Destiny, Explained*

(*please refer here for description of destiny)

I don't remember exactly how or when it happened. Likely it was one of those "sure why not" or "I'll do it if you do it" moments that seem to plague crazy runners like us. Nonetheless, several months ago Abby and I decided to do an ultra marathon. I guess after a marathon, it's the next logical step. (Or illogical, as many would argue.)

Once we finished our last marathon, we wasted no time in planning the next step. Meeting for ice cream just over 24 hours after finishing, we began to search for the right ultra marathon: our destiny. I thought the search would be relatively easy, but it turned out to be a great deal more complicated and in depth than I'd imagined. As we looked into different races, we realized that, unlike marathons, ultramarathons come in all shapes and sizes (literally).

So it was necessary to come up with some criteria in order to narrow down our choices and finally arrive at our destiny. The week long back-and-forth between us revolved around several different categories. I have abridged and summarized this for ease of reading and understanding.

1. Distance- The major question was 50K or 50 miles. Although an ultra marathon is "technically"anything longer than a marathon, the vast majority of ultras are either 50K or 50 miles in distance. (There are, of course, longer 100 mile and longer ones, but let's not get in over our heads for the first one.) For metric system phobics, 50K is equal to about 31 miles (31.06 to be exact), about 5 miles longer than a marathon. We said "forget about the 50k races. Just doesn't sound like a huge challenge (though it could be, since it'll be on trails, so maybe I shouldn't say that so absolutely)." We agreed that based on the decision of desired date (see category #2), we would have the proper time to train for a 50 miler. We also wanted the challenge of a race nearly twice as long as anything we'd done before. I was, of course, sure to add this statement: "We can reevaluate this decision during training when it seems we're running more than sleeping and thinking 50K sounds like a really nice idea.)

2. Date- The next major decision was to figure out when this would all pan out. Initially, we thought the fall would be perfect. Take the summer "off" and then train again together come September for an ultra in December/January. Then we realized how quickly December comes after September. It's like 3 months, who knew? With the seemingly great amount of training recommended for an ultra, it seemed wise to push back our destiny date. In addition, as you will find in the rest of our decision process, December/January is not prime ultra marathon season, if such thing exists. So we expanded our search to spring time (and just for kicks added a fall marathon for another shot at a BQ).

3. Location- Unfortunately, we were unable to find an ultra marathon in our back yard so we knew from the beginning that travel some distance for any event. I decided that if we're going to travel any great distance, I think the ultra should be official. I don't want to train all this time, travel to wherever (Canada, Arizona, Kansas) and the "race" end up being some schmata Sunday morning run that the local running club organizes. People will look at us as if we're crazy for traveling so far for their silly run. In December/January being that it is winter, there are, quite obviously, very few events in the northeast. As we expanded our search, there became more options closer to home.

3. Course- When discussing the course, several different subcategories that come into play:
a) Loop vs point-to-point vs out-and-back- I'm not liking the loop idea. Two 25 mile loops, that's fine. Three loops of a 15-20 mile loop, I could handle that. Fourteen 4 mile loops, not so much. Fifty times around a 1 mile track- kill me now! I'd prefer a point-to-point, maybe an out-and-back or a longer loop course.
b) Terrain- If I'm going to run 50 miles or more anywhere, it had better be pretty. No roads. No farms. No "like someone else's lawn" crap. No flatness. I want trails. Real trails.
c) Elevation- I definitely want some elevation change, but I don't know that I want to run up a mountain. I ran up the hill behind the Art Museum today and I was a little out of breath. Obviously, we will train for the elevation and will welcome a walk break up a hill, but it's just something to think about since we don't have "real" mountains in Pennsylvania. We might be getting ourselves in over our heads thinking that we could make it up a real mountain, alive.

5. Weather- Ah the weather. So obviously weather is a great unknown and you can't ever predict what it will be like, but we can definitely make some grand assumptions. New England in the winter will be cold. Very very cold. Not fun 50 mile run weather. Virginia, Maryland, North Carolina in the winter- very hit or miss. Probably going to be ok, but they do get freak blizzards or ice storms. Florida is always hot. Even when people in Florida think it's frigid, it's still hot running weather. The weather was definitely something to think about, but not get caught up on.

6. Website- Being that it's the 21st century, we did all of our research online so we were easily able to compare the websites of different events. An event website that hadn't been updated in a few years was taken with a grain of salt. An obvious "homemade" website left question about whether the event was official or not. A colorful, informational, organized website made us happy. So we decided, as trivial as it seems, that the event had to have a nice website. It's really a security feature to ensure that we were choosing a legitimate event.

7. Name- Going along with the trivial website category, we also considered the name of the race. The Hellgate Ultramarathon kind of scared the crap out of me- why do something that is admittedly hell? The Mountain Masochist goes along in the same vein. (I should note that Abby said "I kind of like that it has 'hell' in the title :)" Most events don't have such intimidating names, but those that did were more heavily scrutinized, at least by me.

So what came of all of this? A decision.

Our destiny is the Bel Monte Endurance Run.

Distance- 50 miler, check. Date- in late March (March 27th, ahem potential spectators), check. Location- Charlottesville, Virginia, check. Course- one (very long) loop, primarily trails, definite elevation changes, check. Weather- hopefully not frigid, hopefully not scorching hot, still a wildcard, check. Website- very nice and official, check. Name- good unintimidating name, check.

Now onto figuring out how to train for this. I know one thing: there will be lots and lots of running. And plenty of good stories, I'm sure. Stay tuned.

Similarly Different & Differently Similar

Much of my weekend was spent on a search for a new pair of trail running shoes. I've worn the same brand, style and size of running shoes for the last 5 years, but my new entry into the trail running scene has necessitated the need for different footwear. I have a pair of Salomon Gore-Tex trail shoes, but with summer coming I need something more breathable.

After trying on many pairs yesterday, researching shoes online, buying a pair of shoes that were way too pink (and too small), I set out again today to continue the search. At one point I stopped into DSW, which has a surprisingly good selection of sneakers. I found several pairs of sneakers and sat down to try them on. Several minutes later a man who worked there came up beside me and asked if I was a runner. I barely glanced up while saying yes.

"Oh yeah, did you run Broad Street?" he added.

Still concentrating on my shoes and paying the man little mind, I said "No, I did another race that day, but I've done it many times."

He obviously didn't mind that I wasn't paying attention. Continuing the conversation that he wanted to have, he said "yeah, well that was my first time. It was great."

Now I was intrigued. I stopped looking at my feet and turned my attention and my body to him. He was, to say the least, an atypical runner. Tall and heavyset with a chipped snaggle-tooth and large, wire-rimmed glasses sitting crooked on his face.

"Whenever I see someone trying on sneakers, I like to come over and see if I can help them." He quickly added, "I did the Philly Marathon 8K too. That was great."

I realized that he was no "ordinary" runner. I could sense that running was new hobby and that he was extremely proud to laud his accomplishments. I wanted to know more and I wanted to continue to let him talk and beam with pride. I asked what he was doing next.

"Oh I don't know," he said, "I run with a group called Back on My Feet so..."

As he mentioned Back on My Feet, I nodded excitedly causing him to stop mid-sentence.

"You know about Back on My Feet?" he asked.

"Yeah, it's a great organization. Good for you." I responded. Back on My Feet is an organization started in Philadelphia to help the homeless get "back on their feet" and gain self-confidence, strength, pride and motivation through running. I frequently see people in BOMF shirts out running. I've read about the organization and seriously considered volunteering.

Acknowledging that I knew about the organization, my new friend and I looked at each other with a mutual sense of understanding. He needn't say more. I knew about his past, just without the details.

We continued talking for several more minutes, talking about brands of shoes, future race plans and nagging injuries.

At one point, he added, "at the shelter, we run at 5:30 in the morning. It's a great way to get the day started."

I was humbled. And stunned. And in awe. Here was this man, who likely at times in his life was at the lowest of low- homeless, jobless, likely suffering from addiction, without friends or family and definitely without a hobby like running. Now he had a roof over his head at night, a job when many don't, accomplishments in running, a reason to wake up in the morning and undeniable pride encircling him. In an instant, he put my whole life into perspective. I felt like the luckiest person in the entire world for what I have and for having met him.

We ended our conversation as he went to go help another costumer and I went to pay for my sneakers. As I walked away, I realized I hadn't asked his name. I wanted to know his name, but I also wanted to commend him. On my way out, I stopped the manager-looking person standing near the front door, "excuse me, what is that man's name?" I asked as I pointed towards him, already happily helping another customer.

"Charles," she replied, with question and trepidation in her voice.

"Thank you. He was really nice and I just didn't get his name."

Relieved, her face lit up with a huge smile as she said "oh wow, thanks, that's so nice."

As I walked out and reflected on my encounter, I teared up, moved and inspired. I've said that the reason I run is because I can. So, obviously, does Charles. There are undoubtedly few similarities between Charles's life and mine. But we're both runners.

Tomorrow morning, we will both wake up at 5:30 to run and greet another day.

I guess we're more similar than I thought.

Pretty Toes

Nearly four months after the blister from hell took possession of my big toe causing me weeks of pain, then an open wound, then an infection, then more pain, then a scab, then a scar, today I finally got a long-awaited pedicure! A lovely post-down-pouring-rain trail run (which involved "running" knee deep in water across a creek and skipping over, across and through many mud puddles) this afternoon with Abby and Brent presented the perfect opportunity for a pedicure. My feet had been soaking in my water-logged shoes for an hour so there was no need to soak at the nail salon.

A cautionary note: this picture is deceiving because it make it look as if I have a full complement of toenails. From the left, toes #1, #5 and #7 are without toenails. Pedicurists are miracle workers!
(I will save us all the agony by not posting the before pictures, nor any of the pictures of the blister.)

My Next Run

After each race, there's always one question: so what's next?

Very often, my next race is planned before the current one is over. This time I had nothing officially on my calendar until September. However, big plans were (and still are) in the works for the next adventure. (Stay tuned for the full low down when Abby and I determine our destiny.)

My next run, however, was today. I took yesterday off and got a massage to ease my sore muscles. By this afternoon, I was SO ready to run. When I got home from work, I quickly changed, put on my new race shirt and went outside ready to brave the cold, rain and a couple tight muscles. I walked the first couple of blocks, nervous to start running.

Then I started running and everything just fell back into place. My quads may not have been so excited that they were being used again, but everything else felt great. I ran to a nearby park. I ran around the park and onto a little trail through the woods. And then I ran it again. And again. I didn't want to stop.

Feeling so good just reaffirmed to me what I've known for some time, but still occasionally question- I am meant to be a runner.

Last night I didn't fall asleep until 3:15 am. I was WIDE awake. Not tired at all. I had to force myself to get into bed and close my eyes with the hope that eventually I'd drift off. Less than four hours later, well before my alarm clock went off, I was bright eyed, bushy tailed and antsy to start another day. What the hell was wrong with me?

Simple, I hadn't run. I had WAY too much energy and no way to burn any of it off. Sometimes I feel like I'm spinning around but going no where, like a hamster in a wheel. My legs and mind restless to get out and explore. Luckily, the cure is simple. Lace up my sneakers and put one foot in front of the other. No matter what, it always feels good because it what I'm meant to do.

With apologizes to Bruce Springsteen, baby I was born to run.

The Best-Laid Plans

"The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry."

-John Steinbeck

Today was a shining example of very well laid plans not being executed as thought. As Abby, Ali and I lined up for the start of the New Jersey Marathon, we all felt remarkably good. Not that there weren't nerves circling around and not that we didn't worry or question the task ahead of us, but we were loudly singing obnoxious songs while waiting for the race to start, so we weren't that bad off. Unfortunately, that changed pretty quickly.

We decided to run (at least for part of the race) with one of the pace groups, so that we would start off on pace and remain consistent. But when the pacer neither starts slow nor runs a consistent pace, it's hard to stick the aforementioned plan. The weather was opposite of typical race day weather. It was muggy and humid to start and cold and rainy in the later hours of the race. There were approximately 9000 people running today (only 2500 or so running the full marathon), which seems like a nice small race. But when the race starts out on a thin boardwalk and meanders through small streets, running with 9000 others feels like the running of the bulls.

And then there was the part where I hit the proverbial wall. At mile 2.

For some unknown reason (or reasons), around mile 2, my upper legs began tingling, feeling heavy and tight, my finger swelled up like sausages, I already had a sweaty salt mustache, my heart was racing, my breathing was inconsistent and felt like absolute crap. I pushed through trying to find my rhythm (or any rhythm, for that matter). But my legs continued to tingle and it was spreading down my legs, eventually getting to a point where I had little feeling in my calves and feet. By mile 5, after ditching the paceless pacer, it was becoming obvious to Abby that I wasn't doing well. I continued to assure her that I was hurting and confused, but okay. Having compiled a song list pre-race, we were excited to have a 26.2 mile sing-a-long. Trying to take my mind off my ailing and failing body, Abby offered to sing and I happily welcomed the distraction. She began singing "Maria" from The Sound of Music (a personal favorite soundtrack to sing during races because I know every word and singing all the songs start to finish occupies a good chunk of time). She sang the first two lines and then I tried to join in. I couldn't even my breath enough to do anything remotely close to singing. I exhaustively exhaled every third word or so, even though I desperately wanted to sing each and every one and do the arm motions as well. I knew things weren't going well and likely wouldn't be getting better.

Throughout training, Abby and I were very clear that we would attempt our goal, but should we be having an off day, midrace reevaluation could and would take place. I staved off reevaluation for almost 7 miles before realizing that I was getting worse and couldn't foresee getting better. We reevaluated. I told Abby that I was disappointed in myself for feeling as I was, especially because I couldn't determine a cause or explanation. More importantly, I knew I'd be more disappointed if I let my problems affect her. She was feeling and looking great. So I told her to go. I hesitated doing so, not because I didn't want to run alone or want her to go ahead, but because I was extremely scared by what was happening to me and wanted someone there in case I got worse. I told her I was positive that no matter what I would finish the marathon, I just didn't know how long it would take me or what physical shape I would be in by the finish. We made a few promises and shared a good luck hug. She ran ahead (looking fantastic) and I began walking (looking like hell). At that point, I was quite sure that I would be doing a 7 hour marathon.

When Abby and I parted ways, I was demoralized. I was upset with myself, upset with my body, upset with the weather, upset with the pacer, upset with a lot of things, upset for reasons I didn't know. One thing I did know and was completely sure about was that I had the ability inside of me to continue on and refocus myself away from the pain and towards my new goal: finishing the marathon. After a short pity party and dismissing the worst case scenario (being so dehydrated and hyponatremic that I would have an abnormal heart rhythm and pass out on the side of the road), I composed myself, drank some Gatorade, stretched my legs and continued moving forward.

I have done races of many distances, with varying levels of difficulty, in most every type of weather condition and with differing amounts of training. As a result, I know that I have an amazingly innate ability to get through just about anything. When I started doing endurance races (triathlons and marathons), I quickly discovered something about myself that I hadn't known before: I have a ridiculous amount of willpower, a extremely high level of endurance and am as stubborn as the stubbornest mule ever. Simply put, I do not give up.

So as defeated, distressed, upset, disappointed, troubled, saddened, confused and pissed off as I was, I quickly shook off these feelings and reminded myself that I had the power within me to overcome all that had already happened and anything that would come. Having little to no feeling in my legs for nearly 8 miles meant that even as I felt better, my legs were not 100% and would not return to such. I did, however, have one muscle in my body that was working better than ever and would end up having the performance of a lifetime: my brain. (OK, science buffs, I know the brain is not actually a muscle. Details, details.)

Just as Peter Pan said, I thought lovely, wonderful thoughts and up I went, flying. (Actually, I was running, but you get the point.) Stopping to walk and drink Gatorade and water at every water stop and running in the interim, I found my rhythm by mile 11 and was feeling much better. But I continued to remain overly conscious that my positive thoughts were the most important thing keeping me going.

I began noticing inspirational quotes on the back of other runner’s shirts:
“You don’t realize your own strength until being strong is the only option you have.”
“We are put in situations to build our character. Not to destroy us.”
"Run if you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must, just keep moving forward."
"If we did all the things we are capable of, we would literally astound ourselves."
"It matters how you are going to finish."

I thought of things to humor myself:
- how silky (or not so silky) the roads were
- wondering how many comfortable beds there were in the mansions we ran past
- looking for runners with wedgies
- thinking about how much I would have to tip the person who did my post-race pedicure (my toes were in bad shape before the marathon and surely didn't improve after running most of the race in soggy shoes)

I sang songs to myself (some appropriate, some just plain random):
"We Shall Overcome"
"This Land Is My Land, This Land Is Your Land"
"I Have Confidence"
"Pocketful of Sunshine"
"I Want It That Way"
"Chasing Pavements"
And of course, the Rocky theme song, from miles 24 1/2 until the end.

I tried to help and inspire others:
- as I ran passed a woman breathing heavy and painfully sauntering along, I looked her in the eye and reminder her that the Ironman Finisher hat she was wearing meant she could do anything. We would later meet up and run together for a few minutes, sharing Ironman stories.
- at mile 21, I heard a man say "they said this was easy." I quickly responded by saying "there's no such thing as an easy marathon, that's the point. But you are closer than you've ever been to finishing this one, so keep going."
- while I was taking a walk break, a man ran past me and said "c'mon you've only got less than 4 miles left" prompting me to quickly begin running and blow past him. He yelled out "what the hell just got into you?" I turned around and said "you telling me the best news I've heard all day!"
- when I saw Ali at mile 23, I told her that in less than three miles, she was going to finish the fastest marathon she's ever done and that I couldn't wait to see her cross the finish line with her arms in the air. About 20 minutes later, I very loudly cheered and screamed as she sprinted across the finish line with her arms triumphantly above her head.

I also looked into myself for inspiration. The day before the race, someone at the expo shared a great late race inspiration strategy. He told us to think of 6 people who we would tell about our marathon accomplishment. Starting at mile 20 of the marathon, we were to picture one person per mile and imagine their response, visualize their reaction and envision how proud they would be. I had picked my six people, but I never got to the second part. That's because I realized I had far more than six people who would be proud, who would be amazed, who would be happy, no matter how I finished. I knew that the amount of perseverance and strength that I displayed today was enough and perhaps more impressive than a fast time. I started thinking, instead, of people who wouldn't be impressed. I couldn't think of a single person.

I was easily able to think of the one person who I knew would be the proudest: me. As I rounded the corner onto the boardwalk and ran the last mile with the ocean to my right and a host of rain-soaked spectators to my left, I knew what I was about to do would be one of my greatest accomplishments. I crossed the finish line ecstatic, relieved, tired and beaming with pride. My body had tried to fail me, but my mind performed better than I expected. In the face of challenge, you can either alter the challenge or alter yourself to meet the challenge. I couldn't change the marathon; it wouldn't get shorter or easier. I could and did, however, change my mindset to reach up to the challenge, knowing that what was inside of me was stronger and more powerful than the task ahead of me.

Today did not go as planned. But it was still a great day.

Marathoners pre-race, smiling
(Abby, Andrew, Bess, Ali)


Marathoners (and support crew) post-race, still smiling
(Bess, Andrew, Abby, Brent, Rob, Ali)

It would be remiss if I failed to mention the stellar performances by my fellow runners. Abby, Ali and Andrew each triumphed at points and struggled at others but, most importantly, finished strong. With personal best times and performances to boot. I hope they are as proud of themselves as I am of them.

As requested....

Far too infrequently, I sit down after a race and write up a race report. In fact, thinking about it, I have only written two that I can remember. Now that I'm a "blogger" this will likely change.

It has been requested that I post my Ironman race report. (My first, and to date only, Ironman was Ironman Lake Placid in 2007.) This was written as an email that I sent to friends and family. Every so often, when I need inspiration, courage or a reminder of my abilities, I reread my write-up. So I post it now to serve as inspiration, motivation or maybe just a good read.
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July 22, 2007

Well, I did it.

Three years of planning, six months doing intense focused training, thousands of miles covered while swimming, biking and running, countless calories consumed and burned, hundreds of dollars spent on equipment all in preparation for one day (albeit one very long day). All that time, money and energy for 14 hours, 6 minutes and 47 seconds. Two days ago, I completed what will very well always be the most amazing, astounding, phenomenal, spectacular, breathtaking, extraordinary, impressive, miraculous, staggering, stunning, wonderful, unreal, crazy experience of my whole life.

You each have helped me in making this day happen. Whether it was the simple act of saying "good luck"; telling me "your crazy" (which I am); asking me how my training was going; coming along with me on a training run or bike ride; always, always encouraging me; never letting me think that I would do any less than great (even at those times when the training was so tough that I couldn't fathom how I would ever do the actual event); always seeming astounded at my training and my ultimate goal; calling me an Ironman even before I earned the title, allowing me to envision crossing that finish line and hearing those words; questioning my sanity, but never my intentions; freaking out with me as race day got closer and closer; assuring me that no matter what, I would finish and it would all be worth it; and most of all, for supporting me through the whole journey. I can't imagine having done it without each one of you.

A race of this magnitude takes a great deal of sacrifice on my part, but it also takes sacrifice on the part of my friends and family who support me. You have allowed me to use the "I'm tired" or "I have to go for a long run or ride tomorrow" excuse more times than I should. You've come on runs with me or biked along side of me on my crazy adventures. I did this for myself, as a goal, as a challenge, as a dream, as another chapter in my crazy adventures. But I did it because of all of you. Without your support, I never would have been able to start. The goal would have stayed a goal, the dream just a dream, I would have no challenge and no further chapters would be written.

I want to share with you a recap of the day. I won't do a minute by minute play-by-play because it would take me fourteen hours to write and you equally as long to read-- I wouldn't want to make you suffer like that.

The day started early. Somewhere in the 3 o'clock hour I awoke first, looking at my watch wondering what time it was. From then on, every 20 minutes my eyes would shoot open again as I would look at my watch wondering if it was 5am, when my alarm would go off. Two minutes before 5, I could no longer stare at the back of my eyelids, the anticipation was becoming too much. I was dreadfully nervous about what was ahead, but anxious about getting started. My clothes were fully lied out in perfect order, for fear that I would forget to put on something- although in hindsight, I wonder how I could have messed up putting on ONLY a bra and spandex shorts. But with the nerves I had been feeling the day before, I'm lucky that I didn't walk out with my bra around my feet and my shorts on my head.

My friend Bess (who was sleeping in the same room) woke up shortly after I did. For several minutes, we said nothing. There was that sense that no words were necessary. I tried to eat breakfast, but the rock in my stomach was consuming much of my appetite. I packed some food and Gatorade, but it went uneaten. Our rental house looked out onto Main Street and I could see the stream of athletes passing by on their way to the start. Some were talking to each other, others were smiling, most were munching or drinking something. I was silent. I grabbed my wetsuit and walked out the door. It was an eerie feeling leaving for such a long day with only a wetsuit and the clothes on my back. (The rest of my gear was already at the race area.) Bess and I walked the block up to the race start. I went through the motions.

Went to my gear bags- they were still there- check. Went to my bike- took off the plastic bags protecting the seat and bars from the morning dew, put my water bottles on the bike, squeezed my tires (for a reason unknown, I wasn't going to put any extra air in because I was too nervous that it would do more harm than good), patted the seat for encouragement like you would to a small child on the head, everything seemed well, at least as well as it was going to be- check. Went to get body marked- nothing like having a stranger draw on you with permanent marker at 5:30am- check. Went to drop off my food bags- check. Put on my wetsuit- probably the biggest challenge of the day...damn wetsuit- check.

My nerves were beginning to fade at this point. I was told that it wouldn't be until the gun went off and the swim began that I wouldn't be nervous anymore. The crowds were out, each with there own set of colorful signs. Some people were already in the water, gliding around, warming up, or just trying to keep calm. I watched the start of the pro women's race from the side of the lake. It was only 35 minutes then until the official start- by the time everyone else started at 7am, the pros would be well over half way done...good thing they started them early, I wouldn't have wanted to get in their way! I made my way over to the other side of the lake. Standing close to the start line were my parents and Julie, Andrea, Rachel and Shawn. Walking over to them was when it all hit me. I fell into my dad's arm and began sobbing. The nerves, emotion, fear and excitement all caught up to me at that point. The countdown was on, the crowds were cheering, there was no turning back now, the biggest day of my life was about to begin...ready or not.

Composing myself, I put on my swim cap and goggles, said goodbye, and just went. I couldn't focus on being nervous, I just had to move on. Getting into the water eased me. Stretching out my arms as I swam towards the start line. There were hundreds of people directly under the long start line. Hundreds more stood on the shallow sand along the side of the lake, where they would wait until the crowds dispersed. I was with Ken treading water and waiting. I remember him asking me what time it was.

"6:59" I replied.

"Well then, we should go" he said back.

And then, all of a sudden, I look in front of me and everyone ahead is swimming. I heard no countdown, I heard no gun or cannon, it just happened. Without notice, the day had begun. I found a spot and began swimming. Right arm, left arm, right arm, breathe...kick, kick, kick. The start was hectic- people swimming over each other, grabbing body parts that are usually only grabbed in private, pushing, kicking, but never in a malicious sense. Each person was simply trying to find their space among 2500 people in a relatively small lake. In the midst of the chaos of 10000 flailing limbs in a sea of neoprene wetsuits, there was an odd sense of serenity. Each person knew that the task ahead was none too easy. No matter how many times it's been done before, each time brings a new unknown. A list of uncontrollable factors- the weather, the course, the people, how you feel, something breaking, getting injured- each that could make or break the day, streams continuously through each athlete's head. It's being able to mentally focus on the here-and-now, each stroke, each pedal, each stride, mile by mile, never thinking "what if?"

I continued swimming, pretending that I was alone in my own lane at the pool, forgetting about the thousands that were swimming all around me. It made the swim simple. After getting out of the water after finishing the first 1.2 mile lap, I walked back into the shallow water slowly, allowing myself to hear the announcer, see the fans lined up along the beach, enjoy the moment...and take a little break. And then I began swimming again. "I've done this once, I'll just do it again, easy the first time, easier the second." And it was. After the turn-around at the end of the lake, I was so focused and in a rhythm that in order to keep my mind occupied, I counted my strokes. (In case you're wondering, 1031 strokes from the turnaround to the shore). As I was coming back towards the beach at the end of the second lap, I said to myself "slow down, make this last a little longer, enjoy it." I couldn't believe that I, Bess Staebler, was enjoying swimming, especially after swimming over two miles. But I didn't slow down, I kept my pace and then I saw sand. Getting out of the water, I looked again up at the crowds and made my way to get my wetsuit taken off. Truly the most phenomenal part of Ironman is the fact that they have "wetsuit strippers" who do all the hard work of taking off your wetsuit. I thoroughly enjoy this aspect because, by far, my least favorite part of triathlons is getting my damn wetsuit off. As I walked up the beach on to the carpet, a lovely looking gentleman stepped out several yards in front of me and motioned me towards him and his spot on the carpet. I laid down on the ground and in less than 10 seconds he had my whole wetsuit off- lie down, arms off, butt up, middle off, point the toes, feet off. AMAZING! After he pulled my midsection off I began to giggle uncontrollably. He wrapped my wetsuit into a tight ball, handed it to me and wished me a good race. And I was off.

Moving right along. As I made my way into the transition area, I reminded myself to take my time. There's no rush on a day like this. Five minutes extra would likely mean nothing in the end. Time went by but before I knew it, I had checked, rechecked and checked again and I was ready to go. Off and onto the bike. Now this would be a while. Knowing that the greater part of my day would be spent with my ass on a bike seat, pedaling round and round and round. Feeling good, strong and ready, the first few hills seemed like nothing. I flew up them, momentarily forgetting about the 112 miles ahead of me, surely not all of them would feel like this. So just as I did in the swim, I got in my rhythm. I knew that I would have to keep my mind occupied somehow because it was going to be a long ride. Even at my fastest, it would be long, really long.

I have a tendency to get songs stuck in my head while I ride and, unfortunately, they're usually ones that I don't know that well and that I don't really like. So I tried to think of something that I could sing, that I knew and that would occupy some solid time. And that is why for 7 and half hours, I sang the entire soundtrack to The Sound of Music...several times. And yes, when there was no one around me, I sang out loud (and proud). The hills of Lake Placid were alive with the sound of my singing. I think at one point I even began making up my own lyrics to "My Favorite Things" with things that I would have liked at that time (mile 70 or so of the bike ride). This included, most importantly, not being on my bike anymore.

Many people have asked what the hardest part of the day was. Certainly it was the second loop of the bike (miles 56-112). There's nothing like biking 56 miles, getting back into town, seeing some people already running, only to know that you have to go out and do it all again. And the hills got much longer and steeper the second time around...although they say it was the same route. There was no sense in rushing it thought. The more I pushed myself, the more tired I would be. And I still had a marathon to run. Coming back into town at the end of the bike was a phenomenal feeling. I knew that once I got off my bike, the rest was cake. Biking comes with a lot of uncontrollable variables because you are reliant on a machine which can break, not work or malfunction. With running, you only need your body and your mind. No matter how tired I would be, I knew that I could do the marathon. Run, walk or crawl were my options. The first two I was completely open to doing, the third, I would prefer not to have to do, but it was good to know it was an option.

As I rode around the tight corners of downtown Lake Placid, through the screams of the thousands of people lining the street two three and four bodies deep, waving signs, ringing bells, motivating, cheering. I heard the announcer say "and here comes Elizabeth Staebler, just 23 years old from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania." And I started pedaling faster, charging up the last little hill and zooming down into the the finish of the bike ride. Again I made sure to remind myself to take my time in the transition area. I changed my clothes, got my left leg massaged, rebraided my hair and mentally prepared to run a marathon. Nothing like having a nice swim and bike ride as a warm up for a marathon. I worried about how my legs would feel when I started running. And then I started and surprisingly my legs felt fine. I think my legs were so numb that I could have sawed them off with a rusty axe and not felt any pain. Surprisingly, however, when I started running my chest and core were absurdly sore. I guess being hunched over on a bike for 7 hours really does a workout for your abs. I felt like I wanted to pull my skin off. But persevere...I kept going.

I told myself at the beginning that I would do 20 minutes of running and two minutes of walking. That lasted ONE cycle. The running became less (more dictated by the water and food stations locations) and then walking lasted a little longer. And sometimes I forgot to look at my watch so I didn't know when I stopped last. More than anything I was just enjoying it. I couldn't stop smiling. Whether it was chating with the other people running sharing stories of the last many, many hours, seeing my parents or my friends and having them excitedly cheer me along (or having them run in front of me up a hill that I was planning on walking up telling me to catch her and teasing me that this was the only time that she was beating me-- thanks Bess!), the wonderful volunteers at the water/food stations who would have gone over the moon to get me anything I wanted- including the best piece of watermelon that I've EVER had and I don't like watermelon, seeing Ken, Jess, Steve, Lt Tom (my buddy from the New Hampshire police department), hearing the roar of the crowds as you ran back into town, seeing people furthur along that me closer to finishing the race looking so excited and relieved knowing that sooner than later that would be me, the smile never left my face. It was one of those things that I just couldn't help. I had no idea how I would feel while running so the fact that I felt good was a HUGE relief. As I came into town and went to run the last 2 miles before entering the Olympic Stadium for the finish, my body suddenly felt as if I'd done nothing all day. A surge of energy came over me and I felt like I was flying. I wanted to be done, I wanted to feel that sensation of crossing the finish line, I wanted to take my shoes off, I wanted to take a shower.

And then I was back. As I turned the corner and saw the Olympic Stadium ahead of me a rush of emotion came over me. As I entered the stadium, I began sobbing. The ups and downs of the day all caught up to me at that very moment. It had been over 14 hours, but it felt like only several hours, albeit a jam packed several hours. There was a guy running along side of me who asked "you first or me?" I told him to go first because I wanted to enjoy the moment, make the day last just several seconds longer. And then the finish line was there. Excitedly I threw my hat in the air (ala Mary Tyler Moore). "Elizabeth Staebler, You are an Ironman" and I grabbed the finishing tape. 14 hours, 6 minutes and 47 seconds was over. And I was still walking. I hugged my dad and then went to find the rest of my "fan club." Seeing them at the far end of the finish chute, I weaseled my way towards them. I gave them each a sweaty grimmy hug. In my mom's arms I began crying again and she sobbed too. Then I relished. This was my moment. I was an Ironman.

And that's my story....sorry it took so long to tell...it was a long day.

This was the ultimate test of my endurance, commitment, motivation, willpower, heart, determination and spirit. The feeling I had crossing the finishing line knowing I had completed the ultimate and the feeling that I still have now is completely indescribable. I encourage each of you to find a similar test for yourself. It need not be an Ironman, but it should be something that presents you with your own individual challenge. The feeling of personal accomplishment you'll have is incomprehensible.

I thank you from the bottom of my heart for coming along with me on this journey. It's one I'll never forget.

And yes, I will do another one.

P.S. I realized the coolest coincidence. I finished a 140.6 mile race in 14h:06min..............I think I have a new favorite number.
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Because I Can

I've been tapering and preparing for my next marathon in just two days. Tapering is never something that I've done well. I am pretty well fixed into my routine and get too antsy to slow down. It also always seems that the weather suddenly becomes really nice in time for tapering (case in point: this week). And tapering means that an event is coming up and the nerves, questioning and self-doubt grow and fester. When I get nervous, I run. When I am having issues, I run. When I need to clear my mind, I run. You can see my problem.

It is around this time in training when I tend to look for inspiration to keep my spirits up and my mind at ease. In the days before a marathon, I question what I'm doing. I wonder why I do these crazy things, subjecting my body and mind to such stress and brutality. I wonder why I stuff my face with food and hydrate so much that I pee constantly. I wonder why I wake up at 5am (or earlier) to go for a run. I wonder why I voluntarily choose to run more miles in a day than some people drive in a week.

For inspiration, I read, watch, listen, remember.

In a radio piece about the Boston Marathon, there was discussion about why we (marathoners) run:

The marathon experience is like no other I've had. For twenty six point two miles runners and spectators cheer for you like a rock star. The exhilaration...cannot be manufactured. And that never gets old. It makes every ache and pain, every long cold snowy run worth it.
But for me the most important part of running, and running the marathon, is not the medals and the bragging rights. It's the life lessons I've learned. Lessons like "hard work pays off," "no pain, no gain" and "one step at a time." Running has taught me patience, it's taught me the thrill of being in the moment and that the best things in life don't come quickly.

It is true. Running has taught me a great deal about myself and about life. Through running- the goals I have set and the limits I have pushed passed- I've gained a great deal. In addition to pretty muscular legs and a vast wardrobe of running gear for all conditions, I've had many experiences that have tested my will or inspired my passion.

• The Boston Marathon in 2007 was a tour through the season of the year, all in one day. In the days preceding the race, the word "nor'easter" was used far too frequently in the weather forecast. Snow and ice in the early morning. Constant rain while waiting outside for two hours before the start. The wind blew against my wet clothes and cold skin. The air was bogged down with 99% humidity. I knew no one else running. My dad was the only person in my family who braved the weather to come out and cheer. I saw him first at mile 4. I was cold, wet and unhappy. I saw him several miles later, feeling the same way. The last time I'd see him was at mile 10. I was utterly miserable. I didn't want to go on, it seemed pointless. As I ran up to him, he cheered, smiled and snapped some photos, beaming with pride. "You're looking great kiddo." "Keep running." "Go Bess!" "I'll see you at the finish." And all I wanted to do was stop. I told him I wanted to take a break. Less than a minute later, he patted me on the back and reiterated his comforting, supportive words. I knew that I had to go on. Muster up the strength and go, I told myself, this is nothing. Not finishing would have an impact much more detrimental than being miserable for the next 16 miles. I finished knowing that I'd forever be able to say "if I made it through that, I can do anything."
  
  
  My dad gave me this photo from the marathon, appropriately captioned
  "Why Bess kept running"
  
  

• In one of my first triathlons, I was midway into the bike portion. Biking up one of the eight hills in the 25 mile course, I approached another biker teetering up the hill. Getting closer I noticed the man's left leg was a prosthetic. I pushed myself to get to his side. "You're doing great, keep going," I said. "I'm just glad the swim is over," he exhaustively responded. I closed my eyes imagining the challenge of swimming with one leg, the strength required to propel a bike up a hill with stiff metal for muscles. I ended up passing by him, thinking then, and knowing since, "if he can do that, I can do anything."

• Doing Ironman Lake Placid was by far one of the most indescribable experiences I'm sure I'll ever have. For multiple reasons, that day and the months (or years) of training and planning before it caused my personal willpower, strength, endurance and soul to grow. (I've probably yet to discover the full extent of it.) An undertaking as daunting and foreign as an Ironman is not easy for anyone. Watching people at the absolute end of endurance continue moving forward (and at points convincing myself to do the same) forces you to realize the true capacity of the mind. The experience can be easily equated to many other struggles- "being able to conquer that, I can do anything."
  

I keep a loose record of the races that I've completed. I keep a list in a Word document on my computer and update it occasionally. The medals from each race are hanging over a frame in the hallway outside of my bathroom. I pass it multiple times on a daily basis, but rarely look at it. But every so often I stop and look, reflecting on the meaning that they hold. They don't mean that I am physically strong. They don't mean that I have a great sense of adventure. They don't mean that I am just looking for a challenge. They don't mean that I like having a ridiculous number of race t-shirts.

Each one means that I had the courage to start and the strength to finish. Despite nothing.

Because I can.

Click here to watch video (because I can't figure out how to get it uploaded in the blog)