#doubleanvil

“Is that the start?” I overheard one of my fellow racers ask.

Yup. 

I put my face in the blackest water I’ve ever swum and began my second go-round at the Florida Double Anvil, which is a double iron-distance event featuring 281.2 miles broken into a 4.8 mile swim, a 224 mile bike, and a 52.4 mile run. Each of these distances are completed in a series of laps: 12 laps for the swim, 37 laps for the bike, and 26 laps for the run.

After all of this lapping, there are multiple repeats of food and sleep.

This race report includes a recap of my experience on race day – but first, I have to set the context for this truly unique event. So, settle down, grab your coffee (or your adult beverage of choice), and a snack. This one has plenty of details.

The Anvillage

It would be a mistake to think of a Double Anvil as simply twice an Ironman. While the numbers do add up that way, the experience is so much more than just those numbers.

Representative of these differences is the very language used to described the center of the race. An Ironman has a transition area. The Double Anvil has a village. That’s more than just a semantic difference.

Within the confines of that Anvil village–what I’m going to call the Anvillage–lies the key to what makes this event so special: a sense of community that comes from pushing the edges of our comfort zones, sharing the belief that limits are for other people, and finding our strength not only as individuals–but also as a community of people seeking the extraordinary. 

While I raced as a solo racer, this effort was hardly an individual effort for me – or for any of my fellow racers. It is not possible to cross the finish line of a race of this magnitude without the support of the Anvillage. The respect and support of the racers, their crews, and the race staff is like no other race I’ve ever done.

Not. Even. Close.

The commiseration or commendation of your fellow comrades-in-laps can lift you out of a hole or help you ride the high to the finish line. There were times when I was convinced that to go another lap would be a seemingly impossible, Herculean effort. But, then, a fellow racer or their crew would cheer me on, give me words of encouragement, and I was fueled and renewed by the knowledge that if I believed it – I would achieve it.

We may have started as individuals, but in passing through the Anvillage lap after lap after lap–and yeah, another lap–we crossed the line into family.

Our crew, right before the start of the race.

The Uncomfortable Zone

Triathlon continues to push me outside of my comfort zone. Toeing the starting line still gives me an addictive mix of pleasurably uncomfortable sensations: creeping fear, rushing excitement, and eager curiosity.

These are the feelings of being alive. There are so few opportunities to live truly in the moment, to be focused on the sound of my breath, to feel the tug of my muscles, to reflect on my thoughts and experiences. Endurance sport rewards me with many of these moments.

For all of these sensations and moments, I love long course racing. While my perception of “long” has changed, my appreciation for the experiences that the long course brings has deepened. And, that’s a good thing since the 2016 Florida Double Anvil was the longest of the “long” for me so far. I was in constant motion for 26 hours and 48 minutes.

Yes, I was alive–even if at times, uncomfortably so.

Above: Coming through The Anvillage with 2-3 more laps to go on the run. 

Aggressive Goals

I went into this race with aggressive outcome goals for time and placement. My goals were so aggressive that I’m embarrassed to admit them (and wouldn’t speak of them at all prior to the race), for fear that I sound cocky or arrogant. I like to dream big, but I don’t want to seem like an a-hole.

But, here goes: I wanted to place in the top 3 overall (men and women), and I wanted to break the world record, which stands at 23 hours and 45 minutes. At a minimum, I wanted a go at the American record, which stands at 25 hours – a time I fell short of by 41 minutes last year. The time records still stand…for another day, perhaps.

One of the main challenges in reaching my time goal was the fact that the course for the Florida Double has changed. Let’s just say that last year’s course was faster due to changes in terrain that increased the challenge for all 3 legs of the race. When I did recon of the new course back in January, I realized my hopes for a record were slim at best, but I was still holding on to my goal to hit the overall podium. After all: the course would be hard for all of us. 

While I want to achieve my goals, I’ve learned that when race day comes I CANNOT focus on them. I have trashed races worrying about my time or placement–as I’ve written about before (see here, or here as an example). I knew the only way I would survive the day was to focus on the process and to live moment by moment.

In the days leading into this race, one of my friends and I had the following text exchange:

Perfect sounds bold–total a-hole. I know. But, let me explain.

For me, the perfect race doesn’t mean that everything goes 100% according to plan. In all of the years I’ve been racing, I’ve never had a race that didn’t present some sort of unknown challenge – or series of challenges. Those challenges are precisely what I like about racing. I love the strategy, the problem-solving, the need to act and react to the day as it unfolds. It’s a workout for the body and mind.

For me, “perfect” means that I executed the race to my potential, and I adapted to whatever challenges presented themselves. The worst thing I could think after a race is: “I should have…” Ugh.

Key to this execution is my PEDS strategy, which served me well during the Javelina Jundred. PEDS = Pace, Eat, Drink, Smile. This is precisely how I got through the next 26 hours and 48 minutes.

So, onward to the swim, shall we?

The Swim

The 4.8 mile swim, held in Lake Louisa, was broken into 12 laps, of 704 yards each, through black water – made so by the tannins from the trees.

How black, you may ask?

So black that I could not see my hand when it was stretched in front of me. The dark water was probably for the best since we were sharing Lake Louisa with alligators, who make their home there. Best not to get an eyeful of that. We found out after the race that we had a reptilian friend hanging out at the third buoy.

How’s that for an uncomfortable zone?

For me, the first half of this swim was the hardest. I wasn’t able to settle into a rhythm. But, by the time I got through the 6th lap, I had gotten into a sighting rhythm and began to settle into the day.

I suppose that’s one benefit of a long race – plenty of time to find your rhythm.

As I came around to finish the sixth lap, I said to my crew manager Tim, “Finishing the sixth lap, right?”

“Yup!”

“Well,” I replied, “By swimmer’s math, I’m pretty much done!”

He laughed, and agreed, “Exactly!”

The swim done, I trotted from the lake to the Anvillage. I didn’t waste any time transitioning to the bike and clocked the fastest T1 time of the day.

The Bike

The bike included one short lap of about 2 miles, and then 37 six-mile laps, which consisted of an out-and-back section within the confines of Lake Louisa State Park. From the Anvillage, we traveled 1.5 miles and made a 90-degree right turn. Ride 1.5 more miles and make a complete u-turn and head back to Anvillage the way we came.

A portion of the bike course. Twisty :)

Along the loop there were a few rollers in elevation, which equated to 2600 feet of climbing across the 224 miles (by my elevation-corrected Garmin file from the Edge 500). Certainly not the hilliest course ever. But after 224 miles, a 2% grade has a way of feeling just a bit like a 12% grade. Even so, I felt in control of the elevation–and my effort–the entire ride.

What made the bike challenging for me was the heat. It was by no means the hottest race I’ve ever done (IMLOU in 2014 at 105 sweaty degrees is still the record!), but 88 humid degrees was an abrupt shift from the New Jersey winter – no matter how mild it’s been.

Mentally, I had to play a series of games to avoid making stupid decisions to burn too many matches. In a race that takes longer than a day, you probably want to save those matches for the second day. Seemed to be a reasonable strategy to me, at least.

While I wanted the overall podium, I had to be honest about where I was and whether I could keep up with the boys.

I couldn’t.

HOLY HOT DAMN!!  Those boys were HAMMERING the bike WAAAAAAYYYYYY above my pay grade!

Working on the smile part of the PEDS strategy. My shoulders hurt so bad that lifting my arm even this much hurt terribly.

First one lapped me, then another, then another – and then they all lapped me again. Oh, and let’s lap her one more time just to make certain she understands we’re faster.

Come here, poor little ego. It’s okay. There, there, my little ego. 

I had no choice but to let them go. I had to focus on my body and my race, and resist the temptation to chase.

But, I’ve got to be real here: swallowing my ego while the boys zinged by me – REPEATEDLY – was probably the hardest thing I did all day. I had come to compete. While that desire made me want to roar like a lion, I could muster little more than a kitten’s meow.

One thing that helped in this regard was an uneasy stomach that would send up the rumbling and tumbling warning message whenever I pushed the effort. At the time, I was so frustrated by feeling sick because I was riding below where I had trained for the race. Yet, in hindsight, that queasy stomach probably saved my day.

It’s hard to trust your strategy–and the process–when you are getting crushed. Yet, I had to believe that the race would come back to me, and if it didn’t, I would have to accept that, too.

As the night descended on us, the bike became less about the race and more about just getting those damn 224 miles FINISHED.

Goodness golly me! Those nighttime miles can drag on and on and on.

It became clear pretty quickly that I needed something to keep me engaged for the night time.

So, naturally, it was time to sing. I pulled out my old favorites: “Don’t Stop Believing,” and “I Feel Good”. But, I also crooned an eclectic mix of new motivators: “Timber,” “Fight Song,” “Summer Wind,” “Take the Skinheads Bowling,” “Add it Up” – to name a few. I was pulling from all of the playlists. Pandora doesn’t have anything on me.

For most of these “classics”, I adjusted the lyrics to fit my current situation, as I frequently do. For example, with the Violent Femmes “Add It Up,” I sang:

“Lap after Lap, I will ride, and I will play. But, the lap after 37, I will stop, and I will ruuuuunnnnn. Why can’t I get off this bike? Why can’t I get off this bike?”

If you’re curious about the original, here it is (but I think you’ll agree, my version has potential):

Eventually, it was lap 37, and I was able to get off that contraption. #BikesArePoopy. Sweet relief!

The Run

My favorite part of triathlon is the moment I get to put on my sneakers and run. Once I rack my bike, I know that there is nothing – short of passing out or dropping dead – that will keep me from crossing the finish line.

As I started the run, I was in fourth place overall, and I was the first place female. It was hardly time to rest.

I knew the guys who were in front of me, and I knew that not a single one of them was going to give up easily. I also knew that the second place woman (with whom I shared good conversation and words of support) was not far behind me, with maybe 1 or 2 laps left on the bike. As I began the run, I hoped that my approach to the bike would be enough to put me in striking range of the podium.

A portion of the run trail. This section had only mildly soft sand.

The run course included one short lap of approximately 1.5 miles, and then 26 lollipop loops that were just shy of 2 miles. Half of the loop was on the road, and the other half was on a sandy trail. My Garmin puts the total gain at only 428 feet, so the elevation changes were negligible – more like false flats. However, the sandy trail definitely slowed us down, and presented a muscular challenge that was much different from the road–or even the standard dirt trail.

Further complicating the run was the fact that the Park had done a controlled burn just a few days prior to the race, and unfortunately, the woods were still smoking – and in some cases, re-igniting little campfire-sized fires. Add in just the slightest touch of wind, and it made for “Smoky Hollows,” as one of the volunteers called it.

I’m still amazed that I didn’t have a full-blown asthma attack. Even over a week later, my lungs feel thrashed from inhaling the smoke for almost 10 hours.

While my pace was significantly slower on the trails, my effort felt higher given the way we had to dig through the various sections of sand–and breathe the smoky hollows. Even so, I thrive on adverse conditions. As it burns (literally in this case), I can find a calmness of rhythm that allows me to continue to move no matter what.

I don’t stop moving. That’s my secret sauce. Pretty simple, right?

After the race, John described me as the “little diesel.” I felt especially flattered because this is exactly how I felt during the race: I was an object in motion that would stay in motion – even if that motion wasn’t particularly fast.

Coming in to the finish line, as they play the national anthem and you run a few yards with the flag unfurled. If that doesn’t get you, I don’t know what will! So, yes, I cried. Again.

As per USAT rules, there were no headphones – but the sounds of the trail were plentiful. Throughout the night, I heard a symphony of crickets, various rustles in the woods (yikes! What was THAT?), and what I had thought were the barks and croaks of frogs. As it turns out, those barks were alligators crooning through the night. (Maybe we should rename this one as the Alligator Anvil?)

As daylight came through the trails, I could hear the sounds of the morning songbirds, and felt the woods coming to life. With the morning sunlight, I was able to see my surroundings on the run more clearly. That trail was eery and beautiful at the same time – especially with the charred remains from the controlled burn.

Anyone who has run as the sun comes up knows how absolutely magical this time of day can be.

Coming through the Anvillage during the run was a key highlight, as EVERY SINGLE PERSON there would cheer us on as we finished one lap, and then started on the next.

As one of my crew members Karl remarked, “A lap is just a lap.” Indeed. But, every single one of those laps teaches us just a little bit more about pushing limits and brings us just a little bit closer together as the Anvillage family.

What seemed to take so long to endure – both in terms of training and racing – came to a quick and abrupt end as I finished my final lap of the day. The pain in my body meant precious little compared to the joy I felt in my heart and my mind. I executed my perfect race for the day.

The cherry on top of that sundae: I finished as the first place female and the 2nd place finisher overall. And, while you may be tempted to congratulate me, remember: I did not get to that finish line as an individual.

I crossed that finish line with every single member of my Anvillage. So, give it up for my Anvil peeps.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

About 5 seconds after I crossed the finish line. #Pain

Special love and thanks goes to my crew:

My husband John, without whom I wouldn’t dare to dream the way I do now. He’s has taught me to believe in myself and speak in the “language of can”.

Tim – my crew manager – who waited lap after lap after lap, anticipating what I might need, making his way through my various excel spreadsheets, listening to my bullshit, and generally allowing me to boss him around for 26 hours and 48 minutes.

Karl – the technical guru and forever optimist – who fixed my bike computer about 5 minutes before the swim start, supported the bike light change (after a fiasco when my $280 bike light would work. Give it up for the $20 head lamp! Never lets me down…), threw cold water on me, and never stopped his cheers of “Mama Bear!” – not once – throughout the race.

Patti – my dear dear friend, who like John, has taught me to think beyond perceptions of limits. Thank you for changing my pants again and not complaining once when I sat down in front of you with my jay jay hanging out. Thank you, also, for allowing me to stay with you as part of my DIY training camp back in January. I couldn’t do this without you! (Thanks also to Danny for hopping in the middle of the night support crew!)

Janine – you are a double anvil crew virgin no more! Your enthusiasm, support and belief in me was with me through the dark moments. Your determination in your own life is an inspiration to me in ways I hope you realize!

Bill & MaryJane – For the second year in the row, the two of you continue to be a positive light on the Team U-Crazy Crew! Your help with the food, the lighting, and the morale are a key part of what we do!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Random highlights:

One lap to go!

Cold and old grilled cheese is amazing. I ate two of them throughout the run. I would eat one right now if it were in front of me.

Beanitos Chips after 12 hours of Perpetuem is a magical food. I was a doubter, and told Tim he was on crack when he gave them to me. After my first bite, I realized the chips were actually crack, and I had to have more.

Alligators are not particularly aggressive, but they make barking noises that sound like frogs in the middle of the night, which you don’t find out about until after the race.

Always bring your speed suit, even if you think the water will be cold. #HotStuff

Put extra sunscreen on the inside of your forearms because there is a direct line between them and the sun when you are sitting in aero. #Ouch

Be grateful all of the time – especially when it sucks, because honestly, it really doesn’t suck even when you think it does. You are out there pushing your limits, finding your edges – and realizing how extraordinary life can be. Suck that shizzle up – it’s precious!

The race director Steve Kirby knows every single racer’s name – and the names of all of their crew. He goes way out of his way to make sure everyone is taken care of. He and his wife are special people.

The racers all know each other by name, and despite the fact that we are “competing,” everyone supports everyone. You’ll never race with people that are this level of cool and unique anywhere else.

I’ll be back next year despite swearing that I wouldn’t do another one. I do it for the grilled cheese, really.

Right before the start of the swim at the 2015 Florida Double Anvil. The 2016 race has been moved, so the swim will be in Lake Louisa, Clermont, FL. It was Christmas Eve morning, at dark:thirty. I had scheduled a 4800 yard Swim for myself. Let me be clear: Coach Maria is an asshole. After all, I/she hadn’t simply scheduled a nice steady endurance swim. Nope. It was a hard one. In fact, it was a…

Thoughts from an FTP Test

FTP also stands for: F**k This Pain. Image from http://www.slideshare.net/TrainingPeaks/power-terminology-1. Forgive me, data junkies, for I have been an FTP slacker. It has been just shy of 2 years since my last FTP (functional threshold power) test. Yes, 2 years. I’m not a fan of frequent testing, not only because I don’t like them (which I do not), but also because they require a…

Moments that Matter: 2015 Virginia Double Anvil Race Report

[The USA Ultra Tri’s Virginia Double Anvil is a double-iron distance race featuring a 4.8 mile swim, a 224 mile bike, and a 52.4 mile run. This race report is from Coach John’s experience at the 2015 event, which was held October 9-10, 2015.] “In every challenging and difficult moment there is potential value, you have to believe in yourself and fight out the moment with a positive frame of…

Boiling Frogs and Gradual Adaptation

Photo labeled for reuse. Photo credit: https://www.flickr.com/photos/purpleslog/2881603057/.

Every new distance seems impossible when you first begin to wrap your head around it.

Think about the first race you ever signed up for that you thought was really long.  Before you started the training, the race distance probably seemed almost insurmountable, right?

I mean, how could anyone go X miles?

T…

~Walter Elliot

“So, do you have your mind wrapped around this thing?” John asked me a few days before the 2015 Florida Double Anvil (double iron-distance triathlon), which was held on March 6-7 in Tampa, Florida.

I paused.

He has never in all of the history of the things we’ve done asked me that question, which led me to question myself. Wait! Do I have my head wrapped around this “thing”? 

“Um, I…uh, what do you mean? Do I have a race plan?” I asked.

“Not a race plan – I mean have you thought about what this is going to take?”

I posted this tweet a few days before the race. I had moments when I realized just what exactly was in store for me – only to quickly bury those thoughts deeply lest I lose my nerve.

“I’m going to swim, bike and run until I finish,” I replied, trying to hide my creeping feelings as my brain began to whine with uncertainty.

“Okay, as long as you’ve committed up here,” John pointed to his head, “that’s what you need to do.”

Pre-race pep talk complete.

Yup, fully committed… or committable. I forget which one.

When you finish any Anvil race, you must strike the anvil as many times as you completed the anvil. So, for a double – that’s two times. The hammer is 3 pounds, so that’s a big ask! (Photo taken by Dan Elliott, and used here with permission, http://www.danelliott.com. Thanks, Dan!)

While I did my best to imagine various race day scenarios, I wonder how anyone could ever have their mind wrapped fully around this thing. I finished the race, and I’m still not sure I have my mind wrapped around what happened out there.

Pre-race, I had moments of fear, excitement, uncertainty, pleasurable anticipation, nervousness, eagerness. I cycled through the positive and the negative – working to reject the negative voices when they wanted to introduce doubt. Every time I let the idea of 281.2 miles enter my thoughts, I had an instinctive response to immediately STOP thinking about the totality.

To state the obvious: it’s a long race.

The Florida Double Anvil features a 4.8 mile swim done as 76 laps in a 50 meter outdoor pool, a 224 mile bike done as 31 laps (plus several miles of riding between the pool and Flatwoods Park where the bike and run take place), and a 52.4 mile run done as 30 laps. Between each lap on the bike and the run course, you come through “Tent City,” where all of the crews are located.

This is one view of Tent City as you come in from the end of the 6.861 mile bike loop. (Photo taken by Dan Elliott, and used here with permission, http://www.danelliott.com. Thanks, Dan!) Our crew was located all the way at the end near the timing tent (not visible from this image).

Given this course structure, I didn’t have to wrap my mind around the entire ultra long race. I just had to focus on one lap at a time, or one part of one lap, or one part of one part of one lap. Until finally, I counted one step at a time, one step more to finish line.

The last time I felt this type of excitement mixed with vomitous sensations was before my first Ironman. And while I was scared, I truly do like that sensation. I’ve been actively chasing this “drug” ever since that first Ironman Lake Placid.

That, my friends, is the feeling of being alive. 

Okay, Go!

I’d been asked many times in the days leading up to the race if I was ready. I was never sure how to answer the question, but I answered it the only way I thought reasonable: “We’ll find out!” The time had finally come to answer the question in real time.

Group photo before the swim start. Photo from USA Ultra Triathlon, https://www.facebook.com/pages/USA-Ultra-Triathlon/177660588952142.

Usually, John and I have to work hard to stay together amidst the throngs of people before a race starts. But, with only 42 athletes at the Double Anvil, fighting the masses was not an issue. Into the pool we went, with our now-ritual fist bump and a kiss (which started on the shores of Mirror Lake before our first IMLP).

I could feel pre-race sensations of excitement, fear, butterflies, and LET’S JUST GET THIS FREAKING THING STARTED BEFORE I IMPLODE, okay? You know, the usual.

I loved the unceremonious start to the race, which began with: “Okay, go!”

And, breathe!

Because we were circle swimming 76 laps in a 50 meter pool, my lane mates and I very quickly organized ourselves into a line heading to the other side of the pool. By the end of the first lap, I realized they were swimming much faster than I wanted to at that point, so I let everyone go ahead of me. My mantra is and always will be: BE SMART AT THE START. Now was not the time to mess with my approach.

You might think that 76 laps in a pool sounds terrible. But, it wasn’t. It was an outdoor, 50-meter pool, which was glorious and beautiful compared to the indoor, 25-yard, over-chlorinated hole I’d been training in.

In comparison to the hell of training, race day is much easier and a ridiculous amount more fun. That’s the truth. There were moments when I was pleasantly surprised by just how much fun I was having.

This is an excel sheet I made with some race-day goals. Interesting, I undershot my run – by a lot. How many times do I have to learn: ALWAYS believe in the run :) Swim splits are per 100y.

In what seemed like a very short amount of time, I exited the water in what I had projected as a “I’m having a great day” time goal.

Yes, I actually made that Excel spread sheet you see at right.

Yes, I actually labeled it that way.

Yes, I’m a dork.

I feel good

As I mentioned in my previous post, I’ve spent hours on top of hours on my bike trainer, with Kona being the last time I cycled on the road. How would the trainer time translate to the road? We’ll find out… 

After you exit the pool, you ride along the highway (Bruce B. Downs Blvd.) for a few miles to get to Flatwoods Park. I absolutely hated this (mercifully brief) section because it was like playing a game of Frogger, with cars entering from and exiting to the freeway, stores, and various other complexes. Ugh!

If you do this race: be VERY vigilant and cautious. These drivers are NOT looking for us.

To ensure I wasn’t blowing the pooch, I took periodic stock of my vitals. While the numbers (HR and power) were one part of the evaluation, I was much more reliant on my rate of perceived exertion throughout this race. As long as I felt good, I was going to keep pushing the upper limit of my “all day” pace.

At regular intervals, I asked myself: How do I feel? For the overwhelming majority of this race, I felt good. I mean James Brown Heh-kiss-myself-I-feel-good! level of good.

Most of the ride involved long stretches by myself with only quick pit crew stops of human interaction to switch bottles or grab food, or the brief exchange as riders passed. So, when I asked myself, “How do I feel,” somewhere in the 6th or 7th hour of riding, I just wanted to hear something other than the wind rustling in my ears. So, I responded – to myself – out loud.

“I feel good!” And, I instantly thought: James Brown. So, I sang (out loud) “I Feel Good” – more than a few times. Let’s just say, a lot. During your next race, try this. It kinda makes you feel like this: //giphy.com/embed/Gg5V4DeHMdaeY Given the solitude of the course, I looked forward to the brief moments of well wishes shared with fellow racers as we passed each other. I especially looked forward to the seconds I’d have with my crew at the end of each bike (and then run) loop.

We had a well-oiled machine of crew members: John’s parents who kept everyone well-fed and happy, and our friends Patti, Tim, Bill and MaryJane, who prepped and handled our bottles and nutrition. Everyone found the job that best suited their talents, and John and I were taken care of the entire time.

There is no doubt in my mind that we would not have achieved the day(s) we had if it weren’t for these people. So, if an ultra-endurance race is in your future: recognize the value of your crew, and pick wisely. Your crew works harder than you do.

This was our Tent City set up at the race. We are professionals ;).

Sometimes, when I came through Tent City, I would just bark an order for the next lap, but then I would feel so terrible for being a jerk. I would spend the next lap thinking of something to say to them the next time I came around – hoping to let them know I was happy, positive, having fun – and that I loved them all for being there…even if I was an asshat at certain moments.

As night fell, the reality of the race began to sink in. It was cold and drizzly (but not anywhere near as cold as it was when John did it last year!). Until that moment when the sun set, I had never ridden my bike at night, which was a huge disadvantage as the darkness closed. I would have gladly practiced, but you may have noticed the northeast was not exactly “rideable” for the past 6 weeks thanks to a miserably cold and snowy late winter.

I had an awesome bike light (Serfas TSL-1200), but even so: it was dark. I couldn’t feel my feet. I was alone, except for the various animals rustling in the woods/swamp. Wah. Wah. Wah.

I lost quite a bit of time as it took me about two loops to acclimate to the darkness and the stream of light from my lamp. Eventually, I started to like the darkness because I lost all sense of my landmarks, making the loops pass by much more quickly than they did during the day. I didn’t know that I was “only” at mile 3 of the loop. Before I knew it, I was coming into the lights of Tent City, where my peeps would be waiting with a kind word and a smile.

The wind continued on through the night time laps, and after 11+ hours on the bike, I was finding it hard to stay in aero with pain shooting from my neck into my back and arms. Despite the pain, I didn’t want to sit up as a human billboard–all of that work just to lose speed? No thanks.

So, I made a deal with myself: sit in aero for a count of 100, sit up for a count of 20. When riding directly into the wind: no sitting up. This approach went on for the final 3-4 laps. So, don’t ask me what happened in those final laps, all I know is that I counted to 100 A LOT.

I came around for my last lap, and I could hear the crews and volunteers cheering. I returned their joy with my own: “Last lap, baby!!” BIG fist pump into the air.

Of course, there was the small matter of 30 run laps – but for now, I reveled in the joy of the LAST LAP BA-BAY.

NO!

As I passed through the bike timing sensor for the final time, Tim was waiting to grab my bike. He held the handlebars and said, “Easy now.”

As I tried to get off the bike, I realized why he said that. After 13 hours and 40-something minutes in the saddle, it is amazingly difficult to lift your leg and swing it around the back of the bike.

“Whoa…” I observed. Hobble. Hobble.

As I stood, slightly crooked, and walked toward our crew area, I exclaimed, “I’m a homo sapien again!”

Patti was waiting for me near the tent the crew had set up, as I entered I could see she had all of my gear set up for me to change.

“Okay, Maria, let’s change,” she said.

“No,” I responded, a sharp, succinct syllable of a petulant pre-pubescent. “I’m cold.”

“I know, but you have to change your clothes.”

“No.”

She ignored me and unzipped my cycling jacket and a half-eaten bag of potato chips popped out like confetti. I watched them fall to the ground.

“Boob chips!” I squealed, giggling. Then, a bit more reflectively: “Mmmmm, chips.” I started to bend down to grab one.

Patti was thinking ahead, laying out our gear so it would be easy to change in T2. This is a snap of John’s gear.

“Maria!” Patti admonished, “No – we’ll get you fresh ones.”

“Okay,” shrugging my shoulders.

I was so cold on the bike because I didn’t want to take the time to put on tights. Now, I wanted tights. But, Patti wouldn’t let me wear them.

“You’re going to warm right up when you start running. You’ll be too hot in tights,” she very rationally (and correctly) advised me.

“No.”

Sensing a pattern here? I was like a bratty, deranged, drunken child.

Patti suggested, “Why don’t you sit down so you can put on fresh socks?”

“No.”

She pushed me into the chair.

She held up my running shorts and passed them to me.

“No!”

She ignored me. “Maria! Stop it. Put these on.” She helped me take off my cycling shorts (can you say TRUE FRIEND?!), and made me put on the running shorts.

Finally, after several rounds of “No-Yes”, I was dressed and ready to run. I felt like I was floating when I stood up from the chair, amazed that I didn’t have the sore quads and hips that I felt during almost every trainer session I did leading into this race. Quite the opposite. I felt ready to run.

Tim handed me my bottle of Nuun and water, and a sleeve of clif shots, and I was off on the first loop of the run. I felt a little bit like a crab, running sideways, legs gangling about.

Keep Your Perspective

It took my body a little bit of time to adjust to the upright motion, but by the time I returned to tent city to finish the first loop, I felt good. (Da-na-na-na-na-na-na… I knew that would, now…)

Tim would meet me about 100 yards from where I had to cross the timing mat, ask me what I wanted for that loop. He would run ahead, and put the rest of the crew in motion to prep it for me, and then he would run with me for another 100 yards to see if I needed anything, give me moral support, and to make sure I was coherent and not falling apart.

As we started out on the second lap, I summoned the courage to ask – finally – where I was in the race. I whispered to Tim, “Am I winning?” I was afraid if I said it any louder than a whisper, I would make it disappear.

“Oh, yeah! You are about 20 minutes up on 2nd place.”

“Is she running faster than me?”

“She hasn’t started running yet. She’s in T2.”

Okay, the game was afoot. I had some type of carrot to keep me running, but I HATE being another person’s rabbit. I much prefer the chase and creep, but the race was mine to lose now. I had choices to make.

I was feeling good, and while a crash seemed inevitable at some point, I was going to run to my edge while I felt good. So, I did. Each lap, Tim would tell me I was increasing my lead. But, I never felt comfortable. I know that a lot can happen with so many laps to go. I kept pushing the edge.

The glare from John’s head lamp. Yeah, I think it’s bright enough. Geez!

I looked forward to coming back into the Tent City, to see my crew, and have several minutes of chatting with Tim. The night time laps were lonely. There were other racers out there, but in the cold dank darkness, there wasn’t much interaction, as each of us fought the demons that landed on our shoulders, whispering in our ears, trying to convince us that we can go no further.

But, those demons are liars. Know that.

Headphones were permitted on the run, so for the first time in I-can’t-remember-when, I raced with music, which helped to mitigate the loneliness and tune out the liars. Meghan Trainor reminded me that I was All About that Base, while Katy Perry let me Roar, Daft Punk and Pharrell Williams suggested that I’d be up all night to Get Lucky, and La Roux recognized that this time I would be Bulletproof. And, of course, Journey told me: Don’t Stop Believing. Several times.

How nice of them all to support me like that. (Side note: Please don’t judge my trash music. We do what we have to do to survive.)

At one point, I had some GI discomfort – nausea. I started thinking of all of the things we had that might help me.  And, then it hit me: Tums and Coke! Yes, yes, TUMS AND COKE. I was giddy with the thought of this delicacy.

I came into Tent City hopeful, exclaiming loudly, “Tums and Coke, please!”

Despite the weird looks, my crew dutifully prepared my supplies. By the time I got to the turnaround on the run, it was a brand new day. I came back into Tent City, “Never underestimate the power of the Tums and Coke cocktail. I’m back in business, ba-bayyyyyy!” (Apparently, my hearing was a little messed up; when I talked, I was even louder than my usual loudness. At one point, I said, “I think my hearing is messed up.” The entire crew said: “Definitely.”)

Other than this minor GI blip, I felt fan-freaking-tastic up to this point on the run – surprisingly so. When I came through at the halfway mark, the volunteers in the timing tent cheered, “One marathon down! One to go!”

I cheered as well and said, “Thank goodness! I’m having too much fun to stop now!”

And, then it hit me: Holy crap. I have to run another marathon now.

Tim sensed my realization. “This is it – this is the bell round.”

I replied, “A whole marathon?” I was being an asshat. I vowed to change my perspective.

I went off into the night, working to crush the demons: You can’t run another marathon like that! Just walk… The battle between my ears, while happening throughout the day, was starting to get very intense.

I knew I had to flip the script, and I couldn’t think of a logical counter-argument, so I just counted. I focused on getting to the turnaround where Justin, the lone volunteer at the turnaround out-post, waited with never-failing words of encouragement. Once there, I focused on getting back to Tent City. By the time I saw Tim again, my head was back on straight.

I saw John several times through the night. But, on the first few laps, I didn’t realize it was him. His headlamp was among the brightest, which made it hard to even look in his general direction when he ran toward me. When we did see each other, we didn’t say much, but we would check in for a brief chat, “You good?” “Yup, you?” “Yup.”

I know what you are thinking: the romance is almost too much to handle.

John suggesting I need to change my perspective, while he’s warm and comfy in his snuggie.

Eventually, he was on his last lap – heading in for his 2nd place overall finish at just over 21 hours, for a time that was faster than the previous course record. Say it with me now: BEAST! I was sad that I would miss him finish, but I had my own finish to work on.

Somewhere around 10 laps to go, I started doing math in my head, which is always a risky endeavor, but I realized that I was on track to hit and possibly break 26 hours – a feat that would well surpass my “best day” scenario. Every time I wanted to stop and walk, I just said to myself: “Best day scenario. Make it happen.”

By now, my stride was so short (which it is typically, but even more so for me), but my cadence was like a hummingbird. I was losing glute power, so there was almost no force from the toe off. I knew a quick trot was the only thing that would keep me from the dead woman’s shuffle. I repeated to myself: Pitter pat. Proud Chest. Quick steps. Use those arms. Pitter Pat. 

The pain was intense. With maybe 6 laps or so to go, I came through Tent City at a low point. I didn’t give my characteristic thumbs up. I didn’t want to spend even that small amount of energy.

“Maria! Shake it off. Change your perspective,” John yelled. I wanted to growl – there he was all warm and not needing to move anymore. But, he was right. Harumph!

As I ran out on that loop, the sun was just starting to create a lighter hue in the sky. I ripped off my headlamp and ditched my music.

Run to the turnaround. Run back to Tent City. That’s how I’m going to FINISH this race.

Then, it occurred to me: I’m so freaking lucky to be here, running, living life. Experience this moment – fully, pain and all. 

I immediately thought of Brett Dennen’s song “Blessed”:

“I welcome the sun, the clouds and rain

“The wind that sweeps the sky clean and lets the sun shine again

“This is the most magnificent life has ever been

“Here is heaven and earth and the brilliant sky in between

“Blessed is this life, and I’m gonna celebrate being alive…”

Perspective shifted.

As the sun rises, the running camraderie begins. It’s not that we aren’t supportive before that – but we can’t see each other. But, as the sun rises, so do the the well wishes, the thumbs up, the smiles through the pain. My fellow racers and I became a united village, fighting the battle between our ears, slaying the demons, summoning the strength to support each other.

Perspective shifted. Again.

As I came through on the last lap or two, word started to spread that I was the first place female. Whoa. Hold Up. Just. Freaking. Whoa. Me?! Seriously?! 

The other racers shouted out, “Congratulations!” “Way to go!” “Looking strong!”

To which I could only weakly reply, “I have to finish still! Let’s not count those chickens before they hatch.”

Me, cry? Nooooooo. That’s so weird.

But, in my mind I was screaming: This is AMAZEBALLS! HOLY CRAP! ME?! This is un-freaking-believable.  Outer Face: serious, focused. Inner Mind: ROAR!

But, I did have to cross that finish line still. I’ve seen enough old Ironman videos to realize that a lot can happen out on the race course, and per IUTA rules – crawling is NOT permitted. By now the pain was so intense that all I could do was repeat: Pitter pat. Proud Chest. Quick steps. Use those arms. Pitter Pat.

Coming in to tent city to start the final lap, and hearing the cheers of support, seeing my crew and seeing John – well, those of you who read my blog know what happens next: I got weepy.

I cried the entire 1.746 miles of the 30th lap. By the time I came into the final stretch, I could see John in the distance, holding out the American Flag.

“Is that for you?” One of the spectators asked.

“Yes!” Oh. My. God. Hold on now…. Nope, too late, waterworks times 10.

I felt like the Greatest American Hero: “Look at what’s happened to me, I can’t believe it myself…”

I came up to John and we hugged and kissed. “I don’t know if I can hold the flag and run?” I said.

“Yes you can! It’s right there.” He pointed. It was the finish line.

This picture looks a little ugly, but it wasn’t as bad as all that. I was trying to get back up after sitting down. I think it’s pretty funny. Thanks, Tim for the glamor shot ;).

I came in a blubbering mess, as the U.S. National Athem played, and I was the first place female, and holy crap, and wow is this happening, and I promptly collapsed. I have never wanted to stop moving so badly in all of my life. The pain was intense, but the joy was electrifying.

This race far exceeded my expectations not just for my performance, but for the joy and fun that I experienced. I have not had that much fun in a race since my first Ironman. That’s the hook that keeps you coming back.

We had an incredible crew, nonstop support of the other racers and their crews, genuine care and concern of the volunteers and Steve Kirby (the race director), and the love and support of all of you cheering from home.

I share this race with all of you.

The race was long, but it went so quickly. One short lap at a time, I wrapped my mind around this thing. One short lap at a time, I learned and re-learned the generosity of spirit that came from our Double Anvil village. One short lap at a time, we built an experience that I want to have again and again.

See you next year, Anvil Family!

Liminal State: What’s next?

Where will these feet take me next?

As a young graduate student, I learned about the concept of liminality. In Anthropological theory, liminality is described as a state of transition during rites of passage, such as those associated with the transition from childhood to adulthood. Liminality is a betwixt and between state in which you are no longer who you once were, but you have not yet…