maslife

Was Gonna, Why Bother and #GSD

I’m attracted to doers, the kind of people who approach life with an attitude to get shit done #GSD, no matter what the challenges may be.

I have limited tolerance for the “was gonna” mindset. This mindset leads to stories that begin with: “I was gonna do [X thing] but [insert bullshit excuse here].” This mindset may also lead to a lot of empty talk about what a person plans to do, yet those…

Today Got Me Thinking About Freedom

Classic Americana, seen on my run.

When I started my run this morning, I felt as I had during all of my runs from the past 3 weeks. Thanks to moving from sea level to about 6000 feet in Colorado, my lungs work what feels like triple time. I am sluggish and slow. My rating of perceived exertion (RPE) is much higher than normal, for both the pace and the heart rate. 

This morning, a bit…

Whose voice are you listening to?

Saturday morning was here: long ride day. I had a 4 hour ride on the schedule.

I hopped on my trusty steed, and decided to play around on Zwift with the intention of trying to gradually increase my watts every 30 minutes or so. While a 4 hour trainer ride may seem awful to some, I have a weird relationship with my trainer: I like it. The addition of a smart trainer and Zwift makes it more…

Nine years ago, John and I spectated our first Ironman Lake Placid. At that time, I had just finished my first handful of sprint distance events and one olympic distance event.  I had NEVER seen an Ironman race before (not even Kona on TV), and had only a functional understanding of the distances. Sure, I understood how they added up by the math, but I didn’t quite get how it was possible for the body to actually go 140.6 miles (you know, we all don’t like to drive that far 😜).

Even though I had already finished a few marathons, I kept wondering: how do people do all that swimming and biking first? 

We went to Lake Placid that year because my husband John intended to sign up to race the following year. Back then, there were so few Ironman races, so Ironman Lake Placid sold out ON THE SPOT the day after the race. Our friend Eric, who had done the race before, advised him to volunteer in order to ensure entry through priority registration.

While we both volunteered, I did not intend to register for the following year. I mean – I had only just finished an Olympic – and hadn’t even completed my first half ironman yet. Who signs up for a full before completing half? Apparently, people do. You know who you are ;-).

I really didn’t know what to expect from this experience, and I thought an Ironman was something only the most elite athletes could undertake. I did NOT fit this category.

But, you know, things happened throughout the course of that day. If you’ve ever spectated an Ironman – you know what I mean. I saw so many different people–ages, shapes, sizes, abilities. I began to imagine myself – my body – pushing through those distances.

This day was the beginning: I started to believe in the impossible being possible. While I had already run marathons, I didn’t think of them as impossible. Sure, they were hard, but I just did the training, and knew I could cover the distance.

Ironman seemed quite different to me than a marathon. I really didn’t know if I could do “that.” As I watched the athletes go through the day, I remember the small glimmer in my mind shining more and more brightly: I might be able to do this. As I waited in line the next day to sign up – scared out of my head – I kept repeating in my head: You CAN do this. Yes, you. You can.

For those of you not familiar with how the registration process used to work, I’ll give you some context. The morning after the race, we got in a line that started at the Lake Placid High School, and then snaked it’s way down main street. Hundreds upon hundreds of people got in line. Registration started around 7 or 8 a.m., but people who didn’t volunteer (and get the priority registration) would start getting in line right at midnight, as that year’s IMLP came to a close.

That morning, it took an hour or so for us to finally get to the front of the line at the doors of the Lake Placid High School gymnasium. An hour of thinking: What in the actual F * C K am I doing in this line?! 

Registration desks.

The line that used to form out of the high school toward and down Main Street.

Inside was a row of tables, each with a person who took our information and payment.

I filled out the paperwork, and the volunteer told me the price. At the time, it was just under $600, including all the fees. John was a few tables down from me, and I exclaimed (in the echoing high school gym): “Do you know how much this COSTS?!?!?!”

Yes. I was so green that I had no idea that an Ironman cost several hundreds of dollars. There were rounds of laughter in response to my dull amazement.

I threw my money plastic down, and registered. We would figure out how to pay that off somehow.

Fast forward to this summer as I returned for the 10th time to spectate Ironman Lake Placid 2018. I have completed this race 4 times (2010, 2011, 2013, 2017), and spectated the other 6 years. I will never miss this race so long as I am graced with the health and wealth to be there. It is my Superbowl-Christmas-dream-vacation all wrapped into one.

My first finish in that Olympic Oval, back in 2010, was one of the best days of my life. It still ranks as my #1 all-time favorite moment in Lake Placid. I will never forget the joy and gratitude I felt as I finished that race the first time. I came to understand how the body goes all that way. It is in the doing that we gain this understanding – no matter how many times you try to wrap your mind around it before, it is only at the finish line that you can gain some clarity about what you just did.

In that moment, I felt deeply and exhilaratingly how extraordinary the human body – and even more so the mind – can be. The journey to finish the race that year taught me that the corny Ironman slogan is true: anything is possible (but you have to add the follow up: as long as you are willing to work for it). To this day, I cannot watch this video that John took without crying for the woman I became that day:

I was fundamentally changed forever.

At Ironman Lake Placid 2018, I had my #2 all-time favorite experience in this village. I train and race because it brings me joy. It’s that simple. Of course, no every day is joyful, but if I add it all together – the sum total is joy.

This year, I cheered ALL. DAY. LONG. as 11 of our No Limits athletes and another dozen or more friends (who filled my tracker app!) entered Mirror Lake and made their way 140.6 miles to the Olympic Oval. These athletes are not simply clients. Coaching is not a base financial transaction; it is a partnership. These men and women have become our friends, and their dreams have become my dreams.

I wanted each of them to feel that deep sense of joy and gratitude that I felt that first finish in Lake Placid.

The sunrise race morning.

The bullhorn never sleeps.

Pre-race with some of our athletes.

The cheering squad waiting for the first of the bikes to come by. It started out chilly and raining – and then the sun came out and it was toasty.

Digging deep in a hard moment.

The No Limits Art Department hard at work.

Signs for our athletes on the course.

Our buddy Joe, who we met back in 2010 when we all did IMLP for the first time together. We have been friends ever since and see each other EVERY year.

Da Rock!!

A moment of quiet contemplation before it all goes down.

These people have trusted us with their dreams – and to watch them work to make it happen fills me with an absolute EUPHORIA. (It certainly fueled my 17-hour bullhorn session.) I was asked a few times if I missed racing that day: Nope. Not even a little bit. As I searched the faces of these athletes, I saw their fulfillment. I witnessed their hard work and grit. I felt their joy. I want to suck those feelings through a straw and let them feed my soul for days. 

I know that these athletes have hard moments. I saw it. There is nothing in sports I love more than to see someone reaching inside of that well of endless reserves – and digging. Digging. DIGGING. 

It is those hard moments that make the finish line so intense: when we find what is inside of us to keep digging, when we become full with the power of our body and mind, when we come into ourselves and learn what a badass we are. Coming out on the other side of those hard moments brings with it a swagger that no one can ever take away from us. This moment is not about the brand Ironman. It’s not even about the iron-distance race (any type of race can do this for us!). This fulfillment, this intense joy comes from the work we’ve put in for months on end to find our way to the finish line of our dreams.

I met the woman pictured above, Kirsten, the morning of the race. She and her partner took the time to come to our tent and say hello. In this picture, she stopped for a hot second before she went on her way to the OVAL!! She had come all the way from New Zealand – and said she had read my Lake Placid blogs, which made her cry. Funny because they make me cry too. Pleasure meeting you Kirsten!! I’m so grateful you took the time to say hello. ❤️

I found myself reflecting quite a bit this year at Ironman Lake Placid–more so than any other year. The journey that began years ago has gone places I never would have imagined, and led me to people who have become such an important community in my life. And, the connections go further than I even realize.

Before endurance sport became my lifestyle, I created a small box for myself to live within. It was known. It was certain. It was safe.

It was boring.

I have since learned that living outside of this box, constantly pushing the edges of my comfort zone is where real living is done. So, an ironman is simply one vehicle of many that we can choose to pursue the seemingly impossible dream that pushes us beyond the limits of what we think we can accomplish.

We can achieve the impossible if we screw on our courage, set our determination, and do the hard work to make those dreams a reality.

Find your “something” – whatever it is – and chase it down with all the zest and zeal you have inside of you. It is totally worth it.

Silver Rush 50 treats the runners to about 7600 feet of climbing. But, it’s not the elevation gain, it’s the altitude, which includes 4 trips up to 12,000 feet altitude – with the low point of the race at 10,000 feet. For my sea level lungs, this was going to be a true test. It was more than precipitous rise from sea level that had me concerned.

Asthma Asthma?

On the run in Ironman Louisville 2014. It was about 100 degrees and humid. I wheezed through most of the run. It wasn’t the first time I wheezed while running, but it was the first time it happened for almost the entire thing. (Also: look closely @ the bike grease under my nose. It’s my patented Hilter Racing Stash.)

Four years ago, after wheezing my way through Ironman Louisville, I went to a pulmonologist because something didn’t seem right. You know, not being able to breathe for most of the marathon sort of got my attention.

After an hour of pulmonary function testing, where I had to do all sorts of weird breathing rituals into a tube, my doctor gave me the results: “You have asthma.”

I replied, “Asthma asthma, or exercise induced asthma?”

She clarified, “Based on these results, I cannot believe you are able to do what you do given how limited the air flow is in your lungs.”

So, asthma asthma. Alrighty then.

On the one hand, this diagnosis brought with it a bit of relief because it was a key explanation to years of symptoms, which I had conveniently rationalized as “normal.” Just in case you were wondering, it is NOT normal to feel like you are sucking air through a straw, or to feel like there is a 100 pound dog sitting on your chest. If you think those symptoms sound normal, it’s time to go see a pulmonologist. Just saying.

On the other hand, this diagnosis absolutely crushed me. I had JUST qualified for Kona at Ironman Louisville, and I was about 6 weeks out from “the” race that I had been working toward for 3 years. But, my sadness went beyond my Ironman goals. I saw so many of my other big dreams slipping away.

Of course, the diagnosis itself didn’t make the asthma happen, but prior to that, ignorance was bliss. Once I had the diagnosis, it became this “thing” that I had to manage each and every day if I wanted to optimize my oxygen flow. As an endurance athlete, oxygen is a pretty key part of my success.

I was in denial for quite a long time. I would take my daily inhaler (a corticosteroid) and the symptoms would decrease. I would convince myself it wasn’t the meds that made the symptoms decrease, that I didn’t really have asthma. I’d stop taking the inhaler, and shortly thereafter, the symptoms would return. Eventually, I accepted it. I would need to take meds for the rest of my life if I wanted to process air.

So, that sucks.

Over the years, I have come to learn that the worst of my asthmatic symptoms are triggered primarily by: 1) humidity (summer on the east coast is BRUTAL), 2) certain types of pollen (Springtime sucks too), and 3) altitude.  I first learned that altitude was a trigger when we did Rim to Rim to Rim, back in 2015. The last mile up to the South Rim, after traversing the Canyon all day, took me about 30 minutes. I had to keep stopping because I just couldn’t breathe. During my next trip to altitude, to do the Zion Traverse, I went through same thing.

Between those two trips, I had all but given up any chance that I could actually finish a race that was at altitude – let alone 10,000 feet plus! This was a major disappointment to me, as some of the most iconic races are up where the air is rarified.

Up Where the Air is Rarified

Last summer, we drove out to Colorado to spend a month before and after the Leadville 100, which John was racing. Having just raced Ironman Lake Placid at the end of July, I showed up in Colorado quite fit. For the first time, I found myself able to run at 6000 feet, and then once in Leadville, at 10,000 feet. I wasn’t fast – but I was running.

I began to dream. Maybe a race at altitude isn’t completely out of the question…

Once I get an idea in my head, I pretty much keep trying to figure out how to make it happen–even if it seems impossible. So, fast forward to this year: John and I signed up for the Silver Rush 50 miler, which begins in Leadville, Colorado – at 10,152 feet, and then climbs to 12,000 feet – four times. Basically, you go up and down from 10k to 12k, and then repeat that. The elevation profile looks like the pyramids of Egypt.

Because I’m an idiot eager, I registered for this race before I saw the elevation profile. I figured Leadville was at 10k. I ran there last year. I’ll be fine! But I didn’t know that 10,000 feet would be the lowest point of the entire day.

Go big or go home.

Once I internalized what I had signed up for, this race scared me. This was a sensation of fear I haven’t felt since I signed up for my first Ironman in Lake Placid. The fear drove me to do what I could to prepare myself. Extensive altitude training was not an option, and the reviews on all of the altitude preparation gizmos indicate very mixed results – mostly that they don’t work (e.g., masks), or aren’t worth the massive price tag (e.g., tents).

So, I relied on the advice of veterans: get yourself as fit as possible. Looking back on how I felt last summer, I knew that was advice that could work.

I did weighted vest sets. I did track workouts. I ran long. We traveled to mountains. We even went out to Colorado for a week in May. We climbed Hope Pass. I attempted a summit at Gray’s Peak, and I made it all the way to 13,000 feet before I felt like I had to turn around.

Hope Pass

Hope Pass – I made it!!!

Hope Pass

On the way to Gray’s Peak

Along the trail to Gray’s Peak

Views from the heavens

I did what I could. And, then race day came.

Survive

Silver Rush 50 is easily the most beautiful course I have run to date. I am positively in love with the look of the alpine landscape, and we had views for days from the various vantage points on this course. There were moments when the beauty of the horizon brought me to happy weepy tears – even as the altitude took my breath away. I love those moments: when the joy and gratitude feels like it comes from your bone marrow and fills your veins with the sensation of LIFE.

I want to stay wrapped in that moment.

Photo credit: Des Marek. https://www.instagram.com/desrunsbecause/

Photo credit: Des Marek. https://www.instagram.com/desrunsbecause/

The race begins straight up a hill, which made me laugh the day before when I saw it. This opening hill is not long, and it was easy enough to take it slowly. Although for those so inclined, whoever gets to the top first, gets a Leadville 100 entry. Nothing like going completely anaerobic at the beginning of a 50 miler!

John and I at the opening hill at Silver Rush the day before the race.

A view from the top of the hill the morning of the race.

After the opening salvo, the race meanders through the woods for several miles, on a very runnable surface (especially compared to the roots and rocks of the trails on the East Coast!). These opening miles don’t offer any big climbs. It is characterized by what trail runners refer to as “douche grade” – not flat, but not an actual hill. In triathlon, you may hear this type of climbing referred to as “false flats.”

For these opening miles, I got into a (slow) rhythm. I gained my confidence that I could breathe. Of course, at this point, I was still at “only” 10,000 or so feet. Around the 5 mile mark, the first long climb to 12,000 truly begins. There really aren’t any very steep sections on this course (other than the hill at the start – hahaha!), so the climbs are more like long, slow grinds.

I power hiked the climbs (always walk with purpose!), and was able to run the descents. At times, my breath would “catch” a bit when running downhill. When that happened, I just slowed down, grabbed some air, and then plugged along again.

I remember one moment, maybe on the second climb up to 12,000, coming to the top of a vista, and just being positively overwhelmed with the beauty of the landscape. I didn’t bring my phone with me, because I knew I’d be pushing cutoffs, and didn’t want to risk time taking pictures. But, I have many mind memories of how gorgeous that course was.

John and I are planning to move to Colorado in about a year – but the timeline almost got sped up when he was offered a job a month ago. But, he didn’t take it – the opportunity wasn’t quite right. As I took in the sights of the Colorado skyline, I thought to myself, I can’t believe John didn’t take that job! We could do this EVERY WEEKEND!

Ah, soon enough.

I came into the halfway point of the race in better-than-expected time, and was feeling like quite the big girl. (Remember the old adage about not counting your chickens…). Here I saw John’s parents, who had re-arranged their cross-country RV trip to meet up with us, and my friend Whiting. She was everywhere on that course race day. Every time I came into a crew area – she was there with her children, cheering. It was so wonderful to be so far from home and to have a cheering section!

These seemingly “little” things fill up a big space in a runner’s heart.

The course was adventurous at times. Somewhere around mile 30 (as I was on one of the high points of the course), I could hear thunder and I saw the dark clouds accumulating in the distance. I moved as swiftly as I could – which is to say not truly swift – and hoped I would not be killed by lightning.

All this time, I was worried about my lungs, but here it will be the lightning that will get me! 

I felt the temperature DROP (say that in your head like the Beastie Boys: feel the beat mmmmmDROP!). I felt the first few drops of wetness. And, then those drops started to hurt.

What in the fuuuu….? 

Hail. Mother-loving hail. Ah, yes. Mountain weather is all of the weather all day long.

While I had a jacket and a hat, my gloves had somehow disappeared. My hands began to turn into white icicles, dangling from my wrists.

Out on the course. Downhill = running. 

I made it to the aid station, where a generous volunteer lent me her gloves. I seriously don’t know what I would have done without them, as I couldn’t even undo my hydration pack because my hands were white and frozen.

Eventually, I got down low enough that the hail stopped, and so did the rain. But, then, it got warm. When descending from altitude, there is a line (as you approach or enter the treeline) at which point the temperature increases. You can literally take just a few steps, and all of a sudden the temperature is a lot warmer (or cooler as you are ascending).

Now, as I passed this point, I felt myself cooking. I had on a jacket, a hat and gloves, so I had to disrobe. But, I waited too long. I felt the effects of letting myself get too warm.

I was also starting to feel the effect of altitude. Each time I made the slow hike up to 12,000 feet, the mountains took a bigger bite out of my lungs. I started to feel that familiar tightness, as the volume of air flow dropped.

I sucked on my rescue inhaler. The mountains laughed at my attempts.

Before the last climb up to 12,000 feet, I was cheered along by Whiting’s husband, Doug. Again: how amazing to have people recognize you, call you out, and give you words of encouragement–especially at moments when you aren’t expecting it. I was starting to feel like mountain goat-doo-doo at this point, but his words to me lifted me up: “Maria Simone! Looking good! The last 3 mile climb – and you are downhill to home! You are managing this course so well.”

I thought: I am? Yes, yes. I AM! 

By the last bit of that climb up to 12,000 feet, I was reduced to a very slow walk, but I was moving forward. I would keep on moving forward.

Not today, mountains! You won’t take me today! I thought defiantly.

When I got to the end of that final 3 mile climb, I felt a sense of relief. It would be all down hill from here! Despite the lung limiter, my legs felt the best they’d ever felt in a 50 miler – and I didn’t have any of the stabbing in my quads, like you can get from long descents. I felt prepared. 

I ran. I smiled. I felt grateful. I breathed. It was easier at this point to breathe because: 1) we were heading down several hundred feet, and 2) the effort was less because now I had the help of gravity. I was feeling good – and on target to finish just under 13 hours – like 12:5X – but hey, under 13 hours. I was going to beat the cutoffs – AND I was going to survive. Bonus!

And, then…

That’s the thing about ultras: you feel good, you feel bad, you feel amazeballs, you feel like you want to crawl under something. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I started to get vertigo. I went with my first rule of racing: most things can be solved by slowing down, eating and drinking.

One of the sweetest finish lines!

I made it to the last aid station, which signaled 7 miles to go. The vertigo wasn’t constant, but it threatened if I pushed the effort too much. I also felt hot, even though it was not particularly warm (joys of pre-menopause).

Then, I started to have these blacking out episodes. I would lose tracks of time, and feel like I was waking up – even though I was moving. I started to worry that I would trip and fall during one of these episodes, so I wound up walking most of that final 7 miles. While I realized I wasn’t blacking out for more than a few seconds each time, it was enough for me to slow my roll before I rolled off the side of a ledge.

Ah, there goes the sub-13 hours. Phooey. But, I had to choose between breaking my skull open and survival. Since my A goal was survival, I went with the strategy that seemed most in line with the key reward.

Even with the walking, the vertigo remained, and the headache and the sleepies began. I was fighting to keep my eyes from closing.

By now, you are reading this and putting all the symptoms together: the altitude was catching up!

But, I had less than 7 miles to go. I did the math: I can still make the cutoff–even if I can’t run at all. I would trot from time to time, but after about 5 minutes or so of running, I would get really disoriented, and on the verge of blacking out. So, I walked for a bit. Then, I’d try my luck with trotting – and same result. So, put that sequence on repeat, and I eventually found my way to the finish line in 13 hours and 13 minutes – literally HOURS slower than my typical 50 miler.

But, I met my goal. I survived my first race at altitude. While my lungs are still trying to put themselves back together (two weeks later!), I am so grateful for the opportunity to cross that finish line. I cried from relief and joy – as John captured in this video.

https://www.runningalife.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/07/IMG_8774.mp4

It’s hard for me to accept limits (even though I understand that some may exist). I never really wanted to accept that I could not finish a race at altitude. I didn’t want asthma to ever be an excuse for not trying something. Now that I have, I know that it requires all of my focus and discipline to make that finish line. But, then again, every goal worth having requires grit and perseverance. The feeling of finishing something that you weren’t sure you could is empowering.

Once I catch my breath, I’ll be seeking out the next high.

I’m Unstoppable Today

I was in the middle of a speed workout – a series of efforts a little faster than 5k effort, at distances from 400 to 1000 meters, punctuated by 200 meters at best sustainable effort. (Yes, yes, there were recoveries between all of this nonsense.)

This sucker was painful in all of the ways that I dislike: air sucking, lung busting, anaerobic torture. But, it is the one type of training that works…

Dreaming Big Isn’t Glamorous

Sweat. Pain. Grit. Mud. That’s what big dreams are made of.

I blew a snot rocket, carefully positioning my head with the wind and timing the blow with the rhythm of my footsteps. It was a miserable late winter day, with strong winds and little ice pellets that couldn’t decide if they wanted to be rain or snow. They bounced off the track as they fell from the sky. I dodged little patches of ice on…

The cold air nipped at us, and I struggled to stop shivering as we waited for the start of the Black Canyon 100k ultramarathon. Luckily, it was only a few moments of shiver-waiting, before it was time to cross the starting line. I tucked inside of my jacket a bit and put one foot in front of the other.

Those first 3 or 4 miles were rough. I shivered and tried to ignore the sound of my heavier-than-typical breathing. About 9 days before this moment, I woke up with a chest cold–a deep, dark, slimy and furry organism had burrowed in my chest, and it wasn’t moving out as quickly as I wished it would.

Cold or no cold, I had a mission for this race: finish in under 17 hours to get the qualifier for the Western States 100 lottery. It appears I have moved from the quest to race Kona, to get my name on the starting docket of Western States. So, here we go with my year 4 attempt for that famous race from Squaw to Auburn!

But, honestly, that 17-hour finish was just the basic, bottom-tier goal. I put a lot of energy into training for Black Canyon – trying new things, forcing new adaptations – and before I got sick, I was feeling pretty damn skippy. I had a super secret goal, and as I started the race, I still wanted it.

Cold be damned!

As I got to the 4-ish mile mark, I could feel the air temperatures warming up, and my body was feeling better. In fact, I felt good.

Relief! Perhaps being sick wasn’t going to keep me from my super secret goal.

The sun was shining, the air was clean, and the trails for the Black Canyon 100k are absolutely beautiful! This race features more rugged terrain than Javelina Jundred (another Arapaiva Running race that I’ve done). The trail was fun and zippy, treating us to plenty of rocks, switchbacks, climbing and descending. If you like rhythm running, this isn’t a good course to pick! The terrain changes regularly.

I ran based solely on feel for about the first 30 miles, so I was surprised when I finally looked at my watch to see how far ahead of my plan I was. So far ahead, in fact, that by the time I got to mile 30, I had caught up with John!

More importantly than the pacing I was feeling great. I beat this cold! 

And then… (cue the downward spiral music)

Somewhere around mile 38ish, my breathing became rapid and shallow. Even though we weren’t moving any differently, I COULD. NOT. control my breathing and run at the same time.

It’s a simple equation that I failed to take into consideration at the start: Lingering chest cold + asthma = I was kidding myself.

From that point on, I had to walk much more than I could run to prevent hacking coughs that were so violent, I teetered on the verge of (and sometimes over the verge of) puking. (The day after the race, my back was more sore than any place else from all of the coughing.)

I’ll spare you all of the gory details (again, think slimy, dark and furry).

Those details aren’t necessary because this post isn’t really about the race – even though that’s how I opened it. This post is about dealing with the disappointment I felt about the race.

Yes, I finished in under 17 hours – a hard fought 15:XX-something (I haven’t even had the heart to look at the results for my specific finish time–and please, don’t you go looking either, okay?). I coughed between giggles (and giggled between coughs), and told the voices to f*ck off. I was finishing today.

In fact, John and I laughed a lot in those later miles of the race. We confirmed again: it is a choice to miserable – even in the darkest moments.

So, yes, basic mission accomplished.

But, that super secret goal? Yeah, not even close. The most frustrating part is that my legs felt good to run – but my lungs wouldn’t have it. Every time I even so much as trotted, I found myself hands on knees, doubled-over in spasms of coughing.

As I write this post, I’m sitting here with bronchitis. So, yup, I did a number on myself – all to get that WSER lottery qualifier.

Yet, I’m disappointed. I put in a lot of effort and energy – physical and psychic for Black Canyon 100k. And, I fell way short of what I think I am capable of. Ugh. I hate this feeling.

So, what do I do with that disappointment? This is what I want to talk about.

Wallow In It

First, I let myself wallow in it. This may not be what you expected to read – but let me explain.

I let myself feel the disappointment. I acknowledge that it’s okay and reasonable to feel disappointed. If I didn’t feel something, then it would mean that I didn’t care. While I have my fair share of limiters, emotional passion is not one of them.

For me, if I don’t take the time to process the emotions – they will come back later in very ugly ways. So, yeah, I identify it and process it. But, I put a limit on it until I re-direct the emotions.

Re-Direct It

It’s not healthy or helpful to sit in the wallowing process for too long. I give myself about a day to feel sorry for myself, and then shut it off. I cannot change what happened – so it does me little good to keep focusing on it once I’ve grieved the loss.

I re-direct the grief by looking to the future. I love having goals and something to “shoot for.” In the wake of disappointment (and even in the wake of triumph), I move on to identify the next set of limits to push.

So, I take my emotions and channel them into something that is more directly in my control. You know, like heading over to UltraSignUp to find a new race :-).

Separate Outcome from Identity

One race, one day of training doesn’t define me as an athlete – and it certainly doesn’t define me as a person. Of all of the responses to disappointment, this is probably the hardest one for me. My zest for life – shall I call it that? – comes with a very all-in type of approach to things.

When I am IN something – I  AM IN IT. I don’t do half-way very well.

One of the issues, however, is that I can tend to over-attribute the things that I do with who I am. If something I do is off the mark of what I want, it can pose a very strong identity-threat. Yes, what we do contributes to who we are and who we become, but any one act of “doing” is not the essence of our souls.

Part of the challenge for me is over-ascribing too much importance to outcome – instead of privileging the importance of the process and the life journey. In terms of outcome, Black Canyon 100k was waaaayyyy shy of the mark.

But, in terms of process, I’ve learned several very valuable lessons – as well as reminders. This outcome doesn’t define me – but this journey is a part of who I am and who I will continue to become.

Be grateful. 

When we returned home from the race, John said, “Oh, hey, I forgot to tell you something about the race.”

“Yeah? What’s that?” I replied.

“Mission accomplished. We got the qualifier. Now we can do what we want this year.” He put out his fist for our traditional fist bump, which we do before we start and finish every race.

I smiled. While I still felt that pang of disappointment in the moment we had this conversation, I knew he was right. And, this brings me to what is perhaps the most important way to deal with disappointment:

All emotions – from disappointment to triumph, from despair to joy – let us know we are alive. I am fortunate that my disappointments are incredibly minimal in the grand scale of human challenges. When I think about the depth of human tragedy, I cannot help but feel grateful for the blessings in my life.

The Buckles.

“Pushing your body past what you thought it was capable of is easy; the hard part is pushing yourself even further, past what your mind wants to let you. That’s what ultrarunning is all about; introducing you to a self you’ve never known.” ~ Rex Pace Running with John & the dogs during our summer 2017 Colorado Trip. Running has been a friend of mine since I was about 12 years old. I originally…

“Dig deep, Maria,” he said. “Your well of reserves is bottomless. Keep pulling from it.”

Ms. Cranky-Pants wasn’t really feeling the guru session.

“I’m at mile 96 of a 100 mile race. I AM digging deep,” I pouted. I might as well have stomped my feet, but at that point, I was feeling too beat to take the extra effort, so I just kept shuffling instead.

It was not my finest moment.

But, wait, I’m getting waaaaayyyyyy too far ahead – I mean there’s 96 miles before this moment when I had a choice to make: go for it – or give in.

I know it’s been said elsewhere, but running 100 miles is very much like living a lifetime in one day. You can learn so much about life and who you are by running 100 miles.

The day before the race at packet pickup, from left to right: John, my husband, me, our friend Eric, who was also running the race.

The Sun Comes Up

Sunrise in the desert is a magical time. At first, the rays peak cautiously over the shadowy mountain tops, until the sun spills everywhere over the sandy bottom.

When I signed up for Javelina this year, I remembered the sunrise moment from the first time I did the race back in 2015. I was looking forward to this moment, to staying present, to looking around at the unique beauty that is the Sonoran desert, and to soaking in the experience as it happened.

And so it goes with life. We are so frequently waiting for the “next thing” to happen, or what we need to do later, tomorrow, or next month. In chasing the future, we miss the moment we are in as it spills over us. More so than any other distance I’ve done, running 100 miles slows my focus, despite a life that is otherwise jam-packed with busy-ness.

John took this video the day before the race. It gives a good sense of the beauty of the desert as the morning sun wakes up.

Cycles & Loops

I lived some amazing moments during Javelina Jundred, where I felt like I could run forever. Then, there were times when I thought I would never get to the finish line, and thus be forced to run forever.

Coming in from the 2nd loop. The thin-lipped smile is a dead giveaway: I’ve felt better.

Then, I would cycle back to amazing joy.

And, then, again, bottomless misery.

And so on until the finish line, which of course, equals joy.

I felt my worst during the second loop of the race, which is roughly miles 22-40–in particular miles 30-40 were rough and ragged. The sun was high. The heat was on. My stomach had heat-induced yuckiness. And, my legs felt sore…already. My revel in the early morning rising sun was now a battle not to curse its fiery existence.

How was I going to make it to the end?

As I passed through Javelina Jeadquarters to start out on the third loop, John said: “Okay, keep yourself cool, this will be the hottest loop.”

Ugh. Seriously? I was already SO HOT.

I trotted off with ice in my handkerchiefs. In my hat. In my hands. In my camelback. In my shirt. In my…all-the-places.

The strange and wonderful thing about this distance is that it is so long. So, if you just stick with the effort, 9 times out of 10, you WILL actually feel better. Case in point: that third loop was not worse than the second one. I felt better.

Signs to help you keep your head straight for direction direction to run in the washing-machine style loop course.

And I felt better still on the fourth loop. I clocked some of my fastest miles between 70 and 80 miles!

I sailed into Javelina Jeadquarters at the end of the 4th loop, feeling fresh! It seems unbelievable – but that’s how it happens.

Life cycles up and down too. I’ve experienced heartbreaking misery, stings of sadness so sharp they felt like they cut me open. Yet, in pushing through these moments, giving time to pass through the misery, I have had times of intense joy, extraordinary blessings and deep emotional connection.

We just can’t cycle through the beauty, without rounding a bit through the shit.

Coming in to the end of the fourth loop. I had managed to catch up with our friend Eric, and we ran some of those last miles together. What was I saying to John here? Its a mystery… but he seems to think I was saying, “Hey sexy stud, let’s get our run on!” It’s likely…

Don’t stop believing.

I know. This is a lesson I’ve spoken of so many times before. But, really: Don’t. Stop. Believing. Ever.

When I came in from the 4th loop, I picked up John as my pacer for the final 20 miles. At this point, I had miles and miles of listening only to the voices in my head, which are fine, but after 80 miles, a real voice is also cool. I was ready to chat it up. I had stories to tell about the coyote calls, the crazy costumes, the way I felt throughout the day.

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  The first half of the final loop went well. But, I was hungry. At some point during the 4th loop, I started eating grilled cheese squares at some of the aid stations, and storing them in my camelbak pockets to eat as I went along. (Side note: When we came home, and I cleaned out my gear, there was actually little pieces of cold and very old sammiches in there. Flavor savers!)

The first aid station we came to didn’t have any grilled cheese, but they did have cheese quesadillas. SOLD to the hungry lady running 100 miles! More flavor savers in my pockets.

Then, we made our way to the next aid station, which was about 6 miles further – and at the halfway-ish point of the loop (Jackass Junction, see video below). They did not have grilled cheese or quesadillas or anything that made me want to eat it – despite a variety of choices.

I was on Team: Grilled cheese or die.

Regrettably, I made a bad choice at this point to choose death. Okay, maybe not death, but calorie-deficiency.

I’ll be fine with my clif bars and tailwind until the next station, I thought.

And, off we went, skipping into the night, at this point, with about 10 miles left to go. I bit into my clif bar.

Uh, no. Apparently, there was a limit on how many of those I could manage to sneak by my taste buds in a day, and I had just exceeded that limit. It was a no go. My stomach was fine. My mouth just refused to make saliva to process a bar that seemed to be made of talcum powder and chalk dust.

The funny thing is that maybe 2 hour prior to starting on the grilled cheese and quesadillas, this bar tasted like magic. Cycles, indeed.

Above is video (not taken by us) from Jackass Junction which was the mid-way aid station. It’s pretty funny to see all this life and drunkenness in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night when you come stumbling through. This video was taken in 2016, but the scene in 2017 (and 2015) was exactly the same. 

  So, I kept sipping on my tailwind, which was maybe going to get me about 100 calories an hour. Not enough. My stomach growled, and then the hangries set in.

And now, I bring you back to the beginning of this blog post, when the depths of my caloric-deficit were their sharpest, and my hangries were the hangriest they had been. Ms. Cranky Pants was in full effect at mile 96ish.

John was dealing with a petulant child who just wanted her grilled cheese. (Those who have crewed me in the past will tell you: DO NOT TOUCH MARIA’S GRILLED CHEESE.)

Our magic toolbox of calories makes crewing so much easier – especially for point to point courses where you need to pack in to aid stations. The secret: a toolbox! Sadly, there was no talking me in to any of these calories in the wee hours. I wanted GRILLED CHEESE!

In that moment, I didn’t necessarily recognize what I was feeling as the need for calories, but that’s what it was in hindsight. The crankiness really should have tipped me off.

I felt tired. My legs hurt. I felt my super-secret goal slipping away from me. Wah. Wah. Wah. Wah. Somebody call the waaaahhhhmbulance; this girl is a goner.

After we passed through the final aid station on the loop, we had roughly 3.7 miles left to go, with 45 minutes to make the super secret goal happen. I had slowed so disappointingly between mile 90 and that point. My sub-21 hour “cushion” was threadbare, crushing my dream that I might actually crush the super secret goal.

I needed to run about a 12 minute mile at this point to finish under 21 hours. Earlier in the day, this was easily accomplished – even with stops at aid stations, bathroom breaks, etc.

Now, a 12 minute mile seemed akin to a 6 minute mile.

John cajoled me. He ran a little bit ahead of me, trying to convince me to keep up. (Side note: If you want to poke the grizzly bear, just run ahead of her.) He spoke inspirational mantras, to which I replied with nasty rejoinders (in hindsight, most of which were pretty funny). He gave me gels, which I choked down.

And, through all of this, we ran. Each step, feeling like 1,000 hot pin-pricks through my legs, butt and hips.

I wanted to walk. I wanted to slow down. I wanted to stop. Those final 4 miles felt like the longest of the entire day.

But I didn’t walk. I didn’t slow down. I did not stop.

Each step was a conscious choice that I was not giving up on my super-secret goal. Each step was a conscious choice that I would not give in – I would get on. Anything worth having should not come easy. This challenge, this moment – this is exactly what I signed up for.

It was time to dig from my bottomless well. So, I got out the shovel.

We played a game in which I would surge for about 20-30 seconds, then go back to my trot. Those surges, over about a mile or so, brought some life back into my tattered legs. Those surges made the difference. I didn’t want to do them, but I’m glad I chose the hard option. I’m glad John helped me make that choice.

When we got within a mile of the finish line, we could hear the music thumping from Javelina Jeadquarters. That place is a full-blown PAR-TAY in the night time.

“Do you hear that, Maria? That’s the finish!” John’s face was excited, yet pleading. “You can still do this!”

While I had my doubts, I forced myself to hold on to the “speed” from the surges, and we were running just a tick faster, then a tick more.

  The buckle shot.

When you come into the Jeadquarters after each loop, you run a roughly 400-meter loop around the make-shift village. When we came in to the loop, John looked to his left, and could see the clock. I had about 2 minutes to make the finish under 21 hours.

“Maria: we have to go NOW. You can do this.”

And, that’s the story of how a finished a 100 mile race with a hardest sustainable 400 meter sprint – in 20 hours 59 minutes and 31 seconds. I was the 6th female across the finish line, and the 39th overall finisher. I set a 32 minute PR for the 100 mile distance.

I was hurting. I was hungry. But, I lived a good lifetime in this one day, so I was happy.

The next morning, I stood on the beach of Mirror Lake, waiting for the 2017 Ironman Lake Placid to begin. In that moment, I lived a different present than the last time I raced an Ironman, 3 years ago.

When I first registered for IMLP 2017, I wanted to chase my Ironman past. I felt like I had unfinished business with Lake Placid. I had goals for Ironman – back in 2013 and 2014 – that I didn’t achieve. I thought – for almost this entire season – that I was chasing those goals from the past.  Yet, experience changes us. Those goals, while still in my mind, were no longer my priority as I stood waiting for the race to start.

I had changed. What I wanted from the day was not what I originally believed it would be.

Labels on my bike reminding me of what is most important on race day.

As I listened to the Star Spangled Banner, and soaked in the race morning energy, I wanted a day full of joy and gratitude for moving my body, being with community, and celebrating life.

But, that’s not a very sexy goal, is it?

We love the small-town-girl-makes-it-big-and-fast headline. The small-town-girl-finds-gratitude-and-joy isn’t quite as titillating. But it is a lot more rewarding for this small town girl.

As Mike Reilly, the voice of Ironman, counted down the moments until the start, I realized that this day – this 2017 Ironman Lake Placid – was about my experience.

What experience did I want?

Simple: I wanted to have fun. All of the fun. Every piece of fun there was to have – I was going after it. I wanted to find joy and gratitude no matter what the day would bring.

The last time I raced Ironman, I fought for several years to find my way to the Big Island. That singular focus – all Kona, all the time – was rewarding. But, that goal led to very particular types of race experiences. After a while, racing that way just started to feel like a job, and it stole too much of my joy.

The first time I raced in Lake Placid in 2010, I had so much fun, felt so much joy – I just wanted to feel that way again – not just at the finish line, and not because I “beat” some arbitrary time or person.

I set my intention on the shores of Mirror Lake, and that’s how my day went. Exactly. Like. That.

I swam, I biked, I ran. But, it’s not the movements that matter – it’s the moments. I have some precious moments that I remember from this race.

Can’t shake that smile

Coming out of the swim, heading to T1. What a shame I wasn’t having any fun here. 😉

After the initial rush of the swim start, I found my way to the famed underwater cable that lines the Ironman Lake Placid swim. I smiled and thought: There you are, my pretty. 

That smile and my attention to the task at hand stayed with me all day.

In previous years, I didn’t smile that much, for fear that it was a “waste of energy.” On this day, it was quite the opposite. I felt the energy that a smile brings to your mind and soul.

This smiling doesn’t mean that I didn’t work hard. I did.

It doesn’t mean that I didn’t have some seriously uncomfortable moments. I did.

It doesn’t mean that the race didn’t hurt. It totally did.

It is normal to feel uncomfortable during a race that lasts all day long. For me, endurance sport is rewarding because I can find those edges and learn just a little bit more about myself in those moments. I can cower to the pain, or I can choose to enjoy all of the moments and sensations for the teachers that they are.

We don’t have to choose misery over joy.

Bike handling skills are not overrated

I rode the Keene descent in training for the first time a little over 8 years ago. On that day, I crushed the ulnar nerve in my hand from braking so hard.

Flash forward to July 23, 2017:

Coming in to T2 – all the smiles!!

I saw the first set of fluorescent signs that signal the descent is coming. I felt the headwind pushing against me. I tucked myself into aero and let the bike go. Instead of panic, I smiled into the speed.

I felt the wind on my teeth.

For the first time in 8 years of riding this course, I started the descent in aero–and I liked it.

As the descent got steeper, and a bit more twisty, I continued to let the bike go.

I cornered the way you are supposed to, outside leg down, inside knee out, leaning the bike into the turn. I focused on the execution of the movement, and in doing so, I had no need for panic or anxiety.

This moment is one of my favorites from the day. I was a dog, hanging its head out of the window during a car ride, enjoying the freedom of the open road.

Yeah, that much fun. All of the work I put into bike handling this year came together in these precious moments. I can still feel the wind as it whipped around my body; I can feel the smile as it snaked around my face. It is a memory bubble I won’t soon forget. *weeps*

Calm under pressure

During the second loop of the bike – as I was taking that very first climb up 73 out of town – my chain dropped. I got the chain back on, but it kept dropping – even though I was not shifting.

Um, that’s weird. 

After a few more miles, a few more drops, and fiddling around with my options, I realized that if I kept the gearing at either the top or the bottom of the cassette, the chain would stay on. (Yes, also really weird – but that’s what worked.)

So much bike joy despite mechanical snafu. This snap was taken by friend Bill & Amy, who caught me coming up Papa Bear. Having all of the fun 🙂

I had two working gears in the back, and I could switch between the small or big ring. Yes, race fans, that combo left me with 4 possible options on a course that climbs and rolls and cajoles for the entire loop.

The “me” of the past would have freaked out. She would have focused on how this would “ruin” her KQ chances, how much time she was losing, and on and on. She may have let her emotions get the best of her, rather than working the problem.

In that moment, I didn’t even teeter on the verge of emotional collapse. I adapted. Was it ideal? No. Most of that second loop, I was either spinning easy or grinding hard. Most of that second loop, I still smiled.

I knew I was losing time, but I had a choice to focus on what was in my control or to waste energy lamenting what I couldn’t fix. I focused on the fact that I felt pretty dang skippy.

This is a gift

I made the right turn up Mirror Lake Drive on my way to finishing the first loop of the run. We had set up a tent along this area, so I knew my friends and family would be here – somewhere – I looked for them eagerly.

My girls guarding the No Limits Endurance Coaching headquarters during the race. ❤

As I came up the road, I heard them before I saw them – these people that are so important in my life, and making that connection I felt so deeply appreciative for their love and support.

I see my husband John’s face, smiling, screaming: “You got this, Maria!”

I see John’s parents – our biggest fans Jeanne and John – screaming my name and clapping.

I see the faces of my friends, yelling, “Maria!” “Go Diesel!” “You are killing this!”

I returned their cheers with victory yells of my own. It felt so good to be this happy. I was out there crushing my goal to have fun. I mean CRUSHING it. I pretty much stole all of the fun. My apologies to the other racers for not leaving anything for them.

Someone is happy to be off the bike. Maria Simone #slomo

Posted by John Jenkins on Sunday, July 23, 2017

My second time up the Lisa G’s hill (you know, the big hill up 73 into town), there was a woman who stepped into the road, pointed at me and said, “You have a gift. You haven’t stopped smiling all day!”

Thinking about that moment now, I don’t have a gift, so much as I have been gifted. I have been given the gift of movement, the gift of friendship and community, the gift of the present moment.

As I ran into the Olympic Oval for the finish line, I smiled in every cell of my body. The entire day was magical – and this final 200 yards is sprinkled with just a little bit of extra fairy dust.

I slowed my pace. I wanted this moment to last…and last. This race is so special to me – maybe because it’s the longest running Ironman in North America, or it is positively beautiful, or it was my first Ironman–or very likely because all of the people I share it with make my life a gift worth having.

This season and this race have changed the way I approach and assess racing. In the past, I would have been disappointed with this race because it wasn’t my fastest, and I was shy of the podium. I am rarely satisfied when I judge a race by time or placement. No matter what: I always want to be faster. And, this is still true with this race. Yes, I wish I was faster.

But, as I write this, I’m using a different set of metrics to evaluate the experience of this race. I’m grateful for the moments I had and the memories I won’t forget. When I finished Ironman Lake Placid in 2010, I experienced a sense of joy and empowerment that I had never felt before. Since that time, I’ve been chasing that high – and I never thought I would feel that way again.

Yet, I did. 

No Limits Racers – team picture!

No Limits Racers – silly picture!

I made these signs for the crew 🙂 My artistic skills are pretty amazing, I know.

Part of our village – post race. (Thanks for the chair! hahahaha!)

Reflection…

The morning scene at the tent

Getting suited up

Picture with the rock during our shake out swim

Pre-race breakfast fun 🙂

Suns out, tongues out!

Brekkie!!

What Did You Learn?

No matter how much experience I gain, there is always something new to learn. That is part of the appeal of endurance sport – it never gets boring. After a race or an especially challenging training session, my Coach Steve Pye’s first question was: “What did you learn?” This question is the best one we can ask ourselves each day if we want to make our path forward on this journey meaningful. This…

Ghost Rider: In Memory of Steve Pye

When people come into our lives we may not immediately realize the impact they will have on our life. But, as we get to know them, as we learn from them, we realize how very important the kindness, generosity and support of friends is to our health and happiness. In September of last year, I met Steve Pye. He was one of the coaches at the USA Cycling coaching clinic that I attended. As I…

Crono Vino Time Trial: Fake it until I make it – or just keep faking it

On April 10th, I received this text from Karl, an athlete that I coach: I clicked the link. I read through the event description.  And, I realized: 1) Karl would do this event, and 2) I should probably hit the “register” button as well. If I’m going to think of myself as a “real” cyclist, then I need to do “bikey” things. But, the thought of showing up at an event for really real cyclists scared…

I am a cyclist? I AM a cyclist.

It is a rare day, indeed, that I think of myself as “good” on the bike. I’m coming clean: I’ve been a hypocrite. I’ve talked a time or a dozen about how central our thoughts are for influencing the way that we act. While I walk this talk in most aspects of my athletic life, there is one area where I’ve clearly been lacking – yes, even hypocritical. I’ve said some pretty negative things about…

I started my run on Sunday morning, and I wasn’t more than 20 steps in when I began to hear the voices. My legs are really sore. Why does this feel so hard if I’m running so slow? How am I going to do today’s workout feeling like this? Was that noise my joints popping?!  Ugh. It’s windy.  You know these voices, right? I bet you’ve heard them a time or a hundred. The day before, I had ridden four…

Consider Fourth of July. This is a pretty big deal for Americans, given our values of independence and freedom. It’s a time to commemorate those values – and to watch fireworks and eat barbecue, of course.

For over 100 years, March 8 has been marked as International Women’s Day to commemorate the value and celebrate the benefit that women bring to our lived experiences.

Why?

Because we value women and the contributions they make to society. We realize that the success of any society – of any world order – is dependent upon equality. Without it, women cannot contribute to the best of their potential. I mean, half of the population has got some pretty cool ideas and experiences.

In the United States, the movement toward equality has created opportunities. Personally, I would not be the woman I am if it were not for the work and persistence of the women who came before me to ensure that I have the right to vote, to pursue any career choice I choose, to live independently, to control choices about my body, to be perceived as an equal.

On this day, I celebrate the women who have fought for women’s rights in history and continue to do so today because equality is a value that deserves celebration and commemoration.

But, this day isn’t only about our political rights. It’s also about celebrating the “everyday” women in our lives, like Beatrice Simone, my “Nana”, and Frances Schwartz, my “Mom-Mom”. Both of these women were strong matriarchs, who taught by example. While their styles were different, they showed me how to embrace a strength of mind, a persistence of will and a determination of spirit. All of which have been good lessons for my success in endurance sport.

My paternal and material grandmothers, both in the right of this picture.

Frances, my mom-mom (on the right), with my mom. It seems clear my grandmother is leading this show.

My grandmother and I probably somewhere around 1996-1996.

And, this is where I get my love of food…

Mom-mom and Pop-Pop.

And, of course, as athletes, we can celebrate the women who have created a path in sport where one did not exist. I feel indebted to the courage of a woman like Bobbi Gibb, who was the first woman to run the Boston Marathon in 1966, though she had to do so without a bib. She has written of that experience:

Then in February of 1966, from California, where I had moved, I wrote for my application to the Boston Athletic Association (BAA). The Boston Marathon was the only marathon I had ever heard of. Will Cloney, the race director, wrote back a letter that said that women were not physiologically capable of running 26 miles and furthermore, under the rules that governed international sports, they were not allowed to run.

I was stunned.

“All the more reason to run,” I thought.

I seriously love that response. Her persistence exemplifies what is best in sport.

The following year, Katherine Switzer finished the Boston Marathon as an official registrant; however, she had to register as K. Switzer in order to do so, fooling the officials into thinking she was a male. When she was discovered on the course, with the bib, the race staff tried to pull her off the course. She writes of that moment when race official Jock Semple tried to pull her down:

I thought: “I deserve to be here. If I can do the distance then why not? It’s a public road.”

…About 20 miles into the race, I came to the conclusion that when I finished, I was going to try to be a better athlete and try to create opportunities for women so they would experience the same sense of power, strength and freedom that I had.

When I crossed the finish line, it wasn’t like “Wow! I did it – I did my first marathon”. It was like “Wow! I’ve got a life plan!”

And, so, Katherine Switzer persisted, too.

Thanks to these women, we are no longer concerned about silly things such as whether a woman’s uterus may fall out during long distance running. As it turns out, it’s pretty hard to just shake a uterus out of the body. Good thing, too. I likely would have lost mine a while back.

Ironman Triathlon has built its brand from the now-iconic footage of Julie Moss crossing the finish line of the 1982 Ironman. (They ran a post on their website titled: “The Most Famous Finish in Ironman History.”) Some may have counted Moss out in that moment, as she crawled and collapsed on repeat. Nevertheless, she persisted. Now, Julie Moss is symbolic of a central tenet of the Ironman-ethos.

Most importantly, she showed other women they could do it too.

There’s little doubt that women can push hard. We are literally born to handle hard labor.  Our physiology is uniquely suited for long course success – all we need to do is tap into that strength that lives inside of us.

There are many positive role models who teach us how to tap into our reserves, several of which I’ve written about before. What links all of these women together is their persistence to continue, their insistence to endure.

Make no mistake: this persistence is not always easy.

There are broad cultural norms that create tension for women in sport. Perhaps, our bodies may not fit the societal norm, and for many women (including me!), that is a source of tension for our sense of self.

I have friends who are mothers, who have been questioned about their participation in sport, as taking away from their children. They may be perceived by some as selfish or uncaring–rather than as a role model of strength and courage (which is what they are!).

Even in 2017, there are negative judgments made about women who are competitive or aggressive. I’ve heard the insults. 

For these reasons and more, I know women who are hesitant to “tri”. And, yet, despite the hesitation, they persist.

On the surface, it may not seem as if political activists, grandmothers and athletes share much in common. But, we do. We face challenges. We face judgment (sometimes the worst of which is the voices in our own heads!). We face those who want to shame us. We face fear.

Nevertheless, we persist. 

Happy International Women’s Day to you!