A Moooving Odyssey
~~~~~~~~~
"It is good to have an end to
journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end." - Ursula K. Le Guin
~~~~~~~~~
It is September 7, 2003, a date that's been indelibly inscribed on my brain for the past 10 months. It would have been my 25th wedding anniversary with plans for getting dressed up, scoring some cool gifts, and having a champagne dinner out—if I hadn't gotten divorced 21 years ago.
What an alternative I've chosen: I am swathed in black rubber (okay, a neoprene wetsuit for those of you insisting on technical accuracy). Rather than being with one slightly paunchy groom, I'm standing among 2000 of the fittest athletes in the world. My gift today will be finishing 140.6 miles under my own power, and that's only hoped for. Dinner will definitely be "out" as I stop pounding asphalt long enough to occasionally chew on a Clif bar and suck up sticky, viscous energy gel (I swear that stuff is merely repackaged cake frosting sold with extraordinary mark-ups), while washing it all down with that sparkling beverage, Gatorade.
I am so nervous, happy, and excited waiting for the sound of the cannon, you'd think it was my wedding day. This is IT. The Big One. Ironman Wisconsin. IM Moo. 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and 26.2-mile run. Like marriage, its own kind of crucible.
Why do I do this stuff? The half ironman-distance triathlon of six weeks before was bad enough. But here I am ready to throw myself into another lake and drive my body double the distance that it protested against such a short time ago. My friends have speculated that my reasons are nothing other than mental impairment. I can't fully disagree with that, but I think there's more.
My father reared me with the mantra, "Ya hired out ta be tough, didn'tcha?" From the time I was little, Dad consistently met stubbed toes, school woes, life's hardships, and generic whining with that combination query/admonition. This is a man who, during The Great Depression, rode Montana freight trains in sub-zero temperatures to get home for Christmas. Now 90 and still going strong, he has set more than a fair example. At some point in my life, his reminders must have become ingrained at a cellular level, creating the inner response: "Yes! I did indeed hire out to be tough! Here, let me prove it." Since no frigid freights are readily available, I suppose an Ironman will have to do.
But there's more to my need to do this than mere parental programming. Going after a big, honkin', Impossible Dream-type goal is an odyssey. It's the proverbial journey of a thousand miles, only you don't know exactly where those thousand miles will take you. You DO know that it will transform you and serve as a refining fire. The alluring possibilities of not knowing exactly who you will be coming out the other side are even more compelling than an Elizabeth Arden makeover; and I find that siren song irresistible.
As dawn displayed an intensely red sun casting magenta tones over Madison's Lake Monona, the uninitiated might have thought the odyssey was about to begin. Anyone who has stood in that wetsuit waiting for the gun to sound knows that it's actually the final leg of the journey after months of training, miles of moving meditations, and hours of mental preparation.
As throngs of triathletes vied for position for the start, those of us who were slower, less aggressive, and with a lower tolerance for being kicked, pummeled, and swum over positioned ourselves at the very back of the pack. (I talked to one guy whose nose was broken in the swim start last year. I asked, "Did you finish?" He said, "Yeah, but not nearly as well as I'd hoped to." Boy, did HE hire out to be tough!) When the cannon fired, I spent a second or two taking in one of the most beautiful mornings of my life. It's an amazing sight to see four thousand arms in unison pulling two thousand sleek bodies through silvery water.
The water felt great, and I quickly found my rhythm. I also quickly found that thinking about the 2.4 miles ahead was daunting. Focusing on getting to the next marker buoy and the quality of each stroke made the task much more manageable, and mental entertainment went a long way too. When I turned my head to breathe in the direction of Monona Terrace (race central), I could see every tier thronged with spectators. A helicopter buzzed overhead like some ancy dragonfly. Even as I kept steadily swimming, I was filled with awe at being in a world-class athletic event drawing tens of thousands of spectators and ESPN coverage. This must be what it feels like to be in the World Series or Super Bowl—except for the fact that I am a 50-year-old woman with no outstanding athletic abilities. This sport rocks! I expected the swim to take me 2 hours. Climbing out of the lake with a time of 1:44:10 was a major victory. Sixteen extra minutes' grace to beat the bike cut-off.
We had been prepared that "strippers" would meet us as we exited the water. Some participants were disappointed to find these were volunteers who helped peel our wetsuits off, rather than part of the day's entertainment. It was so uplifting to have friends right there yelling and cheering, even though part of that took place while I was on my back, kicking like a cockroach while strippers finally got my wetsuit to give way. Then I ran up the three-level spiral of the Monona Terrace parking ramp and into the changing room, championed by friendly faces and clapping hands the whole way. Yet another volunteer helped get my swim-to-bike bag, and went with me to the changing room. I pulled bike shorts over my swimsuit and donned helmet, gloves and bike shoes. Then out the door where my friend Mary, one of the sunscreen volunteers, embraced me in a big hug and covered me with white goop. Great send-off to the bike!
I was cranking down John Nolen Drive feeling wonderful. What a gorgeous day! What wonderful crowds. Then at about Mile 5 the best morning in the world suddenly became my worst day on a bicycle. I felt like I had just contracted an instant case of the flu. I was nauseous and achy all over. No energy. Every stroke of the crank was a major effort, and I was going 2-5 miles/hour slower than even my usually "conservative" pace. It was awful. How could this be happening? But I hired out ta be tough and kept pedaling, downing fluids, and taking in calories. I finally pushed through the flu symptoms at about Mile 30 but still couldn't get much energy.
The crowds were amazing throughout the course. When the hills began in earnest, crazies in costume, whackos with drums, and all other manner of caring nutcases were lining the inclines to cheer, encourage, bang, cajole, and even run up the hills with us. I was going so slowly, my friend Gina was able to run ahead of me to snap a picture while yelling, "I believe in you, Lizzie!" Never have I been so well entertained and felt so supported while hurting so badly.
If spectators were the cheerleaders, volunteers were the Mother Theresas of Ironman. At every juncture they were as efficient as quartz clocks, meeting the need of every moment with immediacy, and passing kindness and encouragement with every bottle of Gatorade. I hope they have good karma forever after giving the gift of themselves to so many that day.
The temperature was rising with a heat index that felt like a lower circle of hell. The top of what is accurately but not affectionately known as Bitch Hill marked Mile 50, and my legs seized up with cramps so excruciating I had to get off the bike and walk. Once I reclaimed ownership of those wayward appendages, I remounted and pedaled. From that point, the cramps would sometimes change places—inner thighs, quads, hamstrings, calves, shins, feet, and even my diaphragm—but they never fully went away. Sometimes they were mild enough I could keep going, and sometimes they were so severe it was all I could do to get off my bike before falling off. This was not going well.
At Mile 70 I noticed that my world was spinning in an even dizzier manner than usual. I stopped at an aid station to drink a couple bottles of Gatorade, eat bananas, and sit in the shade. After a few minutes, I resumed the journey and cranked out about five more miles, while continuing to cramp and feel dizzy. The Ironman Voice kept telling me to keep going—it's not supposed to be an easy day. The Voice of Reason suggested that although I hired out to be tough, I also hired out to have some sense of self-preservation and that heatstroke was not an attractive short- or long-term alternative. I finally got off the bike and asked a volunteer if I could get a sag wagon. I was in good company. So many athletes were dropping out with the heat and making the demand for sags so high, it took three hours to get back to Madison. Once in the sag, I could hear the constant calls on the driver's walkie-talkie for more sags and frequent ambulance requests for "athlete down". It made me glad I hadn't flirted further with heatstroke.
Now it's over. Similar to my wedding day a quarter century before, things didn't work out quite the way I'd planned for IM Moo 2003. I didn't cross the finish line. I'm not an Ironman or Ironmaiden or Ironanything. That's a big disappointment. But that doesn't take away from my personal Odyssey. I made every step of that thousand-mile journey, and I did indeed transform. Much of that transformation is so much an unquantifiable inner process and runs so deep, the best description I could give would have to be delivered with primal grunts and snorts. But some of it is highly visible. I achieved the most fitness I've ever had in my life, and it gave me the belief that I can go for more—and do so while maintaining a balanced life. I made peace with getting up at 4:30 in the morning to train, an ordeal that was initially horrifying to even contemplate. Although my first thought when the alarm goes off is still, "Maybe I should sleep in", I've come to love the beauty and stillness of dark-thirty and what I can accomplish in those hours before work.
The greatest gift has been the people who have supported, inspired, and uplifted me throughout this long process. I wanted to take them with me, so before the race, I wrote every one of their names up and down both arms with red, green, purple, and black indelible markers. During my 10 months of training, they patiently listened to me talk (and email) endlessly about this stuff that was often meaningless to them, and never once indicated they were about to chew their collective foot off at the ankle to escape if I made one more reference to IM. They supported, cheered, encouraged, prodded, commiserated, and sympathized. IronFriends. They went the distance and were with me every step of the way.
~~~~~~~~~
It is September 7, 2003, a date that's been indelibly inscribed on my brain for the past 10 months. It would have been my 25th wedding anniversary with plans for getting dressed up, scoring some cool gifts, and having a champagne dinner out—if I hadn't gotten divorced 21 years ago.
What an alternative I've chosen: I am swathed in black rubber (okay, a neoprene wetsuit for those of you insisting on technical accuracy). Rather than being with one slightly paunchy groom, I'm standing among 2000 of the fittest athletes in the world. My gift today will be finishing 140.6 miles under my own power, and that's only hoped for. Dinner will definitely be "out" as I stop pounding asphalt long enough to occasionally chew on a Clif bar and suck up sticky, viscous energy gel (I swear that stuff is merely repackaged cake frosting sold with extraordinary mark-ups), while washing it all down with that sparkling beverage, Gatorade.
I am so nervous, happy, and excited waiting for the sound of the cannon, you'd think it was my wedding day. This is IT. The Big One. Ironman Wisconsin. IM Moo. 2.4-mile swim, 112-mile bike, and 26.2-mile run. Like marriage, its own kind of crucible.
Why do I do this stuff? The half ironman-distance triathlon of six weeks before was bad enough. But here I am ready to throw myself into another lake and drive my body double the distance that it protested against such a short time ago. My friends have speculated that my reasons are nothing other than mental impairment. I can't fully disagree with that, but I think there's more.
My father reared me with the mantra, "Ya hired out ta be tough, didn'tcha?" From the time I was little, Dad consistently met stubbed toes, school woes, life's hardships, and generic whining with that combination query/admonition. This is a man who, during The Great Depression, rode Montana freight trains in sub-zero temperatures to get home for Christmas. Now 90 and still going strong, he has set more than a fair example. At some point in my life, his reminders must have become ingrained at a cellular level, creating the inner response: "Yes! I did indeed hire out to be tough! Here, let me prove it." Since no frigid freights are readily available, I suppose an Ironman will have to do.
But there's more to my need to do this than mere parental programming. Going after a big, honkin', Impossible Dream-type goal is an odyssey. It's the proverbial journey of a thousand miles, only you don't know exactly where those thousand miles will take you. You DO know that it will transform you and serve as a refining fire. The alluring possibilities of not knowing exactly who you will be coming out the other side are even more compelling than an Elizabeth Arden makeover; and I find that siren song irresistible.
As dawn displayed an intensely red sun casting magenta tones over Madison's Lake Monona, the uninitiated might have thought the odyssey was about to begin. Anyone who has stood in that wetsuit waiting for the gun to sound knows that it's actually the final leg of the journey after months of training, miles of moving meditations, and hours of mental preparation.
As throngs of triathletes vied for position for the start, those of us who were slower, less aggressive, and with a lower tolerance for being kicked, pummeled, and swum over positioned ourselves at the very back of the pack. (I talked to one guy whose nose was broken in the swim start last year. I asked, "Did you finish?" He said, "Yeah, but not nearly as well as I'd hoped to." Boy, did HE hire out to be tough!) When the cannon fired, I spent a second or two taking in one of the most beautiful mornings of my life. It's an amazing sight to see four thousand arms in unison pulling two thousand sleek bodies through silvery water.
The water felt great, and I quickly found my rhythm. I also quickly found that thinking about the 2.4 miles ahead was daunting. Focusing on getting to the next marker buoy and the quality of each stroke made the task much more manageable, and mental entertainment went a long way too. When I turned my head to breathe in the direction of Monona Terrace (race central), I could see every tier thronged with spectators. A helicopter buzzed overhead like some ancy dragonfly. Even as I kept steadily swimming, I was filled with awe at being in a world-class athletic event drawing tens of thousands of spectators and ESPN coverage. This must be what it feels like to be in the World Series or Super Bowl—except for the fact that I am a 50-year-old woman with no outstanding athletic abilities. This sport rocks! I expected the swim to take me 2 hours. Climbing out of the lake with a time of 1:44:10 was a major victory. Sixteen extra minutes' grace to beat the bike cut-off.
We had been prepared that "strippers" would meet us as we exited the water. Some participants were disappointed to find these were volunteers who helped peel our wetsuits off, rather than part of the day's entertainment. It was so uplifting to have friends right there yelling and cheering, even though part of that took place while I was on my back, kicking like a cockroach while strippers finally got my wetsuit to give way. Then I ran up the three-level spiral of the Monona Terrace parking ramp and into the changing room, championed by friendly faces and clapping hands the whole way. Yet another volunteer helped get my swim-to-bike bag, and went with me to the changing room. I pulled bike shorts over my swimsuit and donned helmet, gloves and bike shoes. Then out the door where my friend Mary, one of the sunscreen volunteers, embraced me in a big hug and covered me with white goop. Great send-off to the bike!
I was cranking down John Nolen Drive feeling wonderful. What a gorgeous day! What wonderful crowds. Then at about Mile 5 the best morning in the world suddenly became my worst day on a bicycle. I felt like I had just contracted an instant case of the flu. I was nauseous and achy all over. No energy. Every stroke of the crank was a major effort, and I was going 2-5 miles/hour slower than even my usually "conservative" pace. It was awful. How could this be happening? But I hired out ta be tough and kept pedaling, downing fluids, and taking in calories. I finally pushed through the flu symptoms at about Mile 30 but still couldn't get much energy.
The crowds were amazing throughout the course. When the hills began in earnest, crazies in costume, whackos with drums, and all other manner of caring nutcases were lining the inclines to cheer, encourage, bang, cajole, and even run up the hills with us. I was going so slowly, my friend Gina was able to run ahead of me to snap a picture while yelling, "I believe in you, Lizzie!" Never have I been so well entertained and felt so supported while hurting so badly.
If spectators were the cheerleaders, volunteers were the Mother Theresas of Ironman. At every juncture they were as efficient as quartz clocks, meeting the need of every moment with immediacy, and passing kindness and encouragement with every bottle of Gatorade. I hope they have good karma forever after giving the gift of themselves to so many that day.
The temperature was rising with a heat index that felt like a lower circle of hell. The top of what is accurately but not affectionately known as Bitch Hill marked Mile 50, and my legs seized up with cramps so excruciating I had to get off the bike and walk. Once I reclaimed ownership of those wayward appendages, I remounted and pedaled. From that point, the cramps would sometimes change places—inner thighs, quads, hamstrings, calves, shins, feet, and even my diaphragm—but they never fully went away. Sometimes they were mild enough I could keep going, and sometimes they were so severe it was all I could do to get off my bike before falling off. This was not going well.
At Mile 70 I noticed that my world was spinning in an even dizzier manner than usual. I stopped at an aid station to drink a couple bottles of Gatorade, eat bananas, and sit in the shade. After a few minutes, I resumed the journey and cranked out about five more miles, while continuing to cramp and feel dizzy. The Ironman Voice kept telling me to keep going—it's not supposed to be an easy day. The Voice of Reason suggested that although I hired out to be tough, I also hired out to have some sense of self-preservation and that heatstroke was not an attractive short- or long-term alternative. I finally got off the bike and asked a volunteer if I could get a sag wagon. I was in good company. So many athletes were dropping out with the heat and making the demand for sags so high, it took three hours to get back to Madison. Once in the sag, I could hear the constant calls on the driver's walkie-talkie for more sags and frequent ambulance requests for "athlete down". It made me glad I hadn't flirted further with heatstroke.
Now it's over. Similar to my wedding day a quarter century before, things didn't work out quite the way I'd planned for IM Moo 2003. I didn't cross the finish line. I'm not an Ironman or Ironmaiden or Ironanything. That's a big disappointment. But that doesn't take away from my personal Odyssey. I made every step of that thousand-mile journey, and I did indeed transform. Much of that transformation is so much an unquantifiable inner process and runs so deep, the best description I could give would have to be delivered with primal grunts and snorts. But some of it is highly visible. I achieved the most fitness I've ever had in my life, and it gave me the belief that I can go for more—and do so while maintaining a balanced life. I made peace with getting up at 4:30 in the morning to train, an ordeal that was initially horrifying to even contemplate. Although my first thought when the alarm goes off is still, "Maybe I should sleep in", I've come to love the beauty and stillness of dark-thirty and what I can accomplish in those hours before work.
The greatest gift has been the people who have supported, inspired, and uplifted me throughout this long process. I wanted to take them with me, so before the race, I wrote every one of their names up and down both arms with red, green, purple, and black indelible markers. During my 10 months of training, they patiently listened to me talk (and email) endlessly about this stuff that was often meaningless to them, and never once indicated they were about to chew their collective foot off at the ankle to escape if I made one more reference to IM. They supported, cheered, encouraged, prodded, commiserated, and sympathized. IronFriends. They went the distance and were with me every step of the way.
posted by Liz Zélandais at 8:28 PM
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