A Room With A View

and one without.

Finally, six years and one month after we were originally supposed to do so, my department moved into a new office space. We were part of a grand reshuffling that moved many departments throughout the facility to areas better suited to their needs. Our old space is being absorbed by the antenatal unit that has been slowly surrounding us for the past few years, while our new space used to be home to the simulation department and the lactation department.

Before we moved in, the rooms housed creepily real-looking simulation dummies that could go into "cardiac arrest" or "renal failure" or "hemorrhagic Ebola" at any given moment, and was papered with a host of informative posters about the wonders of breastfeeding. It looks a little different now. The only residual sign that my new office used to be a patient room is the oxygen hookup still adorning my wall; so, you know, if I'm having a rough day I can just pull out my nasal cannula, plug in, and take some deep breaths for awhile. It's a nice little space.

My only complaint:

My old view.

My new view. 

IM Excerpt #4 (Because It's Time For Some Funny):

On various ways to make a buck.

me: what's up?
Bea: Packing up dvd's to sell at 2nd and Charles
me: it warms my heart to see you changing up what you sell on the street corner.
YA BURNT.
Bea: dammit
me: (i am STILL LAUGHING. alone. in my office.)
(still)
Bea: LOLLERSKATES
me: ok. i'm good now. ...snort! nope, there i go again.
Bea: hahaha
me: :)
so, what IS 2nd and charles?
Bea: A giant buy-back place. Also, cheap used books, cd's, dvd's, records, etc.
I just started giggling about YA BURNT again.
me: ah, it's like Bookmans here
and :D
Bea: Bookmans. Yes.
Okay. Going away now.
me: ok. happy hooking. i mean hocking.
hee.
Bea: :P
BYE

The Update

In the spirit of keeping y'all in the loop, here's an update on where things stand with the GD MS. I had my second opinion appointment last week. Thanks to some string-pulling by the amazingly kind higher-ups here at work, I was able to get in to see the specialist at the Mayo Clinic two days after the call was made. That is some magical stuff right there; you don't get in to see a general neurologist in less than a month, let alone a specialist at a world-class establishment. Another reason to be thankful despite all the awfulness.

Have you ever had a neurological exam? You feel like a freaking genius the entire time. Walk to the door and back? No worries, I've got this. Tell you when the buzzing from the tuning fork pressed against my big toe stops? Don't mind if I do. Touch my nose with my eyes closed? Nailed it. (...it's funny until that potential day when I can't do that anymore...[sad trumpet]) After a very thorough neurological workup and review of all the test results I brought with me, the specialists said exactly what I didn't want to hear, but exactly what I was expecting: total agreement across the board. Diagnosis, outlook, treatments, all of it.

So, I've made my decision. In the spirit of doing everything I can to stay as healthy as possible for as long as possible, I'll start medications in October. Theoretically I could start sooner (as soon as two weeks from now), but I have a lot of traveling coming up in September and I don't want to be on a boat in the middle of nowhere having some crazy reaction to a brand new medication. So I'm giving myself the next six weeks to live a normal life (whatever that is). Then in October I'll start my new normal; one that includes daily injections, possible lumps and divots in my skin, and the constant fear of that next episode (When will it hit? How bad will it be? What will be affected this time? My hands? My legs? My eyes?) hanging over my head. But one that also includes hope. Hope that this course of action will give me more time as...me. Just Kristen. Not Kristen-dealing-with-MS. And hope that it will give doctors and researchers the time to come up with...something. A better drug with fewer side-effects. A less-invasive delivery system. A cure.

I turned 30 two days ago. I'm staring into this new decade with a lot of unknowns; my life could look wildly different ten years from now, for better or worse. The only thing I can absolutely control is my attitude, so I'm determined to do my best to have a good one. The rest of it is in God's hands; I believe that's a pretty safe place to be.

The Suck

I think the last time I left you in the saga of my brain, I'd had one MRI and was waiting for the results of my blood tests. Well, the Tuesday after Ironman, as I was sitting in the airport in Spokane, WA waiting for my flight home, I got a call from my neurologist with the results of my slew of blood tests; they had all come back negative. "Oh good!" I thought. She replied with the doctor's equivalent of "hold your horses there, missy," and told me that she would like to order another brain MRI, this time with contrast. So that was scheduled for Friday, three days later.

I went in on Friday morning for my contrast MRI. Friday afternoon at 4pm, as I sat in my office at work, my neurologist called to confirm my worst fears: I have Multiple Sclerosis.

I just... I can't even begin to describe the devastation of that moment. All my hopes and plans for my future potentially wiped out with two little words. Worst-case scenarios playing in my head: visions of not being able to draw, of losing my independence, of winding up in a wheelchair someday.

She went over a lot of things that thank goodness I wrote down because there's no way I was really processing what she was saying right then. After we hung up, I shut my office door, collapsed in my chair and just sobbed. It was a sketchy drive home. It was a rough weekend.

The following week my parents flew me back to Nebraska; spending that time with family was oh-so-good for my soul. I got to laugh with Emma (4), meet Avery (3 months) for the first time, and just soak up some love for a few days.

The only bright side to my particular diagnosis is that I have a few things that seem to indicate I might experience a milder progression of the disease - that maybe I won't wind up in a wheelchair someday, maybe it won't be anything more than something annoying that pops up every now and then: Women who are diagnosed before the age of 30 generally have a better prognosis; I made that cutoff with a couple months to spare. The first five years of the disease are usually indicative of how it will progress over time; based on my MRIs, I've had it for a few years now and I've only had one episode of symptoms, which is a good sign. I am otherwise healthy and strong, which can only help.

Two Fridays ago I was scheduled for a lumbar puncture, another test that is used in confirming an MS diagnosis. So many things to hate about that situation: The procedure itself, which feels like someone is trying to jam a dull stick into your spinal cord when they are inserting the needle. Of course there are all kinds of other nerves in the area, so you get electric shocks all down your (strapped down) legs whenever they happen to brush by one. When they withdraw the cerebrospinal fluid for testing, it feels like someone has attached a vacuum to the bottom of your skull and is trying to suck out your brain. Needing a ride to and from the hospital and not having a person--someone who I would unhesitatingly call on--and so having to ask friends for help; I know they don't mind doing it, but I still hate inconveniencing people. The headaches you get for days afterward. It was...unpleasant.

Two days ago I had an appointment to go over the results of the lumbar puncture and discuss what the next steps would be if things didn't look good.

With the lumbar puncture, they were looking for oligoclonal bands (O-bands) in my cerebrospinal fluid; when they show up, it indicates an inflammatory process in the central nervous system. Regular, healthy people have zero. Sometimes, if they've had a case of meningitis or encephalitis or something in the past, they'll have one O-band. Four or more is an indicator of MS. I had eight.

So now I have to decide whether I want to start treatments right away or wait and see if/when I have another episode (the facial numbness back in April was my first). The upside to starting medications now is that it delays the next episode and can even slow the progression of the disease in the long run. The downside is the treatments are all subcutaneous injections that have varying levels of awful side-effects, so if you're otherwise feeling fine at the moment (like I am), it's hard to make that choice.

My treatment options are:

Option A1 or A2 - injections either 3x/week or 1x/week. Downside: can make you feel like you have the flu, lasting anywhere from 12 hours to 2 days after the injection. Every time.

Option B - injections every day, but you don't get the flu-like symptoms. Downside: can cause a reaction of large lumps and bumps at the injection site (upper arms, thighs, abdomen, hips). These usually go away after a few days, but can be unsightly. Can also cause permanent lipoatrophy, where the fat at the injection site dies off and leaves a permanent divot in your skin.

So that's what I have to decide: Do I risk it and wait and see if/when I have another episode, losing out on that important early treatment? Do I want to feel like crap for 2 days every week? Do I want to have crazy lumps and divots on my body?

I never considered myself to be a vain person until choosing between these options became my reality - it bothers me more than I would have thought.

My neurologist recommends starting right away. She said she's usually in the more conservative, wait-and-see camp, but based on all of my tests, she thinks I should start now. She recommended I get a second opinion if I want one, and I think I'm going to do that; not because I think they will tell me anything different, but because I'd rather have two doctors recommending a course of action than just one.

I have another appointment in a month; she said I could tell her what I have decided then. Just...how do I even begin to make that decision?

Please pray.

(PS - Believe me, I know it's hard to know what to say. Something to the effect of "I'm so sorry. That really sucks." is perfect.)

Ironman Adventure: Episode 4

wherein I high five all the people and get my money's worth

--

T2 - 8:38

The second transition was a little faster than the first, if only because there were no wetsuits or frozen limbs involved. I grabbed my bike-to-run bag and trotted back into the change tent. I immediately had two volunteers helping me get all my stuff squared away as I swapped bike shorts and shoes for running pants and shoes. I replaced the spare tubes and CO2 cartridges in my jersey pockets (never needed them, thank goodness) with ten Honey Stinger gels. Now, ten gels actually weigh quite a bit, and since I had purposefully bought a looser-fitting top to avoid the oh-so-annoying Tri Jersey Creep (where your jersey slowly shifts upward until you are wearing what resembles an 80's half-shirt), this caused my jersey to sag in the back and bounce with every step...and in some pictures, to resemble an 80's leotard. But there was nothing to be done about it at that point, so I thanked my volunteers and headed out of the tent.

Immediately upon exiting the tent, I had four glove-handed volunteers descend upon me and rub every inch of me with sunscreen. A little awkward, but hey - I didn't get sunburned. And that was it. I ran through the Run Out archway and began the remaining 26.2 miles of my day.

Run - 6:23:46

Leg 1: 6.6 mi - 1:29:44 - 13:35/mile

So I started running. My legs, surprisingly, felt pretty okay. I say surprisingly because never, in any of my post-100-mile-bike-ride runs, had my legs felt even sort-of-decent. So, you know, tapering works! (A 35-degree drop in the temperature from AZ to ID probably helped, too...) Almost immediatley I ran into the Bea (not literally - he was on the sidelines), so I stopped for a quick hug and update on THE WIND on the bike course, and then continued on my way. I started up a little hill that would take me into the downtown area - and there was Haley! She cheered and ran with me a little way and then there was Dad! He cheered and ran with me a little and then I was on my way (Mom and Lacey were there, too, but somehow I missed them).

My plan for the run was pretty simple - run for six minutes, walk for one minute for as long as possible. Every 20 minutes consume either a gel or a salt tab (alternate) and drink water at the aid stations. I executed that pretty well for the first leg. There were lots of people out on the run course, both athletes and spectators, so it was nice to have so much company and positive energy flowing. I could tell that the majority of the athletes were either on or heading back in for their second loop, both by their plodding gaits and the exhaustion in their eyes. I tried not to be too jealous and just continued my relentless forward motion.

The aid stations on the run were just amazing. Dozens of volunteers utterly convinced that you needed what they had to offer: "Bananas! YOU need a banana." "Delicious chips: you can't eat just one - and why would you want to??" "Water! Ice! Perform! It will help you perform, alright!" I felt bad that all I ever wanted was water and ice. I think at one point I tried some flat coke, and a couple times I tossed back some Perform, but my usual routine was to grab of a cup of water and drink it, grab a cup of ice and dump it in my handheld water bottle, followed by one or two cups of water, and continue on my way. Rinse and repeat at every other aid station. By then the day was warm enough that the ice water was nice, but not so warm that it was necessary. It had settled in to a perfect day for a marathon.

So I ran and ran and walked and ran and eventually I came to the big hill on the run. It was the same big hill we had to ride up and over for the first out-and-back section of the bike course, and I had planned all along to walk (quickly) the uphills and run the downhills. So I began the trek to the top. And, of course, eventually I got there. And then I ran until I reached the turnaround, which was located about halfway down the other side of the hill (which, by the way, is just mean. I mean, make the turnaround at the top! Sheesh.). As I got closer to the turnaround, I could see the big mile-marker indicating I was nearing Mile 20. Well, that would be true if I were on my second lap, but alas, I was on my first. So I had the anti-joy of having a bunch of kids excitedly cheering "Alright! Great job, you're at mile 20! Good for you - keep it up!" I wanted to bellow back "I'M AT MILE 6.5, YOU JERKS!" but I didn't because I'm not an asshole. Instead, I just smiled and thanked them and died a little on the inside and made the turnaround to head back to town knowing I'd be back in about 3 hours.

Leg 2: 6.8 mi - 1:38:43 - 14:31/mile
The trek back into town was similar to the trip out...only harder. I fast-walked back to the top of the hill. As I sped by one lady who was clearly on her second lap, she said "wow, you're a really speedy walker!" I replied "Yeah, I still have one loop to go - I'm truckin' it!" She laughed and replied "Get it, girl!" (a phrase I can't pull off) and I did just that. I kept a solid pace as I ran down the long, other side of the hill, but unfortunately the hill had a pretty bad camber that sloped toward the lake - I could feel my left foot hitting the edge of my shoe and just prayed I wouldn't get a blister.

I kept taking my gels and my salt and drinking my water. My one minute walks slowly morphed into two minutes, but I still started running as soon as I could work up the motivation after my watch beeped the next interval. At one point I made a quick stop in a porta-potty. You guys. Just...don't ever go in an Ironman porta-potty. That is all I am going to say about that. And pretty much before I knew it, I was back into town. There's a point somewhere near Mile 12/25 where the course splits - you either go right to continue on to your second loop, or you go left to the finish. Oh man, I wanted to go left. I wanted to go left SO badly. But I groaned, congratulated the athletes around me who DID get to make that turn, and continued on my way.

The right hand turn eventually brought me to Run Special Needs. I hadn't packed much in my special needs bag, just a few extra gels and salt tabs in case I lost any, a blister kit, and a long sleeved t-shirt in case it got cold. I ended up not needing any of that (although I agonized a bit over the t-shirt - it seemed like it might get cold, but I was still trucking along at a fast enough pace that I was staying warm), so I just ditched my sunglasses and continued on my way.

As I ran down the final stretch toward the turnaround, I saw a grouping of familiar turquoise t-shirts in the distance - I was SO happy to see my crew! You have no idea what a boost it is to see your friends and family at that point in the day. I stopped for a couple minutes for hugs and encouragement and headed for the turnaround with a renewed spirit. I hit the 13.1-mile mark at almost exactly 3 hours and knew that left me a good 3 hours and 35 minutes to do one more half marathon. Barring a catastrophe, that medal was going to be mine!

Leg 3: 6.1 mi - 1:38:55 - 16:12/mile
The first half of my second loop was probably the toughest, mentally. Not surprisingly, it was also my slowest of the four sections. My legs were tired, it was starting to get dark, I had to give my stomach a pep talk whenever it was time to eat another gel; I just wanted to be done. And, cruelest of all, the road I was running on was only one block over from the final stretch to the finish line. I could hear the cheers of the crowd and the beat of the music and Mike Reilly telling person after person that they were an Ironman - and I was running AWAY from all that. But, as with any challenge from that day, the only thing I could do was keep moving forward. And so I did.

As we wound our way out of the neighborhoods, near Mile 15, there was a man standing on a dark corner near a big white house. He hollered out at us in a big, cheery voice "YEAH! You guys are doing it RIGHT! You're getting your money's worth out of this day! Why would you want to finish at 2:00 in the afternoon?? You're enjoying all this course has to offer - good for you!!" And all of us just cracked up. It was true! Our price per hour of Ironman Entertainment was much lower than those crazy people who finished in 8.5 hours. Haha!

As I made my way along the lake, I consciously made a decision to embrace where I was at that moment. I was tired, I was sore, I had miles to go before I was done. But I remembered what my friend Justin (an Ironman himself) had told me to think about when things seem rough: I was doing an effing IRONMAN! How many people attempt that in their lifetime? That made me smile. And I happened to glance over my shoulder at that moment and saw the sun setting in a spectacular blaze, the pinks and oranges reflected in the pine-tree-lined lake; I felt very lucky to be where I was, doing what I was doing.

With that, I put my shoulders back, lifted my head, and headed forward with renewed vigor. I ran as much as I could and walked quickly when I walked. And of course, eventually, I made it up and over the big hill and down to the turnaround where, finally, that Mile 20 sign was for me.

Leg 4: 6.7 mi - 1:36:24 - 14:23/mile
I was going to do this thing! I had just under two hours to make it 6 point something miles. The final leg of the marathon would end up being my second fastest - I think because that finish line was calling my name.

It was pitch dark by this point; so dark I couldn't see people coming from the other direction or obstacles in my path. I spent most of this portion just trying not to twist an ankle with five miles to go. I ran all the way down the big hill, which helped get me on my way with some good momentum. I pushed myself to run as much as I could. It was the strangest thing, though; I'd be running along feeling okay (because running didn't hurt any more or less than walking) but all of a sudden I would realize I wasn't running anymore. I would just stop running without planning on it or even noticing. It's like my body knew exactly how much it was willing to give at any moment and that was that.

I had been leapfrogging with the same 6 or 7 people for the past few hours, and so each time we would pass or be passed, we'd exchange a few words of encouragement. This one guy, Kevin, and I had been running near each other almost since the start of the marathon. He was wearing a Team in Training jersey, so I of course struck up a conversation. And now, hours later, we were passing each other every couple of minutes. He was feeling pretty low, wondering if he was going to be able to make it the last few miles and I said, "Kevin. You didn't make it 137 miles into an Ironman to just up and quit. You're going to make it. Obviously. Just keep moving forward - you'll get there." Being able to motivate someone else, to take the focus off of myself and my own aches and pains, was actually a huge mental relief.

The mile markers slowly ticked by. Mile 23. Mile 24. Mile 25. And finally, I was back to that point where three hours and some-odd minutes earlier I had to turn right. But this time... ah, this time I turned left. And I had less than a mile to go. You could actually feel the energy lighten a bit. Athletes started jogging a little, or walking a little taller. The relative silence on the course turned into excited murmurs of "we're going to do this!" One of the volunteers at the last aid station said to me "way to go, you're almost there!" To which I replied "Thank you! For the first time all. day. that's actually TRUE!"

Just past the last aid station, a girl and a guy slowly ran by me. The girl hollered out "we chased you for HOURS on the bike course - don't let us beat you now! You have to run across the finish line with us!" I laughed and said I'd try. I jogged with them for awhile, but there was still a ways to go and I wanted to cross the finish line strong and smiling, in my own time. So I wished them well and dropped back into my brisk walk.

And soon enough I was making my way through the library parking lot and back out onto the street, and then one more left turn onto Sherman Avenue. Sherman Ave is pretty famous for being one of the best finishing stretches in all of Ironman. And man... they weren't kidding. It was five solid blocks of cheering and screaming masses of people; I swear, half the town was there. And at the end of it all, shining like a big white beacon of hope, was the finish line. I ran every foot of those blocks on Sherman Ave. with the biggest smile plastered on my face; the energy was contagious.

And finally... finally I was there. The finisher's chute. You guys. It was just amazing. The lights, the music, the thousands of people cheering and clapping and screaming - for ME (and everyone else, but in that moment, it was for me). I scanned the crowd for Team Kristen as I ran down the line high-fiving people, but knew it was probably going to be impossible to find them. I was halfway down the chute when I heard someone bellow "KRISTEN!!!" Thanks for being loud, Bea. :) There they were! I gave them a wave and a cheer as I continued down the chute.

Just a few more steps to go... More smiles and high-fives. And then I heard it. The words I had been working towards since I filled out that registration form a year ago. Words that got me out of bed at 3:30 in the morning on Saturdays and kept me moving forward during hour 8 of a hot, windy training ride. I sacrificed hundreds of hours of my life in the pursuit of those words, and this was my moment.

"Kristen Larson, a first-timer from Chandler, Arizona, YOU ARE AN IRONMAN!"

Overall - 16:48:32 

After

I had done it. I was an Ironman! Each finisher is assigned a "catcher," someone who helps you through the chaos of the finish area and makes sure you get all your stuff. Mine grabbed me by the arm and before I knew it my medal was over my head, my timing chip was gone, I had a space blanket and a hat and a shirt and a bottle of water, and I was next in line to have my picture taken. Efficiency, thy name is Ironman.

Bea had somehow weaseled his way into the finishers area, so I sent him on a mission to retrieve my gear bags and my bike. Then I put my name on the list for my free 10-minute massage, and proceeded to creakily wander around to find some food. It was funny how quickly everything seized up once I stopped moving for a minute or two. They were out of pizza, so I ended up with a bottle of chocolate milk (delicious!) and some grapes and pretzels. I hadn't had solid food since my peanut butter bagel 19 hours earlier, but I wasn't hungry in the slightest. I knew I should try to eat something, so I halfheartedly ate a couple pretzels. And then it was my turn for a massage.

As I laid my gross, sweaty self down on the table, I said to the massage therapist, "This must be the most disgusting day of massage you ever have to do." She laughed and agreed that it was in a category all its own. I said "well, sorry I'm so sticky - have at it." It wasn't an amazing massage - but it was relaxing, and I almost fell asleep on her table.

When my time was up, Bea and I began the long (because I was moving so slow) walk back to the car. As I was leaving the finisher's area, a fellow athlete called out "How about that wind on the bike?!?" I replied "oh my gosh, I know - wasn't it terrible?" He said, "YES! I was going so slow down those hills - it's not fair! Downhills are usually the only time it actually pays to be a big guy!" I had to laugh and tell him I knew exactly what he meant.

Eventually we made it to the car and got all my junk crammed inside, and I sort of half sat/half fell onto the passenger seat. (My mom had thoughtfully provided a blanket to put between me and the upholstery - the car was a rental and I was gross.) Once we got home, we all stayed up until 2am talking about our experiences from the day. Everyone else collapsed into their beds, while I took The World's Best Shower and brushed my fuzzy teeth. I was too wound up to sleep, so I stayed up for another hour and a half reading through the explosion of awesome that had taken place on my Facebook wall over the past 24 hours. I fell asleep around 3:30 and was wide awake at 6:30, ready to take on the day (or, you know, hobble around like an old lady). This Ironman needed some breakfast: stat.

Completing an Ironman means different things to different people. I'm still trying to figure out what it means to me. I think for the most part, it's proof. Proof that with a lot of hard work, a little bit of luck, and the right attitude, BIG things are possible.

Go do big things, you guys. It’s the best.

Ironman Adventure: Episode 3

wherein the wind is a bitch and I attempt to bargain with God

--

T1 - 11:28

So I'm out of the water. I'm staggering and dizzy and I can't feel my legs from the knees down, but praise Jesus I am back on solid (sandy) ground. I heard my cheering squad hollering my name and offered up a frozen wave as I drunkenly stumbled across the beach and up the little hill to the wetsuit peelers. I had removed my swim caps and goggles on the way, but my frozen fingers wouldn't work to unzip the back of my wetsuit. The blessed volunteers pried the goggles and caps out of The Claw (aka my left hand) and got me all taken care of in about five seconds: unzip the top, "sit on the ground!", a quick yank on the legs, each grab a bootie (MY SHOES), a hand up, and I was on my way, wetsuit-less and happy. I ran past the warming tent that seemed to be bursting at the seams with shaking, shivering, skin and bones triathletes trying to bring their body temperatures back up to normal. Seems like having a little extra "built-in insulation" wasn't such a bad thing for such a cold swim.

I made my way down the rows of swim-to-bike bags looking for my number. Surprisingly there was a pretty significant number of bags left, which meant that even with my slow, slow swim, I had beat a good number of people out of the water. A nice volunteer grabbed my bag to hand it to me, and I headed on into the women's changing tent.

You guys. An Ironman changing tent is such a bizarre place to be. I can't speak to the men's experience, but the women's tent was chock full of half-naked, dazed, goose-bumpy women. And the volunteers in the changing tents? Are saints. Seriously, if you had told me three years ago that someday I'd be standing naked from the waist down attempting to put on a pair of bike shorts while a strange woman held my arm so I wouldn't fall over and another one knelt nearby sorting through my bag of gear, I would have laughed (a little uncomfortably) and told you that you were insane. But there you have it. The ladies got me everything I needed, sprayed me extra-thoroughly with sunscreen, double-checked that I had things where they were supposed to go, and sent me on my way with a cheery "good luck - you're such an inspiration!" I made my way out of the tent and through the grassy field containing several million dollars worth of TT and road bikes, located and unracked Toofer, and headed for the Bike Out sign.

Bike - 8:06:03

I was so, so happy to finally be on my bike. As I headed out on the first little out-and-back through town, I felt GOOD. I was pedaling along at what felt like an easy pace, averaging 18 or 19 mph without really trying. I cruised up and over the one big hill on that section of the course and enjoyed the crew of bagpipers at the top, as well as the guy and girl stoically dancing in perfect coordination on a homemade stage to cheesy pop music. I hit the turnaround, went back up and over the hill, back into town, and cruised by my support crew with a cheery wave. This was going to be a great ride!

But then... dun dun dunnnn... then I made the left-hand turn onto I-95 South - the longer of the two out-and-backs with all of the infamous Couer d'Alene hills - and was hit smack in the face with a vicious, unrelenting headwind. A wind so ridiculous that I was going downhill - tucked down in my aerobars - PEDALING - and going about 13 miles per hour. UGH. So I did the only thing I could do - I put my head down and pedaled. It's a testament to my training that none of the hills seemed particularly demoralizing. They were long, sure. And I certainly didn't set any speed records. But at no point did it come close to the horror of climbing out of Bartlett on a 100-degree day. I even passed quite a few people as I was going uphill, which NEVER happens when you're a larger cyclist!

I had to make a quick stop at one of the aid stations due to some perhaps overzealous pre-race hydrating (I'm not used to racing in cool temperatures!), and a wonderful volunteer held my bike for me while I was occupied. I will never, ever be one of those triathletes who pee while still on the bike. No, no, no. I will take the 1 minute time hit, thank you very much. Feeling oh-so-much better, I hopped back on my bike and continued my long slog into the headwind.

Eventually, I came to a really strange, long section of uphill that looked SO MUCH like it was actually downhill. I even stopped at one point thinking I had a flat tire because I was going about 9 miles an hour and that basically isn't possible on a downhill when you aren't braking. My tire was fine, I guess I just needed to readjust my perception of the terrain or something. I didn't notice that particular issue on the second loop, so maybe it was just some temporary insanity or something. Weird.

So I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled and, oh finally, I reached the turnaround. And that horrible headwind became the world's most glorious tailwind. The approximately 20-mile section that had taken me about two hours to cover on the way out took me just over one hour on the way back in. I rode back up and over the same hills, but this time the painfully slow descents became the 40mph adrenaline-fests that I love so much, and I was back into town before I knew it. 56 miles down, 56 to go.

The ride through town and off to the East went well the second time, too. I zipped by my family and friends camped out on their patch of sidewalk and gave them a happy wave. Back up and over the hill, past the bagpipers, past the stoic dancers, and right into the Bike Special Needs stop at mile 62, where another lovely volunteer had my bag ready and waiting. I grabbed the bottle of my Perform/CarboPro mixture and swapped it out with the empty one on my bike, took a big bite of the Snickers I had been looking forward to for about 20 miles, and stretched a bit while the volunteer held my bike. And then, as I glanced down the line of athletes getting their Special Needs bags, I saw Julie! We both knew she would beat me out of the water, but we figured I would catch up to her at some point on the bike - and there she was! We commiserated on the horrible winds out on 95 and exchanged some words of encouragement. Then, after stuffing the remaining half of my Snickers bar in my bento box, I headed out for the remaining 50 miles.

I rode back through town, past my support crew, back up the interstate entrance ramp, and onto 95 south. Back into the headwind (which had not abated at all), and back over the seemingly endless hills. And right around mile 80, I started to get worried. To be able to officially call yourself an Ironman, you have to finish the 140.6-mile event in less than 17 hours, but that 17-hour time cutoff isn't the only one you have to worry about. There are checkpoints all throughout the day that, if you don't make it by the specified time, you are pulled off the course and your day is done. And one of those cutoffs happened to be at the turnaround on 95 South, and the cutoff time was 4:00. I knew that my slow swim and the crazy winds were going to make it a close call, but I had no idea how close it would turn out to be.

The problem, you see, was that I couldn't remember where exactly the turnaround was. Was it mile 90? 96? My attempts at doing math while racing were futile. All I knew was there was NO WAY I was not going to make it to the turnaround before the time cutoff, so I pedaled like I have never pedaled in my life. As I came up to the last aid station before the turnaround (with no idea how much farther I had to go), I saw literally a dozen athletes just standing around, taking their sweet time stretching or grabbing a drink. I couldn't believe it - we had about 20 minutes until the cutoff and who knows how many miles to go and they were chatting and laughing. Did they just not know? I still have no idea. But I flew through that aid station like it wasn't even there and continued in my dogged pursuit of the turnaround.

Up and over one hill, pushing to my limit. Up and over one more, and my right hamstring began to make a weird twingy pain with each pedal stroke. "Just hold on for a few more minutes!" I pleaded. And then finally I crested the hill and there before me, halfway up the hill in front of me and shining like a beacon (ok, maybe that was in my head), was the turnaround. I had made it with 9 minutes to spare.

I cheered as I made the sharp U-turn that sent me back north with the wind at my back and 22 miles and all the hills to tackle before 5:30 (the cutoff for the bike course). I laughed in relief with the other cyclists I had been riding near, happy that we had made it with time to spare. But everyone got a little quieter as the time ticked by and, ten minutes after we had made the turnaround, when we knew it was after 4:00, there were still dozens of athletes heading South on 95. It was heartbreaking to know that their day was done.

At this point in the race, it had sort of shaken out so I was riding around people who were basically my same speed. We built up a little camaraderie (as much as you can with the mandatory four bike lengths between you, anyway) and said cheery hellos and "see you in a few minutes" and "I don't know if I'm ever going to be able to remove this saddle from my ass" as we leapfrogged with each other over the hills back into town. As I slogged up Mica Grade one last time, the longest and steepest hill on the course (which, of course, happened to be at mile 100 on the second loop), I sent out a mental thank you to my coach for making us ride those five hellish 100-mile training rides. There were at least three or four men walking their bikes up the hill as I pedaled relatively comfortably to the top. One more screaming downhill, one last hill, and then I was back into town and on my way to the Bike Finish.

As I made the sharp left-hand turn to start down the chute to what I thought was the bike dismount, I saw a bunch of athletes walking their bikes. Oh no! Had I somehow missed the dismount line?? (You get penalties for riding your bike after the dismount line.) I slammed on my brakes and almost fell over because I was still clipped in, but managed to get a foot down at the last minute. I creakily swung my leg over my bike and started walking. "Did I miss the dismount? It must have been really poorly marked." I said to the girl walking just in front of me. "Oh, are you still racing?" she asked. "Um, yes?" I replied. She said, "Oh, then keep riding! We didn't make the cutoff at the turnaround." Well then what the heck were they doing in the chute! Argh! I swung my leg back over my bike (as did the cyclists who had come up behind me and dismounted too) and pedaled the last 500 yards to the actual dismount line. So frustrating.

I got off my bike (for real, this time) and another wonderful volunteer came over and whisked it away - full-service at the Ironman. I clomped over the line and that was that. 112-mile bike: done!

Ironman Adventure: Episode 2

wherein I punch strangers and get smacked on the ass with a paddle

--

My alarm went off at 4:15am on race morning. I had managed to get a relatively decent amount of sleep, all things considered. As I dressed for the day, everything felt very surreal. Was this really race morning? In less than three hours, I was going to be in the midst of my Ironman swim? Really? I had a little (mostly) internal freakout, and then continued to go through my usual pre-training routine: filling water bottles, organizing nutrition, assembling my breakfast. Before I knew it, it was 5am and we were headed out the door.

On the way to the race site, I tried not to think about the weather forecast, and just focused on my plan for the day. I had one goal: to finish in less than 17 hours with a smile on my face. I read a lot of race reports in the days leading up to the event, and someone referred to their first Ironman as a 140.6-mile victory lap; a celebration that they survived all that training. I liked that attitude, and decided that was how I was going to treat my day. I wanted to enjoy myself as much as possible (while still making the cutoffs), and really savor my time on the course.

I got to transition around 5:15 and got everything squared away. I dropped off my Bike and Run Special Needs bags, got body marked (with a 30 on my calf, for the first time ever), double-checked everything on my bike, managed to borrow a pump to fill my tires, stood in line for the porta-potty, and finally, with around 40 minutes to go, began wrestling myself into my wetsuit, booties, neoprene swim cap, and regular swim cap. Kristi, Julie, and I took a few pictures, and then suddenly everyone was moving. It was time to head down to the beach.

The beach is long and narrow and stretches off far to the right of the buoys. We had decided that we didn't wan to swim any farther than we had to, so we'd risk getting pummeled and line up pretty close to the buoys, about halfway back in the crowd. I stood there with 2500 other athletes as the music blared and the wind blew and tried to wrap my mind around the fact that I was actually going to do this. And then, with no warning, the cannon fired and we were off!

Swim - 1:58:13

The swim, you guys. First off, let me tell you about the water temperature: it was 56 degrees. That is so, SO very cold. Combine the shock of that arctic water hitting your entire body in one giant splash with the flailing arms and legs of thousands of other athletes attempting to move in the same direction as you and you have the makings of a full on nightmare. For the first five minutes, I hyperventilated. I attempted to swim, and every time I stuck my face in, I would inhale icy cold water. I hacked and sputtered and dodged windmilling limbs and kicking feet and thought to myself "there is NO WAY I can make it 2.4 miles if I don't get it together." So I focused on taking deep breaths and kept doggy paddling forward. Finally, right around the time I reached the first buoy, I was able to actually start swimming like the slow, dogged, semi-normal swimmer that I usually am. And swim I did. I swam and I swam and I swam and I dodged fists and feet and fought back when necessary and finally, after 53 minutes, I was out of the water! Which meant I had to run across a timing mat and get back IN the water for my second lap. Ugh.

The second lap was RIDICULOUS. The mass of swimmers had spread out by then, so there weren't nearly as many people around to kick you in the face, but that also meant there weren't as many people around to draft and sight off of. Also, the wind had really kicked up by that point, so there were some massive waves happening out there. It became a sort of swimming/body-surfing hybrid. You'd be swimming along in God-knows what direction since you couldn't see the buoys due to the ginormous waves, when all of a sudden, you were riding three feet above everyone else around you as a huge wave scooped you up. Then, out of nowhere, it would drop out from under you and you would go smashing back into the water. Then you'd turn your face to breathe and another wave would come and crash into your face so you'd inhale a lungful of water. Cough, hack, swim, repeat.

At one point, I was actually swimming ACROSS the course. A guy in a kayak had to come chase me down, hit me on the butt with his paddle to get my attention, and point me back in the right direction. And then there was a lady who kept swimming RIGHTNEXT to me. I mean, it's an enormous lake. Move over three feet. But noooo. Every time I'd rotate to breathe, there she was. And of course she breathed to the opposite side that I do, so we would be staring each other in the face at regular intervals; a little unnerving. Eventually, I just stopped swimming, waited 5 seconds until her feet went by and then moved to the other side of her so at least if she was still RIGHTTHERE, I wouldn't have to gaze into her eyes with each breath I took. It was just crazytown out there. And, thanks to the amount of air and water I swallowed in the melee, I spent a good portion of the last 200 meters performing pretty spectacular, deep-belly, underwater burps. Seriously, it was impressive.

Due to all the insanity, the second lap took me a good 12 minutes longer than the first, but I still managed to swim until my hands hit sand and staggered out of the water in under two hours. 2.4-mile swim: done!