Somewhere left of stellar

This past Saturday, I participated in my first 70.3 race since 2009. 

Having promised a good friend that I'd do it with her (it was her first and my 4th), I mustered up the guts to start a Master's swim class in January (YES, I love getting in the pool when it's 23 degrees outside) and hired an excellent tri couch in April. I trained hard. When it was all said and done, I did more than 96 hours of biking, 69 hours of running and 55 hours of swimming. The race should have gone off without a hitch. Physically, I was ready.

As my coach often says in her blog, being physically fit is not all that matters. I agree. Your mental game is just as important, if not more so than your physical fitness. For me, I've always been able to power through, to really suffer when others give up, to put 10-15 seconds worth of time into someone because I know that mentally it will hurt them far more than it will physically hurt me (to quote Coach Liz). I can suffer. I am willing to suffer. But suffering was not the issue with this race. The challenges were far more subtle and frankly, exactly what I needed to finally face the work I need to do if I intend to get better at this triathlon racing business.

The swim started off in a river with a pretty substantial current. Having really brought my swim up this year, I felt confident and strong. Even when the current sent me hurtling toward the channel marker pilings (where I cut my foot on barnacles), I still managed to right myself and swim on. I came into transition in well under an hour and for me, in that crazy river environment, this was a success! 

The bike revealed what I've known for some time and literally tried to ignore or hide or just not address. I am an aerobar wimp. I suck at using them. I am not a confident bike handler and I spook very easily at the prospect of falling, so the aerobars really freak me out. Nevertheless, because of this fear, I suffer and not in the "I know I'm doing well and it's worth suffering way." The course traveled over 55 mph roads with no shoulder. At one point, I heard a diesel engine and a low honk of a truck horn. I looked over to see the hubs of a giant tractor trailer passing by my head. REALLY?!?! Who the hell thought this was a good course? Needless to say, between my near non-existent aerobar skills (I have trouble eating and drinking while in aero) and the constant stream of 55 mph traffic, I never could get a rhythm going on the bike. As I churned past blind turns as fast as I could to escape danger, something occurred to me. Despite all of my physical prowess, nerves and a lack of proper hydration were starting to take me down. I tried hard to hydrate but by the time the bike segment was almost over, I knew my run was toast.

There is nothing like going into a run, knowing you are behind the eight ball. I knew on the second mile that I was in for it. I tried to push through. I began hydrating like crazy. Alternating Osmo with water. The Osmo worked nearly instantly and I did feel a little better but it was already too late. By mile 7 of 13.1 I was walking. Sad, angry, disappointed and downtrodden, I continued. I knew I wouldn't quit but I also knew that all of that work, all of those hours, all of that sacrifice was going to be unraveled by a bad run.

I picked up the pace and started running again. My stomach churned. I couldn't get my blood sugar stabilized. I walked and ran until I finally finished. Far off the time I'd planned and much worse for the wear mentally. 

The good news about this race is that unlike many situations in life, triathlon puts right in your face precisely what your weaknesses are. You are forced to face them in all of their ugliness and decide, "Will I take this on and get better? Or will I just keep playing this game with myself and trying to avoid what needs to be addressed?"

After the Patriot race, I know the answer. I need a plan. I am good at planning. And I am DAMN GOOD at sticking to a plan. What I am less good at is owning up to the fact that I am afraid. I am afraid of falling, of being out of control, of not being able to balance and swerving into a lane with a car that will kill me. I am not confident on the bike. I am afraid of my lack of confidence and my ability to react in an emergency situation where good bike handling skills will be required to avoid injury or death. Because of these fears, I have become something that I fear more than anything else in this world: mediocre. I am a mediocre athlete. I don't do well with mediocrity.

So more than anything that could possibly motivate me, my disdain for mediocrity will drive me to push past my comfort zone. I admit defeat. I admit fear. I will allow myself to be open and as the amazing Diana Nyad says: FIND A WAY! If you don't like it, FIND A WAY. I hate it. I hate being mediocre. I hate being afraid and mostly, I hate letting myself down. 

I will find a way! I won't scale the mountain only to drown in a puddle. I will create a plan and race with the confidence that no matter what, I addressed all my fears and brought everything I had to the race. EVERYTHING.

 EVERYTHING.