Day 279: There is No Tri... Only Do!

A gentle recurring click from the front wheel of my racing bicycle complemented the almost-silent thud of my snack bag as it swayed with my hurried gait. A brisk breeze caught me off guard as it swooped through an alley and swirled around my head... it was 6:30 in the morning and colder then I expected.

Nervously, I glanced down at the heart rate monitor strapped around my left wrist. The clock mode showed I was running behind; way behind. I should have been there thirty minutes earlier. And why, again, did I think it was such a great idea to park in the Ninth Street parking deck? It was two-thirds of a mile from the start and transition area.

Oh, well... couldn't be helped now. I was walking down Atlantic Avenue flanked by several other people. Everywhere I looked, bikes were being wheeled toward the southern end of Atlantic Avenue. Runners jogged by and cyclists whizzed past, fitting in one final warm-up before heading to the starting line.

My thoughts raced wildly as I tried to fight last-minute "monkey brain" and focus on the task before me. I was number 172 in the 28th Annual Sandman Triathlon and, in less than thirty minutes, I would plunge into the Atlantic Ocean and officially begin my first triathlon. I could feel my stomach shrinking by the second as I got my first glimpse of the transition area - hundreds of bicycles and athletes crowded the enclosure.

A request for my racing number brought me to focus on the Sharpie-wielding woman in front of me. Within seconds my right hand, arm, and calf had been marked and two minutes later, I had found and begun to set up my transition area. There wasn't much time left and having set up my gear and collected my timing chip, I began to walk quickly down the boardwalk to the swim start.

The scratchy velcro strap containing the timing chip combined with that where-is-the-nearest-restroom internal feeling I get before any competitive event for increased tension. My watch showed I had five minutes to get to the start line and my body suggested now would be an excellent time to panic.

The sand was cold under my bare feet as I started down the beach, leaving the solid comfort of the boardwalk behind me. I felt lost in the throng of several hundred wetsuited bodies with various color swim caps as they milled behind the flag-designated start. I knew I was in the second wave, starting four minutes behind the first wave of lime green caps. It didn't take long to find the group of blue caps... my group.

Underfoot, the ground trembled slightly as thunderous waves crashed into the beach, a few feet from where we stood. Twenty-five yards off shore, the five-foot red buoy looked like a toy as the waves tossed it effortlessly. I could feel panic trying to settle in my chest as I watched the lifeguards bobbing, their heads looking like so many tiny balls in the roiling sea.

A horn sounded and the elite swimmers took off, racing into the sea with reckless speed. Within seconds, they began swimming and in those seconds, I seriously considered not even entering the ocean. As they swam straight toward the buoy with all their strength, the current effortlessly swept them up the beach and away from their target.

Murmurs of concern rippled through the blue caps as my group began to huddle as far right in the starting area as possible while a bull horn declared we should learn from the struggles of those in front of us. That four minutes seemed like an eternity... four minutes to regard the power of the waves and seriously reconsider what I was doing there on that shore.

Every instinct was screaming to stay away from the waves and yet, this is what I needed to do. I had techniques and presence of mind to deal with passing the breakers, I had the strength and capability to swim well, yet all this vanished at the same speed with which the ground disappeared beneath my feet. This wasn't a race, this was survival. Lifeguards would be useless... they were only human after all. I was on my own. In the sea. Sink or swim.

Prayer is a wonderful thing, even in its most simplistic form. I kept hearing my voice at various points: "Oh, God! Help me do this! Oh, God!" I have never been so disoriented or panicky in the water before, yet somehow, in the middle of swells so large the horizon and enormous buoys were hidden, I began to swim. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since entering the ocean and I realized, swimming against the current and with the growing waves, I would not be able to complete the 1000 meters in the 45-minute limit.

I could quit now. Through my head rang a comment someone had thrown out... at least I wouldn't have to worry about how I would do in the biking and running legs. Every emotion REALLY wanted me to quit and get out of the water, but I fought the rising insurrection within... again. I knew what my stroke should feel like and had gone about 200 meters when lots of screaming and whistles and bull horns sounded all around.

The swim had been canceled because the race directors were afraid they would lose swimmers if the event continued. It took effort to get out of the water as the crashing waves were now propelling me into the shore, but I was happy to exit though disappointed the swim had been canceled.

Along the beach we trotted, not quite sure what would happen next. A quiet beep let me know my time for the "swim" had been noted and volunteers hasted us toward the transition arena with instructions to continue the triathlon as if we'd finished the swim.

Passing the entrance, I noticed the faces I'd been looking for all along... Jason and the boys smiling and cheering for mommy. There were more family and friend faces, too and I felt re-inspired as I scrambled over the cobble ground toward my bike. A splash of water to get the sand off and my wet feet, now encased in socks and sneakers, were ready to go. My bright blue jersey floated over my head and I grabbed my helmet and sunglasses.

Not forgetting to grab a drink and some nutrition, I fastened the buckle of the helmet and slowly jogged my bike out of the transition area. A beep sounded as my anklet passed over the timing mat and the sound of spectators urging the bikers on drove home the reality of what I was doing. I was starting my second leg of the triathlon! This was really happening!

Jason and the boys, along with other family and friends, stood by the exit and exhorted me to keep going. With that encouragement, I stepped onto the bike and set out on the 14.5-mile route. This first tenth of a mile was easy; lots of cheering and yelling. Plenty going on. I had a good pace and though I was disturbed by how many bikers were passing me, I knew what pace I had to keep in order to make it to the end.

At just under three miles, it wasn't fun any more. Very few spectators and very little encouragement was to be found. Additionally, this is when we turned out of Atlantic and on to Shore Drive. The race was on and it was now time to reach inside to find the drive to finish.

Biking is boring and painful, though not as boring and painful as running. It's just slow and somewhat depressing to see how long it takes to cover a certain stretch. I tried not to think about how many miles remained, but just about passing as many people as I could without exhausting myself in the first half.

Miles passed and before I knew it, I was turning around and beginning the return trip to the transition area. I was more than half-way there. My triathlon was half completed! This thought alone spurred me on and I pressed in to maintain a higher rate of speed than the first half. Many people whizzed past but there were others whom I left in the dust, much to my secret delight.

The last mile was the hardest, but I was mentally prepared for it. I knew from past workouts I would be tempted to rest and take breaks since I was "so close" and "almost done." This had to be pushed past and, though it was hard, I kept reminding myself I was almost done and to finish strong.

So it was as I flew around the corner for that final turn leading back into the transition area pen. Jumping off the bike before striding across the timing mat, I heard that little beep for the third time that morning. Grabbing a drink of water and remembering to remove the helmet, I walked on jelly legs to the start of the final leg of the Sandman Triathlon.

Right there to encourage me on were those beloved faces, joined this time by my dad and a couple brothers. That was all it took to break my weary shuffle into a jog. I wanted so desperately to run the entire 5k, but one minute of running convinced me that wouldn't be happening today; something inside hurt... I had been in a car accident Friday night and imagined this was fallout from that. I just needed to finish and that needed to be the primary goal... even if it meant walking the whole way.

That 5k was the true test of the entire triathlon. I'd wanted to quit four or five times during the swim. Biking was okay; not much temptation to quit there, just to slow down. This, however, was more tempting than the other two events. My legs simply did not want to take another step and especially not at the little-over-4-mph pace I was hitting.

Twenty-fourth Street seemed SO far away (I'd started at Second Street) and runners kept passing me. Worse still, people I'd passed on the biking portion were passing me in the run. Ouch! Even worse than that, people who seemed to be in my physical condition and from my number group were passing me. What?! I did try running again, but this time the internal responses were very strong and caused me to stick to the "just finish" goal.

Then the turnaround was right there. Then I was walking around it. All that separated me from that finish line and the completion of my first triathlon was a mile and a half. I was so excited and yet, still couldn't go any faster. I wanted to sit. I wanted to rest. I wanted to walk slower. But I couldn't. People were waiting for me at the finish and even more scary, fewer and fewer people were passing me. That could only mean I was getting really far back in the pack. I did not want to be last.

A quarter of a mile to go and my brother, Sam, appeared out of nowhere. "Run the rest of the way!" I shook my head. "I can't." "Run the rest of the way," he insisted. "I'll run with you." And somewhere, something deep inside lit on fire. I started running.

It hurt. I was out of breath. But I had to finish strong. A tenth of a mile away and I fell into a walk. "I can't do any more." "You're almost there!" Then I saw Jason. He had Peter on his shoulders and was also running along the side path. It had to be done. A strong finish was absolutely necessary. I've finished races before and still had something to give, which meant I had regrets about my performance later... I wasn't going to have that this time.

All I could think of as I heard my feet hitting the pavement and my breathing pattern going in-in, out-out was that verse from Isaiah 40... "Hast thou not known? hast thou not heard... He giveth power to the faint; and to them that have no might he increaseth strength... But they that wait upon the LORD shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings as eagles; they shall run, and not be weary; and they shall walk, and not faint."

And in that moment, I had the strength to finish... head up, arms up, and running strong, one final tiny beep of the day sealed my first triathlon.

I had finished!


Afternote: My official finish time was 2:10:00.20 - this was 20 minutes faster than I thought I would finish. I placed 19th out of 23 in my group. If you want to see the last 25 seconds of my race, check this link... if you look to the left on the video, you can also see Jason (with Peter on his shoulders) racing through the crowds. :) Another interesting link shows how strong the water was BEFORE the race started... it got much worse 10 minutes after the start.

Day 270: Burning

As those of you who know me can attest, I frequently set wildly high expectations for myself and when they fail to be met, I crumble into an abject "I failed" mindset... never mind that I encourage others to keep going regardless of their "failures."

Humans are funny.

The day I joined Tidewater Bariatrics, I sat down and figured out just how fast I could lose my excess weight. I figured I had 150 pounds to lose and made calculations for varying levels of weekly weight loss. They said the average per-week loss for a woman was two to four pounds; I figured if I could lose 3.5 pounds per week, I'd meet my goal weight of 150 by 21 April 2011 (42 weeks).

That wasn't fast enough for my liking and, as I sipped on a final glass of Outback Steakhouse Mango Tea, decided to look at a likely-unattainable goal of six pounds per week. That was better and would have me at my goal weight by 23 December 2010. I'd seen people on the Biggest Loser get rid of double digits in one week because of high levels of physical activity. I'd just have to work out more.

The first four weeks proved to match and exceed my hoped-for dream of six pounds per week. Then reality began to hit. Week Five was four pounds, Week Six was five, and Week Seven was a devastating two-pound loss. (NOTE: Two pounds is a wonderful loss... it was just devastating to my six-pound-per-week plan) It was during this seventh week that I achieved an all-time low with eating coupled with an all-time high for exercise - 7,066 calories in (which created an 18,480-calorie BMR deficit, plus 15,090 calories burned working out.

Based on pure mathematical calculations, I should have lost 7.5 pounds that week... but I didn't; I lost two.

Through the Biggest Loser and countless other articles and books I'd read on dieting, I remembered a situation dieters frequently get themselves into. Something called "starvation mode." I also knew every time a contestant on the Biggest Loser would absolutely kill themselves during the week and come up short on the scale, they were counseled to eat more food! When they did, the scale would drop massively the next week.

In my head, this would never happen to me. I wasn't eating too little... at fewer than 1000 calories per day, I wasn't hungry - ever. I wasn't over training... I was paying attention to what my body was saying. Everything was proceeding according to plan and following the mathematical calculations I'd worked out.

Then I noticed something else... I didn't want to eat anymore; nothing. I literally had to force myself to eat whatever was left of my daily minimum food prescription at the end of the day. At the end of Week Seven, I was exhausted and tired all the time. I would take a three-hour nap with the boys and still not have enough energy to get through the day - I wasn't interested in doing anything nor did I want to do anything. My workouts suffered as well; I just didn't have the desire or energy to put in a lot of effort.

Looking for answers, I started researching what happens to your body when you burn WAY more than you take in.

[Note on 8/30/11: Just realized this post had never been activated. It is not complete, but I have published that part which was finished... my apologies for the lack of an ending]