Ironman Brazil--The Race Report I Didn't Write

In the course of exchanging some email with a friend who, like me, trained his ass off for his Ironman race, but didn't have the day he expected, I thought back to my race day and the things I didn't include in my race report. So, get out a box of Kleenex and step inside my head that day.

Isn't it funny how a non-training event can totally derail us? Here I thought I was dealing with my mom's death--that I was somehow "above" falling apart. I didn't have time to fall apart. I planned her funeral. I comforted my dad, my brothers and sisters and other family members before, during and after the funeral. I had training to do, dammit, that would save me. I got it all done and then some. Hell, I didn't even want to take much time off from work, because I thought work would help me move along.

I never really felt like I was falling apart, but slowly I came to the realization that this was a very significant event in my life. Hell, I am still grieving. I am fortunate in that I was able to do an Ironman race during this process because it is definitely a venue for you to experience a full range of emotions, and while executing well in an Ironman is more about stuffing those emotions so you can get on with the business of moving forward, I was given a gift to get through my race carrying a full load of them.

On race morning, after I had methodically put my nutrition on my bike and pumped my tires, I was overcome by sadness. Even though I was surrounded by people who cared about me, the one person who wasn't there was my mom. I began walking around transition in a daze, crying my eyes out. Anyone who saw me probably thought it was normal race morning emotions. For a split second I thought I was crying over how sick I felt. But I knew that my physical sickness paled in comparison to the sensation of my heart breaking over and over. I felt completely lost, even though I knew exactly where I was going that day.

I hunted down Danny, who had lost a brother close to a race in the past. He knew exactly what I must be feeling. He held me close, let me cry, and told me that my mom would be with me all day long helping me get through things. Danny knew I was sick, too, but I bet he knew that that would be the least of my concerns.

When I started the swim, I had this sensation of having lost my will to go on. But all I could think was that I was in the water, so I may as well try to swim. I had to force myself to keep going. It was almost a relief from my grief to deal with being jostled and waves and jellyfish stings and being dizzy. When I got to the halfway point where we had to exit the water and run around a balloon on the beach, I wanted desperately to stop. But what would I be stopping? I wasn't going to be able to stop what I was feeling, so I might as well press on. It was shortly after getting back in the water and getting instructions about where to swim next that I got kicked in the face. My sense of physical pain was very moment to moment--the actual kick hurt, but my mind wasn't about physical pain yet. Again, I knew that stopping and swimming back to shore wasn't going to fix a damn thing, so let's just press on.

Somewhere in that second half of the swim, I actually felt like I had some energy, and swimming was almost pleasurable. What's not to like about gliding through water on a beautiful day? Again, I was thankful for a few moments of peace where I was able to just think about my day. But when I exited the water and noticed my contact lens in my goggles, I failed to recognize the event as my next "gift" to give me a few minutes to think only about that, and not the overwhelming grief that was inside me.

Time moved in slow motion in T1. I remember all these other women whizzing by me and all I am doing is trying to get this stupid contact lens out of my goggles. But it was a pleasant respite from all the activity, and since I knew I wasn't going to be going anywhere too quickly today, I focused on the one thing.

I don't even remember mounting my bike that day. I do remember how pleasant the temperature was and the lack of wind once I was out on the course. I forgot about my bruised nose, the jellyfish stings, the bug bites, the contact lens issue, and went into "ride the bike" mode. Here was something I had practiced so much and so well, that it was simply amazing at how I was able to put the revolutions of my legs, the intermittent glancing at the power meter, the regular drinking, all as background activities, except for paying attention to where I was supposed to turn. It all felt like clockwork. So I had plenty of "time" to think about my mom, and think I did. It was a constant struggle to not get choked up to the point where I'd fall off my bike. Thank God I was sick, and my head or face would start to hurt or I'd have to pee, so those little physical sensations kept intruding and taking me away from my grief. I was so totally blown away at how I could keep doing what I was doing. I have never been so fully relaxed while peeing on my bike. I have no idea who saw me and I surely didn't care. If you look closely at the photo, you can tell that I am probably pretty dehydrated. To me it looks like the skin of my face was being stretched like I was having a face lift.

I remember feeling dizzy a lot on the bike. It was like my face hurts, I'm dizzy, I have to pee over and over and over. And then insert oh by the way keep riding the bike, don't fall off, I am so sad. No wonder the next day when everyone was talking about all the things they had "seen" while riding the bike I couldn't recall a single one of them! My legs kept going, though, and I knew mom must have been riding right alongside me because otherwise how could I possibly be upright? She had always told me how she worried about me when I was out training on my bike alone--what with traffic and the possibility of being stranded. I thought about this several times during the race, and would think, "You don't have to worry about me anymore." The day she died and I had some time with her alone, I kept telling her over and over that it was OK to let go, that she didn't need to suffer any more or worry about me.

I remember noticing many athletes struggling with the headwinds. I didn't feel sorry for them or evaluate their strength or weakness. I did think, though, how nice it must be to have nothing more to be concerned with than the wind! I had this sense of separation from my physical body--that "it" was riding the bike, and didn't need my mind to do so (hey, that's what training is for, right?), and that my mind was just along for the ride trying to figure out what to do besides point out various physical sensations, stay on course, not quit, and think about mom. I didn't let myself think this during the race, but looking back I am truly blessed to have had this sort of experience. It wasn't totally "out of body," but it was pretty close. In true Ironman fashion, I didn't think about my swim or look forward to the run. I am grieving, and I just "happen" to be in the middle of an Ironman race.

When I got to T2, again I had some quiet moments in which to be methodical about getting rid of my pee-soaked socks, slip into fresh running shorts, and try and collect myself. What was I collecting? When I went into the porta-potty and sat down to pee (again!), I broke into major sobs. Once again I was being given the gift of fully experiencing my emotions, but during an Ironman race. I had to ask myself whether I could go on. So I took things one at a time, and first got out of the porta-potty. Next, I did a leg check. Yep, they are still there. Oh my God, though, my mom couldn't even walk the last few days of her life! Well, I can walk, I can even run a bit, so on I go. Thank goodness for sunglasses--without them I am sure people would have been grabbing me trying to find out what was wrong.

A few times during the marathon, I would think about the other athletes and know that some of them were probably experiencing stomach troubles, cramps or just general fatigue. I know how hard it is to do an Ironman, no matter who you are or how you've trained. It doesn't get easier. But then I would hope that none of them were going through the deep sadness that I was feeling. THAT was worse than any sort of physical suffering that day that I could think of. In a bizarre way, if I hadn't been sick, I think I would have given up. The physical sensations seemed to bring me back to reality, and that reality was that I was in an Ironman, I was strong--no matter what my body was doing that day--and I should go on because that's why I'm here! My mom was looking down on me and telling me to take care of myself, to do what I was doing. I also knew that no amount of suffering that I was experiencing could come remotely close to what I saw my mom go through in her last two days of life. I could breathe on my own--she could not. I could walk, swim or ride my bike. She could not. I could cry without my lungs filling up with fluid--she could not. I could eat disgusting sports nutrition for 14 hours--she could not.

All I had to deal with that day were minor annoyances. How could I possibly explain to someone else the depth of what I was feeling that day? And to top it all off, my ego decided to get in on the action post-race. What an incredible emotional ride! But I wouldn't trade it for anything. There are so many things that I have yet to learn from that experience, and just from every day that I am here. Thanks, Mom.