Choose your words carefully

Like a cork on a wave, as I rise out of the trough, ready to ride the peak, I seem to be cruelly pulled back down, eventually getting spat into the shallows, wallowing in my own self-pity. OK, totally melodramatic, but it does seem that as I finally seem to be overcoming an injury, I am immediately facing a new one. Torn hamstring and hip rotators 95% mended from the unfortunate cartwheel incident in the spring, I went for a run-hike in the woods for the first time seven months later. I was ecstatic to be breathing in the mossy smells, and feeling the soft earth beneath my feet. My husband and I wove through the familiar trails like I hadn't missed three seasons. Then I started crashing...hitting the deck...8 times! Though my fitness felt great, I didn't seem to have the coordination to negotiate the rocky trails. I recovered awkwardly from 7 of those falls, and we chuckled at my new clumsy form.  On the last one, I unconsciously brought my arm over my chest to shield myself from a big rock, and my knuckle punched through my ribs. Pulled back down into the trough of the wave, I looked ahead to another 8-12 weeks of tentative training and exercise. Familiar words swam in my head, as I wallowed in the shallows. I heard them leave my mouth and I believed them to be true.

Broken
Fragile
Old
Useless

I'm on the other side of that injury, I once again see the peak of the wave. This time I have no doubt that I'll be riding that wave. At 42 years of age, something has finally clicked in my understanding of the world. There are no short cuts. Having done hard athletic events in your past does not let you skip the building blocks. Most importantly, words are very powerful.

These words began to create my self-image, and began to erode my intentions to heal. The fact is that it DOES take a long time to heal once you are no longer in your twenties, but I am sure as heck not going to heal sitting on a couch. It's all about tiny consistent steps, and being comfortable with being uncomfortable. At some point I had to learn that tiny movements, done consistently, lead to enormous change over time. I was NOT broken. I was not old, fragile, or useless. I was simply greedy and spoilt, thinking that multiple endurance feats gave me a 'get out of jail free' card. Consistent, dedicated strength sessions were not optional. Eventually 30 second intervals of running evolved to 40 minutes of slow jogging, and my hard intervals on the bike are now my recovery watts. It's happening, and now my words have changed.

Capable
Patient
Grateful
Determined
Strong

Trans Alp 2014 Mittenwald Germany to Arco Italy in Seven Days

I’m sitting on a plane with a glass of wine enroute to Munich, from which I’ll take a van to Mittenwald in Bavaria. Well, I think it’s Bavaria. That’s the funny part. As I fly across the world to spend two weeks in the Alps, I haven’t researched the towns, booked any lodging, or checked out the tourism websites. In fact, I don’t even know how many days I’ll spend in each country or the names of the mountain villages that we’ll sleep in. What I do know, is that I’m riding my bike from Germany to Italy over 7 days. I know the distances for each day, and I’ve looked at the percent grade for the key climbs. I’ve thought about the intensity and the decisions that will be made about how much to suffer on Day One to make the cut to the faster group. What I do know is that I will be met in Munich by Joerg and Toby of Magic Places, and it’s they who have the task of getting us to the race start, navigating the mountain roads to set up a feed-zone, and meeting 15 Canadian teams at the end of each stage in another glorious mountain village. While I haven’t learned a spot of German, Austrian, or Italian, I can be certain that talk will turn to the gearing chosen for the climbs, the luck of the draw for which corral each team of riders will find themselves in on race morning, and a team plan for pacing and communicating. From that unexpected phone call in the fall of 2013 inviting me to team up with the formidable Emanuela Bandol, it’s finally here...Trans Alp 2014, starting in Mittenwald Germany and finishing 950km later in Arco Italy.

It’s day 3 in Germany. We have been comfortably settled in the Post Hotel, in the picturesque town of Mittenwald....without bags, and without bike boxes. Apparently our luggage went amiss in London. It’s only Thursday, and we ride on Sunday. No need to panic...yet. In the meanwhile, we’ve been walking the streets of this lovely town, and taking in the local sights. We took a trip up the spectacular Karwendel cable car 7360 feet. Luck has not been on our side, for after paying the 60 euro, we waited just long enough for a storm to move in and ascended into a white out with torrential rain and hail. We looked at the pictures of what it should have been, and imagined the breathtaking view.

An evening stroll after dinner with my TA partner Emma Bandol. 

The boys check out the start of the climb for race day.

Some of Team Canada heading out for a ride. 

The descent from Karwendal after a white out at the top.

A most beautiful sight in this town is the Parish Church of St. Peter and Paul. Our hotel window gives us a framed view of it's beauty. We have complicated feelings about the finest church in the Bavarian Alps. It took 15 years to build this masterpiece, completed in 1749. It's wonderful to day dream about that era, and how the church's role has evolved over the centuries. I'm also finding the steeple helpful for navigating the town, and finding my hotel in the evening. Somewhat less enchanting is the bell ringing….on every half hour….throughout the night, and randomly, for random durations. The 6am bell ringing is particularly interesting with a 10 minute frantic chime, which we have now interpreted to mean "Get the F out of bed and get to work!". Somehow it still holds a fond place in my heart, like a difficult relative.

Day 4 Mittenwald

I find it kind of interesting that wherever we find ourselves, we seem to look for a bit of constancy, or a bit of home. It didn't take us long to find a place for 5am tea for Andrew and coffee for Ginny. OK, full transparency….tea, coffee, and CHOCOLATE FILLED CROISSANTS. Oh my God, Is there a better way to start a day?

Still waiting for news on our bikes and bags lost in transit, we set out for a hike. The joy of Bavaria is that the hikes start right from the edge of town. It was a true feast for the eyes. Meadows and mountain peaks, ice blue river with steep rock walls. It was good to move a little and distract us from missing our bikes.

The bike boxes arrived last night! Andrew will be riding naked as his case is still lost in transit…but I'm OK with that. We built up the bikes asap and got in a quick ride before a storm moved in. Heading out of town, we were into Austria within moments. The roads were smooth, quiet, and stunningly beautiful. Hearts full and stress down a notch, we shared a picnic dinner with great friends in our room, watching Germany win a World Cup soccer game.

And now I’m flying home. 850km and 19 mountain passes later. Here are some impressions of the experience. Point form.

Stimulating

• flying along in a stretched peloton, absolutely comfortable with rain water driving against my glasses spitting up from my partner’s wheel, specks of gravel in my teeth
• descending on dry road behind a Canadian woman driving the pace on the switch backs, learning to take a tighter line, trusting the lean of the bike, and lifting off the seat to power back up to speed.
• loving the predictable features on each climb such as the skinny German wearing short-shorts, 90s rock pumping from his van...or knowing the speeding Audi spilling out um-si-um-si-um-si would lead to a shirtless Korean passing the same bottle of coke to anyone willing to take a swig.
• switching up racing partners for the day and sharing the adventure with Andrew
• daily healing by the magic hands of our dynamic massage therapist Lesley

Uncomfortable

• the morning of the first day, waiting under the eaves of the train station with my partner Emma, Andrew and his partner Dalton, as the strength of the rain began to build. 
• Showing my partner how to teepee our bikes in the starting corral, and wishing I was wearing the the extra layers that were still sitting in my luggage.
• feeling my jaw tighten in the cold to the point of pain and fear build as my bike began to wobble when my shivers escalated shaking on a 20km descent, soaked through to the skin 4 degrees and raining.
• grinding up a climb for two hours with a head cold, going backwards...legs not responding to sugar or will power.
• racing to the line on an uphill finish, following my partner making a super-human surge
• feeling nauseous after seeing a crumpled bike frame jammed under a car trailer, with the rider on a spine board

Visually stunning

• climbing from the valley floor up toward snow line, green merging to white and meadows evolving into majestic rock spires
• rising into the rain clouds themselves, the whiteout gobbling up all but the cyclists immediately around us.
• looking down on a mountain hamlet consisting of a church and a dozen stone houses just as the bell begins to toll and school children walk home via steep rocky paths
• passing old Italian farmers taking a break from their work to watch the cyclists grind up the hills past their land
• time slowing down as enormous cows wander across the road completely un-phased by cyclists passing in front or behind them

Thank you to Joerg and Toby of Magic Places for taking care of our every need for two weeks. Thank you to Squirt for inviting me on this adventure, and being patient with my roller coaster of emotions for over 6 months! Here are some photos of moments on and off the bike. Arrivederci TransAlp!

God and the MRI

As a child, I spent considerable time pondering the existence of God. We didn't talk about God at home. I knew that my parents went to the Church of England regularly until they married, and immigrated to Canada. That's all I remember. It was a non-topic at home. So from about the age of seven, I thought I ought to do my own research.

I went to Catholic church with my best friend Carie. I remember sitting in Sunday school, desperately hoping that I wouldn't be called upon to read. The words were unfamiliar and stuck in my throat. I felt inexplicable shame as the children went up to receive bread, while I remained conspicuously in the pew. I also felt some fear of what I didn't understand. What did the bread have to do with the body of Christ? I felt my heart quicken if I let my eyes rest on the man hanging from the cross. My only sense was that I should somehow be apologizing for being bad, but I didn't know how.

I took care of two ponies when I was young, Dusty and Pokey. Their names suited them. As a Shetland/Welsh mix, they were as tall as they were wide. They were so lazy that they wouldn't flinch when I would leap frog from a box to jump on. I spent hours lying on their backs staring at the sky as they grazed. In my young mind, I imagined myself as a great show jumper, and set up a jumps course for these ponies. I shortened the western stirrups to mimic the English riders, and thought my will was stronger than that of my ponies. Dusty was the tallest, and hence my prize jumper. I'm not sure that we made it around my jumps course even once over an entire summer. He teased me into thinking he would jump by cantering toward my homemade log jump, then would throw on the brakes to toss me over his neck. He would look right into my watering eyes, as I got off the ground determined not to let him see my pain. Eventually, he took to grabbing the bit in his teeth and bolting, leaving me to hold on to his mane for dear life. This is where I get back to God. My make-shift jumping ring was across the street from Twyla's house. I knew this family was different from mine, but I wasn't sure quite how. The kids didn't go to school. The girls aways wore long skirts, and a little bonnet. Twyla and I somehow became friends of sorts. She would sit on the fence as I fought with my ponies, and she helped me brush them sometimes. I can't remember how it happened, but I managed to invite myself to their church. Once. In my vague recollection, I remember a church leader on stage calling out questions to the congregation. They got more and more excited as their leader inspired them to respond louder and louder to his calls. Peoples hands were in the air, many had their eyes closed, then as the fervour peaked, a woman was lifted up to the stage with the leader. She looked as though she had epilepsy. She shook, and drooled, and called out gibberish words. The whole congregation cheered for her. I held my friend's hand as she pushed toward the stage, terrified to be left alone. I spoke into Twyla's ear over the noise of the crowd to ask what was happening. I learned the woman was speaking the word of God. Speaking in tongues.

Not having found a church to ease my confusion over God, I began to speak to him myself. I began making deals. They started with sacrifice. "If I don't eat desert for 3 nights, You need to show yourself to me." The deals escalated. I can't remember how long this process took, but it peaked with me doing the scariest thing I could possibly imagine. My end of the deal was to jump out my bedroom window once it was dark, and walk all the way to the cemetery, a mile from my house. I began by touching the first post at the edge of the cemetery, and worked my way up to walking through the centre, where there was a little path between decorative bushes. Most of the time I would walk as quietly as possible, listening for danger. When I got spooked I would sprint for a moment, but then knew I hadn't kept up my end of the deal. I don't really remember how it petered out, just that I stopped making deals once my journey to the cemetery was unsuccessful.

These quirky childhood memories came flooding back this week, as I joked with my physio that I was starting to make deals with the Powers that Be. I would sacrifice all forms of racing, if only the Powers that Be would allow me to run pain-free in the trails, and join in fun family sports. I joked with the physio, but it wasn't far from the truth. Feeling very short of sleep from knee pain at night, desperately missing my 'life' of running and sport, I was ready to make deals.

In that same visit, my physio was giving me permission to run, bike, jump...anything that would inflame the knee so that the cause of the injury would be more obvious by MRI. He concurred with the surgeon. They think they know what's going on in there, but want to see it. That was last Thursday. I had a mix of excitement, thinking of what activity I would do to bash the knees, and also a fear of more sleepless nights and daily distraction with knee pain. The weekend rolled on, and I got more and more nervous about it. What if I was halfway around Kal Park, and couldn't make it back? What if I bashed them up, and they still couldn't see any injury to the tissues? As it turns out, I spent the weekend taking care of a sick little girl. She couldn't go to school on Monday, so my planned run session disappeared. Then I got sick too. Just a rotten cold, but the excitement to run had passed. Further to that, my knees had been feeling so much better over the weekend, after the physio had taped them up, that I felt I was making progress! Tuesday morning came, and I knew that I was supposed to have really sore knees by now, but I didn't. A background issue was needing to get a car to the airport for my family, as I wouldn't be able to pick them up late at night. The solution was to drive down, and ride my bike home, hopefully hammering a couple of hills to bash up the knees.

The plan was set. I pulled out my bike, and pumped up tires for the first time in 6 months. It took me much longer than I hoped to find clothing, a patch kit, bike shoes, helmet, gloves. It was like the first day of ski season, feeling like a beginner again. I took two more daytime Tylenol cold capsules, hoping my head wouldn't explode. I drove down to the airport, feeling like I was doing something really stupid, but was already committed. I parked next to the letter G, tucked the key under the wheel, and rolled away on my bike.

Easing in, I felt a little nervous next to the traffic. I thought the roads would be quieter mid-day. Within a few minutes I settled in and felt surprisingly good on the bike. I was spinning nicely, breathing fine, and moving forward. All good. I was trying not to over-analyze the knee comfort, and just ride for a bit. It was a stunning day. The sun was brilliant, and spring was clearly present on the hills around me. And that's it. Nothing happened. My knees didn't hurt more than twinges, I loved the ride, took photos of the incredible vistas, made it home, picked up my daughter to drop her with friends, so that I could drive to Kamloops for the MRI. Feeling like a big fraud. I hate to waste people's time and money. I hesitated all along for this MRI, but was encouraged by sport med doctor, the surgeon, the physio, all explaining that we needed to make sure that there wasn't an obvious reason that I wasn't seeing the progress that we all expected. Well it's done, and tomorrow I will just continue on with rehab exercises, hoping it will all be old news in a few months, and occasionally making a deal with the Powers that Be.

If you ride a little slower, you see amazing things. Check out this tree house!

I've ridden these routes a thousand times, but it was all new today.

Waiting, feeling like a fraud.

My two favourite things....small spaces, and being still.

Flow in the water

I've been waiting for this all winter; that moment where your focus narrows, you feel immersed in the moment, you feel flow in your movement, and a feeling of joy and confidence swells in your heart. I can be assured of that feeling of flow when my feet are pounding down a trail, or I'm standing on my pedals climbing switchbacks to a summit. I can't say that I've ever had that experience following a black line in a 25m pool...until today.

My friends know that I only swim so that I can get to T1. Sure, the lake is inviting in the summer, and I love the accomplishment of swimming to 'that dock' with the turn-around flag. Otherwise, the joys of swimming generally allude me. I have even cut out of a swim session early to get a jump start on my taxes.

Lately I've spent a whole lot more time in the pool. I have committed to staying off my feet to kick the inflammation in my knee. That means no running, hiking, biking, snowshoeing, skiing...or anything remotely fun! Sooooo, more pool time.

I got to the Vernon pool deck with my goal in mind. 400, 500, 600, 700, 800m alternating swim and pull/paddles. I've been swimming that exact same workout four days a week, no details, no pace clock, no negotiating. I perused the lanes, looking for consistent swimmers, avoiding the man with flippers doing some sort of adapted back stroke, and avoiding the whipper snapper with her swim club cap banging out 200s of IM. I hopped in with two men who looked pretty steady, and near my pace. I just wanted to get into my groove and complete my ritual without too much passing and dodging. Well it turns out that these two very agreeable fellows lacked a little in pool etiquette. They stood at the wall to chat and their large bellies almost touched at the black line, leaving little room to flip. The older one seemed to wait until the moment I turned, to push off the wall in front of me, leaving me to wait for a chance to pass. That's when things changed. Instead of my cruisey pace, I had to pick it up to beat the on-coming swimmer. Spurred on by a little irritation I kept up the stronger pace, and began to flip faster, reach further, push harder, breath more frequently. I felt the intensity rise. When I got to the wall, I saw men's bellies part as they made way for me. They scooted off to the side when they felt the water move on their feet. I felt that focus, that flow, being in the moment....hold on now.....joy? confidence? ME? IN THE WATER? YES, that was me. Feeling JOY in the water! When I stopped at the wall between the last two sets, the guys were getting out and one said "Wow, you're some swimmer." Usually I would have said something self-depricating, knowing that I'm mediocre at best, lining up next to triathletes and swimmers. Today I just said "Thanks! Have a great day!" and went on to finish the session feeling like "some swimmer".

Pink Poodles in Paris

Have you ever put your daughter's hair in a bun? Not just any bun...a rhythmic gymnastics bun. There is, in fact, a class to be attended by every parent in the fall to ensure such a bun is done correctly. It must be high on the head, directly above the ears. If your child should fail to have long, beautifully behaving hair that creates a luscious snug bun, you must resort to accessories. It is ingeniously called a "bun maker". You can buy them online, and there are multiple websites to demonstrate it's implementation. Having been gently scolded in front of the other mothers for my sloppy buns that would explode after the first summersault, I was grateful for this aid, and can now drop off my daughter for her class with my head held high, proud of her snug and plump bun.

Rhythmic gymnastics is the last sport I'd have thought my daughter would be doing. When the Olympics arrive every four years, I pause to briefly admire the freakish flexibility of these primarily Eastern european beauties, before switching channels to watch a 'real' sport. These strange and beautiful creatures were not an inspiration to me in sport as they seem other worldly, disconnected from mortal women achieving a level of excellence in a sport. But it's Vernon and it's winter. It's dark at four o'clock, and either wet or icy for months. I was looking for an indoor activity, where my daughter isn't standing in line waiting for her turn to move. This activity was meeting my criteria to make sure that Madeline was constantly moving, learning new skills, having fun, and best of all, she got to 'get her girl on' with a leotard and ribbons. Who knew that I would spawn a girly girl? I've got to admit, I was attracted to the fact that her session is 75 minutes long; long enough to get in a real run!

A few weeks after the season started, I was informed that the girls would be participating in the production of Anastasia. It began with requests to raise funds and raise awareness to sell tickets. I was then supplied with three schedules to collate on my calendar; one for extra practices, one for volunteer hours, and one for the performance schedule. Hold on now....I paid good money for this program. There is no way I would solicit my neighbours to financially support my six year old newly initiated into this elaborate world of rhythmic gymnastics. The mothers were meant to gather on a series of Saturday mornings for a sewing bee and whip together some costumes. Once again my glaring lack of all domestic skills was exposed for all to witness. As the expectations for this production escalated I finally cracked when I saw the performance times. My six year old was meant to prance on stage at nine o'clock in the evening, after five performances in two days, with a 5 hour dress rehearsal to kick it all off. This was beyond ridiculous! I wrote a letter to the coaches questioning this, and was informed that year after year the young children rise to the challenge, and perform beautifully. Reaaaaalllly...alright then, let the games begin.

As this process unfolded, and I complained bitterly to my husband as I set off for the sewing bee on a rainy Saturday morning, something strange happened. I came into the room with Camille Martens, former Olympian and the dreamer and producer behind Anastasia, sharing with the mothers her vision for the costumes. She had found incredible materials to combine and make royalty, servants, minions, gypsies, and prancing pink poodles come to life. I was sucked in by her enthusiasm, and found myself cutting and creating in a room buzzing with interesting women, coming together for their children and the concept of creating something special. Returning home, I maintained my air of altruism and didn't admit to any enjoyment to my husband.

As the production neared, I received an email. Along with four other mothers, I was selected for the honour of guiding fourteen Pink Poodles in Paris, aged four to eight, backstage throughout the weekend. As I attempted to rustle up a plethora of other commitments I drew a blank. My husband would be out of town for five days, I didn't have work commitments, I hadn't been called for jury duty, and I didn't have a terminal illness. This resulted in a fourteen hour commitment to keeping these little pink poodles occupied, clean, fed, and happy, all for their six minutes of glory.

I arrived at the theatre with a large box. It was full of paper, crayons, scissors, wool, pipe cleaners, stickers. We would make pom poms, crowns, masks, forts, do word searches, play telephone...I was armed and ready for these rabid poodles. There were nearly a hundred performers backstage. The vocalist was warming her voice, the cellist was tuning her instrument, the gymnasts were stretching on mats, the russian dancers were doing deep knee bends, the poodles' faces were transformed by the makeup artist. All one hundred performers were then called on stage with Camille and her coaches for warm up. Every performer silenced in her presence. They listened to every word as she went through a list of specific details to make things run smoothly. The warm up then built like a wave, as their movement and voices rose with building energy. Music then filled the auditorium and erupted in a dance party with parents and backstage hands joining in. I was sucked in! I was part of it!! Let's get this show rolling!!! LET'S NAIL IT!!!!!!

From there the show just rolled. Performers swept on and off the stage, the music played in the halls so we could listen for the musical cues of when our group was needed on stage. We primped and primed the poodles. We got them fed, we rushed more than one to the bathroom, we kept them quiet with crafts, and had them lined up right on time for their few moments on stage. The little poodles vibrated in the hall excited for their moment on stage. When we ushered them back off the stage, they glowed with satisfaction and pride. Mission accomplished! The only problem was that I had absolutely no idea of what was really happening on stage. I had not seen a single scene from the performance. My ticket to enjoy the performance from the audience was for Friday night.

 I sat in the third row of a packed house, with nothing obscuring my view of the stage. The lights went down and the story of Anastasia began. I had read the synopsis, knew the general plot, but was not terribly interested as I thought is was more the opportunity to show the skill of the rhythmic gymnasts. I was somewhat surprised by the fact that Camille had named her only daughter Anastasia, thus was likely more invested in the story.  Over the next 100 minutes I was transported to another place. Set pieces that looked like wood and paint back stage, looked like marble and gold under the lights. The costumes that were sewn by amateurs looked authentic. The children turned into royalty, soldiers, orphans, gypsies, statues, french painters, and of course poodles. I was absolutely shocked that a production consisting primarily of children could move me. I felt the resentment of the poor residents of Moscow in contrast to the royal extravagance. The little faces of the orphans moved a mother's heart. I felt his cry of pain as a father watched his beautiful gypsy girls leave for Paris. Fortunately my mascara didn't run as Camille made us roar with laughter as the orphans toyed with their guardian, the gypsy mother sported a moustache and hairy legs, and the Pink Poodles in Paris were ridiculously cute. At the crescendo of the finale, the curtain dropped, and the past weeks came back to me. It comes down to this. It is a privilege to be a part of something bigger than oneself. Led by a woman with vision and a drop of genius, more than a hundred people created something quite remarkable...all here in small town Vernon. Thank you for including me and my little pink poodle.

Ironman Wisconsin Done

The internal dialogue was so loud my head hurt. It was time to get on a plane to Madison Wisconsin for Ironman, and I still didn't have a solid plan. I had projected that the knee discomfort would subside enough to make it around the course at a light cruise, with the opportunity to cheer on my husband and other participants from within the race itself. I was beginning to doubt that plan, and felt that it was setting myself up for disappointment to take a bike, just to join in the swim. Would I really be happy to swim hard, then bow out of the race? Was it sensible to take my beautiful bike across the country in a box, risking damage, all for a 3.8km swim with 2700 competitors? At some point a decision had to be made. I left my time trial bike at home, and packed up my gorgeous Specialized Amira road bike with some clip-on aero bars. With bike boxes packed, that was one less decision to make, and I could focus on all the small details to make sure things ran smoothly in our absence. Madeline was all packed up to have a few days with her Nana, and the house was ready for the pass-off to Granny and Grampa mid-week. We had a meal together, played a family game, and said goodbye to our little one for a whole week. My heart caught in my throat as she drove away, waving wildly, all excited for her own adventures.

We arrived in Madison after a painless trip, and head out for our first date of what will be remembered as our second honeymoon. It's a bizarre experience to have multiple days, with no agenda but rest and get ready for a race. We fell in love with the city. It is nestled between two lakes, with historical State Capital buildings, a glorious university campus, and a plethora of pubs and restaurants, bookshops, pop-culture shops, and coffee houses. Our only pre-race prep included a morning swim, and Andrew went out for a tour of the course and a pre-ride for a short section. We otherwise read books, and did a comparative review of the many contemporary restaurants. What a life!

State Capital in the centre of town.

Our favourite breakfast spot.

Posing for photos....a second honeymoon needs photos right?

Lake Monona was stunning morning and evening.

Finding our cruiser bikes for when this nonsense is finished.

Farmer's Market on main street.

Look like a good pre-race meal?

Eventually it was time to rack the bikes and get in the game. I went through the motions of packing transition bags, preparing fuel bottles, and numbering bike and helmet. While Andrew paced out the transitions to ensure efficiency, I poured over the route maps looking for short cuts home to ease out when required. One part of me was dedicated to self-preservation and prepared an exit plan. One part of me was beginning to bubble with excitement, with the possibility to that this could all go very well, and my body would magically overcome discomfort and fly over the course. I went to sleep with no race nerves. Even the lightning and torrential rain overnight didn't give me qualms. In the morning we ate our rice cereal, and my main goal was to keep the energy up for Andrew's sake. I reminded him not to worry about me. I would only do what was safe and fun. The lake was choppy, and it was chilly to bare our skin for body marking. We squeezed through the crowd and popped into Lake Menona with the plan of waiting on a little duck dock not far from the start. We sat side by side on the dock with the music swelling, as the sun rose over the lake, and watched the thousands of wetsuit clad swimmers begin to cluster along the deep water start. After a quick kiss and good luck wish, Andrew swam ahead and was gobbled up by the crowd. All of a sudden I felt very small among this group and felt fear creeping in. I forced myself to smile, cheer, and manhandle my fear into excitement. I waited for the canon to fire.

The swim was pretty similar to most IM swims. Most of the time was spent fighting for some space, getting knocked and pushed, but generally coming out unscathed. All that time in the lake spent developing a smooth efficient swim stroke seemed a little futile, however those regular lake swims gave me the advantage of confidence in the choppy water.  Prior to the swim it seemed insignificant that I was mistakenly given a green hat at registration. Mid-swim I desperately wanted a pink cap. It would identify me as a woman, and perhaps I wouldn't get pounded on as hard. At one point I got squeezed between two massive men. They pounded on my back and head, until I could drop out behind them. I swam to the left of them. A minute later as we approached a large vinyl buoy marker, I wished I was on their outside. I got pushed completely under the buoy and felt my panic rise. I swam deep under the buoy, popped up safe and sound and sprinted away from these two, fuelled by adrenaline. The most exciting thing for me during this swim was catching my first intentional draft from a better swimmer. Andrew and I had practiced this numerous times, with him swimming up past me, and me working to stay on his feet. In the past I would drop off quickly, not confident of keeping up the faster pace. This time I figured that I had nothing to lose, and it worked! I came out of the water feeling really good about my effort, and so glad that I got the opportunity to join in.
Swim: 1:13

Transition in Wisconsin includes running up a helix ramp to go up four floors to the top of the Monona Terrace conference centre. Even through the wall of noise created from hundreds of cheering people, I was keenly aware that nothing hurt...not knees, not anything. Game on. I wizzed through transition, got on my bike and flew down the highway on a high. Heading out towards the beautiful farm land, I felt invincible. Hills came and went, and my light road bike seemed like a great choice. I didn't over-think the fact that my body felt good...I just switched gears mentally, stayed focussed on nutrition and pacing....until about 40miles. That initial euphoria was wearing off. My legs were beginning to get grumpy on the hills. I was most comfortable standing but couldn't  sustain that for every hill. I had about 10 minutes to make an important decision...would I do the second lap? I could hear my Dad's voice in my head, and my response "Yes Dad, I think I have the maturity to stop if I'm getting hurt". Things were getting blurry at this point. The discomfort of the effort, managing nutrition, and knee discomfort were flowing into one another. At the junction to the second lap I felt my bike turning the corner with nothing concluded. I just kept spinning and ignored the question. It seemed easier that way.

I've been to eleven Ironman events. The spectators in Madison are second to none. Highlights included fun signs "Does this bike make my butt look fast?",  having college boys sprint up the hill in gold banana hammocks printed with "Go hard or go home!" I didn't mean to look...really. I loved the 8 year old girls with the synchronized back walk-overs. I loved the old people lined up along the road side in wheelchairs ringing bells, and the old man who peered through his cataracts wishing me "Godspeed".  As each hill pitched up, the crowd squeezed in around the riders and willed them up. At one point I felt tears well up, as I thought I may have to walk the hill. My desperation must have been obvious as two young men sought me out and banged their drums with each pedal stroke. Their look of satisfaction when I reached the crest of the hill made me smile.

Back in my own company on a quiet stretch of road I reassessed my situation. High emotion means only one thing for me...time to eat. I dropped the intensity to a crawl and got in a banana, two gels and a whole bottle of water. Fifteen minutes later I felt like I had super powers. The return trip back to Madison was zippy and fun, and the helix back up to transition was over in a flash. Back in the conference room, I put on my runners and hat and head back out for the marathon. A big unknown.
Bike: 5:56

My goal was to be honest with myself throughout. I honestly felt no knee pain for 5miles. My intensity level felt low. I was breathing every 4 steps to control the pace, but kept clocking off 8minute miles. I slowed down to 8:30min/miles thought it was too good to be true. I saw Andrew coming back into town after his first lap and was so happy to see him running so well. We had discussed what it meant if I saw him at different points. He was on track for a rock solid race. He was more worried about me though, and look pretty surprised when I told him that I felt great! I passed 5 women in my category in the first 6 miles. Reality set in after a climb up over the Observatory. Running up was no problem. Coming off the hill, the familiar knee pain came back. At first I thought I could just walk every descent and carry on. But once the knee was irritated there was no going back. The length of time that I could jog began to shorten at each attempt. It came down to 2-3 minute sections of shuffle, then back to a walk. On my way back to town I heard my Dad's voice again, and realized that it was time to bow out. The turn-around is steps from the finish line, and my hotel was in sight. The problem was that I couldn't find a gap in the barricades. I just kept walking back along the route to find a gap. The gap didn't come for about a half mile. As I made my way off the course, I had the sudden realization that it wasn't hurting to walk. I just lost my excuse to quit. Being slow was not an excuse to quit. It was time to complete a second lap in whatever manner that I could. I've got to admit, my competitive side didn't really enjoy being passed by young and old, lean and chubby. I did love watching other people reach the depth of their souls to keep moving. Some people looked to the spectators to give them energy, while others were tucked away deep in their own world of hurt looking at no one. I got to see Andrew one more time on his final stretch to the finish. He was clearly hanging by a thread, and I wanted to give him my extra unused energy. I made sure he knew that I was safe and happy, and with a shift of a smile he finished his own battle.

My own finish came nearly an hour and a half after his. I have never walked the final mile to the finish chute. People were so warm and so happy for me. One sign read "I'm a stranger, but I'm so proud of you." Fighting the tears, I had a laugh reading the next ones "Smile if you peed your pants today" and "WTF, where you been?" Their congratulations and pride in a stranger finishing the task reinforced my decision to complete. Building on the emotions of the day, I thought of my dear mother who was not so different than me. She needed exercise and adventure as much as me, and slowly lost that ability as she battled Parkinson's disease. She would have given anything to have such a moment. I said out loud to myself "Because I can"...the motto of the day.

Run: 4:41
Race: 12:03

"You're back."

My skin was tingling and my heart was singing, climbing out of the cool lake with my family. After a long overnighter at work, Andrew had come home empty, wanting more than anything to lie on the couch and wake up tomorrow. Knowing the lake would clear his mind, Maddy was the one to ask her Dad to join us....yes, like most Dads...he's wrapped around his little girl's finger. We just swam to the four-poster dock, our 'minimum' swim. In that short distance, Maddy had already scrambled on and off her paddle board about four times, played tag, raced to the buoys, chased birds...as six year olds do. The sound of a little girl giggling is the best way to erase the stress of the day.

Not having seen each other for a few days, I noticed Andrew staring at me in the kitchen as I danced around making dinner and laughing with Maddy. A slow smile spread across his face. "You're back." I knew what he meant. I just realized it myself. I wasn't moving around the kitchen like an old lady anymore. The pit in my stomach was gone, and I was genuinely laughing out loud, instead of trying to look happy for Maddy's sake. I just smiled back.

It's amazing what some sleep and some mobility can do for one's mood. Here's the part where I share way too much information. I got a rash about 10 days ago. This was a sneaky rash that looked totally innocuous in the cool morning air, then ramped up throughout the day as the temperature rose, and by nighttime it was a raging mess of raised hives. Initially I thought some Benadryl would do the trick. My doctor then gave me a steroid cream, thinking I had 'lake itch'. A week later, down in Penticton watching Ironman, my dear friend and nurse marched me into a drop-in clinic where I was prescribed Prednisone. I take this high-powered drug with respect, and for the first time in a week have slept like a baby. Back to normal sleep.....CHECK!

I know darn well that it is pitiful to mope about a tiny little injury while people are struggling with real physical challenges, illness, and massive injury. As I've mentioned before, I'm embarrassed about my mood, as my rational brain scoffs this small physical trial. At this point, I haven't got the tool set to alter my mood when my activity level is limited. Over the years, movement and physical effort have become integral to my way in the world. I'm getting the picture that my tool set needs expanding, as these may not always be available to me. As I dance around the kitchen, jump up and down cheering at Ironman, mobility is back....CHECK!

Watching Ironman this year was moving. It always is, and I've never spectated without my heart in my throat as the start canon explodes, jumping for joy as the riders race out of town, and tears of admiration as they make their way back to the finish line. As I watched more than 2000 people, of all different sizes, ages and backgrounds, undertake this massive task, I just felt awe and respect for each of them. I watched most people finish ecstatic with their performance and completion of the event. I spoke with a few people after the race, however, who were devastated with their performance being off their goal times. I've been there, and have felt that disappointment. From my perspective on the weekend, I felt so sad that these people could not see how brave they were to tackle the day and all the unexpected challenges that came their way. They could not see their race as a success to have confronted such challenges and persevered. I think my own perspective on racing will be altered.

So, on that note, I have a plan! I am registered for Ironman Wisconsin, where my own start canon will blast in two weeks time. Andrew is fit and ready to rock this race. I'm not, but I have a plan. I plan to participate. I will put on the athlete wrist band. I will swim my heart out. I will ride my road bike upright, as it's more comfortable on the knee. I will walk the whole darn marathon. And I will finish before the 17 hour cut-off. The bike and run courses are looped, so I'll bow out and take off my race number if need be. Otherwise, I will just take it all in, and enjoy an awesome day of participating in a phenomenal event surrounded by people demonstrating guts and determination. Sound like fun?! Let's hope so.

Here are some photos of things that make me happy...kids being pirates...girlfriends...deer that eat my garden...sweating on a trainer...even for 30 minutes...family swims.