battled through physical and emotional distress to varying levels of success, and I really felt like I had nothing to prove yesterday.  

The place where I chose to race was at the edge.  I wasn't cruising the race to finish - I was going hard, or going home.  I knew that, and accept the consequences.  Racing in that place, particularly over 10+ hours, requires diligence and precision in maintaining pace and effort, recognizing the signs of exertion and managing nutrition.  I am pretty (brutally) honest with my self and my self-assessment.  The race was fully "on" and then it wasn't - and it took 10k of horribly bad "running" to convince myself to quit.  

And despite not finishing, there were small victories in the day - I stayed in my head, I stayed engaged, had a great (for me) swim, and I rode well.  My confidence in my cycling is somewhat restored (and pretty chuffed to be the Canadian that out-rode the Euros in their own backyard).  That being said, a triathlon is three events and failing to run after swimming and cycling well is really not the point.  So I do need to get to the bottom of the problem before I race again.  

To me there was a recognizable difference between "hitting the wall" and what transpired yesterday - all the stubborn will  in the world does not trump a body that stops functioning.  At the same time, I take full responsibility for not managing my hydration on the bike, and you can bet I will be extremely diligent about managing the fine details of aid stations going forward.  Would I enter another hot race knowing aid stations are that far apart?  Will I race a WTC event in Europe again?  Both highly unlikely.

I am very thankful for the people who have reached out in the last day, knowing my disappointment.  Athletes who I respect and look up to, who listened to my explanation of the situation and understood my decision.  I feel a much less emblazoned with the scarlet letters D-N-F than I did yesterday.  I am also very thankful that Brendan convinced me to put 10k into the run before deciding - it sealed the decision.  I may have regretted not trying.     

I see no point in regretting or looking back.  Was it truly dehydration?  Or perhaps a subconscious culmination of that and everything else - emotional toil, lack of investment, fatigue?  What I do know is that I need a break to recharge and take the time for the other parts of my life that are, quite frankly, more valuable to me than swimming, riding and running.  

I believe that racing adds an element to other aspects of your life that is truly irreplaceable - focus, determination and a belief in yourself.  However, my life simply does not revolve around a finish line or a singular goal.  If and when I choose, there are more adventures, start lines a plenty and never ending sweaty pursuits to dream up.  However, there are also rainy morning sleep-ins, doggie beach walks, fun runs sans watch and Sunday morning football brunches that pique my interest...starting today!