Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | September 28, 2010

What a Difference a Year Makes. Or Does It?

With my second Chicago Marathon just over a week away, I can’t help but think back to my first marathon. Every marathon runner has a “My First Marathon” tale to tell. Usually they are stories about inspiration, dedication and perseverance. My first marathon story, on the other hand, is about lies, deception and a complete lack of backbone.

The arc towards my first marathon can be traced back to just after I had kids. Although I’d always been a casual runner, I was not what you would call a devoted runner. I happily gave it up when I was pregnant because I was under the misguided impression that I should be taking it easy. Before I knew it, running was the last thing on my mind, as I was drowning in all things baby. Life was a blur of diapers, bottles, spit-up, laundry, loneliness and exhaustion. In my hours of need, I found myself reaching out to my old friends, Ben and Jerry. After putting the kids in bed at night, I would sit down with some Phish Food. The chocolate ice cream, swirled with marshmallow and caramel, reminded me that I had the strength to make it through the day. Every time I came across a chocolate fish hidden deep in the ice cream ocean, I would get a slight thrill, a little adrenaline rush. Sometimes it was the most exciting part of my day. Needless to say, I packed on the pounds.

I continued waddling blissfully along that Phish Food-lined path, my pre-pregnancy goal-weight vanishing rapidly in the rear view mirror. When I decided to skip my college reunion because I had gained so much weight, I realized it was time to ditch my friends Ben and Jerry and renew my relationship with another old friend, running. I started to hit the pavement with my kids in the jogging stroller, one mile at a time.

One day, a woman I knew from playgroup mentioned that she was a runner, too. “We should run together sometime,” she oozed enthusiastically. I looked at her as if she had just asked me to take a shower with her. I tried to hide the mix of shock and horror that I felt. Run with someone else? Ce n’est pas normal! Running was a solitary activity, a deeply personal experience, a time to be alone with one’s thoughts or one’s music. Run with another person? It was unseemly.

“Um, okay,” I responded with a feeble smile, hiding my disdain. A few days later she called to see if I wanted to run that Saturday morning. It sounded like torture, and yet it offered the one thing I desperately needed to rescue myself from newborn-induced loneliness: friendship. So Saturday at 7:30 we met up and set out for 3-5 miles. To borrow a line from Casblanca, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Don’t get me wrong, I still loved the moving meditation of running alone, but it turned out that running with someone else was kind of nice, too.

Our inaugural run morphed into a regular event, and other friends started to join us. Saturday at 7:30 became the highlight of my week. One day, my friend suggested that we tackle the upcoming local 5k together. Once again, I looked at her with a mix of shock and horror. Run a race? At our pace? It was not as if we could win – we were solid 10-minute-milers. Why would we humiliate ourselves by running a race, with spectators, if we were sure to lose in such a sensational fashion? However, my friend’s unabashed enthusiasm was persistent. “Um, okay,” I deferred.  And so my racing habit began. The 5k was fun, even if we didn’t win. Soon enough, we were signing up for every local 5k, 10k, and 5-miler we could find. It was a blast.

When I relocated to Chicago, I lost my running partners, but I kept my running habit. I jumped into the local racing scene. I even looked into meeting some friends in Florida for a half marathon. My travel schedule didn’t work out, but a couple of months later, those same friends asked me to join them on an all-female team for a running relay race. “Um, okay.” I had no idea what I was getting into. I wasn’t even sure what they meant by “relay race.”  My mind flashed back to gym class in elementary school when we would pass a cold metal baton to each other as we did laps around the field. Was that what we would be doing? When I did research to find out, I was horrified.

It was the S2S Relay, an overnight running race across the state of Florida. Our team would have 12 runners and between us we would cover 180 miles across the state. Each woman would run three legs of varying length, ranging from 3-8 miles. My assigned legs would add up to about 14 miles total. But one of those legs would be in the middle of the night. At 1AM. In the dark. Along an alligator infested lake. And when not running, we’d be sleeping in a van. It would take about 30 hours total. What in the world had I gotten myself into?

The relay turned out to be exhausting but fun, in a strange way. As you can imagine, a bunch of women together in a van for 30 hours meant a lot of talking. One of the topics discussed was whether running a marathon or a relay was harder. I had never run a full marathon, so I couldn’t weigh in, but I knew a half-marathon was definitely on the outside edge of my comfort zone. All the other runners in the van, however, had done at least one marathon. Some had done several. They all agreed that the relay was harder than the marathon. The consensus was that while the overall mileage was less, the pace was faster and running three legs in quick succession was more taxing than a straight, steady long run. Yes, they all agreed, the relay was harder.

Really? I had just done something harder than a marathon? I had always put a marathon under the category of Things That Are Absolutely Impossible for Me To Do, along with time travel, quantum physics, and ballet. I spent most of my life living or working on or near the route of the Boston marathon, and I made sure to watch the race every year. Every year, without fail, I was inspired and amazed by the runners, but I always said to myself “I could never do that.” And yet, these women were telling me that I could.

I started to wonder, could I really run a marathon? Four of the women on my relay team were coming to run Chicago Marathon the following fall. So there it was, my golden opportunity. I could run with friends, on a flat course, in my own back yard. And they all were telling me it was easy compared to what we had just done. They were more experienced than me, and without exception, they were better runners than me. Ultimately, their enthusiasm, coupled with my excessive diffidence, convinced me. I signed up for the Chicago Marathon.

Naturally, I soon regretted it. But every time my self-doubt flared up, I recalled that enthusiastic chorus of agreement in the van: a marathon is easier than a relay! As spring turned to summer, my training program ramped up. The runs became longer and more brutal. “But it’s easier than the relay,” I would breathlessly mutter to myself as I plodded along. I repeated the mantra over and over again. “It’s easier than the relay. It’s easier than the relay.” I started to sound like Dustin Hoffman in Rain Man, echoing the words without understanding them: “I’m an excellent driver.” “It’s easier than the relay.”

However, I soon realized it was a big, fat lie. Yes, staying up all night during a relay was challenging, and running while sleep deprived was no fun, but let me assure you, the marathon was harder: the training was harder, the mental challenge was harder, the race was harder. Yet somehow, that false mantra “It’s easier than the relay” got me to the start line, and once I was at the start, I figured I might as well get to the finish, even if it was not easier than running a relay.

At the end, as I crossed the finish line, I realized I had done something I’d thought was impossible. After years of saying “I could never do that,” suddenly I could say “I did that.” It turns out I didn’t need inspiration; I didn’t need a life-changing event; I didn’t need goal-setting and perseverance. All I needed was the belief that I could do it, even if that belief was based on lies and deception.

Now here I am, getting ready for my second marathon. It is just over a week away, but I am not worried because someone told me the second marathon is easier than the first. So I just keep repeating that to myself over and over again. It’s easier than the first marathon. It’s easier than the first marathon. It’s easier than the first marathon….

At Chicago Marathon with two of the friends who tricked me into doing the impossible. I am forever in their debt.

(Post from this year’s S2S relay race can be found here and here. Posts from this year’s Chicago Marathon will be up as soon as I recover from the trauma, if I ever recover from the trauma.)

12 Comments

Posted in Running | Tags: , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | September 19, 2010

A Supposedly Fun Thing, Part 2: The Art of Racing in the Rain

 

WARNING: THIS BLOG POST IS NOT THAT FUNNY. ‘CAUSE I CERTAINLY WASN’T LAUGHING AT THE TIME.

The starting line.

 

5AM found me sitting tensely in the car as we weaved down dark country roads, following a long line of vehicles adorned with bikes headed to the Lake Geneva Triathlon Series. The sky was pitch black. A slight drizzle spat on us. As we got closer to the start, more cars joined our pilgrimage, a string of headlights streaming through the night.

I arrived at the transition area to find a long line of athletes snaking through the parking lot. Apparently race officials were body marking athletes before they went into transition, and the process was slow. I waved goodbye to my husband and took my spot at the back of the line. More athletes poured in. There were hundreds of us gathered in the predawn darkness, anxious yet half asleep. We stood there with our bikes and bags and gear, moving forward inches at a time. Then the rain began, an earnest downpour. I heard a race official yell that the markers weren’t working in the rain, so they gave up bodymarking and let us stream into transition. Spectators ran for cover, athletes ran for the bike racks.

It was still pitch black, so I dashed to an area near a street light and found a spot. I kept my gear in a plastic trashbag, hoping to keep it somewhat dry. By this time, I was soaked, so I was anxious to put on my wetsuit on and warm up. Fortunately, the rain stopped and I was able to chat with the other athletes around me. I asked if anyone was doing the Half-Iron distance. No one was; everyone was doing the shorter Sprint or Olympic distances. Apparently, I was the only fool around.

I donned my wetsuit and went to the start line for the pre-race talk. Again, I chatted with the other triathletes nearby, and again I discovered that everyone else was doing the shorter distances. I was the only Half-Iron athlete within earshot. I didn’t know whether to feel hard-core or stupid, but stupid was winning. I was surrounded by younger people, fitter people, people with zero percent body fat and calves of steel. Yet I was doing a harder, longer race than they were doing. Yes, stupid seemed to be the appropriate word. I began to think I should have taken up knitting instead of triathlons. What was I thinking when I signed up for this one? I did not belong here. I belonged at a Starbucks. A warm, dry Starbucks.

I looked anxiously at the sky which was slowly becoming tinged with a cold blue light. There were ominous clouds, but no thunder or lightning. My greatest fear was that all or part of the race would be canceled and all my months of meticulous training would go to waste. Finally the race director announced, much to my relief, that the race would take place in its entirety, in spite of the weather. I breathed a sigh of relief and made my way down the beach for my pre-race swim.

Usually the pre-race swim is something I dread, but this time it was like coming in from the cold. The water was warmer than the air, and after shivering in my wet clothes for over an hour, it felt wonderful. But my pre-race swim was brief; the start of the race was at hand. After 9 months of training, dreading, and wondering if I could do it, the time had finally come to stand at the start line. The horn blew, and 170 of us, all the Half-Iron athletes, made our way into the water to begin our 70.3-mile odyssey.

The water was rough as we set out on our 1.2-mile swim. Three people stopped within the first 25 yards, including a woman who seemed to be having a panic attack. On the beach, tensions had been high and I got the feeling a lot of people weren’t used to swimming in choppy conditions. I, however, had spent much of the summer training on Flathead Lake, which has the impressive ability to go from flat calm to whitecapping in a matter of seconds. The gentle waves on tiny Lake Geneva didn’t bother me.

Due to the dark skies and choppy conditions, I had a hard time seeing the buoys, so I just took them one at a time. I tried to find someone to pace off of, but the murky water made it hard to follow anyone. Alas, I had to swim alone. For a while I was next to a gal, roughly in sync with her. It was at that point that I realized one of the things I don’t like about swimming: it is too antisocial. This girl and I were swimming together for at least 10 minutes, just inches away from each other, but I never got a chance to talk to her. If we were engaged in a sport where one could breathe normally, I could have said, “So, is this your first 70.3? Where are you from? Have you been to Lake Geneva before?” But no, swimming doesn’t allow for chit chat. I sighed (as best as one can sigh underwater) and swam along.

Before I knew what was happening, I found myself headed towards shore. I ran out of the water and up the beach. I, an avowed non-swimmer, had just done a 1.2 mile swim, and I wasn’t even miserable. I took off my wetsuit, fished my biking stuff out of my bag, grabbed my bike and was off. I saw my husband briefly on the roadside. He seemed surprised to see me. I was in a pack of riders, and he is probably used to me being much further back and all alone. Of course, at that point I was also mixed in with the Olympic Distance athletes. Soon enough, however, the courses split. The shorter Olympic Distance course went straight ahead, the longer Half course to the right. I hesitated for a second. It would be really easy just to go straight, wouldn’t it? But no, this was what I had trained for all summer long. There would be no wimping out now. I turned right and began my 56-mile ride.

The crowd of cyclists thinned considerably. But the rain had subsided and the dreaded swim was over, so I was in a good mood. As I passed other racers, I would say “On your left,” and then, because I was feeling perky, “Good morning. Nice weather, eh?” What responses did I get in return? Nothing. Silence. Glares. It was a rough crowd. Chastened, I pedaled on. I passed people, people passed me. We thinned out and settled in to our paces.

I wasn’t sure how long the swim had taken me, since I forgot to look at the clock as I left transition. I looked at my cycling computer; it said the time was 7:30AM, but I knew we’d had a start delay. I just didn’t know how long. Therefore, I was riding blind in terms of what my race time was.

My goal was to finish the triathlon in under 7 hours. I figured an hour for the swim, just over 3 on the bike, and 2.5 on the run. However, the most important thing was to simply finish. I knew the wet road conditions would slow me down considerably, since I am a big baby when it comes to turning and descending. It might very well take me 3.5 hours on the bike, depending on how many turns and hills the course had. But better to finish over 7 hours than to take a turn too fast, wipe out, and not finish at all. Still, 7 hours would be nice. I kept an eye on my pace and pedaled along. Then the rain began again.

It was light at first, just dripping a little off my helmet. Then, it poured. It was as if someone was standing above me with a hose. At one point, it was a hard-driving rain, and it actually stung my legs. To make matters worse, the course turned westward, and I was riding straight into the wind. I looked down at my pace which had dropped to a paltry 12 miles per hour. I took my goal of an under-7 finish and threw it away.

The wind whipped rain in my face. I yelled to the cows on the roadside “I am not happy!” When I signed up for this event, I thought September in Wisconsin sounded lovely. I envisioned a sunny blue sky, warm dry air, beautiful farmland, bucolic views tinted with the palette of fall, maybe some sunflowers growing on the side of the road. Instead, I was dripping wet and unable to see anything because of the driving rain in my face. I was shivering. My feet were numb. I debated with myself whether or not it was possible to get frostbite when the temperature was above freezing. I was not having fun. Yes, deciding to do a Half-Ironman was clearly the stupidest thing I have ever done.

Fortunately, during second hour on the bike, the rain let up. My cycling computer was no longer working (the driving rain had caused the sensor to slip on the spoke), so I was riding more blind than ever. I had no idea what my pace was, and no idea how far into the race I was. Finally, I got to a turn where a race volunteer said “Under 5 miles to go.” That was it? Gee, that wasn’t so bad. Well, the wind-driven rain part was bad, but the rain had stopped over an hour ago and I had gradually dried off. I sped down the hill and into transition. My transition was slower than I would have liked, but I desperately needed to get some of those wet clothes off. Dry socks, dry shoes, a dry jacket and I was ready to go. I headed out on the 13.1-mile run.

As I got to the transition exit, I saw the race clock for the first time that morning. 4:38. I quickly did the math; I needed to do the run in 2:22 to get under 7 total. Could I do a 2:22 half-marathon? Well, normally yes, but as the last leg of a tough, hilly tri? Maybe not. I ran onto the course and within minutes hit Killer Hill. I looked up the road at the steep and endless hill in front of me. “You have got to be kidding,” I mumbled. There might have been an expletive in there, too. Once again, I took my under-7 finish, wadded it up into a ball and threw it out the window.

I got to the top of the hill, but my pace was dropping. Having  given up the under-7 dream, I had lost my motivation. Another woman came up behind me and fell into pace beside me. We talked about the race, or more precisely, she talked about the race and I grunted acknowledgements when appropriate. She, it turned out, had not done the swim or the bike. She was just doing the run. For fun. So, she had energy, something that eluded me at that particular moment. She was a bit of a talker and she drenched me with stories. Stories about that triathlon in previous years, stories about her marathons, stories about her biking group, stories about her wallet getting stolen. She was pacing me along and keeping me entertained. I was delighted. Unfortunately, she was on her second lap of the two-loop course. As we approached the finish, she went on under the banner, I turned to repeat the loop. I thanked her, but probably not enough. So Donna, if you are out there, thank you for keeping me distracted and helping me get up those hills. I don’t think I could have done it alone. And I hope you get your wallet back.

My family was standing near the finish line/turnaround point to cheer me on, so after I left Donna, I ran by them and gave them each a high-five. I was so happy to see them, and so distracted by Donna’s stories, that I almost forgot to check the time. I turned back and looked at the clock. 5:54. Could I run 6.55 miles in just over an hour? Hell yes, I could. I got to Killer Hill again, and naturally I slowed. But I didn’t slow by much. I kept a constant eye on my pace, doing the math in my head. What did my split times need to be to make it? How far down did I need to get my average pace? My brain was working as quickly as my legs. I did the math, ticked off the miles, and kicked it up. As I came down Killer Hill towards the finish, I was pretty sure I had it. I made the turn towards the finish banner and looked at the clock. I was still far away but squinted to make out the numbers: 7:02.  I was heartbroken. I felt my eyes well up. I stared at the pavement in front of me and told myself that my main goal was to finish. I reminded myself that it was an accomplishment to get to that banner, regardless of the time. I pushed the tears out of my eyes, looked ahead and kept running.

As I got to the finish banner, however, I realized I had mis-read the clock. It quite clearly said 6:59. My heart soared. Suddenly I realized that I had: 1) finished 2) while upright 3) without throwing up, and 4) under 7 hours. In fact, my time was 6:59:19. 41 seconds to spare. I saw my husband and kids waiting for me, and I burst into tears. With their help, and Nina’s help, and AJ’s help, and with support from my friends and family, I had done it. I had done something I had thought was absolutely impossible. I even lived to write about it. Would this finally cure me of my Athletic Event Related Psychosis, my irrational desire to sign up for races that I have no right to be doing? Possibly, we will have to wait and see. In the meantime, I think I’ll surf on over to the Ironman Wisconsin 2011 website and see if registration is still open. Just curious. Really.

17 Comments

Posted in Cycling, Running, Triathlon | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | September 17, 2010

Journey to The Half Ironman: A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again

Apologies to David Foster Wallace for ripping off that title, but it is so appropriate. And I simply had to pay homage to DFW because the only thing I’ve found more challenging than reading Wallace’s colossal novel, Infinite Jest, was training for a triathlon. In fact, Half-Ironman training was a lot like reading Infinite Jest: enjoyable and engaging at times, but also frustrating and seemingly endless. As with Infinite Jest, I frequently wanted to give up, but was determined to get to the end.

I had four goals for the Half-Ironman. In order of importance, they were: 1) to finish 2) preferably upright 3) ideally without throwing up and 4) under 7 hours would be nice, but not necessary. The Half-Ironman was It: the Big One, the Queen and very far Outside the Comfort Zone. The question was, quite simply, could I do it? A good follow-up question was, “Why?”

My journey to the Half-Ironman (or Ironman 70.3 as it also known) began nearly a year ago. It was last October and I was in my post-marathon high. After several days of hobbling around the house, crying every time I approached a flight of stairs, my legs felt normal again and I quickly forgot the pain. I foolishly believed I had conquered a marathon and therefore could do anything. I was sitting at my computer reading posts by my friend Nina raving about her experience at the Longhorn 70.3 triathlon in Austin, Texas. She declared that it was fun, well-organized, and would be a perfect experience for a “first timer.” I must confess that I have never, not once in my life, given so much as a fleeting thought to a triathlon. I am a big cyclist and runner, but I hate swimming. The triathlon was not within the realm of possibility. However, with my 26.2-mile race endorphins still surging through my body, I looked at the Longhorn website and read the distances: 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike, 13.1 mile run; 70.3 miles total. Basking my post-marathon euphoria, I thought to myself “I could do that,” conveniently ignoring the fact that I don’t swim. Then I made the fatal mistake of putting my irrationally optimistic enthusiasm in writing, on Twitter. “Nina, I’ll do it next year if you’ll be my coach!” Little did I know that Nina was in the process of becoming a certified triathlon coach. Without fully realizing what I was doing, I had publicly declared my intention to do a Half Ironman Triathlon.

And so it began. Nina convinced me that an Ironman 70.3 would be doable. She assured me that yes, I could adequately train for the swim, even if the only swimming I’d done in the last decade was to get to the swim-up bar at a hotel pool. She came up with a plan, I hired her as my coach, and I was on the road to a Half-Ironman despite the fact that I had never done a triathlon before.

Now, you might wonder what sort of insane person would commit to doing an Ironman 70.3 Triathlon without ever having done an easier, shorter triathlon first. The answer, of course, is a person like me who suffers from Athletic Event Related Psychosis. The only thought in my brain was “Hey, I want to try that!” The fact that I might hate triathlons with a passion, or that I might be completely unable to swim, never crossed my mind. Fortunately, Nina convinced me that I needed to do some shorter triathlons for practice, in advance of The Big One. We also decided that while Longhorn was a great race, flying to Texas would simply add unnecessary stress. We researched and found another Half-Ironman within driving distance: The Lake Geneva Triathlon Series in September. We mapped out my training and racing schedule for the year, and I began training in earnest in January.

From the get-go, there were times when I wanted to chicken out. The most serious of these was the first time I went to the pool for a swim workout; it took me over an hour just to muster up the courage to go inside the building.  I took lessons with a fantastic swim coach, AJ, who was patient and kind and never made fun of the fact that I swam like a drowning cat. I was also fortunate enough to have a friend, Laura, who is an amazing open water swimmer. AJ and Laura managed to convince me that I could, in fact, survive a triathlon swim. But even with their help, every time I pulled into the parking lot at the pool, I would ask myself “Why am I doing this?”

Thanks to the penchant of Chicago winters to last until June, my bike training time was limited at first. Fortunately, I had been doing some off-season training at Vision Quest Coaching‘s indoor facility, as well as lots and lots of spinning. Luckily, Chicago had great winter running weather this past year: frequent new snow but few sub-zero snaps. I stuck to my training schedule religiously, even when traveling, which gave me some great material for blog posts. I had memorable runs in Laos and Vietnam. I even overcame my pool phobia and did a swim workout while in Paris (but only once, because once was enough).  Winter and spring flew by, and before I knew it, my first “training” triathlon, a short tri in Galena, IL, was upon me.

Much to my surprise, I survived the Galena Tri. It could even be argued that I had fun. Galena was quickly followed by a longer Olympic distance triathlon in Helena in July, and then Chicago in August. I gained valuable experience and learned useful tips at all three. I learned, for example, that putting socks on wet feet is far more challenging than it sounds. I learned that indecision leads to a substantial loss of valuable time in transition. And I learned that in almost all situations, I still don’t like swimming.

Then my training ramped up as the warm weather arrived. I contemplated, on several occasions, writing a blog post called “How Triathlon Training Ruined My Summer.” As July morphed into August, I started to wonder if I had made an enormous mistake. There were a dozens of reasons to quit. To begin with, there were the vanity reasons. My goggles gave me wrinkles around my eyes. The hours spent riding and running outside gave me bizarre tan lines. Although I was working out constantly, I was hungry all the time and I over-fueled, to the tune of actually gaining five pounds. Wrinkles, sun damage, weight gain? I was killing myself only to face a future filled with Botox, age spots and Weight Watchers? Forget it.

Furthermore, as my training hours piled up, I was spending more and more time away from my family. One morning I was late getting out for my bike ride, and I needed to tack on a run at the end of the ride. One of my kids asked what time I would be home. I looked at the clock, did the math and said “Hopefully by 3.” In other words, I would be gone all day. It was getting ridiculous.

I reached a low point several days later. I was out for a short run, just 6 miles or so, and I lost my will to go on. I called my husband at mile 1.5 to come pick me up. When he arrived, he asked if I was ok, obviously concerned that I was injured. I told him I didn’t want to talk about it. In my head, I had resolved to quit the triathlon. I had wrinkles, weird tan lines, an extra 5 pounds, and I was lonely and exhausted. I was done.

Fortunately, my despair didn’t last. I eased up my workouts for a few days and cleared my head. I bought higher SPF sunscreen and set up a Botox fund (just kidding!). I made an effort to move my workouts earlier in the morning so the time away from my family wouldn’t seem as significant. My kids started taking turns coming with me on their bikes while I ran. They even escorted me in a canoe while I swam in the lake.

Before I knew it, the scent of fall was in the air. The days were getting shorter and the nights took on a slight chill. As usual, I mourned the end of summer, but this year I also felt a twinge of dread pulling at my heart.  The Half-Ironman was almost at hand. Would I be ready? Could I do it? Did I have to?

I was more nervous and edgy in the weeks before the Half-Ironman than I ever have been in my life. I was scared I would get sick or injured. I felt like a delicate flower – one misstep, one twisted ankle, and all that training would be for naught. Sure, there were other races I could do later, but I was not ready to start training all over again. I need it to be over. Now.

The week before the race, I watched the weather obsessively. The forecast for race day called for wind and rain. Thunderstorms were my biggest fear, not because I was afraid to race in them (I have been caught in numerous storms over the years) but because I was afraid race officials would cancel all or part of the race if there was lightning. This was the day I had planned for, the race I had planned for. Every day for the previous 9 months had been mapped out based on this race on this day. I desperately needed it NOT to be canceled.

My days leading up to the triathlon consisted of me making large piles of triathlon equipment in my family room and obsessively checking the weather. It is possible I crashed the weather.com website by hitting refresh too many times. I laid out all my tri stuff: wetsuit, cap, goggles, back up goggles, helmet, shoes, sunglasses, race belt, etc. Anytime someone walked near my piles of stuff I yelled”Don’t touch anything! It is all organized! Don’t mess anything up! Get away from there!” Yes, good times in the Gelber household.

I spent hours driving myself crazy reading race reviews that called the course “challenging” and “difficult.” There were even references to the “Killer Hill.” What the heck had I gotten myself into? Bad enough I had to cover 70.3 miles in one day, but I had to pick a course that was “difficult?” Why couldn’t I have found an easy one? Why do I do these things to myself? What if I crashed? What if I got injured? What if I couldn’t do it and got my first DNF (Did Not Finish)? I was a nervous wreck. I needed to get this tri over with before I drove myself, and family, absolutely insane.

Finally, it was time to head to Lake Geneva. I was nervous and fidgety for the entire car ride. I got my race packet and headed to the hotel for a fitful night’s sleep. I woke up at 4:30 AM, ready to head to the race. After 9 months, it was finally time to deliver this baby.

3 Comments

Posted in Triathlon | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | September 10, 2010

Woman versus Beast

A few weeks ago, in a comment on this post, my friend Heidi challenged me to write about my strengths in my blog, instead of lamenting the fact that I was last in a race, was beaten by a dog, thought I was going to drown, etc. As I stand here looking down the barrel of the gun known as a Half Ironman Triathlon, I have decided that reflecting on my strengths might be a good idea, a sort of confidence-booster. And by strengths, I assume Heidi means something other than my Athletic-Event Related Psychosis TM, which causes me to optimistically sign up for events (like the Half-Ironman) that I really have no right to be doing. Over-estimating ones abilities and having a warped sense of what constitutes “fun” can hardly be considered strengths.

However, I had trouble picking a topic to write about (does indecisiveness count as a strength?). One of my greatest strengths is that I am a prodigious sleeper, but that talent doesn’t make for a particularly interesting blog post.  I am also great at procrastinating, but I knew I would never get around to writing about that. Finally, it dawned on me that one of my strengths is my ability to remain calm in the face of danger.

OK, perhaps I am overstating that talent a little bit, but I do a lot of running and biking, and as a result I’ve had many opportunities to feel more than a little nervous out on the road. Cycling and running present their fair share of hazards. Some, like potholes, are expected. Some, like bears, are not.

I spent a lot of time this summer in and around the Flathead Valley in Northwest Montana. I found many wonderful running routes, including ones that pass some pretty impressive real estate along Flathead Lake. One of my favorites was a 7 mile loop around Finley Point, just outside of Polson. It is a simple loop on a lightly traveled road, offering nice views and a conveniently located state park with bathroom. What more could a runner need?

I was running there several weeks ago, about 5 miles into the loop, having just crested a large hill and looking forward to the easy two-mile jaunt back to my car. Suddenly, about 50 meters ahead of me, a bear ran out of the woods and across the road. I stopped. I took off my headphones. I thought for a minute. I reviewed the bear advice I’d heard in the past: “Stop and back away slowly.” Back away? To where? I was at mile 5 of 7, and although I am a disciplined runner, I never add unnecessary miles.  There was no way I was going to turn back and repeat the five miles I had just done. Besides, it was a loop. There was no guarantee the same bear wouldn’t accost me on the other side of the point.

I figured that since the bear had been moving at a good clip, by the time I got to where he had crossed, he would be long gone. So I continued forward, slowly and calmly. Just then, a car came up behind me. Emboldened, I picked up my pace a little. Just seconds after the car passed me, the bear came tearing out of the woods back across the road, just feet in front of the car. The car screeched to a stop. I stood frozen. The bear climbed a tree just off the road. I watched in amazement as he jumped down from the tree and rolled on the ground. Then he seemed to hop up and down a little bit. It almost looked like he was break-dancing. He climbed another tree and jumped down again. Just my luck, I ran into a bear that apparently was on a bender and had been out partying all night. I stood wondering what to do. The best option I come up with was to go to the nearby state park and talk to the ranger. But what was the ranger going to do, escort me on the rest of my run?

As I debated my options, I noticed the car had started to back up towards me. The window rolled down. A pleasant woman sat behind the wheel.

“Where did he go?” I asked.

“He’s just off the road behind those bushes,” she replied. “He seems a little full of beans, sort of like he’s showing off.” She paused for a second. “Would you like a ride, just to get past him?”

I thought for a minute. My inner seven-year-old-girl said “Don’t take rides from strangers!”  My inner wise adult said “Who is more dangerous, a kindly looking middle-aged woman or a jacked-up bear?” I thanked her kindly and hopped in the car. She drove me to well past where the bear had been. I thanked my good Samaritan profusely and continued on my run, happy that I was less than two miles from my car.  I ran slowly and continually scanned the woods on the sides of the road, keeping an eye out for anything moving. At one point, a squirrel darted out of a bush and scared the daylights out of me. I screamed like a banshee. So much for keeping calm in the face of a scary situation.

Friendly neighborhood bear

Several days later I had another animal encounter of a different kind. I had spent the morning riding the bike path that extends south out of Polson, a pleasantly flat ride through open farmland, with majestic mountains rising to the East. It was a sunny day, and I wanted to add a few more miles, so as I got back to the beginning of the bike trail, I decided to take a detour to bike around Turtle Lake, a small lake tucked up in a low hill just south of town. I pedaled along, taking in the scent of the hayfields around me, feeling the warmth of the sun on my back. As I turned toward Turtle Lake, I passed a woman ushering some dogs back into her house. I gave a friendly smile and continued on my way. Then I heard the woman cry “Abner! Abner! Come!” I turned to see Abner, a dachshund, tearing straight towards me.

Now, I have to clarify that getting chased by a dachshund named Abner is much more frightening than it sounds. Really. Yes, I know dachshunds have three-inch long legs, and they can’t go very fast because the drag of their bellies scraping the ground slows them down. But this dachshund had a look in his eye: Abner was determined to get me.

“Go away, Abner,” I yelled. “Go home!”  I thought about getting out my pepper spray, but he was so darn little I wasn’t sure my aim would be good enough to hit him. “Go away, Abner!”

Fortunately, I knew Abner’s micro-legs could move only so fast. I pedaled. Hard. “Go away, Abner!”  Abner came within inches of my ankles, barking furiously. I pedaled as fast as I could, and finally managed to leave him in the dust. “Ha, take that Abner!” I laughed as I sped off.  Sue 1, vicious dachshund 0.

Don't let those sweet eyes fool you. (Not Abner. Trust me, Abner looked much more dangerous.)

I carried on, but quickly encountered more dogs. I wondered briefly if Canine Monthly had run a “Wanted Dead or Alive” advertisement with my photo on it, because they seemed to be out to get me. I love dogs, I have two myself, but for some reason the canine world has a vendetta against me. Around every corner was another dog looking to chase me. Fortunately, none were as persistent as ‘lil ol’ Abner had been. Most simply barked halfheartedly. Until, that is, I was just about done with my ride.

I had completed the loop around Turtle Lake and was headed back towards my car, when I crested a small hill and stopped. In front of me, right in the middle of the road, were three large dogs.  These were no ‘lil Abner dachshunds, they looked like they might be Rottweiler-mixes, and they were right in front of me. I was not happy. They spotted me and started to come towards me, barking. At the bottom of the hill, gleaming like a beacon, was my car, waiting patiently for me. To one side was open farmland, and to the other was thick forest. There was no house nearby, so I had no hope of a sheepish owner coming to rescue me. Suddenly retreating back to where I had encountered Abner seemed like a nice option.

I knew these dogs already had me in their sights, so trying to quickly pedal away would only encourage their chase instincts. I got off my bike and got out my pepper spray. Since outriding them was out of the question, I decided I would just stand there and hope that they wouldn’t find me very interesting (many people don’t find me interesting, so I figured maybe it would translate to dogs, too). I took my bike and placed it in front of my, trying to make myself appear bigger. They didn’t seem to be fooled. They kept right on coming. I got increasingly concerned when I saw one of them dart into the woods off to the right and reappear a few seconds later behind me.

Now, I am no expert in animal behavior, but I watched my fair share of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom when I was growing up, so I knew I was being circled. I lifted my bike up a little, as if to say “Be gone, creatures! Or I will shake my bike at you! It is carbon and very light, but you don’t know that because you are dogs so it makes me appear strong and brave. Ha!”

One of the dogs in front of me stopped, as if unsure what to do. Either my menacing bike-shaking was working, or he simply thought I was insane. Once again, I lifted my bike. “Here I am, oh so strong, shaking my bike at you! Be very afraid!  Perhaps I will throw my bike at you. Of course, I would never do that, because I love my bike and it is delicate, but you are dogs and you do not know that. Ha!”

Dog #1 in front of me gave a bark and then turned away. It was working!  The other dog in front of me, Dog #2, seemed confused. He kept looking at Dog #1, who was now moving off, and then back at me, and then over at Dog #3, who was behind me, just beyond my right shoulder. I turned towards Dog #3 and lifted my bike up again. “Same goes for you, buddy! I will shake my bike at you relentlessly and never give up!” He just stared at me, nonplussed.

I turned back to Dogs #1 and #2. Dog #1 had moved almost halfway down the hill, and Dog #2 was clearly disappointed that today would not be “Shred a Cyclist into Teeny Tiny Pieces” day. I shook my bike again. “Ha ha! Go home doggie! Or I will continue to shake my bike at you in a very menacing manner!”

Dog #2 gave a last bark my way and then turned to follow Dog #1 down the road. I looked over my shoulder at Dog #3 who was still staring blankly at me. I took a few steps away from him. He didn’t move. I figured the worst was over. Dog #1 was now out of sight, and Dog #2 was beating a quick retreat. Still clutching my pepper spray tightly, I hopped back on my bike and I hightailed it down the hill to my car, vowing never to bike on Turtle Lake Loop again.

So, clearly I have some magic power over the animal kingdom. I have successfully evaded a bear, escaped from a killer attack dachshund, and scared off three large dogs with my skillful bike-shaking. Now if I could just find a way to way to harness that power in the Half-Ironman, I’d be all set. Guess I’ll have to work on that one.

3 Comments

Posted in Cycling, Running, Uncategorized | Tags: , , , , , , ,

Posted by: Sue D. Gelber | August 31, 2010

The Insanity Known as The Chicago Triathlon

I took a vacation from blogging after the WaterDaze swim race, mainly because I was doing so much triathlon training that I was simply too tired to type. Although my recent blog posts have introduced you to charming locales such as St Ignatius and Polson, Montana, the site of my next event needs no introduction. It is The Big City of Chicago. The Windy City, a vertical oasis of glass and steel smack in the middle of the flatlands of Illinois. The Queen of the Midwest perches majestically on the edge of Lake Michigan, beckoning thousands of athletes to come face the challenge that is The Chicago Triathlon.

The Chicago Triathlon is billed as the world’s largest triathlon, and this year it attracted a field of 10,500 participants, including pros, elite amateurs and first-timers. Some were doing the Sprint Distance, but most were like me, foolish enough to sign up for the International Distance: 1500 meter swim, 25 mile bike, 6.2 mile run. Fortunately, given the level of training I have been doing, all of those distances seemed quite manageable. Except for the swim, that is. Anything over 100 meters is still rather daunting to me. But, I had just finished the WaterDaze 1 mile swim, so 1500 meters was doable, if not pleasant. I felt prepared for the triathlon and was not at all nervous about the course. What I was nervous about was missing the start.

My stress began the day before as I headed to the Multisport Expo for packet pickup. Keep in mind that I had just arrived in Chicago from Montana, and adjusting to city life was difficult. For one thing, I encountered traffic. A lot of it. Bumper-to-bumper traffic sitting still. I thought I had allowed plenty of time to get to the Expo, but as I crawled forward at a snail’s pace it occurred to me that I might not make it. I thought about how humiliating would it be to explain that the reason I did not do the Chicago Triathlon was not due to injury or some personal emergency, but because the Expo closed while I was still stuck in traffic and I couldn’t get my race packet. I saw another car with two tri bikes on the back and two equally panicked-looking occupants in the car. At least I would not be the only loser who missed packet pickup.

Fortunately, the traffic tie up was due to an accident, and once we passed the accident site the log-jam broke free. With only 15 minutes until packet-pickup closed, I found a parking garage and threw my car into a spot. I emerged from the garage and was struck again by the challenges of city life: I had no idea where I was. I took my chances and turned left, and was thrilled to see that the Hilton (site of the Expo) was just in front of me. I dashed into the hotel and ran smack into a phalanx of incredibly fit people escorting some very nice bikes. I took a moment to ogle a handsome red Cervelo (a bike, not a guy, just to be clear), but then I snapped out of my trance and sprinted to the exhibition hall.  They were already taking signs down. I looked around frantically and saw a “Packet Pickup” sign. A very nice gentleman found my packet for me, gave me some instructions, and sent me over to the next station. At chip check, the guy scanned my chip, looked at me and said “Amy?”

“No, no, I am not Amy!” I panicked.

“Heh, heh, I’m just messing with you,” he replied. Very funny, Mr. Race Volunteer Dude. Do I look like I am in the mood for a joke? Then I went on to body marking, where I had my race number scrawled in black sharpie across both arms and one leg. Quite attractive. Relieved that I had made it in time, I clutched my race packet tightly and made my way out of the exhibition hall. I saw two panicked people running down the corridor towards me. I think they might have been the same people stuck in traffic with me, but I can’t be sure (all those uber-triathletes look the same, to be honest). “Through that door straight ahead,” I yelled, knowing that the signs had been taken down already. I hope they got their packets because if not, as the kids say, that would suck.

I had some last minute errands to run, and I must admit, nothing screams “dork” quite like walking into the grocery store with a race number scrawled on your arms. I ignored the quizzical looks and bought my gatorade. I went home to peruse the race packet and organize my equipment. Then I packed it all into the car. Now came the next big hurdle – getting to transition on time. The transition area opened at (gulp) 4:15 and would close promptly at (gulp again) 5:45. AM.  My start wave wouldn’t go until after 8, but if I didnt make it to transition before it closed, I wouldn’t be able to race. After my harrowing traffic experience, I set my alarm for 3:30. I figured no one would be on the road at 4:00 AM, but I didnt want to take any risks.

When the alarm when off at 3:30, I muttered some unkind words and hauled myself out of bed. My usual “Why the hell am I doing this?” feeling took over, but at that point I figured the worst had passed: I was out of bed and standing upright. Half asleep, I drove down to Grant Park in the dark. I pulled into the garage, and again was surrounded by the hyper-fit and their fancy hardware. The place was swarming with pumped up athletes and their sleepy spouses. (My spouse had quite wisely decided to stay in bed until a little closer to race start time.) We all made our way out of the garage and towards the start. There were thousands of us gathered in the predawn darkness, cramming ourselves into the transition area to set up our stuff. It was just like the Chicago Marathon, but it was pitch black and everyone had a small cargo-container worth of stuff: bikes, helmets, bike shoes, running shoes, balloons, towels, changes of clothes, small appliances, couches, beds, tables and chairs, ottomans and recliners. It looked like an entire village of lycra-clad homeless refugees was setting up camp. I expected the United Nations relief trucks to roll through any minute and hand out Clif bars.

I set up my stuff in transition and walked the entrances and exits several times (just like my wonderful coach Nina told me to). I finished up just as the announcer declared transition was closing. As I left, I passed many frantic people running with their bikes and gear towards transition.  Never have I been so happy to have gotten up at 3:30AM.

Deer in Headlights

Before I knew it, it was time for my wave to start and I found myself climbing into Lake Michigan, and I was off….along with 150 of my new closest friends. To describe the race start as chaotic would be an understatement. It was like an emergency water evacuation of an airplane full of psychotics. Thrashing, splashing, flailing, body parts everywhere, like some underwater horror movie, but without the blood. Before I knew what was happening, I realized that all those thrashing bodies were creating a current that was pulling me along. I just put my head in the water and swam. Although the swim was crowded and chaotic, it was also easy to keep someone in my sight and follow along. Until, that is, racers from the wave behind us caught up to us and literally swam right over us. I am sure the course was measured out to be precisely 1500 meters, but to me it seemed substantially longer.

Finally I got to the swim finish, climbed up the rickety aluminum stairs and gratefully stumbled onto dry land. The worst was over. Or so I thought. I then did the quarter-mile barefoot run back to the transition area. I grabbed my bike and off I went. After having had underwater myopia during the swim, it was nice to be on the bike and see some of the other athletes out there. We ran the gamut. People on 10-year-old Schwinns, average athletes on decent bikes like me, and then the “I have every possible piece of equipment” elite-wannabes. The aerobars, the Zipp wheels, the pointy helmets – some guys (and gals) had it all. Most of them were obviously serious and dedicated athletes, and they zoomed right by me. But every now and then I passed one of those decked-out equipment addicts. I figured the people I passed were either injured or just really slow but really rich.

Unfortunately for me, the bike ride was over too quickly. I zoomed back into transition and headed out for my run. I paused briefly when I heard someone tell a race organizer two guys had collapsed in transition. The day was heating up, and clearly it was taking its toll. I was about to be its next victim. The run was great for about the first mile, then the path veered away from the shade of the trees and into a stretch of sun-baked concrete. That is when I faded like a spiky-haired ’80s pop star. My pace slowed to a crawl. I told myself to pick it up a little, but my legs weren’t listening. It seemed more people were walking than running. I realized quickly that my time was going to be slower than I had hoped, so I just accepted it and tried to enjoy the race as much as possible.

As I neared the finish line, I saw a banner that said “Pain is temporary, but Pride lasts forever.” It made me smile, and I picked up my pace. Then I almost threw up so I slowed down again, because the corollary to the “Pride” banner would be: “Nausea is temporary but the embarrassment of having an official race photo of you puking will last forever.” The finish was a blur, but I made it to the end, found my family, and ate ice cream while we watched the Pro Triathletes race.  All in all, it was a good way to spend a Sunday morning. Except for that getting up at 3:30AM part. That I could certainly live without. Which reminds me, why do I do these things?

4 Comments

Posted in Triathlon | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »

Categories